TOGETHER ALONE
by
BARBARA DELINSKY


books by barbara delinsky

Rekindled

A Woman's Place

Shades of Grace

Together Alone

For My Daughters

Suddenly

More Than Friends

A Woman Betrayed

Finger Prints

Within Reach

The Passions of Chelsea Kane

The Carpenter's Lady

Gemstone

Variation on a Theme

Passion and Illusion

An Irresistible Impulse

Search for a New Dawn

Fast Courting

Sensuous Burgundy

A Time to Love

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TOGETHER ALONE

BARBARA DELINSKY

Harper Paperbacks

A Division of HarperCollins Publish I dedicate this book--again,
still, always--to my guys.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction.  The characters, incidents, and dialogues
are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as
real.  Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

Harper Paperbacks A Division of HarperCollins Publish

10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

Copyright 1995 by Barbara Delinsky All rights reserved.  No part of
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address HarperCollinsP WwAerj, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y.
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A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1995 by
HarperColhnsftiWisAers.

Cover photograph by Luis Villota/The Stock Market First Harper
Paperbacks printing: February 1996 Printed in the United States of
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&20 19 18 17 16 15 14 acknowledgments

I o writer is all-knowing.  For their help in the researching of this
book, my heartfelt thanks go to It.  Jack Hunt of the Needham Police
Department, Martha Shepardson of the Rivers School, and all those at
the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.  I take full
blame for any errors that may have been made in the transition from
fact to fiction.  one

HE WASN'T GOING TO LIKE IT.  HE HATED THE RITUAL

of the formal family picture, but the time was right.  In four short
days, his only child was leaving the nest, breaking out of her
chrysalis into an exciting new world.  If ever there was an occasion to
mark, this was it.

Starting college was a rite of passage, a beginning.

It was also an ending, one Emily Arkin had been dreading for years.
Prior to kindergarten, Jill had been all hers.  Then she was gone three
hours a day.  Then six.  Then seven, then eight.  College was
twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.  It was a springboard to
adulthood and total independence.

"How do I look?"  Jill asked, joining Emily's reflection in the
bathroom mirror.  Emily lost a moment's breath.  She always did when
Jill came upon her unexpectedly.  That this striking young woman was
her daughter never failed to amaze her.  She had Emily's dark hair and
fair skin and Doug's height, but the features came from earlier
generations, and what was inside was pure Jill.  She was sweet,
sensitive, and smart.  She was innocent, yet sophisticated, the product
of growing up in a small town, in a shrinking world.

Emily didn't want the innocence lost.  She didn't want the
sophistication honed.  She didn't want Jill hurt.  Ever.

"Mom," Jill pleaded softly.

Emily made a helpless sound and reached for a tissue.  "Sorry.  I
didn't mean to do that."

"If you cry, I will, too, and then we'll both look a mess.  Dad's on
the phone."  She paused, cautious.  "Is he going to be angry?"

Emily forced a bright smile.  "What's to be angry about?  He's already
dressed for the cook-out.  In ten minutes, the pictures will be done
and we'll be on our way."  The doorbell rang, in old age more a clang
than a chime.  "There's the photographer," she said and took Jill's
face in her hands.  "You look beautiful.  Come."

The sun was falling in the west, gilding the edges of the broad-leafed
maples that stood on the front lawn, and the peaks of the white picket
fence beyond.  Leaving Jill there, Emily went to the door of the small
den that was Doug's home office and caught his eye.

He held up a finger and continued to talk.

Stomach jangling, as always when she couldn't gauge his mood, she
waited, watching him.  At forty four, he was even more athletic of
build than he had been at twenty-two.  Then, sheer physical labor had
kept his body in shape.  Now, daily workouts at a health club did it.
His stomach was flat, his back straight, his shoulders broad.  He wore
his clothes well.

They were fine clothes.  He shopped when he traveled, and he looked it.
The pleated slacks and open neck shirt that he wore today spoke more of
Europe than of a small town in the northwest corner of
Massachusetts.

Emily half-wished she had bought something new to wear for the
pictures, to look more sophisticated beside Doug.  But she hated
spending money on herself, when there were other bills to pay.  Better
a new muffler for the wagon than a silk something she would never wear
again.

Doug hung up the phone.  "Who rang the bell?"

She slipped a cajoling arm through his.  "Larry Johnson.  He's new with
the Sun.  A photographer.  He's good, and very cheap.  I asked him to
take a few pictures before we leave."

"Emily."

"I know.  You hate having pictures taken, but Jill's leaving in four
days, four days, and then our lives will be changed forever."

"Maybe, if she'd been going to D.C. like Marilee.  But Boston?  It's
barely three hours away."

"She won't be our little girl anymore."

"She hasn't been that for a long time."

"You know what I mean," Emily coaxed, but more anxiously now.  "This is
a milestone, Doug.  Besides, she needs a picture of the three of us for
her dorm room.  Smile for her?  Please?"

If he said no, she would send Larry home.  A scowling Doug defeated the
purpose.  But he sighed and produced a vapid smile.  Relieved, she led
him out of the house.

Jill sat on the swing that hung from the largest of the front maples.
With the light dappled by leaves, and a backdrop of rhododendron and
white fencing, the setting was bucolic.

Emily was remembering the hours and hours Jill had spent on that swing,
the pumping and soaring and spills, when a muted ring came from the
house.  Doug took off before she could protest.  She stared after him
in dismay, then resignation.  He was home, at least.  He had promised
to stay the week.  It was a concession that didn't come without
strings. Taking phone calls was one.

Refusing to be discouraged, she turned back to Jill.  "I want a picture
of you here," she said and when several shots had been taken, she moved
in beside Jill for several of them together.

She covered Jill's hands on the chains of the swing and leaned in
close.  Cheeks touching, she smiled at the feel of Jill's smile,
laughed to the sound of Jill's laugh.  History was suddenly pleated,
the years juxtaposed, and the laughter was that of childhood again.
Emily loved its sound.  She couldn't bear to think of the day it would
be gone.

Leaving the swing, they went to the backyard and posed on an
outcropping of rock by the pond.  From slightly above her, Jill draped
her arms over Emily's shoulder.  Emily held her hands.  They leaned
against one another, lost their balance and laughed, then tried again,
while the photographer snapped away.

"Doug!"  Emily yelled toward the window that marked his den, but Jill
had another idea.

"One of my mom alone," she announced.

Emily jumped out of camera-range.  "Uh-uh.  This is your day."

"But I want one of you."

"I want ones of us."  She looked toward the house.  "Doug?"

His face appeared at the screen, again a finger raised.

Emily tempered her frustration with a short sigh and the knowledge that
he would eventually come.  He might be grumpy, but he would
accommodate her.  It wasn't often that she asked for anything.  He knew
that.

Returning to the front of the house, they posed on the steps, Emily
above, Jill below, then shifted places at the photographer's direction.
Emily wore an easy smile.  She was good at easy smiles, even when less
easy things ate at her mind.  Some might call it dishonesty.  Emily
called it making the best of the situation.

"Hard to tell mother from daughter," the photographer remarked, to
which Emily gave a doubtful snort.

"It's true," Jill said.  "They'll think you're my sister."

Emily fixated on the "they," strangers in a dorm room three hours away,
and felt a hollowness inside.

"Mom," Jill growled, squeezing the fingers laced through hers.

"I'm okay," Emily vowed.

"I'll only be in Boston.  We'll talk all the time."

"I know."

"You can drive in and take me to lunch."

"I know."

"We can go shopping."

"I know."  But it wasn't the same.  It would never be the same again.

Fighting the knot in her throat, Emily gave Jill a hug and held on
until she was recomposed.  Then, staying close, she faced the camera
again.

When the screen door opened behind them, she felt she'd been granted a
reprieve.  Doug was a distraction from empty thoughts.  He was her
husband.  He had been her world before children had come, and he would
be again, once Jill was gone.

"Where do you want me?"  he grunted in a way that set her stomach off
again.

"Problems?"  she asked.  He was a business consultant, a troubleshooter
hired by small companies to right things gone wrong.  At a time of
economic anemia, he was state-of-the-art medicine.  He had never been
more in demand.

He shot her a tired look.  "Always."

"Where?"

"Pittsburgh."

Her heart fell.  Concord or Manchester, even Boston he might do in a
day.  Pittsburgh was always longer.  "Do you have to go?"

"I don't have to, but if I want to keep the account, I'd better."

"Oh, Doug."  He had promised her this week.  Her heart broke for Jill.
Her heart broke for herself.

More sharply, he said, "Hell, I can't say no.  Money is tight, and
universities cost money.  I'm still gagging over that check I wrote
last week."

"It's okay," Jill said quickly.  "We still have stuff to do that Dad
can't help us with at all.  We'll be busy, Mom.  Will you be back
before I leave, Dad?"

He softened, touching her head.  "Sure, I will.  I'll only be gone two
days."

The photographer took several shots of them there, with Emily and Jill
on the front steps and Doug leaning over the rail.  Then he sat Doug on
the steps and arranged Emily and Jill nearby, and when he was done with
that pose, Jill jumped up.

"I want one of my parents alone," she said, and this time Emily didn't
argue.  She slid onto the step below Doug and sat between his legs with
her elbows on his knees.

It should have been the most comfortable pose in the world.  They had
sat that way dozens of times, back when they had first met, when life
had been simpler.

Emily's life was still simple.  It revolved around Jill and Doug,
around the small house that needed repairs they couldn't afford, the
small group of friends whose loyalty money couldn't buy, and the small
town whose wealth lay in its warmth.

Doug's life was the one that had changed.  He traveled constantly,
power-lunched with power brokers, immersed himself so deeply in
innovative management techniques that Emily was hard put to associate
him with the unassuming organic farmer she had married.  Maybe that was
why she felt odd now, sitting between his legs with her elbows on his
knees.

"Mother!"  Jill cried.  "Smile?"

Emily smiled.  For Jill, anything.

And it wasn't all that hard.  Of the many things motherhood had taught
her over the years, hiding heartache was one.

Brian Stasek strode into the drugstore with a whimpering Julia on his
hip.  She wasn't happy, but then, neither was he.  He was hungry,
tired, and hot.  She was hungry, tired, and wet.  He had used the last
of the Pampers at a rest stop five hours before.  They were badly in
need.

He found the aisle, found the size, found the sex.  Gathering an
armload of boxes, he found the cash register.  The boxes clattered onto
the counter.  Julia began to wail.

He jiggled her on his hip while he reached for his wallet.  "Almost
there.  Almost there.  Almost there."

"She's a cute baby," said the girl at the register.

Brian grunted.  "I thought so, too.  Then she became all mine, and
things changed.  Let me tell you, taking care of kids isn't for the
weak of heart.  Remember that, if you're planning on having one in the
near future."

The girl took a step back.  Julia cried louder.

"Since Chicago," he muttered.

"Maybe she's sick," came the timid suggestion.

He sighed.  "No.  Just tired."  There was more to it than that, but
Brian didn't have the strength or inclination to share the rest,
certainly not with a teenaged stranger.  He needed dry diapers, warm
food, and a solid bed, in that order.  So he tucked the change back in
his pocket, gathered up the boxes, and returned to the Jeep.

The diaper was changed in no time.  After three days, Brian was
experienced enough to know that striving for perfection, where an
unhappy child was concerned, was absurd.  As long as the diaper was in
the general vicinity, it would do its thing, give or take.

Give or take was what it had done.  So he fished a dry jumpsuit from
the depleted clean bag, stuffed the soggy one in the bulging dirty bag,
and lifted his repaired daughter.

"Pretty Julia," he said with a grin and gave her a hug.

She began to whimper.

The grin left.  "Right.  Food."  Pausing only to stick an empty baby
bottle in the waste band of his jeans, he backed out of the Jeep with
Julia in his arms and straightened.

She began to squirm.

He held her still and looked her in the eye.  "If I let you walk, it'll
take twice as long to get where we're going."

She looked back at him with pale blue, unblinking eyes.  They were
laced with silver, iridescent, almost unearthly--which was how people
often described his.  They said that his eyes were his deadliest
weapon, that one long hard look gave even the meanest man pause.  For
the first time in his life, he knew what they meant.  When Julia looked
at him with those eyes that way, it was like she knew something he
didn't, like she knew lots of things he didn't.

"Yeah, yeah," he said in an attempt to show her that he knew
something, too, "you've been stuck in the car for the better part of
three days, and you're dying to move."

The eyes held his.

He sighed.  "So if you're hungry, you'll make a beeline for the food."
He set her down.

She made a beeline for the street.

He caught up her hand with an "Oh, no, you don't, toots," but it was a
minute of tugging and vehement, if unintelligible, complaints from
Julia before she accepted the sidewalk.

Brian thought of Gayle.  She had been the one wanting children, even
when he said they should wait.  They were both workaholics, he said.
They couldn't do a child justice, he said.

She said that they had waited long enough, and that much longer and her
ovaries would rot.  She said she could do it all, wife, mother, and
job.

Then she died, and he was left holding the bag.

And a sweet, sorry, sad little bag she was, he mused, looking down at
the bobbing brown curls, the padded bottom, the toddling legs.  Julia
was used to Gayle being gone days, but the nights were tough,
especially now, with four weeks' worth piled one on top of another, and
then there was the matter of breast milk, which Gayle had offered
morning and night, right up to the end.

He was out of his league on that one.

Maybe on this one, too, he thought, looking on down the street.  Then
again, maybe not.  He dragged in a long breath, then let it out, and
when something inside him eased, he inhaled again.

Grannick wasn't bad, if its main street was anything to go by.  It was
clean.  It had the kind of new-old New England charm that was
stereotypical of a college town.  People strolled in the early evening
glow.  They looked intelligent and peaceful.  They looked casual.  They
looked countrified.  Some of them looked just like him.

He wore old jeans, a black T-shirt that had seen blacker days, a pair
of worn sneakers, and a three-day stubble.  It was his undercover look.
Back home, it was tough.  Here, it was camp.

Julia toddled on with the occasional whimper.

Beside the drugstore was a video store, with its long expanse of neon
that gave Julia a few seconds' pause, then a bookstore, then, marked by
elegant gold letters on a burnished field, the Eatery.  Brian felt a
surge of energy.  "Well, look at that.  Right there when we need it.
Now, that's a good omen, I'd say."

The Eatery would have been lovely had he been there with Gayle.  But
Julia was hungry and tired, alternately gnawing on her fist and crying,
not at all pleased to be held in one place, and the menu was
Southwestern, heavy on avocados, sprouts, and salsa, none of which was
her standard fare.  He had been hoping for something as pedestrian as
roast turkey, mashed potatoes, and peas.  Going with the next best
thing, he settled for a burger and fries.

The place did have milk, a large glass of which the waitress set before
him.  It was a breathless minute of pouring from the glass into Julia's
bottle, working around her eager arms and impatient cries, before, at
last, came a blessed silence.

Brian cornered himself in the booth and settled her in his arms.  Her
eyes met his and stayed, eerily knowing, daunting in that.  He tried to
convey confidence, since a confident touch was what she needed, or so
his mother had said.  She had also said that Julia could stay with her,
that it would be easier for him until he was settled, that the trip
would be rough with a baby, but he hadn't listened.  He had needed to
take her then and there, had needed this little scrap of Gayle and him,
the best of their old life, the seeds of his future.

Besides, if he hadn't taken her then, he might have lost his nerve.

Which was a joke, given what he did for a living.  He was known for his
calm under fire, but hell, the police academy hadn't prepared him for
fatherhood.  As detectives went, he was street-smart and quick, but
neither of those things impressed Julia, and as for his shield, she'd
as soon bury it in cereal as cower before it.

Brian knew what it was to see the seedy side of life, then go home,
close the door, and shower it away.  But there was no showering Julia
away.  She was his for the forseeable future.  Taking her from her
grandmother in Chicago was the most daring thing he had done in his
life.

"A burger and fries," the waitress sang, setting a platter before him.
He smiled his thanks, but didn't move.  Julia continued to drink.  He
knew that she was perfectly capable of sitting up, tipping her head
back, and holding the bottle herself, but she seemed content.

And so, for that brief moment, was he.

But the moment passed.  Julia finished the bottle, sat on the booster
seat beside him, and ate pieces of the hamburger he offered, but she
was tired.  Normally neat, she grew messy and whiney.  She rubbed at
her eyes with ketchupy hands.  She said words that Gayle would have
known, but that meant nothing to Brian.  He tried to pacify her with
more milk, but she wasn't having any part of it--or with the Coke he
had ordered for himself--and when she started crying,
"Mommmmy--mommmmy," he lost his appetite.

Swinging her into his arms, he paid the bill and started back toward
the Jeep, only to set her down again when the squirming resumed.

It was warm out.  The air was still, heavy with the ripe smell of trees
and grass and so different from where he had been that he wondered if
this was an omen, too.  He had never particularly wanted to live in the
country, but it seemed the best choice, given the circumstances.  He
needed a sane place to raise Julia.  He needed a peaceful place to
heal.

Julia began to whimper again.

He swung her up.  "What is it, sweetie?"

"Mommy."

"Mommy isn't here, but Daddy is.  Everything's going to be just fine.
See?  Here's the Jeep, right where we left it."  And intact--which was
a city thought if ever there was one--but not so dumb, given that the
vehicle held the sum of his most precious earthly possessions.  Not to
mention paraphernalia for Julia, her favorite crackers and juice, and
the stuffed rabbit that she refused to sleep without.

Brian's mind lingered on crackers and juice and his own belly, which
would undoubtedly speak up several hours hence.  Julia's crackers and
juice wouldn't do the trick.  He had tried the night before.

So he returned to the drugstore and bought a party-size bag of cheddar
popcorn, three Heath Bars, and a six-pack of apricot nectar.  He was
turning to leave, with Julia under one arm and his purchases under the
other, when a round of squeals drew his attention to the back of the
store.

A photo booth stood there, its half-curtain drawn, and beneath and
behind, more legs than he could sort out and count.  He grinned.  He
remembered that fun.

The squeals came again, high laughter followed by a flash of light and
the frenzied repositioning of legs.

The laughter rang out, the legs froze, the light flashed, then it all
began again.  When it was done, six preteens tumbled from the booth.

Brian wasn't sure how they had all fit in, but they seemed happy and
healthy, and the activity suddenly struck him as such a throwback to an
earlier time, such a refreshing change from a world of video arcades
and computer massacres, that he couldn't resist.

Tucking the paper sack into the booth, he dug in his pocket for change,
and slid in with Julia on his lap.  "Grammie will love this," he told
her, and tried to push her curls into some semblance of order.  "If we
smile for the camera, she'll see that we're doing just fine.  Isn't
that a great idea, Julia?"

Julia was looking at the innards of the booth as though it were a house
of horrors.  Her unearthly eyes were growing wider by the second. Tears
pooled on their lower lids.

"Oh, sweetie, it's okay," Brian coaxed.  "Nothing will hurt you here.
Daddy won't let it.  Look," he said with pumped-up enthusiasm, "I'll
just feed it some quarters-want to help me--here, hold the quarter--"

It fell on the floor.

He bent over to retrieve it, inadvertently squashing Julia, who let out
a wail.  He hugged her.  He kissed her head.  "Shhh.  Daddy didn't mean
that.  Here, let's try again."  But he pushed the quarters in himself,
because retrieving the thing in such cramped quarters hadn't been easy
on him either, and because he figured he had Julia quieted, but not for
long.  "There.  Now we look here," he pointed at the big black circle
just as the first flash went off.

Startled, Julia began to scream and didn't stop this time, despite
Brian's efforts to console her, cooing his sympathy, holding her cheek
to his, begging her to smile.  Moments later, standing outside the
booth waiting for the strip of pictures to emerge, he figured that, if
nothing else, he had that first shot before she had lost it completely.
Guardedness was better than terror, he supposed.

As it happened, he didn't even get guardedness.  He got three shots of
Julia crying her heart out while he held her cheek to his.  For that
first shot, she had been down on his lap.  All that showed of her was a
mess of curls on the top of her head.

Wondering if this, too, was an omen, he folded the strip of photos in
half and stuffed it in his pocket.  Then he set Julia on his hip,
snatched up the paper sack, and strode from the store.

Myra Balch sat at the upstairs window of her small frame house,
watching the world go by.  It wasn't a large one, as worlds went.  She
lived at the end of a dead end street lined with small frame houses not
unlike hers, but from her end, the only house she could see was the
Arkins'.

That didn't mean she didn't know what was happening on the rest of the
street.  She most certainly did.  She knew when the Wilsons' weekly
oranges came from their daughter in Florida, because the UPS truck
turned around in Myra's driveway.  She knew when Abel Hinkley got a
raise, because the furniture delivery truck did the same.  And that
funny little truck painted like a rat.  The exterminator.  At the
LeJeunes'.  Again.

Of course, there were things her driveway couldn't tell her.  That was
why she went walking up and down the street every morning at eleven.
She wanted the news.  And the exercise, of course, she wanted that,
too.  Frank was a big one for keeping in shape.  If she ever got fat,
he'd leave her, no questions asked.

The sheers moved, just a flicker.  She wished for more, wished for a
breeze to cool the house.  Frank kept promising her a fan, but he never
seemed to get around to buying it, so the air remained still and
warm.

She leaned forward.  The photographer who had taken pictures of the
Arkins was leaving.  He was the same one who had taken pictures for
Ginny Haist's sixty-fifth birthday, and the pictures were grand.  Myra
hoped he had done as well for the Arkins.

She had crocheted Jill an afghan for school and planned to give it to
her on the night before she left.  She knew Emily would be touched.

The photographer backed out of the driveway and drove off, leaving
Emily's old wagon looking bare and forlorn.  It had seen better days,
poor thing.

Doug's car was another matter.  It was little more than a gleam of
black and chrome in the shelter of the garage.  She wondered if it
would stay there when they rented out the rooms above.  She wondered if
the renter would be expected to park on the street.  She wondered whose
idea it was to rent in the first place.

Probably Doug's.  He would want the money.  It wouldn't bother him if
there were strangers around.  He wasn't the one who would see them
coming and going.  He wasn't the one whose privacy would be
disturbed.

Emily deserved more.  Myra did what she could to help--and her lace
cookies were the best in town-but lace cookies could only do so much.

Flowers helped.  Myra always had one bloom or another to give Emily.
And, of course, there were things like knitted mittens or an afghan,
guaranteed to bring a smile.

Myra gasped.  There they were, Emily, Jill, and Doug, climbing into
that rusty wagon, off to the Whittakers' cook-out.  Tomorrow night
there was a party at the Davieses', and the next night one at the
Eatery, where Jill and her friends had all waitressed.

One party after another.  Myra didn't know what it was about people
that made them want to make fools of themselves in public.  Emily
understood that.  She wasn't throwing a party for Jill.  She didn't see
the girl's leaving home as cause for celebration.  Their parting would
be a private affair, surely a sad one.

"But I don't talk," Myra vowed as she rose from her chair, "never have,
never will.  I bake my cookies and knit my sweaters, and keep still. So
what do they do?  They plan a party for me."  She started down the
stairs.  "I don't want a party.  They're the ones who want it.  They
left here the very first chance they could, and they never came back
for long, and they feel guilty about that.  So now they've brought food
for a party, and they've taken over my house."

To her right, at the bottom of the stairs, the dining room table was
covered with her mother's embroidered linen and the first of the food
her daughters-in law had brought.  To her left, the living room was
filled with sons and grandkids, all glued to a baseball game on
television.

Turning toward the back of the house, she slipped through the kitchen,
let herself out the door, and went down the steps and across the lawn
without being noticed.  She paused to admire the whole of the huge,
pale green weeping willow that stood on the bank of the pond, before
settling onto the scrolled wrought iron bench that sat beneath the veil
of its arms.

She plucked bits of fallen leaves--willow lint, she called it
affectionately--from the bench, then leaned over and plucked bits from
the ground.  She worked her way down the bench, grooming the grass
beneath the willow until it was neatened to her satisfaction.  Then she
sat back and admired the pachysandra she had planted and pruned over
the years, and beyond that, the impatiens, and beyond that, the lilies.
Looking out over the water, she sighed.

Such a beautiful spot.  And so well tended.  She had done her best. She
would continue to, until the day she died.

That thought made her restless, impatient, and frightened at the same
time.  She carried a dreadful burden.  When she thought of death, the
burden shifted and threatened to spill.  She gathered her strength,
steadied it, and vowed that she wouldn't die yet.

But it was coming.  She knew it, more and more so, with each birthday
that passed.  Time was running out.

"Myra?"  It was her daughter-in-law Linda, the career woman who
believed that all women were sisters, regardless of age, and that
mother" was too formal a name for her mother-in-law.  "Why are you
sitting out here alone?"

"I'm not alone," Myra said kindly.  She liked Linda, actually.  Quirks
and all, Linda was more tolerant than the others.  The others would
have argued with her even now, but Linda merely smiled.

"We want pictures.  Will you come inside?"

"But pictures should be taken out here.  This is the most beautiful
spot around."

Linda swatted away a mosquito.  "It's very buggy."

"Not for me.  I use the right perfume.  It's in the bathroom off the
kitchen, if you'd like to try some.  Not that the boys will like it,
but a few bites won't hurt them any.  Yes," the idea was growing on
her, "if we're taking pictures, I'd like them taken here.  But you'll
have to call Frank.  We can't take pictures without him."

Linda smiled.  "I'll go get the others."

Myra returned the smile, and it lingered.  A picture taking session
beneath the willow was perfect.  So there was something to be said for
daughters-in-law, after all.  Certainly for grandchildren.  Even for
sons who felt guilt after years of neglect.  Far be it from her to tell
them that by the time they had left home, she had been ready for them
to go, tired of the fights with each other and with Frank, tired of the
cooking and the cleaning.  She had been more than ready for a rest.

Not that she would tell Frank that.  Lord no.  He would be furious.  He
hadn't liked the boys leaving, hadn't liked it at all.

"Come on inside, Mom," called her oldest, Carl.  "We'll take pictures
in the living room."

"Out here!"  she called back.

"The light is dimming out there."

Indeed it was.  Dusk was imminent.  But she wasn't as dumb as they
thought.  "It's still brighter here than it is inside."

"We can use a flash in here."

"You can use a flash out here, too."  She grinned.  "It's here or not
at all, Carl.  It's my birthday."  The grin thinned.  "You'll have to
tell your father we're out here.  Where is he?  I thought he was
puttering around the woodshed, but I don't see him there.  Find him for
me, Carl?"

Carl retreated into the house, but only for a minute.  When he
returned, he wasn't alone.  The other sons were with him, and the
daughters-in-law, and, trailing dutifully, the grandchildren.  Before
Myra could do more than pat her hair and check to make sure that her
collar lay flat, she was surrounded by family, kneeling in front,
sitting beside, standing behind.

In the crush came the thought that maybe this wasn't such a good idea
after all, that the grass under the willow would be hurt, but it seemed
too late to say that, and then there was the matter of Frank.

"Where's your father, Carl?"  she asked, looking around.  She didn't
see Frank anywhere.  "I want him sitting on this bench."  She tried to
oust the grandchildren to her left, but they were packed in too
tight.

Carl put the camera to his eye.  "Look here, everyone."

"Where's Frank?  We can't take a picture without him."

There was murmuring behind Myra and a snicker or two in front.  She
ignored them, sitting straighter, putting on the kind of starched face
that Carl wouldn't care to photograph.

"I want Frank here," she insisted.  "It's only right.  He's part of
this family."

"Take the picture, Carl."

"It's getting darker."

"Mommy, I'm bit!"

"On the count of three," Carl said from behind the camera.

Myra sat forward, looking to see if Frank was off to the side, wading
in the pond.  He did that sometimes, when the air was warm.

"One ... two ... look here, Mom."

"But your father--"

From behind her came a gentle, "Myra," and Linda's hand on her
shoulder.  "It's all right.  He'll be along.  What if you smile, and
then we can surprise Frank with the picture?"

Unsure, Myra looked back at her.  "Should we?"

"Definitely."

"But he may be angry that we didn't wait."

"He won't be angry.  He'll be pleased."

Myra wanted that more than anything in the world.  Pleasing Frank was
crucial.  It was the key to her survival.  It was what made her steady
that heavy load she carried, what made her turn away from death, even
those times when she was so tired of fighting that she wanted only to
close her eyes and succumb.

She lived on for Frank.

"Look at Carl," Linda urged, and Myra was unsettled enough to do it.

"That's it," came the camera's voice, sounding enough like Frank's to
put Myra momentarily at ease.  "On the count of three, everyone say
'cheese."  One, two, three--"

There was a collective, "Cheeeeeese," and a flash of light.

Myra neither smiled nor spoke.  It wasn't Frank behind the camera,
after all, but Carl, and she wasn't sure Frank would like being left
out.  If he was angry, he could argue with Carl.

But it didn't work that way.  She was the one who lived with him.  She
was the one who suffered.

The count came again, the collective, "Cheeeeeese," and the flash, and
then the crowd that had swarmed down on her so suddenly, as suddenly
dispersed.  The back door slapped again and again, until at last it was
still and all was quiet.

Myra closed her eyes.  She let the warm night breeze cleanse the space
around her.  Then, silent as always, she slipped to her knees and began
fluffing the grass, combing it with her fingers, caressing the soil
beneath.  This was the most beautiful spot around.  It was right to
take a family picture here.  This was a place for reunions.  two

PART OF THE BEAUTY OF HAVING A CHILD, EMILY

decided, was the reflection it brought to one's own life.  Through
Jill, she remembered things that would have otherwise been lost--over
nights with giggling friends, the fear of being left chair less when
the music stopped, the warm, wet flush of a first kiss.  As Jill
experienced things, Emily relived them.

So, now, she relived leaving home.  She relived the frantic shopping
and packing, the last teary gatherings with friends, the fear of a
faceless roommate, the terror of academic failure.  She also relived
the excitement, because, in hindsight, going to college had been the
single most pivotal point in her life.  She had met Doug the first
week.  They had been married within the year.

It had worked for her.  But for Jill, she wanted more.  She wanted four
years of study and fun, a degree, traveling with friends, sharing an
apartment, getting a job, building a name--then coming back to live
nearby.

Thinking of Jill's eventual return was one way to fight the sadness of
her going away.  Another was to

_ keep busy, which Emily did readily in her capacity as laundress,
social secretary, and cooker of favorite meals.  Still there were
times, as Jill whirled through her final preparations, when Emily stood
watching her, wondering where the years had gone, wishing them back.
There had been a solace in knowing how Jill spent her time and with
whom.  There had been a luxury in determining it.

Now she was losing her grip.

It had to be, but that fact didn't ease Emily's dread.  The time was
too short, four days gone in a flash.  Before it seemed at all
possible, Emily found herself behind the wheel of the wagon, with
Jill's eyes fixed on the turnpike ahead, and every inch of spare space
behind them filled.

Emily tried to think of what might have been forgotten.  "Do you have
your bank check?"  It represented Jill's summer's earnings and would be
her spending money at school.

"In my wallet."

"Your tuition receipt?"  She had to show it to get her dorm key.

"In my pocket."

"The campus map?"

"Right here," held aloft in the tightest of grips.

"Careful.  Don't crush it."  Jill relaxed her hand.

As they passed Springfield, Emily tried to think of last bits of
advice.  Time was running out fast.  "You should be able to pick up
curtains and a carpet at stores on the edge of campus."

"I know.  I have a list of places."

"Go with your roommate."

"Of course."

"Don't wander around alone."

"I'll be fine, Mom."

They passed Worcester.  As straight as the road was, Emily's stomach
swerved.

"Say no like you mean it."

"Huh?"

"If some boy tries to pressure you.  Be firm.  Use your knee."

Jill sighed loudly.

When they passed the Weston tolls and Boston materialized on the
horizon, Emily felt a crowding of emotion, overlaid with hollowness,
shot with dread.  Then Jill took her hand.

They said little more for the rest of the trip, holding hands that way
until they pulled off at the Cambridge tolls, and then life switched to
fast-forward.  They found the dorm and unloaded the car.  They met
Jill's roommate and the girls across the hall, down the hall, and
around the corner.  They put things in drawers.  They filled the
closet, made the bed, spread Myra's afghan.  They set up a desk lamp
and the answering machine and Jill's computer.

Fast-forward ended abruptly, with the room as neat as it would probably
be for the rest of the term, and nothing else for Emily to do.  So they
sat on Jill's bed, just the two of them plastered side by side, and
looked at the pictures Jill had brought.  There was one of Jill and
five friends, crowding together in laughter at the Davieses' party, one
of Jill and her two best friends, Marilee and Dawn, one of the same
three girls and their mothers.

"I like this one a lot," Emily remarked.  The other mothers, Kay and
Celeste, were her own two closest friends.  She had a copy of the print
on her kitchen cork board.  "And this one a whole lot."  It was a
montage of five of the Larry prints, with Emily and Jill in varying
states of connection.

"My sister," Jill teased.

"Your mother."

"They'll never guess.  Just think of all that you won't have to do with
me gone."

Emily gave her a look.  "Are you kidding?  I'm spending the next month
cleaning your room."

"Don't touch my room.  I want everything the same when I go home.  I'll
clean then.  It's only seven weeks 'til fall break, less if I get
lonesome.  Maybe I'll take a bus home and surprise you some weekend."

Emily's throat tightened.  She was losing her daughter.  Oh God.  "I
want you to have fun here, Jill," the rational side of her said. "These
will be an incredible four years.  I just know they will."

"What about you, Mom?  Will you be okay?"

Emily felt a thudding inside.  She put an arm around Jill.  "I'll be
fine."

"I don't like the idea of your being alone."

"Your father will be home at the end of the week."

"Yeah.  For two days, before he leaves again.  Can't you get him to
stay home more?  It isn't fair to you that he's gone all the time."

Emily swallowed her agreement.  Loyalty to Doug made her say, "He has
to work.  He wouldn't travel so much if it weren't important."

"I know, but you've always had me before, and now you won't."

"I'll have Kay and Celeste, and John, and all the other people I know
around town.  I'll have Myra, who loves to sit and talk, and if I can't
clean your room, I'll clean the rest of the house, and when I'm done
with that, I'll do the room over the garage."

"My playroom?"  Jill asked in dismay.

"You haven't played there in years.  It has the potential for being a
great little apartment."

"My friends and I loved it.  Can I live there next summer?"

"Not if someone else is paying for that privilege."

"You'd really rent it out?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's ours."  Which was just what Emily had told Doug when he
had first suggested it.  As though hearing the thought, Jill said,
"Daddy's the one who wants to do it, isn't he?"

Emily wondered if Jill resented Doug's not being there at the dorm with
them.  Plenty of other fathers were.  "Why do you think that?"

"Because he isn't home enough to care whether some stranger lives in
our house."

"It's the space over the garage," Emily argued, as Doug had, "and it's
a good thirty feet from the house.  It has a separate entrance, not
even on the house side.  We won't see a thing."

"Was it his idea?"

"I don't remember whose idea it was," Emily lied, because whose idea it
was didn't matter, "but it does make sense.  The money will come in
handy.  Maybe then your father could stay home more."  She raised the
last picture.  It was another from the Larry batch.  Doug was sitting
on the front steps, Emily one step lower with her arm around his thigh,
Jill one step higher with her arm around his neck.

Emily had the impression that they were restraining him, deliberately
holding him there, which wasn't all that absurd, given that he had run
back to answer the phone again, shortly before the shot had been
snapped.

"Nice picture," Emily said, but suddenly she wasn't thinking of Doug.
She was thinking that the time had come, the inevitable last few grains
of sand through the hourglass.  She was hearing freshman sounds in the
hall, knowing that Jill should be out there, not in here with her.  Oh
God.  "I should go," she whispered, and the tears came then, helpless
tears that flowed with love.  "You be good."

Jill threw her arms around her neck and held on tight.

"Be good," Emily repeated in the same choked whisper, "and have fun,
and study, and call me."

Jill was crying, too.  Emily could feel the sobbing rhythm and hated
it, hated it, but loved the warmth and the closeness.

"Call me," Emily repeated.

"I will.  I'll miss you.  I'll worry."

Emily held her back, startled by that.  "Worry?  About me?"

Jill nodded, but she didn't elaborate, and Emily was on the verge of an
all-out deluge, knowing that the longer she stayed, the worse it would
be.  So she stood quickly, gave Jill a last hug, and ran from the
room.

She was barely out the door when she turned right back.  She shouldn't
have done it, because Jill hadn't had time to move.  She was sitting
alone on the bed, her face teary, looking forlorn.

"Oh God," Emily whispered, then said, "I'm going straight to Grannick,
but I may stop at the market before I go home.  If you call and I'm not
there, just leave a message, and I'll call back.  We may have to do
that for a while, until you start classes and things settle down.  I'll
be in tonight, but not tomorrow morning.  I'm having breakfast with Kay
and Celeste."  She caught her breath.  "Oh God," she whispered again.
She ran to the bed and gave Jill a final last hug.  "Want to walk me
down?"

"Go, Mom."

"It was awful," Emily cried at the Eatery, emotional even twenty hours
after the fact.  "I have no idea how I found my way back to the car,
and then I could barely see the road, I was crying so hard.  She looked
so alone sitting there on that bed."

Celeste grinned.  "And two minutes after you left, she was probably out
in the hall having a grand time.  Did you talk with her last night?"

Emily searched her pockets for a tissue.  "Uh-huh."

"And?"

She blotted her eyes.  "Uh-huh.  A grand time.  Great girls, hot guys,
quote unquote.  How about you?  Have you heard from Dawn?"

"Not a word, but that was the deal.  She agreed to go to college in
Grannick in exchange for my pretending she's miles away.  I can't call
her.  She calls me.  And she hasn't."

"That should only be my problem," Kay mused, catching the eye of the
waitress and pointing at her coffee cup.  "Three times the first day,
twice yesterday.  The books say that's normal.  What they don't say is
that it costs.  I was forewarned about tuition, room and-board, and
textbooks, but none of them mentioned the phone bill.  I'll have to pay
it before John sees it.  He'll hit the roof.  He still thinks she
should have gone to UMass."

"Hah," Emily said.  "John may make noise, but he can't fool me."  She
knew him well.  She had been his friend before Kay's, and both of
those, before the girls were even born.  "John is proud as punch that
she's in Washington.  You wait.  He'll be looking forward to those
calls."

"Three times a day?"  Kay asked and looked impatiently around.  "I
need caffeine.  You do know that if I didn't love you guys so much, I'd
never be here this early."

Emily knew about that love.  Monday meetings with Kay and Celeste, sans
spouses or offspring, were therapeutic.  They had breakfasted through
the summer and would switch back to dinners once Kay, who taught
eighth-grade English, returned to work.  "When does school start?"

"Thursday.  Ahhh.  Here she comes."  She extended her coffee cup to the
waitress with a grateful smile, then, declaring a pre-school splurge,
ordered a hearty breakfast.

Emily and Celeste ordered more modestly.

Celeste watched the waitress leave.  "Seems like yesterday our kids
were taking the orders."

Emily knew what she meant.  "It was, almost."

"It's weird waking up to an empty house.  I keep looking into Dawn's
room, just to make sure she's gone."

"Do you miss her?"  Emily wanted to know she wasn't the only one who
felt all hollowed out.

"She just left."

"So did Marilee," Kay said, "still I miss her.  We've been separated
before, and for longer periods of time than two days, but college is
different.  It's significative."

Emily thought that sounded right.

"It's also about time," Celeste avowed.  "Dawn's been my responsibility
and mine alone--which is nice, when you think that I haven't had to
pander to her father all these years, and not so nice when you think of
the work.  I'm the one who's had to nag and pester and bribe her to
keep studying.  That's the down-side of single parenthood."

Just as Emily was thinking it, Kay said, "It's the down-side of
motherhood."

"Do I miss her?"  Celeste asked.  "Emotionally, yes.  Practically, no.
I feel relieved, like I got her where she is, and now someone else is
sharing the responsibility."

"Who?"  Emily asked, eager for reassurance.  She trembled to think of
Jill alone in Boston.

"Whoever--the school, the adviser, the RA.  Her.  She's responsible for
more of her life.  Finally."

"Do you think she'll do okay?"  Kay asked, with good cause.  Of the
three girls, Dawn was both the brightest and the most impulsive.  More
than once, Jill and Marilee had kept her from doing things she would
have come to regret.

Emily hoped she would find new friends to guard her like that.  She
worried about it even with Jill, who was eminently sensible.  Jill
thrived on being surrounded by friends.  In the rush to align herself
with a group in college, she might make a mistake.  For all Emily knew,
the girls on her floor, who had seemed so nice, might have been waiting
for their parents to leave to show their true colors.  For all Emily
knew, they might want to drink themselves drunk every night, buzz-cut
their hair, and snort coke.  For all Emily knew, the guys would be cute
and polite and thoroughly lecherous.  For all Emily knew, serial
killers staked out the cafeteria lines.

Celeste didn't seem worried.  "Dawn will be fine.  She knows what I
expect.  God only knows I've drummed it into her enough.  Actually, her
father is making noises now.  Isn't that a hoot?  The shadow takes
form, after all these years.  She got her brains from him, and now he's
footing the bill.  Little did he know when he agreed to pay her college
tuition in his rush to be free of me, what it would cost."

"Little did any of us know," Emily remarked.  "It's tough."

Celeste eyed her strangely.  "Doug does well."

"Doing well barely meets the cost of the tuition."

"But he's a single-practitioner.  He markets his mind and works out of
the den.  He has no overhead to speak of."

"He has huge travel costs."

Celeste remained skeptical.  "To look at him, you'd never know he's
anything but loaded.  He was like something out of a magazine the other
night."

"Clothes are his weakness," Emily allowed.  "Clothes and cars.  But he
doesn't gamble, and he doesn't come home with lipstick on his
collar."

"He doesn't come home, period."

"Sure, he does.  He's home most weekends."

"Will he come home more, now that you're alone?"  Kay asked.

"How can he, with Jill's bills?  He has to work harder than ever."

Celeste made a noise.  "Doesn't it get you down, that he isn't there
more?  At least I have an alimony check to warm my cold hands."

Yes, it got Emily down.  She and Doug had been inseparable, eons ago.
But she couldn't dwell on the past.  "It's not so bad," she said.  She
yawned and stretched, then set her' elbows on the table and grinned. 
"I have the bathroom all to myself.  Besides, things will be different
with Jill gone.  For the first time in years, weekends will be just
Doug and me.  Good quality time, fun, like the old days, just the two
of us."  The prospect gave her hope.

Kay sighed.  "I'm envious.  John knows nothing about fun."

"John is wonderful," Emily argued.

"He's a cop.  Life is one long investigation."

"He is decent, upstanding, and honest."

"Oh yes," Kay granted.  "He's also a master worrywart.  He sees the
underside of a lettuce leaf.  Why do you think I pour myself into my
work?  If I listened to half of what he says, I'd be a basket case.  I
don't even have Marilee to distract me now.  I'd die without a job."
She focused on Emily.  "You need one."

"Doug doesn't want me to work."

"If he isn't here, what difference does it make?"  Celeste asked.  "If
he isn't here, you can do what you want."

"But I respect his feelings.  We've discussed it.  I've offered, but he
says no.  It's a matter of pride."

"Pride?  Hah!  He feels threatened."

Emily laughed.  "He does not."

"He's worried that if you get a job, you might succeed at it and
eclipse him.  It was that way with the book."

"No, it wasn't.  I did that book as a favor to John.  It was never
intended to be anything big."

"You wrote a book," Celeste argued, "and it was published.  That's one
hell of an accomplishment."

But Emily didn't see it that way.  "I ghost-wrote it.  Sam and Donnie
were the ones who did the police work.  They told me their story.  All
I did was take down their words and straighten them up."

Kay started to speak, stopped when their food arrived, resumed the
minute the waitress left.  "You did more than that, Emily.  John knows
it, Sam and Donnie know it, and I'd warrant Doug does, too.  You
listened to Sam and Donnie's ideas, you interviewed people and verified
facts, then you put everything together.  You were the only one who sat
at that typewriter, night after night, after Jill was in bed.  It
always bothered me that your name wasn't on the cover."

"I didn't need it on the cover," Emily protested, laughing again.  She
picked up her spoon.  "It was inside.  That was enough."

Celeste stared at her.  "If it was me, I'd have milked being a
published author for everything it was worth."

"But the work meant something to me.  I didn't do it for the money or
the acclaim.  Believe me, I was perfectly happy with the mention I got.
I don't aspire to be in the limelight."

"You may not," Celeste said, "but I do."  She raised a piece of English
muffin and held it daintily, though she wasn't first and foremost a
dainty woman.  She was tall and slim, with a direct gaze and a fresh
mouth.  She rarely wore makeup, couldn't bother with much more than a
French braid, and made so little attempt to attract men that they were
invariably attracted.  While Kay leaned toward blouses and skirts and
Emily toward tunics and leggings, Celeste was more comfortable in jeans
and a simple white shirt.  "Ladies," she declared now, "my time has
come."

Emily exchanged a bemused look with Kay.  "Your time for what?"

Celeste set down her muffin.  "Living.  Without Dawn to nag, I have
undirected energy."

"She just left," Kay said, as Celeste had moments before, but Celeste
ignored her.

"I've been looking at my life, really looking, turning it inside out
and looking at it that way, too.  I've been waking up with the sun, in
a stone-gray empty house, thinking about what I want to do.  For
starters, I'm getting my nose fixed."

Kay's jaw dropped.  "You're kidding."

"But why?"  Emily asked.

"Look at this nose.  It's an ugly nose."

"But you've had it forever.  It's part of who you are."

"Not anymore.  As of Thursday morning, it'll be narrowed and shaped,
along with this."

Emily couldn't see what she was pointing at.  "What's that?"

"My double chin."

"I don't see a double chin."  To Kay, she said, "Do you see one?"

"No.  You're nuts, Celeste."

But Celeste was insistent.  "I see the double chin, and I see the ugly
nose.  The fact that you two don't is irrelevant.  I'm the only one who
matters.  It's my self-image."

Emily couldn't argue with that.  Still.  "You really don't need any of
it, Celeste."

"But I want it.  And when the swelling's gone down and the stitches are
out, I'm having streaks put in my hair."

"Gray ones like mine?"  Kay cracked, though Emily was hard put to
differentiate between sandy and gray in Kay's hair.

"Blonde ones," Celeste said.  "I'm going with a lighter brown as a base
color and blond streaks.  Lighter is younger.  Except for you, Emily.
You always look sixteen."

Emily's sable-colored hair was thick and glossy, blunt-cut an inch
below her earlobe.  Two minutes with a blow dryer and the ends curled
under.  She had worn it that way since she was, well, sixteen.

"And after my hair is done," Celeste announced, "I'm buying clothes."

"New jeans?"

"Only if they have gold studs running up and down the legs, and even
then, only if there's a matching top that buttons down to here."  She
pointed to a spot below her breasts, then added in an undertone, "Or
unbuttons.  Whichever."

"That isn't you," Kay said.

"Why not?  Why can't I change?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Because I'm bored with me."

Emily was wary.  "Where are we headed, here?"

Celeste grinned.  "Men.  I'm starting to date."

"Celeste," Kay chided, "you already date."

"I go to dinner or a movie with friends who happen to be male.  I
wouldn't call them dates."

Emily humored her.  "If those weren't dates, how will these be
dates?"

"They'll be romantic, for one thing.  I'm putting an ad in the
paper."

"You aren't."

"Celeste."

"I am.  I want wine and roses and music and poetry.  And sex."

"Not healthy," Emily warned.  "Things have changed since we were
kids."

"Physical needs haven't.  Mine's been on hold for seventeen years.  A
few more, and I'll be too old to care.  The way I see it, it's now or
never."

"Are you looking for a husband?"  Emily asked in search of a method to
the madness.

Celeste made a face.  "Are you kidding?  And let Jackson off the
alimony hook?  No way.  I want some fun.  That's all."

Kay folded a rasher of bacon into her mouth.  Emily pushed a blueberry
around with her spoon.

"You guys disapprove," Celeste said.

Emily set down the spoon.  "Putting an ad in the paper is dangerous.
You won't know what you're getting.  The personals are an invitation
for crazy men to prey on lonely women."

"What if I put an ad in a reputable publication, like something for
Harvard alums."

"You didn't go to Harvard."

"So?"

"So, someone responding might not have gone, either."

"Come on, Emily.  There are ways to cull out the bad ones.  I've
researched this.  Trust me.  And anyway," she said more smugly, "if you
guys help me cull out the bad ones, I can't go wrong."

"Whoa," Kay said, "do you know what John would say if he heard you were
doing this?  Do you know what he would say if he thought I was helping
you?"

Emily agreed.  "The idea of this makes me uncomfortable."

"That's because you're married.  If you'd been single like me all these
years, you'd be excited.  Come on, you two.  I've been good.  I waited
for a winner to waltz into town, and when he didn't, I settled for
driving the church van on Saturday nights.  Dawn is gone now, so it's
not like I'm setting a bad example."

"But the personals?"

"Well, look, what are my alternatives?  You know this town as well as I
do.  There aren't any eligible men here, at least not any with spirit,
and I want spirit."

"John hired a new man," Kay offered.  "He just got here."

"No good.  Our uniforms stink.  Now, if our guys wore jodphurs and
helmets, and rode motorcycles like the Statics--"

"This guy won't be in uniform.  He's a detective.  From Manhattan."

Emily hadn't heard anything about a new man on the force.  "A
detective?  Is he here on a special assignment?"

"No.  We lost one of ours to the FBI.  John is simply appointing a
replacement."

"From Manhattan?"  Celeste asked.  "Is he single?"

"Uh-huh."

"How old?"

"Early forties."

"What's wrong with him?"

Kay laughed.  "What do you mean, what's wrong with him?"

"If he's in his early forties and still single--"

"Who do you think your ad will attract?"  Emily asked, still upset by
that idea, but Celeste wasn't done with Kay.

"If he's in his early forties and still single, and he's leaving New
York City for a place like this, something must be wrong with him.  He
must be up on charges of misconduct.  Or he's burned out.  The last
thing I need is a has-been."

"He isn't a has-been," Kay insisted.  "John says he's at the top of his
field."

"Then why did he leave New York?"

"Because his wife was killed in a hit-and-run accident, and he has a
young child to raise, and he didn't think he could handle doing that in
New York."

"How awful," Emily said, imagining well the havoc in his life.  "How
old is the child?"

"Little.  Under two."

"How awful."

"I'll say," said Celeste.  "Hell, I've just gotten my freedom.  I'd be
crazy to get involved with a man with a child."

Emily felt a stab of annoyance.  "If he's just come off the death of
his wife, and he's changed jobs and moved to a strange place for the
sake of his daughter, I doubt he'd want to be involved with you,
either."

"Gee, thanks."

She let out a breath.  "You know what I mean, Celeste.  Anyway, you're
right.  He isn't thinking freedom the way you are.  Score one for him.
You make me very nervous."

"Not to worry," she said.  "The surgery's being done Thursday.  Will
you guys visit me?"

"Come Thursday, I'm a career woman again," Kay reminded her.  "It'll
have to be after school."

"And you, lady of leisure?"  Celeste asked Emily.

Emily smiled.  "Lady of leisure.  Cute."

"Well, aren't you?"

"No more so than before.  There are things around the house that I've
been putting off until Jill left."

"Don't touch Jill's things," Kay advised.

"I don't dare.  She was very clear on that."

"Well, she's right.  The books say kids need to know that their
personal space is secure."

"It's just her closet.  It's a mess."

"No matter.  When she comes home the first time, everything should be
exactly as it was when she left."

Emily sighed.  "Fine.  I won't touch hers, but there are other closets
to clean.  And the basement.  And I want to repaper the bathrooms."

"Let Doug do that," Celeste said.

"When?  I'm the one with the time."

"I think you should do another book," Kay decided.  "Does your editor
still call?"

"Every few months, but just to talk.  We're friends."

"I read the note she sent along with that bottle of champagne.  She
loved working with you.  She didn't need to say that."

"Okay, so we got along, but that doesn't mean she wants another book,
and even if she did, what would I write about?"

"Open the newspaper," Celeste suggested.  "Pick a crime."

"True crime is hot," Kay added.

But Emily shook her head.  It wasn't only Doug's pride that kept her
from looking for work.  "I really do want to fix up the house.  And
when that's done, I'll tackle the room above the garage."  She would be
busy for months.

"You really are renting it out?"  Celeste asked.

"The space is just going to waste."

"Talk about inviting strangers into your life."

"We could use the money."

"For God's sake, Emily, you aren't indigent."

"Jill's school bills make Doug nervous."

"Yet he won't let you work?"  Kay asked.  "I don't understand him."

"He knew this day was coming," Celeste complained.  "He should have had
her tuition all stashed away."

"How could he do that?"  Emily asked.  "We've always used his income to
live on."  She defended Doug out of habit, though she was annoyed
herself.  They lived frugally.  His business had grown steadily.  She
didn't understand why they were so strapped.

But if the money wasn't there, it wasn't there.  She sighed.  "It's
only the room above the garage.  It won't be so bad."  With a sheepish
smile and a one shouldered shrug, she said, "It might actually be nice.
Beat the silence.  You know?"  three

IT WAS A SILENCE FILLED WITH VOICES SHE

couldn't hear, an eerie quiet barely breeched by the smooth slur of the
jazz sax wafting from the stereo in the den.  She turned up the volume
and listened, with the small of her back to the doorjamb and her arms
crossed.  Closing her eyes, she let the beat take her away.

But not for long, never for long.  This was where she needed to be.

Peeling her spine from the wood, she began an aimless wandering from
room to room.  Earlier, she had talked with Jill, who was on her way to
a dorm dinner and sounded excited, and with Doug, who was on his way to
a client meeting and sounded rushed.  She had heated the beef stew Myra
delivered.  She had watched the evening news.  She had folded Jill's
freshly laundered sheets--there was a line to be drawn on the leave-her
room-alone rule--and put them back on the bed.

After arranging the pillows neatly at its head, she had stood for a
while holding Cat.  Its fur was matted and its whiskers sparse, one
eye gone, its tail shredded.  She remembered reading The Velveteen
Rabbit dozens of times, with Jill close by her side and Cat close by
Jill's.  No doubt about it, Cat was as loved as that rabbit.

Surprising, that she had left it home.  Kids brought stuffed pets to
college.  Hadn't Jill's roommate--"she's so cool, Mom"--brought two?
Then again, if Jill wanted her room at home preserved, there was no
better watchdog than Cat.  So Emily had gently placed it on the
pillows, making sure that its time-worn body was securely propped.

She went down the hall now, past one closed door, the bathroom, and the
bedroom she shared with Doug, to the stairs.  The runner was worn.
Emily remembered when it had been new.  The thought made her feel old
herself, absurd, given that she was barely forty.  But she didn't have
children at home anymore, which meant that she was, in theory,
semiretired, which was an awful thought.  She had always been highly
directed.

Discouraged, she sank into the living room sofa.  It, too, was worn,
though not worth recovering.  She and Doug didn't entertain often.  He
wasn't home enough.

She sighed as her gaze settled on the mantel.  She picked out photos
from the crowd there, recalling when each had been taken, and the
memories kept her company for a time.  Then they faded, and she was
alone.

She thought of taking a bath.  She had rarely had time for that,
raising Jill.  Or she could read a book.  She had a stack on the
dresser, four good ones to choose from.

The windows were open to the late-August night, to the chirrup of the
crickets and the slurp of the pond.

Earlier, there had been the drone of a lawn mower, done now, though
the scent of cut grass hung thick in the humid air.

Sitting in the dark of night, so quiet and still, she felt as though
her life had come to a screeching halt.  In quick succession she had
been daughter, student, wife, and mother.

What was she now?  A wife without a husband?  A mother without a
child?

But Doug would be home at the end of the week.  And she talked with
Jill on the phone.

Rising from the sofa, she rubbed her damp palms together and peered out
the window.  She tried to see if anyone was coming, but the night was
too dense to see anything from here, so she straightened her T-shirt
behind the overall shorts that hung loose from her shoulders, stepped
into a pair of sneakers, and slipped out the door.

The neighborhood was still.  From the front gate, she looked down the
chain of neat picket fences.  No two segments were exactly alike in
style, height, or state of repair, but they coalesced to form a ghostly
trail that beckoned in the inert night air.

She started down the street, leaving behind Myra's house with its tiny
night light glowing from an upstairs window, then the Wilsons', the
LeJeunes', and the Hinkleys'.  She studied the shadows as she
walked-front yards, side yards, wooded thickets between-but nothing
moved, nothing cried.

At the end of China Pond Road, she turned right onto Walker, then left
onto Sycamore until she came to LaGrange, where, at the high stone wall
of the Berlo estate, she turned right again.  A light mist had begun to
fall, but her feet knew the way and weren't stopping.  Her eyes slipped
between the elegant old Victorians she passed.  She counted down as
she had, pushing carriages so long ago--eight, seven, six, five--until
she passed the last house and reached the corner.

To her right, on the next block, was the hulk of the fire station, and
tucked beside it, like a bolstered weapon, the police station.  She
passed it by, then passed two blocks of stores.  At the curb, heart
pounding, she stopped.

The post office was ahead, a pretty brick building that glittered in
the mist, with a parking lot so roomy and open as to invite patrons to
visit, and beyond the post office and the block of stores used by all
yet considered no man's land, was Grannick's college half.

Turn back, came a cry from inside, but her feet wouldn't move.  She was
riveted to the sight of the students who, even in the mist, came from
the campus for a late night cappucino or pizza.

With a cry of raw envy and an even deeper sorrow, she whirled around
and half-ran, half-walked back in the direction from which she'd come.
She distracted herself by ticking off the stores she passed, one after
another, one block, then the next.  She was approaching the police
station when a cruiser came from behind her and drew to a stop just
ahead.  She slowed as she reached it, then, with a breathless little
sigh, stopped.

"Hi, sweetheart," came a kindly voice from the driver's window.

"Hi, John."

"Out for a walk?"

She tucked her hands behind the bib of her overalls, looked out across
the street, and shrugged.  "Guess so."

"Startin' to sprinkle," he said in that same kindly voice, more friend
than cop, more father than friend.  "Climb in.  I'll give you a lift
home."

Brushing the dampness from her eyes, she rounded the cruiser and slid
into the front seat.  Once they were on their way, she said, "It was
too quiet at home.  It made me think."

He drove slowly down the street.  The wipers arced intermittently,
allowing for a blurring before reality came clear.

"Hard, with the girls gone," he said.

"Mmm.  The days before they left were so busy.  Now, nothing."

"Where's Doug?"

"Chicago."

"When'll he be home?"

"Thursday night."  The cruiser turned left off LaGrange at the Berlo
estate, onto Sycamore.  John studied the road ahead.  Emily studied
him.  He wasn't in uniform.  "Why are you out so late?"  she asked.  He
normally worked days, leaving nightly rounds to his deputies.  "Is
something wrong?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I was restless.  My place was quiet, too."

"What's Kay doing?"

"Reading."

Emily smiled fondly.  "I shouldn't have asked."

John made a right onto Walker and drove along at an exemplary pace.
"She likes to read.  Says it's important.  For school."

Kay had a successful career.  Emily didn't envy it exactly.  But there
was something to be said for having a whole other life.  "She's very
good at what she does."

"Huh."  He turned left onto China Pond and cruised until he reached the
house at the end on the right.

Self-conscious now that she was safely home, Emily said, "Thanks,
John.  I'm glad I didn't have to walk all the way home."

"You'd have got wet."

"Probably."

"Think of that next time.  Better still, call us next time.  We'll meet
you halfway."

"Not if Kay's reading."

"Then I'll meet you myself."

"I really am okay," she insisted.  "I don't want you worrying about
me."

"If not you, who, now that Marilee's gone?"

Emily opened her mouth to argue, but the words didn't come.  The truth
was that she treasured his watchfulness.

Leaning across the seat, she kissed his cheek.  Then she slid out of
the car, closed the door, and ran through the drizzle to the house.

Kay called first thing Tuesday morning.  "John said he gave you a lift
last night.  Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Emily said.  It was a new day.  She felt better.

"Want me to come over?"

"No need.  Things just crowded in.  But I'm okay now."

"When's Doug due home?"

"Thursday night.  I want to do some baking, actually."

"Strawberry-rhubarb pie."

"How did you guess?"

"It's the first one of yours I ever tasted.  Doug's favorite.  You were
making it for him way back when.  Hey, I have some shopping to do
before school starts.

Why don't you make your pie, then come with me.  We'll do lunch."

"I'd better stick around here, in case Jill calls."

"Did she say she would?"

"No, but I'd hate her to get the machine and think that I'm suddenly
out running around now that she's gone.  I want her to know I'm here if
she needs me."

Kay was quiet for a minute before saying a soft, "Don't do this to
yourself, Emily.  Jill will love school."

Emily anchored nervous fingers on a fistful of the huge T-shirt she
wore.  "I hope so.  But I worry."

"So do I. More about you than the girls.  You need to get out of that
house."

"I'm fine.  Really."

"Well.  Don't panic if you see a police car pull up.  John may stop
by."

"Oh, Kay.  He doesn't have to.  I'm okay."

"You know how he is.  He may just have to see for himself.  You're his
new personal cause, now that Marilee is gone.  He's a little lost,
without her here to wait up for at night.  He's driving me nuts,
hovering around."

Emily caught a movement at the kitchen window.  "There he is, just
pulled into the driveway.  In the cruiser.  In broad daylight.  How can
he do this to me?  Myra will be out in two seconds wondering what's
wrong.  She sees everything."

"That's good."

Yes and no, Emily thought.  Mostly yes, when Doug was gone.  Like John
watching out for her by night, Myra did it by day.  She would be
terrified when she saw the police car.

"I'll catch you later," Emily told Kay and hung up the phone.  She
pushed open the screen door to find John mounting the steps.  "I was
just on the phone with your wife.  I really am fine.  You two worry
for nothing."

"Good.  But that isn't why I'm here.  Tell me about the space over your
garage.  Is it really for rent?"

Emily frowned.  "Not yet.  Not for a while.  Why?"

"I may have a tenant for you.  He's been looking all over and can't
find anything he likes."

"He's not about to like this.  It's still months away from being
livable."

"Can we see it?"

We?  Emily glanced at the cruiser.  A man was twisted in the back seat,
behind the screen designed to restrain dangerous criminals.  "John,"
she cried, "what did you bring?"

"He's a good guy, Emily.  You know I'd only bring around the best. Come
meet him."  He had her elbow and was drawing her outside.

"I can't.  I'm waiting for Jill to call."

But he drew her on.  "This'll only take a minute."

"If I don't hear the phone--"

"I'll be listening, too."

"I'm not wearing shoes."

"You never do."

"But this is totally premature.  There's weeks of work to do up there.
I'm not looking for tenants yet.  I'm not looking for tenants at all.
Doug's the one who wants to rent."

"Figured that," John murmured just as the man from the back seat
slipped out and straightened.  "Ignore the stuff on his face.  He says
he doesn't have time to shave so he's growing a beard.  That'll change,
once he gets organized.  Emily Arkin, Brian Stasek.  Brian's joining
the force.  Detective."

The new detective from New York.  Emily tried to remember what else Kay
had said, but all she could think was that he didn't look like a
detective.  He looked tired and more than a little disheveled.  He also
looked vaguely disreputable, thanks to the stubble on his face, a
wrinkled shirt, and torn jeans.  But if John trusted him enough to have
hired him, Emily supposed he had to be okay.  He certainly had
incredible eyes.

"Nice to meet you," he said in a civilized enough voice.

"Same here, but I'm afraid John should have called before he brought
you over.  The space I have won't be ready for a while."

"Let's take a look," John said.

"But if he needs something now--"

"The other things he's seen have been pits."

"Trust me.  This is worse."

"Can I see it?"  Brian asked quietly, and something about his tone
brought her around.  It was weary.  She almost imagined he didn't have
the strength to raise his voice more.  And then there were his eyes.
They were the palest of blues, with silver flecks and shards of sheer
desperation.

Relenting, she said, "I have to warn you, it needs work."

He ran a hand through his hair, which was dark blond and thinning on
top, though not unattractively.  "At this stage," he sighed, "I'm
looking for potential.  Nothing else has even come close."

A sound came from inside the cruiser.  Moaning, he ducked back inside.
When he emerged this time, he held a child.

Early forties, Emily remembered now.  Dead wife.  Young child.

She caught in a breath at the sight of that child, who was young
indeed, and looked nearly as disheveled as her father.  Emily's heart
went out to them both, but it was the baby to whom she was drawn.  She
was a beautiful child, disheveled and all, with clear skin, delicate
features, and tousled brown curls so like those Jill had had that Emily
felt a pang of longing.

"What's her name?"  she asked, coming closer.

"Julia.  Julia, say hello to Emily."

Julia chewed on her fist and stared at Emily with the same pale eyes as
her father--only hers weren't so much desperate as somber.

Emily smiled and touched her cheek.  "Such a sad little face."

"She's not very happy with me."

"Uh-oh.  What did you do?"

"I mean, overall.  She wants her mother, but her mother's dead."

"I did hear that.  I'm sorry.  It must be hard for you, too."

"It wouldn't be so bad if I could find a place to stay."  Pale pleading
blues pinned her to the spot, releasing her only to focus on the
garage.

Emily sought John's help, but his expression was one of benign
complacency.  Clearly, he liked Brian.  Clearly, he liked the idea of
Brian living over her garage.

"It really is awful," she warned.  "I don't know as you'd want a child
there."

"Jill and Marilee used to play there," John stated.

Emily jiggled Julia's hand.  "Not at this age, and there's a difference
between playing there and living there."

"Does it have heat?"  Brian asked.

"Yes."

"Plumbing?"

"Of sorts.  The outlets are all there, but there aren't any fixtures
other than in the bathroom.  The people who owned the house before us
were in the process of building an apartment for their son when they
moved away.  We haven't added a thing."

"How many rooms?"

"One big, one small."

"Kitchen?"

"Along one wall of the big room.  But it's unfinished, no appliances,
no cabinets.  Take a look.  You'll see.  It's light years away from
being habitable."

"Emily?"  came a cry from across the street, followed by Myra scurrying
over.  "Why is this police car here?  Has something happened?  Is
something wrong?  Why is Chief Davies here?"

"It's all right," Emily assured her.  "They're just here about the
garage."

Myra glanced uneasily at Brian.  "What about the garage?  Is there a
problem with the garage?"

"I want to look at it," Brian said.

"But there's nothing there," Myra cried.  "How could there be?  It's
just a shell of a place.  You'd have to take up the floor to put
anything there."

Emily touched her shoulder.  "He's looking to rent it, Myra.  He's new
to John's department."

"A policeman?"  Myra asked, lighting up.  "Oh, good.  There's never any
crime on the streets where they live."  She frowned.  "But Frank won't
like it."

Emily said softly, "You don't have to tell him."

"No.  I don't.  Do I?"

Julia began to whimper.

Brian shifted her on his hip.  "She's impatient.  Her attention span is
limited.  Can I see the apartment?"

Emily swallowed.  His eyes were startlingly direct.  They spoke of
exhaustion, of needing to be somewhere but not knowing where, wanting
to do something but not knowing what.

Emily knew how that was.

"Myra," she said, "do me a huge favor?  Go into my kitchen, pour
yourself a cup of tea, and listen for the phone?  I don't want to miss
Jill if she calls."

"But they won't find anything in the garage," Myra protested.

Emily smiled and steered her off.  "I've been telling them that, but
they'll have to see for themselves.  Will you wait inside so I can take
them up?"

"If it will help you out."

"It will.  Very much."  She waited until Myra had gone in before
leading the others to the far side of the garage.  The door there
opened to a comfortably wide staircase.  "For starters, we need new
locks.  These are nonfunctional."  She started up the stairs, placing
her bare feet with care on the occasional rough tread.  Brian followed
with the whimpering Julia.  John took up the rear.

At the top, a second door opened into a large room.  Kindly speaking,
it had wood floors, papered walls, and a vaulted ceiling.  More
accurately, the floors were scuffed and dusty, the striped wallpaper
was faded into spectral cords, the high ceiling was webby, and the air
was stale.

Acting on the last, Emily opened two of the windows.  They were too
narrow to offer much by way of relief, but they gave an illusion of
openness.  Not that she wanted Brian to like the place.  But it was
hers, and she did have pride.  She also had fond memories of times she
had played here with Jill, times Jill had played here with friends.
Once, there had been a tiny table and chairs, a small chalkboard, a
bookshelf, a bin filled with toys.  Those things had long since been
cleared out to allow for Jill and her friends to spend the night in
sleeping bags on the floor.  All that remained of those parties were
panels of notes written in different colored markers for all of
posterity to see, and punch stains on the floor.

"Pretty sorry sight, huh?"  she asked, brushing dust from her hands.

Julia was whimpering more insistently, but Brian only smiled.  "There's
nothing here that a little elbow grease won't fix."

"A little.  That's optimistic."

"It's a nice size."  He started walking around, rubbing Julia's back as
he went.

Emily watched.  Large hand, small back.  Long, blunt fingers that
looked like they would be all thumbs with a diaper pin but that moved
in a gentle, soothing motion.

She wondered whether he was a good cop or a bad cop, industrious or
lazy, curious or bored.  She wondered what kind of work he had done in
New York and what kind he would be doing here.

When he set Julia on her feet, she took off.

He looked like a nice guy.  But Emily really wasn't ready to rent out
the space.  She slid another silent plea John's way, only to find him
reading the writing on the wall.

"There's nothing shocking there," she said.  "It's typical teenage
stuff."

" "Sean Potts carries an assortment in his back pocket,"" John read
aloud.

"Well, didn't you, when you were in high school?"

"They didn't have assortments then.  I carried one.  For show."

"So now they carry an assortment.  For show."

"Doesn't that worry you?"

"It panics me.  I'm not ready to have a sexually active child.  But
I'm even less ready to have one with AIDS."  She turned to find Brian
studying her.  Julia was across the room, with her tiny fingers on the
window sill, trying to make herself tall enough to see outside.

"You don't look old enough to have a child in college," he said.

She supposed not, what with her huge T-shirt covering all but the
frayed cuffs of her shorts, her face and feet bare, and her hair in its
sixteenish bob.  "I am.  Forty last month."

"Same here.  But look at me."  He hitched his chin toward Julia, who
had settled onto the floor with an unhappy plump and was puckering up
to cry.  With a weary sigh, he scooped her up.

"It goes fast," Emily said, half-wanting to take Julia from him and
give her a hug.  Arms were made for holding children.  Hers felt
bereft.  "Anyway"--she cleared her throat--"you can see that this place
has problems.  Once the appliances are in, and the furniture, it'll be
pretty cramped.  And stuffy.  And dark.  The windows are too small."

"But the view is great," he said.  "It's all woods.  I wouldn't even
need drapes."

"I have to strip the walls, scrub the windows, repaint the woodwork,
sand and varnish the floors, repair the stairs," the thought of it all
left her breathless, "and then there's the matter of appliances.
They'll take weeks to arrive."

"Nah.  We can find some quickly."  He had returned to where she stood
and was passing her, heading into the second room.

Emily followed.  "Small, huh?  You couldn't possibly fit a bed and a
crib in here."

"Just a crib.  I'd use a pull-out sofa in the main room for myself.
This is perfect for a child."  He shifted Julia in his arms.  "What do
you think, toots?"

Julia began to cry.  He cradled her closer, to no avail.

"I'm sorry," he told Emily over the baby's head.  "She's not always
like this."  He fixed a stare at the wall.  "Wrong, Bri.  She is always
like this.  You can sweet-talk a stoolie into ratting on his mother,
but you can't get a goddamned smile from this kid.  Not a one."

Emily stroked Julia's head.  "She's been through a trauma."

"You don't know the half.  She was there when it happened."

"When your wife was killed?"

"Gayle was jogging, pushing Julia in one of those special carriages
joggers use for their kids."  His words came hard and fast over Julia's
sobs.  "She had run through the park and was back on the streets.  She
thought she could catch the end of a walk.  She didn't want to break
stride, never wanted to break stride, damn it.  She was always like
that, determined that she could beat every odd, and she did, until this
time.  She gave the carriage a shove a split second before she was
hit."

"Did Julia see?"

"No, but there were the sounds--brakes, screams, sirens--shhh, sweetie,
it's okay, Daddy's here."

Emily's heart broke for the crying child.  For the father, too.  She
sensed the panic in him.

Desperate to do something, she reached over, took Julia from Brian, and
settled her in her own arms.  The crying continued, but the fit was
comfortable.  Oh yes, arms were made for holding.  They were adjustable
in ways nothing made by man could be.

"When did it happen?"  she asked softly.

Brian looked relieved to be spelled for a bit.  "Nearly five weeks
ago.  My mother had Julia with her for the first month, then I insisted
on taking her.  I thought I was doing the right thing--1 mean, everyone
says fathers are supposed to be able to do it.  Only no one tells them
how."

"No one tells mothers, either."

"Mothers are born knowing how."

She sent him a dubious look.

"No?  So how do they manage?"

"Trial and error.  Common sense.  Okay, a little instinct.  But lots
more luck."  She peered down at what she could see of Julia's face. The
sobs were slowing.  A thumb was inching toward the mouth.  "She's
tired.  When does she usually nap?"

"Whenever.  Wherever.  She goes nuts when I leave her with a sitter, so
I've been taking her with me--I'm trying to line up things like day
care and a pediatrician.  Mostly she falls asleep in the car."

"Jill always needed more of a schedule.  She depended on regular naps.
She dropped the morning one when she was about this size, but she
stayed with the afternoon one for a good long time.  She looked forward
to it.  After hours of constant vigilance, so did I."

Julia's cries had shrunk to hiccups.  Her eyes were closed.

"Ahhh," Brian whispered.  "Peace."

Emily thought the same thing, but for different reasons.  Julia was a
dream to hold.  She cuddled.  "She needs to be settled.  That's why
this place is no good."

"But I like it.  It's on a quiet street--"

"With a pond," Emily cautioned.  "That's the constant vigilance part.
But you need a place now.  This one won't be ready for months."

"I could have it ready in two weeks," he said, those striking eyes now
strong and hopeful.  And compelling, and confident, and contagious.

But she didn't want a tenant.  Yes, Brian Stasek would probably be a
fine one, but she didn't want a tenant.  Doug did.  He said they needed
the money.  He said the space was wasted.  He said that turning it into
an apartment would enhance the value of their house.

But she didn't want a stranger so close.

Then again, Brian was an impressive stranger.  He was alone and living
with pain.  He was polite, articulate, and gainfully employed, and he
had Julia, whose sweaty little cheek felt like heaven against her.

But she wasn't ready.  "John, he can't work on this place if he's
working for you."

John was bent over, squinting at the wall.  " "French kisses taste best
with Chunky Monkey."  What in the hell's Chunky Monkey?"

"Ice cream.  Answer me.  How can Brian work on this place if he's
working for you?"

"He's not working for me for another two weeks."

She stared at him.  "You're just saying that."  She shifted her stare
to Brian.  "This is a conspiracy."

Brian was looking calmer.  "I really like it here."

"But it's too small."

"Not for my furniture.  It's in the back of my Jeep."

She couldn't quite believe that.

"Okay," he conceded, "so I'll have to buy a bed and a few basics, but I
left everything else behind.  The simpler the better.  Less to dodge,
less to clean.  You're looking at a guy who's not used to living
alone."

Emily was looking at Julia, who had settled more deeply into her arms.
"You're not living alone."

"Technically, no.  Practically, yes.  I have responsibilities now that
I've never had before, so the less complex my life is, the better.
Honestly.  This place is perfect.  I can't handle anything more.  What
do you want for rent?"

She turned to John in a last ditch attempt to slow things down, but he
was disappearing into the other room.  Open-mouthed, she faced Brian
again.  She closed her mouth.  She shrugged.  "Beats me."

"Emily," John called, "Myra says Jill's on the phone."

She caught in an excited breath, let it out in a grateful sigh, and
with nothing but a short, "Excuse me," gently transferred Julia to her
father's arms and left the garage apartment.

Jill sounded wonderful.  The girls on her floor were awesome; the
freshman boys living upstairs were okay; the upperclass boys who were
helping with orientation were hot.  She had registered for her courses,
told Emily what they were and when they met.  Her tone grew less sure
only when she asked how Emily was doing.

"I'm great," Emily said, and actually meant it.  She felt better than
she had earlier.  No doubt it had to do with holding Julia.

She could see John and Brian talking in the driveway.  Brian was
shorter than John's six-five by several inches, but something about him
made up the difference.  She wondered if it was the easy way he held
himself.  Or the stubble.  Or the fact that he was from Manhattan and
worldly wise.  Or, simply, his eyes.

"Is the house lonely?"  Jill asked.

Tough call, how to answer honestly without upsetting her.  "Yes.  When
I stop to think about it.  But I'm keeping busy."

"Have you heard from Dad?"

"Last night.  He asked for you.  I gave him your phone number, but
he'll be on the run for the next few days."  It was a lame excuse.
Public phone booths were a dime a dozen, particularly in hotel lobbies
and airports.

"Where is he now?"  Jill asked.

"Today, Baltimore.  Tomorrow and Thursday, Philadelphia."

"And he's coming home from there?"

"Directly.  I'm hoping to have the bathrooms done before then.  I want
us to do something nice this weekend-go off for the day or on a picnic
or something.  We'll definitely call you while he's home."

"I miss you, Mom."

"Me too, sweetie."

John and Brian were still in the driveway when she hung up the phone,
but her time with Jill had been a breather.  When she rejoined them,
she felt more together.  "The fact is," she told Brian, who wore
sunglasses now as he held a sleeping Julia, "that I have no idea how
much the rent will be.  I'll have to talk with my husband.  It's his
decision."

"When will you know?"

"He's on a business trip.  He should be calling tonight."

"I'll give you a deposit now."

"No need."

"Can I come by tomorrow, then?"

"If you'd like."  If she had to have a tenant, she could do worse than
renting to a detective.  "And you think the work could be done in two
weeks?"

Though sunglasses hid his eyes, his voice held conviction.  "Easy.
Julia and I can be sleeping there in less time than that."

"No way."

"We can," he insisted.  "I'll do the basics in the little room first
and set up her crib there so she can nap.  Regularly.  Afternoons for
sure.  On weekends, at least.  Maybe she'll start liking me more."

"I'm sure she will," Emily said.  "But what about you?"

"I'll be sleeping on the floor anyway until I buy a bed."

"The bathroom isn't even functional.  The tub was never installed
properly.  You can't bathe."

John spoke up.  "One of my men can fix that in a day."  When she shot
him an incredulous look, he said, "Well, hell, Doug wants you to rent,
and Brian needs a place, and I'd rather he live here than someone else.
I may just help you strip the walls, myself.  Did our kids really write
those things?  Knowing you'd see them?"

"That was the whole point," Emily drawled.  "The extent of their
rebellion.  We got off easy, I think."  She paused.  "Unless there's
more to come.  No," she waved the thought away with a self-scolding,
"don't even think it."

"Huh," John grunted in agreement and gestured Brian toward the door. "I
got work to do."

So did Emily.  If she was to spend the next two weeks working on the
apartment with Brian, she had baking to do now.  Doug was coming home
Thursday night.  For the first time in twenty years, they would have
the weekend all to themselves.  She wanted it to be perfect.  four

Not ONLY DID EMILY BAKE DOUG'S FAVORITE strawberry-rhubarb pie, but she
baked a loaf of the walnut bread that he liked and three dozen congo
bars to mail to Jill.  She southern-fried several pounds of chicken and
froze it, thinking that if she and Doug did decide to pack a picnic, it
would be perfect.  Finally, she made carrot soup for herself and had it
for supper.

Doug wasn't wild about carrot soup.  He had been once, when they were
first married.  Anything that was simple and healthy had appealed to
him then.  Suppers often consisted of fresh soup and home baked bread,
as tasty as it was politically correct.  Doug was, after all, an
organic farmer.

In those early days, he and his partner worked a piece of land on the
far side of town, and while they weren't setting the world afire, they
managed to bring in enough of a profit to make for a comfortable life
in Grannick.  Then the public caught on to the idea of organically
grown produce, and the farm began to thrive.  Adjacent land was
purchased.  Production increased.  They hired more hands.  Doug set up
an office, ditched his jeans and work boots for khakis and loafers, and
immersed himself in management and marketing.  He began to travel.  He
met savvy entrepreneurs.  He graduated to suits.

Eventually he sold the business to his partner, invested his take in
his own consulting firm, and was on his way.

He was still on his way.  Gone, wherever.

Emily waited for him to call, but he didn'trSeveral friends did,
wanting to know how she was doing without Jill.  But Doug was
apparently tied up.

He was very bright, his success no surprise.  He applied to his
business the same foresight that had prompted him to buy their house at
a time when they could barely afford it but when it was dirt cheap.
They owned it free and clear now.

Emily wished he had been as wise in planning for Jill's education.

But that was water over the dam, come to mind only because she was idle
waiting for him to call.  She preferred being busy.  Then she didn't
think about things beyond her control.

Determined not to repeat the fiasco of the night before, she put John
Coltrane on the stereo, aimed the speakers toward the downstairs
bathroom, and began stripping wallpaper.  It was a small half-bath. Two
nights' work would be all, she figured, and if matching the pattern
took longer than she expected, she could always work late.  She had
nothing better to do.

Pulling off the last of the strips, she stuffed them into a garbage bag
and set it outside with the trash.  Returning, she sanded rough spots
on the wall and spackled cracks, with one ear on the music and one on
the phone.

Doug usually called before dinner, since his meetings often ran late.
Occasionally he called during a mid-evening break.  Some nights he
didn't call at all.

She was worried that he wouldn't call this night.  But she had to speak
with him.  So, when nine o'clock came without any word, she phoned his
hotel.

The front desk informed her that he wasn't there, had never been there,
had never even made a reservation.

She didn't understand.  The last thing he had told her on his way out
on Sunday was, "You know where I'll be."

Well, she didn't.  And she wanted to reach him.  Apparently he was
staying somewhere new.  She had no idea where.

She returned to the bathroom and worked a little longer, but the more
she thought about it, the more disturbed she was.  Thinking that maybe
the person on the phone had made a mistake, she called again.  She
spoke with someone different this time, but the end result was the
same.

In an attempt to find out what hotel Doug was at if not at the usual,
she tried calling the travel agent who booked his flights, but the
office was closed.

On the chance that he had left Baltimore and gone to Philadelphia a day
early, she called his hotel there, but he wasn't expected until late
the next day.  She hung up the phone, feeling unsettled and alone.

Within seconds, she snatched the phone back up.

Kay was stretched out on the lounge in the screenedin porch at the back
of her house, luxuriating with a biography of Jenny Churchill and a
tumbler of iced lemonade, when the phone rang in the den.  She slid
her glasses to the top of her head and listened to the rumble of
John's voice.  When he didn't immediately call her, she assumed it was
for him.

Then again, it could be Marilee, though Marilee usually tried to call
when John was out.  John was a stickler of a father.  He asked
questions in a way that suggested he wasn't getting the truth.

Well, hell, sometimes he wasn't.  But when it came to Marilee, who did
confide in Kay, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"It's Emily," he said now and passed the phone to her.

"Emily.  Hi.  What's up?"

"Can I run something by you?"

Kay heard worry.  "Sure.  Go ahead."

"I didn't tell John.  You know how he gets.  But I can't reach Doug.
He's supposed to have been in Baltimore for the past two days, but the
hotel has no record of him."

Kay sat up.  "He must be at another hotel."

"Would he do that without telling me?  I have no way of reaching him.
What if there were an emergency here?  What if something happened to
Jill and I needed to contact him?"

"You'd call other hotels.  You'd call the police.  You'd go to his desk
and get his client's number.  I'm sure it's an innocent mistake."

There was a pause on the other end.  "Must be.  It's frustrating,
though.  The one time I try calling him, he isn't there.  It's not very
considerate of him."

Kay didn't think so, either, but was surprised to hear Emily say it.
She usually defended Doug to the hilt.  "He left on Sunday, just when
you were getting Jill ready to go.  In the rush and emotion of that, he
may have been distracted.  When did you talk with him last?"

"Last night.  But I have to talk with him tonight.  Did John tell you
that he brought his new detective by to see the garage apartment?"

"Vaguely."  John's specialty was asking, not telling.  He far preferred
investigation to benign chitchat.  What news he did bring came in
single, simple sentences.

"Well, Brian Stasek wants to rent the place," Emily was saying, "and I
need input from Doug."

"What did you think of him?"

"Brian?  He seems nice.  His daughter is adorable."

Kay smiled.  "I figured you'd fall for the kid."

"What's not to fall for?  The poor thing just lost her mother, and her
father is slightly bewildered.  He offered to help get the place ready,
but I can't do a thing until I talk with Doug."

"Why not?"

"Because this is Doug's project."

"Seems to me you're the one doing the work."

"But he pays the bills."

"So?"

"So, he has to tell me what he wants for rent, and how much I can spend
on appliances and all.  It's his money."

"It's yours, too," Kay argued.  "It's everything you weren't paid all
these years while you were raising Jill and coddling him.  You have a
right to take some credit for his success."

"Well," Emily mused, "that's neither here nor there.  The fact is that
I need to talk with him tonight, but I have no idea where he is."

"Give him a little longer.  Maybe he'll call."

"If not, I will track him down.  You're right, through his client.  He
may be annoyed."

"Tough.  He should be embarrassed, not telling you where he is."

"He's busy.  That's all."

"He's self-centered."

"He's under a lot of pressure."

Sensing that Emily would counter each accusation with an excuse, Kay
offered a few last words of encouragement before ending the call.  She
was surprised to find John still at the door.

"She okay?"  he asked.

"She will be.  Doug wasn't where he said he'd be.  It's probably just a
mix-up, but it's too bad it happened this week.  It's a raw time for
Emily."

"Where's he supposed to be?"

Kay told him the story in crisp answers to the questions he fired, but
when he threatened to make some calls, she objected.  "Don't, John.
Please.  Emily won't want that.  Doug's not missing, just momentarily
displaced."  She collapsed the antenna and handed him the phone.  "Will
Brian Stasek be a good tenant?"

"Yup."

"Not that they really need one.  Doug's making good money.  If he's
feeling pinched, he could let Emily work."

"This will be easier for her.  Once the apartment's fixed up, all
she'll have to do is sit back and collect the rent."

"Now, that sounds exciting," Kay mocked.  "Instead of doing something
to stimulate her mind, she can sit around collecting rent."

"She was good with the baby."

Kay had an awful thought.  "You're not setting her up to babysit, are
you?"

"It would keep her busy.  And he'd pay."

"But she's been a babysitter for the last twenty years.  It's time she
moved on."

"Maybe she doesn't want to."

"Maybe she does but won't say it."

They stared at each other, but Kay wasn't backing down.  She rarely
did, where women and work were concerned.  Not that it did much good.
John was still most comfortable thinking of women safe and sound at
home.

"Anyway," he said without quite conceding the point, "Brian will keep
an eye on her."  He turned to leave.  "When did Marilee call last?"

"Mid-afternoon."

"What's she doing?"

"Having a ball," the devil in Kay said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means she's doing what she's supposed to be doing."

"She's supposed to be studying."

"Classes haven't started yet."

"Then why is she there?  How long does orientation have to run?  Give
kids time and freedom in a big city, and there's trouble."  He glared
off through the screen.  "There's a perfectly good college right here
in town."

"She didn't have the grades to apply, much less get in."

"Then UMass.  Why isn't she there?"

"Because half her graduating class is there.  She wanted something
different."

"Did she have to go so far?"

"It's only an hour's flight."

"UMass would have been an hour's drive."

"And if she'd been there, what would you have done?  Gone down every
night and patrolled the campus?  Kept her under surveillance?  Really,
John."

He shot her a frown.

She sighed.  He wasn't ill-meaning, just old fashioned.  More gently,
she said, "It's possible that she chose Washington so that you
couldn't do any of that.  She's a big girl, John.  She's a good girl.
She knows right from wrong.  She won't be doing anything you didn't do
yourself when you were her age."

"That's what worries me."

Kay thought of the John she hadn't known, the bachelor who had lived
some, not only at eighteen but at twenty-five, twenty-eight,
thirty-one.  Twelve years her senior, he had been ready to settle down
when she arrived in Grannick, and in all the time since, he had behaved
to the letter.  If not, she might have run in the opposite direction.
She had been an innocent when they first met, and no beauty.  She
couldn't have competed with other women.  She wouldn't have tried.  But
John had been sweet and attentive, and after anticipating spinsterhood,
she had been snowed.

"Marilee will be fine," she insisted now.  "Jill will be fine.  Dawn,
on the other hand," she mused, "may need a little watching."  Taking
the phone back from John, she pulled up the antenna.

Celeste was in her bedroom when the phone rang.  Her back was cushioned
by the huge down comforter that was piled high, summer-style, at the
foot of the bed.  Before her on the pristine white throw were the
contents of the small cigar box that contained the sum total of her
childhood pictures.

The box had belonged to her father, dead since she was sixteen, but
even now the scent of him lingered.  It conjured images of kindness and
simplicity and a love so pure that ugly noses didn't matter.  He had
loved her, ugly nose and all.

It struck her now, looking through these pictures for the first time in
years and with a deliberately critical eye, that he had the same ugly
nose and, incredibly, the same double chin.

Funny, but she hadn't been aware of his having either, until now.  No
doubt because she loved him.  And because men could get away with a lot
more than women.

She had taken her nose and her jaw from him.  Now she was about to
obliterate them.  For the first time, she felt a twinge of doubt, and
the more she stared at her father, the greater it grew.

The phone was a welcome reprieve.  During the few seconds it took her
to put down the pictures she was holding and stretch across the bed to
reach it, she imagined someone tall, dark, and handsome, with her
father's kindness and love, on the other end.

"Hello?"

"I promised Marilee that I'd get Dawn's number.  Do you have it
handy?"

So much for tall, dark, and handsome.  Celeste reeled it off.  "She
called before.  I lectured her on everything I hope she's doing
right."

"Ah.  The power of positive thinking.  Have you told her about your
nose?"

"No.  I don't want her getting any ideas."

"She'll see it for herself."

"Not for a while.  She swore she wouldn't be home until fall break."

"She might drop in unannounced."

"Only if she needs something."

"She'll be angry you didn't tell her."

"If it's over and done and healed, she might not even realize what's
happened.  She'll think I look great to her because she hasn't seen me
in a while."

"Celeste.  She has your nose."

Celeste felt a moment's panic.  "This is true."  She glanced at the
pictures on the bed.  "Kay, am I doing the right thing?"

"I can't tell you that.  You're the one calling the shots.  It's your
self-image, remember?"

"Yeah.  But it's also my heritage.  I'm feeling guilty about erasing
it."

"Then don't."

"But I want to.  I don't like this nose.  I don't like seeing it in the
mirror.  I don't like walking around with it.  I want to be able to
hold my head high, but I can't now, and that only accentuates the
double chin.  I want a new face to go with a new life."

"Then do it."

"But will I live to regret it?"

"Celeste, it's only your nose.  It isn't you.  You won't change, either
way.  So flip a coin."

"But what if I lose?  I've been wanting to do this for years."

"There's your answer," Kay said.  "Listen, it's getting late.  I want
to finish this book tonight.  When do you go in?"

"Tomorrow night.  Emily's driving me.  The surgery is first thing
Thursday morning.  Will you come see me?"

"Thursday night.  I told you I would."

"You won't laugh if it looks awful, will you?"

"I won't laugh.  And it will look awful, at first.  Then it'll look
gorgeous."

Hearing it from Kay, who wasn't into vanity, made Celeste feel
better.

"Do me a favor, Celeste?  Give Emily a call.  She's waiting to hear
from Doug.  She tried calling him at his usual hotel, but he wasn't
registered there.  She's feeling rattled."

"Well, of course, she would," Celeste said with a measure of disgust.
"What's wrong with the man?

Would it have hurt him to give her the right hotel?  Doesn't he know
how much he means to her?  Is he blind?  Or just male.  Insensitivity
is such a male thing.  Same with irresponsibility.  And they say we're
flighty.  Hah!"

"Uh, forget calling Emily.  You'll only rile her up."

"No, I won't.  You just got me going.  Men really are rats.  What's
yours doing?"

"As we speak?  Mine is sitting in the other room, thinking about all
the dirty little things he did to girls when he was eighteen, and
imagining some randy guy doing them to Marilee."

Celeste was intrigued.  "What dirty little things did John do?"

"You'd have to ask him that.  He never did them to me.  Where I was
concerned, he went by the book."

"If the book was the Kama-sutra--"

"Celeste.  Please."

"Okay.  I'm calling Emily.  Catch you later."

Emily had a roll of new wallpaper unwound on the living room floor and
was on her hands and knees, measuring off strips, when the phone rang.
The paper arced and curled when she jumped up, but she didn't give it a
second thought over the rush of relief she felt.  She had been waiting
forever for Doug to call.

"It's not Doug," Celeste said without preamble.  "Still no word?"

Emily let out a disappointed breath.  "Not yet."  She glanced at her
watch.  It was after ten.  "He may, still.  I just wish I knew where he
was."

"Do you know who he's with?"

"No.  He has five accounts in Baltimore.  He could be with any one of
them.  I should have asked before he 70 Barbara PefinsJty left, but my
mind was on Jill.  Same thing when he called last night.  I should have
showed more interest in what he was doing."

"Oh no, don't go blaming yourself, Emily.  This isn't your fault.  If
Doug had any inkling of what you're going through this week, he'd have
volunteered that information and more.  He should be pampering you a
little."

"I don't need pampering."

"Every woman needs pampering.  Every person needs it.  I actually think
men get it more than we do.  Some irony, them being the stronger sex
and all, yuk, yuk.  But there must be some strong ones out there. 
Maybe I can ferret out a few.  Want one?"

"No, thanks.  I'll stick with Doug.  If he ever calls."

"He'll call."

"But I wanted to talk with him tonight."  It was strange, when she
thought of it, the urgency she felt.  She was the one who didn't want a
tenant.  Now she was rushing to cement the deal.

She guessed it was because of Brian Stasek and his daughter.  They were
lost souls.  If the garage apartment could help them gain their
footing, something good would come of renting out the space.

"I think," Celeste was saying, "that men have a sixth sense that tells
them when we most want something.  Then they know not to give it.
Jackson always hit it right on the nose."

"Doug is not Jackson."

"And thank God for that, though I do think you should tell him off,
Emily.  He should tell you where he's staying.  He should give you a
detailed itinerary each time he leaves home.  My dream guy will
definitely do that.  No.  I take that back.  My dream guy won't travel.
He'll be here every night."

"Mmmm.  That does sound nice."  The call-waiting clicked, sending her
stomach jangling.  "There's the other line.  It must be Doug.  Let's
talk in the morning."  She touched the phone.  "Hello?"

"Hi, Emily."

"Doug."  She let out a breath.  "Doug.  Where are you?"

"In Baltimore.  Why?"

"Where in Baltimore?"

"What's wrong?"

"I tried calling you."

"Is there a problem?"

"Yeah," she said, annoyed.  The problem should have been obvious to
him.  "I couldn't reach you."

"Is there a problem?"  he bit out.

His sharpness took her back.  "You mean, with Jill?  No."

"Then why were you trying to call?"

Because you're my husband and I miss you.  Because my only child is
gone and I need your voice to remind me that I'm not as alone as I
feel.

But she didn't want to sound like a whiner, or a clinger, so she simply
said, "I wanted to talk with you about the garage apartment.!  found
someone to rent it, a man who's joining our police department.  He was
a detective in New York, but his wife just died, and he has a little
girl to take care of, so he's looking for something quiet."  She
assumed he was also looking for an escape from memories.  Maybe a new
start.  She envied him that.

"Isn't the garage too small for a man with a child?"  Doug asked.

"He says that something small will be easier to take care of.  He's
also willing to help get it ready.  He doesn't start with the
department for two weeks.  He claims he can have it done by then."

"How many months' free rent does he want, in exchange for doing the
work?"

"He didn't mention anything about that."

"I'm sure he had it in mind."

Emily wasn't so sure.  She really wasn't.  "He asked how much the rent
would be, and I didn't know.  How much do you want?"

"Nine hundred."

"A month?  You're kidding."

"There's no harm shooting high.  Besides, we have to go out now and buy
a refrigerator, a stove, cabinets."

"Nine hundred is too high."  She would choke on the words, before she
got them out of her mouth in front of Brian.

"It's a one-bedroom apartment."

"It's little more than a studio, Doug, that second room is so small.
Grannick isn't Boston.  It isn't even Worcester."

"Eight hundred, then.

"Five.  I can't gouge the man."  She pictured Brian and Julia, and knew
she couldn't.  "If I asked anything more, he'd laugh in my face.  He
isn't a hayseed.  He's from Manhattan.  He knows what a fair price is,
and even if he did agree to it, I'd feel like a piece of dirt every
month when he came to hand over the check.  We can live nicely with an
extra five hundred a month."

"We have to pay for appliances."

"That's a capital investment--like taking the proceeds from the sale of
the farm and putting them into your business.  It pays off.  So even if
every cent of that rent for the first few months goes for appliances,
at the end of the time we'll have a fully equipped apartment bringing
in rent free and clear."

"What about utilities?"

"Okay.  He can pay for those himself."  She couldn't imagine they
would amount to much in such a small space.  "But the rent should be
five."

"God, you're a lousy businesswoman."

"Maybe.  But I'm not charging a cent more."

"Fine.  So why did you need to talk with me?"

She opened her mouth, then shut it, stunned, after the fact, by her
boldness.  What did she know about setting rent?  Only that nine, even
eight, was too high.  "I, uh, just wanted to verify it, I guess. Before
I put it to Brian."

"Brian."

"Stasek.  The detective."  Why did she feel guilty using his first
name?  Because Doug had a way of making her feel guilty.  It was
nothing new.  "I also wanted to know about a budget for appliances and
fixtures and things."

"You had the answer to the rent.  You must have the answer to that one,
too."

He was annoyed.  She softened her tone.  "I haven't really thought it
out.  It's been a long time since I've bought major appliances.  I have
no idea what prices are like."

"Well, find out.  I can't.  I'm too busy.  It's been one hell of a
week, meetings running overtime, people uncooperative.  I won't even
make it to Philadelphia until the day after tomorrow.  I don't see how
I can get home before late Saturday."

Emily was crushed.  "Doug."

"It's not like I have control over this."

"I've been telling myself Thursday night, Thursday night, Thursday
night.  I've been baking.  I've been planning."

"Planning what?"

"A picnic.  A hike up Bee Hill.  Antiquing in Great Barrington."

"We don't go antiquing."

"We used to go all the time, when we first moved here."

"That was when we dreamed of buying one of the Victorians on LaGrange
and furnishing it with antiques, but that dream is dead, Emily.  We own
a perfectly good house.  We're not going anywhere."

"Not even antiquing just for the fun of it?"  she asked.  She didn't
want a new house.  All she wanted was to spend time with Doug.

"If I were doing anything just for the fun of it, I would be playing
golf."

She nearly laughed.  "You don't play golf."

"Yes.  I do."

"Golf?"

"It's a business tool.  There's many a CEO I've brought around to my
way of thinking over the span of eighteen holes."

Emily was dumbfounded.  The image ran counter to the one she had always
held of Doug in a borrowed executive office, with papers covering the
desk, people running in and out, and secretaries typing up his ideas as
quickly as he could spew them out.  "But you don't know how to play
golf," she argued, perhaps stupidly, but she was feeling bewildered.

"I learned.  It's not hard to pick up."

"What about golf shoes, clubs?"

"I rent, or borrow."

"I'm stunned."  It was a whole other side of him that she hadn't known
about.  "You never said a word."

"I never had cause.  It's something I do for business.  Like I said, if
I had free time I'd do it for fun, too, but I don't have free time,
and, anyway, Grannick doesn't have a golf course, so it's
irrelevant."

"Not to me," she cried, hurt enough to say, "I don't know who you are
sometimes, Doug."

He sighed.  "Look, it's been a long day.  I have to be at work by
seven in the morning.  Can't we discuss this when I get home?"

"When?  If you're not coming home until Saturday night and you'll be
leaving again Sunday afternoon, when do we talk?"

"Sunday morning.  Okay?"

He sounded more irked than conciliatory, making her feel guilty again,
like she was a nag.  But it was the first time she had asked.  It was
the first time she'd had to.  Always before he had been around more.

Well, maybe not much more.  But when Jill was home, she hadn't minded
so much.

It was only one weekend lost.  She supposed she shouldn't panic. Still,
the vision came to her of an endless string of months and years, with
Doug stopping in to have his laundry done one, maybe two days a week. 
Not much of a marriage.  Not much of a life.

"Emily?"

She felt like crying.  "Sunday morning.  Okay."

"I'll call you when I get to Phillie."

"Fine."  She hung up the phone, only then realizing that she still
didn't know where he was, which meant she couldn't call him back, even
if she wanted to, not that she did.  He burned her each time they
talked.

She didn't know what his problem was.

She did know that he hadn't asked about Jill.  Or about her.

And she still didn't know how much to spend on materials for the garage
apartment.  five

EMILY ATTACKED THE WALLS OF THE DOWNSTAIRS

bathroom not to please Doug, since he wouldn't even be home to see
until Saturday night--Saturday night--but to keep herself busy.  She
didn't want to think, didn't want to brood, didn't want to fear.  She
didn't want to go out walking, either.  So she piped in Thelonius Monk
and pushed herself until the last strip was up, squeegied, and wiped
clean, and when all that was done, she covered the light switches.

By then it was three in the morning, and her body was tired.  So she
took the long, hot bath that she had rarely had time for before, even
threw in a capful of the scented bath oil Jill had given her on the
occasion of wishful thinking.

She slept for all of two hours, waking with the sun, needing to be busy
again.  By seven in the morning, when Doug would be getting to work,
she was in the apartment over the garage with pen and paper, making a
list of what she was going to need.

At the top of the list was a cordless phone.  Doug had a separate
business line with an answering service, so she didn't worry about his
calls.  She did worry about calls from Jill.  She didn't want to miss
one while she was working on the apartment, and when the work was done,
well, she could talk on the phone sitting with Myra under the willow.

Everyone else had a cordless phone.  It was high time the Arkins did,
too--and to hell with any protest Doug might make.  He had told her to
make decisions regarding the apartment.  Well, she would.

She listed cleaning supplies.  She listed appliances and kitchen
cabinets, and took measurements for each.  She listed a sander, which
she could rent, and varnish.  She listed a ceiling fan, because even
this early in the morning, with both windows open, the place was hot.
Besides, a ceiling fan mounted high in the center of the large room
would be a nice touch.

She listed paint for the woodwork and walls, and flooring for the
bathroom.  She listed light fixtures for each of the rooms, because the
bare bulbs that had sufficed up to now were harsh.  And she listed new
locks.

She bought the phone and the cleaning supplies on her first trip into
Grannick, and on her way home, stopped for coffee.  While she waited in
line with workmen, most of whom she knew from years of going to Nell's,
she snagged an electrician and a plumber to stop by the garage later in
the day.

Pleased to have already accomplished something, she returned home and,
by eight-thirty, was at work.

Across town, in a small room in the Grannick Lodge, Brian Stasek
rummaged through his duffle bag.  He was sure he had a clean pair of
jeans.  He had done the wash two days before--had spent half the
goddamned night running back and forth to the laundry room doing four
mammoth loads--and was sure he had washed some jeans.  He tossed
T-shirts, socks, and shorts out of the duffle.  He turned to the
dresser and rifled through the drawers, then tore into the closet.

The jeans were on the top shelf.  He grabbed them down and swore when
the motel's spare blankets came with them.  "Not my day," he muttered,
stuffing the blankets back up.  At least Julia was quiet.  She was a
little lump amid a scattering of Cheerios in front of the television,
stoned on a sippy-cup of juice.

She had fussed most of the night.  She was beat.

So was he.  He had worried most of the night, convinced in turn that
she was sick, in pain, or dying.  He had finally fallen asleep to dream
that he had left the room to do more laundry and returned to find the
place engulfed in flames.  He could hear Julia screaming, but he
couldn't get through the fire, couldn't do anything to save her.

He had bolted awake in a sweat, heart racing, nerves raw.  He didn't
need a psychiatrist to tell him that he was feeling helpless about
Gayle's death.  When it came to Julia, he was feeling helpless about
most everything.

They needed to be settled.  He planned to give Julia a bath and dress
her up so that she looked too pretty to resist, then clean himself up
so that he wasn't frightening, then drive over to Emily Arkin's house
and beg for mercy.

Gayle would have said the place was too small, but Gayle wasn't
here--and, besides, Gayle had always gravitated toward sleek leather,
chrome, and marble.  She wouldn't understand his desire for wood, or
the warmth he had felt in that little, unfinished, over-the garage
space.  It was different enough from his previous life to speak to him
of new beginnings.  He needed things warm and fresh.  He needed that
apartment.

When a knock came at the door, he snapped his jeans and drew it open.
The manager, a reedy sort, peered nervously past him into the room. "Is
your daughter all right?"  he asked.

"She's fine."

"I had reports that she was crying last night."

Something of an accusatory nature made Brian wary.  "Who did you hear
that from?"

"People in other rooms.  We had some calls, but I told the night
manager not to disturb you."  He gave a thin laugh.  "I have children
of my own.  They just won't shut up some times.  These are cramped
quarters.  How is your apartment search coming?"

"It's coming."

"Have you found anything?"

"Maybe."

"Well, that's good.  When will you be checking out?"

Brian's wariness grew.  He didn't like being rushed.  "I'm not sure. 
Is there a problem with my staying here?"

"Well, this isn't a good place for a child so young."

"The Grannick Lodge is billed as a family motel."

"Most of our children are older."

Brian started to burn.  He was paying dearly for this room, and in ways
other than the green.  "I've had to listen to their older noise every
night for a week.  It keeps waking up my daughter.  Maybe you ought to
be talking with them."

"They don't stay more than two or three days.  You're staying longer
than most."  He looked beyond Brian again.  "It's too bad we can't get
in here to give the place a good cleaning, but with clothes and toys
all over the place, well--" He shrugged.

Brian fixed the man with a stare that wiped the smarmy smile from his
face.  In a low voice, he said, "As long as you take my money, you'll
make my bed, put fresh sheets on my daughter's crib, clean the
bathroom, and vacuum the rugs, and you'll continue to do it until I
check out, or you'll have a discrimination suit on your hands so big
and so fast that you won't know what hit you."

The man backed off.  "No need to make threats."

"That isn't a threat.  It's a promise.  Now if you'll excuse me, my
daughter and I have places to go."  He shut the door in the man's face,
turned, and leaned against it for an angry minute.  It was another
minute before he realized that Julia was staring at him.

He grinned.  "How was that, toots?  Impressed?"  He pushed away from
the door and scooped her off the floor.  "Your old man knows the words,
all right.  He knows the tone of voice.  He knows the look."  His voice
fell.  '"Course, it doesn't work much on you, does it?"

Julia continued to stare.

"How about a smile?"  He pushed at the corners of her mouth.  "Just a
little one?  I mean, hell, we're in this together, aren't we?"  He gave
her a pleading look, then sighed.  "Okay."  He looked around the room.
"What'll it be?  The pink overalls?  The red dress?  We are going to
impress Emily Arkin today.  Right?"

Emily was taking a mid-morning break, sitting in the middle of the
floor drinking the last of her cold coffee, when Brian's voice rose
from the bottom of the stairs.

"Hello?"

"Up here!"  She had been wondering when he would come by, or even if.
It had occurred to her more than once during the long night just past,
that he might have seen another place or changed his mind.  She
wondered now if he was coming to tell her that.

She hoped he wasn't.  After the to-do with Doug and her own
taking-the-bull-by-the-horns, she felt committed.  Besides, she liked
Brian.  She liked the thought of his being close.

His footfall told of his climb, moments before he filled the doorway
with Julia in one arm and a bag in the other.  "Morning," he said.

The first thing she noticed was that he had shaved.  The second was
that his eyes were as striking as she remembered them to be.  The third
was that Julia looked precious.

Emily crossed the floor.  "Hello, Julia.  You look so pretty."  She
took her from Brian and, in a private little voice, said, "I love your
jeans.  Did you pick them out yourself?  And your sneakers.  And the
bow in your hair."  It was red and lopsided, but it matched her jersey.
"Who put that bow there?"

Julia regarded her with solemn eyes.

"This is the second time you've done it," Brian said.  "She won't let
anyone else hold her.  Screams every time I try."

Emily shrugged.  "I love little ones.  She must sense that."

"But she screams for me sometimes, too.  Can't she feel my love?"

"Sure, but if you're tired or tense or uncertain, she feels that, too."
She fingered Julia's curls.  "She may feel my experience.  Or my
desperation.  It's been too long since I've held a little one this
size.  It's delicious.  In another year or two, she'll refuse to be
held, so this time is really special."

Brian cleared his throat.  "Not exactly the adjective I'd have chosen.
I could use a little more self-sufficiency.  I could use a little
speech to tell me what she wants."

"Julia doesn't talk yet?"  Emily asked Julia.  "I'll bet she thinks all
kinds of things, but just isn't ready to share them.  Is that right,
Julia?"  Julia rubbed an eye.  "My daughter didn't say much until she
turned three."

"How did you survive?"

"I knew what she wanted."

"How?"

"I knew her.  I knew what pleased her."

Brian sighed.  "Maybe it'll come, then.  After I've been with her more.
Want some coffee?  I stopped at a great place."

"Nell's.  I recognize the bag.  Half the town hits Nell's at some point
during the day."

"You, too?"

"Very early this morning.  But I'd love a refill."

Brian hunkered down by Emily's empty cup and began unloading the
contents of the bag.

"Oooh," Emily cooed to Julia.  "I see something good.  Is Julia
hungry?"

Julia had spotted what Emily had, and made a wanting sound.  Emily set
her down and watched her run to Brian, who put a donut hole in her
hand.

"Little ones for little people, big ones for big people."  He took
several full-sized donuts from inside the bag.

Emily sat cross-legged on the floor.  "Buttercrunch.  My favorite."

"Really?"

She nodded.  "This is a treat."

"It's actually a bribe," Brian said, sitting nearby.  "I want this
apartment."

She grinned.  "It's yours."

"How much?"

"Five a month, utilities not included."

"It's a deal."

She took a bite of the donut, feeling inordinately pleased.  In
addition to being a detective, he was a nice guy.  "Are you still
willing to help get it ready?"

"You bet.  It's right down my alley.  My dad was a carpenter.  I spent
summers working with him, before I joined the force."

"Your parents live in New York, then?"

He shook his head.  "Chicago, and it's just my mom, now.  My dad died a
few years ago."  He uncapped a coffee and handed it over.  "I went to
school in New York and loved it, so I stayed on to work.  After a
while, I met Gayle.  She was an architect with a career in the city.
There was no way we were going to leave."  He rubbed an eyebrow.
"Funny, how things work out."

"How long were you married?"

He uncapped the second coffee and took a drink.  "Ten years.  We worked
hard at it.  We each had time consuming careers.  Could go for a week
at a stretch doing nothing more than sharing a bed for a few hours a
night."  He drew in a breath.  "But I miss her.  We had an interesting
life.  A grown-up life, compared to the one I lead now.  My days have
been consumed with interviewing babysitters, finding "Sesame Street' on
the tube, slicing bananas, and changing diapers."

"It gets better," Emily said with a smile.

"When?"

"Soon.  She'll eat the banana whole."

"Swell."

"Any luck with babysitters?"

"Hard to tell.  I wasn't kidding when I said you're the only one who
can hold her.  Anyone else comes near, and she loses it.  One woman in
the center of town has potential."

"Janice Stolski."

His eyes lit.  "Do you know her?"

"She's lovely.  She limits the number of children she takes so that she
can give personal care.  Will she take Julia?"

"She says so.  But will Julia take her?  That's the question.  I'll
give it a try tomorrow while I'm working here.  It'd be dangerous to
have Julia underfoot, and besides, I'd better give it a test run.  I
have to find the right person before I start work."

"What will you be doing with the department?"

"Whatever needs to be done."

"What did you do in New York?"

"Homicide.  Not at first, though.  I started in uniform.  But I was
good with people.  I could get them to trust me, and when they trust
you, they give you information you need.  So I moved up."

"It's your eyes," she said.  "They have a trust-me quality."  Other
qualities, too, but she wasn't elaborating.  If she said they were
compelling, or intriguing or sensual, he might take it the wrong way.
"They're hard to miss."

"That has a down side.  I wore tinted contacts when I went undercover."
He was studying Julia.  "It's probably just as well I left.  Contacts
or no, someone on the street catches on after a while, and the next
thing you know ..."  He pulled an imaginary trigger.

Emily flinched.

"Anyway," he went on, "Grannick will be tamer."

"We have crime."

"But not like New York.  Nothing's like New York."  He helped himself
to a donut.

"There was a kidnapping in town several years back," Emily offered.  "A
coed from the college.  She was from a wealthy family in the
Midwest."

"Was she ever found?"

"Uh-huh.  By two of our own doing fancy footwork, but not before one
baby finger and two million dollars were exchanged."

Brian grunted.  "Motive?"

"Revenge.  An employee let go.  Have you ever worked on a
kidnapping?"

"Yes.  They're tough.  In most murders, the victim and the perpetrator
know each other.  That's less true in kidnappings.  The victims are
often innocents."

"Children."

"Not always.  But often.  And then there's the heartache of the
parents."

Emily nodded.  She turned to Julia, who was squatting between them. "Is
that good, sweetheart?  Oooops.  That half got away.  Here it is." She
secured the crumbly piece of donut in Julia's little hand, and looked
up to find Brian focused on the back wall.  "Having second thoughts?"

"Not on your life.  This is the place.  It's homey even now."

"Needs lots of work."

"The work will be therapeutic--for me, at least.  I apologize for
rushing you into this.  You may have had other things to do."

"No, the timing is actually fine.  My daughter just left for college,
and my husband travels a lot.  I like keeping busy."

He smiled and popped his brows, hinting that this would keep her busy
enough, then he raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling.  "Any chance of
getting a paddle fan up there?"

"It's already on my list."

His eyes returned to the back wall.  "How about a window there?  A tall
arched one, covering the space where those two small ones are and then
some.  It would make the room huge, open it up to the woods."

Emily pictured it instantly.  But she hadn't anticipated doing anything
quite so grand.  "Wouldn't that involve structural work?"

"Not really.  I've done this kind of thing before.  It isn't hard.  If
you spring for the window, I'll provide the labor for free."

She couldn't argue with the offer.  The window would remain long after
Brian was gone.  Labor was the expensive part.

She remembered what Doug had said.  "That sounds fair enough, but the
rest isn't.  You're giving two weeks of your time."

He looked puzzled.

"What would you like in return?"

"I'm getting the apartment in return."

Hah!  Doug was wrong!  "I'll waive the first month's rent," she
offered.

"I'm not asking for that."

"I know, but it seems only right."

"Why?  I volunteered to do this work.  I'm looking forward to it."

The more noble he was, the more so she wanted to be, herself.  "But you
ought to get something for it."  She had an idea.  "I could babysit."

"No," he said quickly and, sheepish now, scratched the back of his
head.  "When I stopped at the station before, John warned me about
that.  He said his wife would divorce him if I used you that way."

"You're not using me.  I'm offering."

But his eyes said he wouldn't be moved, and those eyes weren't to be
doubted.

"Well," she said, "I feel awkward about this.  I'm getting something
for nothing.  It isn't right."

"There is something."

"What?"

"You could let me use your washer and dryer.  I've had one hell of a
hassle doing Julia's wash at the motel.  If I could just sneak into
your basement once in a while."

Emily smiled.  "I have a better idea."  She looked at the wall where
the kitchen would be.  "I'll put a vertical set in that corner and
close it in with louvered doors."

"Not necessary."

"But it's right," Emily said, pleased.  "Doug wanted this to be an
apartment, so it should be an apartment, and apartments nowadays have
washers and dryers.  At least, most do."  She paused.  "Don't they?"
But her mind was made up.  "I want it done."

"Yoo-hoo.  Emily?"

"I'm here, Myra," she called.  To Brian, she said, "Myra makes her
rounds of the neighborhood every morning.  No doubt she sees your car
and wants to know who's here."  She had a thought.  "You're not driving
a cruiser are you?  She panics when she sees cruisers."

"No cruiser.  Just the Jeep."

"Well, hello again," Myra sang in a way that suggested she knew very
well who was there.

Emily figured she had been sitting at her window when they arrived.

Myra bent over.  "It is Julia, isn't it?  Hello, Julia."  She
straightened.  "And her policeman father.  But you're out of uniform,
officer."

Brian smiled.  "I haven't started working yet."

"He's a detective," Emily said.  "He won't be wearing a uniform."

"No uniform?  Oh.  But that is good.  Less upsetting."  To Emily, in a
confidential undertone, she murmured, "I haven't said anything to Frank
yet.  If there isn't any uniform, he may never have to find out."  Her
eyes flew to Brian.  "Unless you put those bright lights on the top of
your car."

"No bright lights," Brian assured her.  "Not coming down this
street."

"Then why are you here, if not to come down this street?"

"He's here," Emily said softly, "because there was an opening in our
department just when he needed to get away from New York.  His wife
died recently.  He wants a quiet place to raise Julia."

Myra clucked her tongue.  "What a sad story.  But don't be fooled," she
told Brian.  "Grannick isn't so quiet.  Things happen here, too."

"That's why I'm here."

"Now, I knew that.  See, Emily, I knew he was here to solve things. But
who's taking care of Julia while he does that?"

"He's arranging for day care in town."

"Well, that's a silly thing to do."  To Brian, brightly, she said, "I
can take care of Julia.  I make the most lovely tea parties under my
willow.  Don't I, Emily?"

Emily touched her arm.  "Julia needs to be with other children."

"Not if she's sick.  She can't go out then.  I don't like the idea of
day care.  Frank doesn't either.  He says children should be at home."
Myra turned a stern look on Brian.  "If Julia is sick, you come get me
and I'll stay with her.  Do you promise you'll do that?  It's the least
I can do for you, after you've come all this way.  I make wonderful
lace cookies.  And mittens.  I've taken good care of Emily--haven't I,
Emily?"

Emily put an arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the door.
"Very good care.  Did I tell you that we put the afghan you crocheted
for Jill right on her bed at school?"

"Did you really?  How nice!  I miss Jill.  If I make her some cookies,
can we send them to her?"

"You make them, I'll send them.  Deal?"

"Deal."

Emily waited until she was down the stairs before turning
apologetically to Brian.  "She is a very sweet, very harmless lady, and
she does make wonderful cookies."

Brian completed her thought.  "But I shouldn't let her babysit
Julia."

Emily felt disloyal.  Still, she shook her head.  "She isn't batty,
exactly.  She's perfectly lucid when it comes to most things.  Her
family wants to put her into a nursing home, but that would kill
her--and there isn't any need.  She is entirely capable of taking care
of herself.  Unfortunately, she lives with Frank."

"Is he a problem?"

"Depends on how you see it.  He's been dead for six years."

"Oh."

"For whatever reasons, she can't accept it.  She cooks for him, sets a
place for him at the table, refers to him in conversation."

"Were they married a very long time?"

"Yes."

"And very close?"

"I suppose."  Emily had never quite understood the appeal.  "Frank was
a difficult man.  Not terribly social.  He drank.  I don't know if he
ever hit Myra, but he was verbally abusive.  I heard it more than once.
He held a power over her.  She was terrified of him.  Quite honestly, I
thought that when he died she would be freed, but it's like she can't
let go."

"Sad."

"Very."  She met his gaze.  "But don't let Myra scare you away.  She's
a wonderful neighbor.  She's always looked out for Jill and me, brings
us food, little gifts, in exchange for our sitting with her under the
willow.  That's all she wants.  She isn't dangerous."

"I never thought she was.  She won't scare me away.  I'm sold on this
place, especially"--his mouth quirked endearingly--"if you let me put
that window in."

The window was as done a deal as the lease itself.  All that remained
was to sign the papers.

The paperwork was done by the end of the week, both for the lease and
for the materials placed on rush order, and in the meantime Emily and
Brian lent elbow grease to the apartment in anticipation of those
soon-to-arrive goods.  By Saturday afternoon, years of dirt had been
wiped away, and every wall in the place stripped of paper, spackled,
and sanded in preparation for the simple coat of white paint that Brian
wanted.  The electrician had installed the overhead fan, which
immediately improved their working conditions, and had wired for
increased lighting and for the washer dryer that hadn't originally been
planned.  The plumber had rendered the bathroom fully functional with
the ease John had predicted.  The telephone company had installed a
line.

Aside from the time she spent with Celeste, who emerged from surgery
bandaged and bruised, and in dire need of encouragement, Emily spent
her waking hours working in the apartment.

Doug called from Philadelphia on Thursday night and didn't spend long
on the phone, but she was busy enough not to mind.  She was also uneasy
enough not to mind.  I don't know who you are sometimes, Doug.  The
words kept echoing, refusing to fade.  On the telephone, he was a
stranger, wrapped in his other world.  When he got home, she told
herself, he would be her husband again.  They would talk then.

Saturday morning, she took the chicken from the freezer in
anticipation of an evening picnic by the pond.  She took the pie from
the refrigerator and set it on the counter to reach room temperature.
She bought fresh corn from a farm stand on the edge of town, and Boston
lettuce, radicchio, sliced black olives, pine nuts, and sprouts.  She
stopped at the record store for the new Streisand tape that Doug had
been wanting.  She chilled the bottle of champagne that her editor in
New York had sent upon publication of her book and that she had
squirreled away at the time.  Champagne was festive.  Doug didn't have
to know its source.

As it happened, he didn't arrive home until eleven at night, after
Emily had, item by item, hope by hope, returned the food to the
refrigerator and dismantled the picnic makings.  By the time he arrived
there was no sign that she had been expecting him earlier.  Nor did she
clue him in.  After all, he had said Saturday night.  She was the one
who had assumed he would make it for dinner.  She had simply assumed
wrong.  It was her mistake.

He gave her a perfunctory kiss, then rolled into bed and fell promptly
asleep.  He was still sleeping when she woke up the next morning, and
while she might have liked to rouse him, to do the kinds of things
Sunday mornings had meant once, she resisted.  He clearly needed the
sleep.  Waking him when he was exhausted was more apt to invoke
annoyance than desire.

Sunday brunch seemed the next best thing.  She mixed a coffee cake from
scratch and put it in the oven, fixed a bowl of berries and kiwi. After
tiptoeing back into the bedroom, gathering his dirty clothes and
putting them in the wash, she assembled the makings of a three-cheese
omelet, put the pan on the stove with a wad of butter inside, and,
thinking that breakfast could be a celebratory occasion, too, set out
fluted glasses for mimosas.

Doug wandered into the kitchen at ten-thirty, took one look at her
preparations, and put a cautionary hand on his middle.  "None of that
for me.  My stomach's been acting up.  I think it's too much rich food.
Hotel eating's like that."

Emily was set back.  "Some fruit, then," she urged, trying to be
understanding, and he agreed.  She put away the omelet makings and the
champagne.  "Coffee?"  She had the beans ground and the water in the
machine.

But he shook his head.  "Maybe later.  Just fruit for now."

Just fruit for now.  Okay.  She wanted him to be happy to be home.  She
could accept just fruit for now, if that would make him happy.

She filled two bowls and sat down beside him at a kitchen table made
festive by glass dishes, linen napkins, and Myra's contribution to the
homecoming, apricot marigolds.  She didn't push him to talk right away.
More considerate, she thought, to let him relax for a bit.

In time, he set down his spoon.  "What's the word from Jill?"

"She's great.  She calls every day.  Classes start tomorrow."

"Good courses?"

Emily had run them past him when he had called on Thursday.  He must
have forgotten.  Patiently, she repeated what she had told him then.
Moving along without comment, he asked, "How's her roommate?"

"Nice, apparently."

"That's good."  He picked up his spoon and resumed eating.

Emily studied his face.  He didn't look tired, exactly.  But weary,
somehow.  "Are you okay, Doug?"

"Of course.  Why do you ask?"

"You seem far away."

He jabbed at a berry.  "I have a lot on my mind."

"Want to share it?"

"Not particularly.  I've been living with it all week.  I want a
break."

That was fine and dandy for him, not so fine and dandy for her.  He
needed silence, but she needed talk.  "Is it the Baltimore account?"

He shrugged.

"The problem wasn't resolved by the time you left?"

He set down his spoon.  "We're making progress."  He reached for the
Sunday paper.

"What about Philadelphia?"

He unfolded the paper with a snap.  "What about it?"

"How did it go?"

"Fine."  He focused on the front page.

She waited.  She watched his eyes move, but she wasn't sure if he was
actually reading.  "Talk to me, Doug," she said softly.

He turned down the paper only enough to meet her eyes.  "This is the
first day in a week that I've been able to relax over breakfast with
the morning paper.  It really is a luxury.  Indulge me?"

Put that way, she felt guilty.  He was the one on the road, the one
working all week, the one feeling pressure to produce and earn.  She
supposed that if she were in his position, she would find reading the
morning paper a luxury, too.

"Can we have lunch out by the pond?"  she asked.  That seemed a fair
compromise.

"Lunch.  I can't think of lunch.  We're just having breakfast."

"Only fruit.  That's not much.  I have fried chicken and fresh corn and
salad.  And strawberry-rhubarb pie."

"Strawberry-rhubarb?"  At last, an inkling of interest.  "Yours?"

She nodded, feeling pleased.

He searched the counter.  "Where is it?"

"In the fridge."

"Can I have a piece now?"

"What about your stomach?"

"It's worth it, for a piece of that pie.  It is the best."

Relieved to catch a glimpse of the old Doug, she left the table and cut
him a piece.  Then she watched him eat every last bite.  The instant he
was done, she reached for his hand.  "Come.  I want to show you
something."

"What?"

"The garage apartment.  You won't recognize the place."

"Let me get dressed first."

"No need."  He was wearing a knee-length terrycloth robe.  It was
comfortable and familiar to Emily.  The urbane business consultant was
miles away.  She didn't wish him back.

She led him out the kitchen door, down the steps, and across the
driveway to the far side of the garage.  She pointed at the locks when
she opened the door.  "They're new.  And I've ordered a runner for
these stairs."  They started up.  "It'll be safer for a child."

"Jill did fine without."

"Jill wouldn't have sued us if she fell."

"And this guy will?  Maybe it's a mistake renting to a cop."

"No mistake.  He's a nice guy.  I'm just thinking landlord thoughts."
She led him into the room and smiled.  "Different, huh?"

She waited for an answering smile.  What she got was something akin to
dismay.  "The walls look raw."

"We'll be painting next week."

"Well, I suppose anything's an improvement over that dingy wallpaper
and Jill's awful scribbles."

Emily didn't think the scribbles were awful.  "I saved them for her.
She'll laugh hysterically over them someday.  They're like a chronicle
of her adolescence.  John was appalled."

"When was John here?"

"When he brought Brian over," she said, but she was sorry John's name
had slipped out.  Friends once, Doug and he had drifted apart.  Aside
from the girls, they had little in common.  At times Emily sensed an
animosity in Doug toward John.  She didn't ask its cause, didn't want
to know.

"What are the markings over there?"  Doug asked.

"We're putting in a round top window."

"My God, it's a huge space."

"It'll be charming when it's done."

"Is it necessary?  For five hundred bucks a month?  And the ceiling
fan's new.  This guy's getting one hell of a deal."

"So are we," Emily said defensively.  She was proud of what she had
done here.  She was tired of being put down.  "He's installing the
window himself."

"Paying for it?"

"No.  Providing the labor."

"I thought you said he was a cop."

"He worked as a carpenter when he was younger.  I told you he offered
to help finish the place."

"This isn't finishing.  It's reconstructing.  Does he know what he's
doing?  Have you seen his work?  How do you know you won't end up with
a collapsed roof, or a window that leaks?"

"I don't know for sure," she argued.  "I wouldn't know for sure even if
I hired a contractor."

"At least a contractor is bonded."

"A contractor is also expensive, whereas Brian comes cheap.  I've
worked with him for three days now.  I've heard him talking with the
electrician and the plumber.  He's knowledgeable.  And anyway, if he
does it wrong, he's the one who'll have to live with it."

"We're the ones who'll have to fix it."

"I trust him, Doug," Emily insisted.  "You would, too, if you met him.
Why don't I have him stop over later?"  She liked that idea.  She
wanted Brian to meet Doug.

But Doug gave an impatient wave.  "I can't waste time meeting a tenant.
I'm leaving at three.  I have to be in Atlanta tonight for an early
morning meeting tomorrow."

"Three," Emily cried in dismay.  She had been hoping for four or five,
at the least.  "That doesn't give us much time."

"For what?"

"To talk.  You promised we would."

He stared at her, then put his hands on his hips.  "Okay.  I'm here
now.  Talk."

Time, place, atmosphere--all were wrong for what she wanted to say. She
had been hoping for a warmer mood, a more intimate setting.  But if her
choice was between this one or none at all, there was no contest.

So she blurted out, "Jill's gone, and I'm all alone in this house.  I
was counting on our being together Thursday, and when that didn't
happen, I was counting on Saturday, and now that's come and gone, and
we've done none of the things I was hoping we would.  I want us to
spend time together, Doug.  I want to do things together, to have fun
like we used to."

"Yeah, well, that would be nice.  I could retire.  But then who'd pay
the bills?"

"Not retire.  Just make home time."

"Emily, I have a business to run."

"So do other men, but they manage to make time for their wives."

"Are you saying I don't manage my time well?"

She thought to pull back, but the words spilled out.  "It's a question
of priorities."

"And you think mine are screwed up?  You are unbelievable.  I'm out
there working my tail off so that my wife and daughter can live
comfortably, and you stand here and complain?  What's with you?"

Ahhh, the guilt.  "I'm lonesome."

"Well, so am I, stuck alone in strange cities, but I'm not paying a
bundle to have you tag along."

"You could call more often.  You could tell me about your day and I
could tell you about mine."

"We do that."

"Not every night, and it's mostly me doing the telling.  There was a
time when you used to do it, too."

His voice grew slow and pedantic.  "Life was simpler in those days.  We
used to talk about the weather or the lettuce harvest or a new piece of
machinery I'd ordered.  My work is more complicated now."

"I'm not dumb.  I can understand it."

"But why do you want to know?"

"Because it's your work and it interests me."

He gave her a cold stare.  "You're making things very difficult."

"How?"  she argued, stung.  "Is talking to me difficult?"

"You're pressuring me."

"All I want is a little time."

"I don't have it to give," he ground out.  "Christ, Emily, life is
tough enough.  Don't make it worse."

She studied him for a disbelieving minute, then let out a defeated
breath.  "That wasn't my intent."

"Yeah, well, it never is," he said.

"What does that mean?"  she cried.

He made for the door.  "You're such an innocent."

"Is that bad?"

"Deathly."  He started down the stairs.

"Doug?"  She ran to the door.  "Doug."  But he didn't look back, and in
seconds he was gone, leaving her vaguely shocked and wondering what in
the hell had just happened.

Emily remained in that same vague sense of shock through the few hours
that remained of Doug's stay at home.  She didn't try to talk with him
again, but was simply, sweetly there, as she had been for most of the
last twenty-one years.

That seemed her role in their marriage.  She hadn't thought twice about
it, what with Jill such a major player in her life, but Jill was gone
now, back for vacations but moving toward an independent life as surely
as the sun moved east to west.

Emily's future was with Doug.  If this weekend was indicative of what
that future would be, she didn't know what she would do.

So she didn't dwell on it.  She folded his clean clothes and packed his
bag while he busied himself in the den.  To show that she understood
the importance of his work, that she could compromise, she brought him
lunch there.  It was an inside version of the picnic that wouldn't be,
and when he finally took a break, she called Jill.

She wanted Jill to hear their voices together.  That seemed just as
important as leaving her bedroom intact.

Sbrighi

IT AND EARLY MONDAY MORNING, BRIAN

dressed Julia and drove her to the babysitter's house.  His stomach was
tied in knots in anticipation of her crying.

She didn't let him down.  The crying started the minute he took her out
of the car.

The fact that she clung to him as though she adored him to pieces and
simply couldn't bear parting with him was small solace.  He felt like
he was an ogre, turning her over to an executioner, rather than to a
woman who had impressed him both with her knowing ways and her
references, and he had certainly checked those out.  Every last one.
Emily's endorsement was representative of the lot.

"Shhhhh," he whispered while Julia screamed against his shoulder, "no
one'll hurt you here.  You'll have lots of fun, and I'll be back to get
you later, I will, I'll be back."

Janice pried her from Brian's arms.  "Once you're gone, she'll be fine.
This isn't unusual, especially at first."  She started off toward the
other children.

IX

Julia's screams rose.  Her little arms reached around Janice for
Brian.  They touched air and Brian's heart, which was breaking.  He
couldn't take his eyes off her.  "Maybe this isn't such a good idea,"
he called, feeling a touch of panic.  "We've been together every minute
for days now.  Mine is the only face she's known.  We're inseparable.
I'm all she has."

"She'll be fine once you leave, Mr.  Stasek."

"Loud noises frighten her.  Bursts of activity.  She still misses her
mother.  She doesn't understand what happened to Gayle.  She'll think
I'm going for good, too.  Maybe I should stay."

Janice was kneeling beside several children who were playing with
oversized plastic bricks.  "Look, Julia, see the pretty blocks.  What
do you think they're building?  What are you making, Adam?"

Julia kept crying, kept frantic eyes on Brian, who was feeling more
cruel by the minute.  "Should I stay?"  he called.

"Definitely not.  As soon as you leave, she'll be fine."

"I put two changes of clothes in the bag.  Is that enough?"

"Plenty."

"And her rabbit.  She can't sleep without it."

"We'll make sure she has it."

"I'll be right here in town.  You have the number.  I can be over in
five minutes.  Should I come by at noon to see how she's doing?"

"Not unless you want her to start crying again."

That was assuming she stopped crying now.  Brian wanted to think she
would, but she seemed caught up in one of the snowballing fits that
made mockery of his street smarts.

She used to smile, used to look up from whatever she was doing and beam
at Gayle or him.  Now her little face was scrunched up and red.  He
wondered if she would ever smile again.

"If you can't reach me at my number, call the police station.  They
know where I am.  They'll come right out and get me."  He figured the
reminder of his connections didn't hurt.

Janice continued to talk softly to Julia, saying things about the toys
and the other children and what they would be doing that morning.
Something must have sunk in, because while Julia continued to cry, she
dared take her eyes off Brian.

He slipped out the door and walked to the Jeep feeling cowardly,
traitorous, and frightened.

It occurred to him that the references might be wrong.

But the other children weren't crying.

So maybe something was wrong with Julia.

But if so Janice would call him.  Assuming she was on the up and up.
But hadn't Emily had good words for her?

That thought brought him a measure of calm.  Emily did that to him, and
not only where Julia was concerned.  From the minute he had met her, he
had felt something peaceful.  She was straightforward and honest,
settled at a time when his life was anything but.  She was the
embodiment of the simpler life he needed just then.

By midday, the spot in the apartment over the garage where the arched
window would be was halfway to being a gaping hole, and Brian was
feeling better.  Physical work always satisfied him, all the more so
when it required concentration.  Breaking through a wall so that the
hole fit the window required both brawn and brains.

It took his mind off Julia, for small stretches at least.  But he
couldn't forget her for long.  She was his responsibility.

Just when he was wondering what she was having for lunch and thinking
that he could use some himself, Emily produced a platter of leftover
fried chicken and a pitcher of lemonade, set both on the floor along
with a pile of napkins, and gestured for him to join her.

"This is above and beyond," he protested, though the chicken looked
more appetizing than anything he had eaten in weeks.  It also smelled a
damn sight better than he did.  Most anything would, he supposed. Emily
sure did.  "I could've gone in town for sandwiches."

She smiled.  "If we don't eat this, it'll spoil.  I made it for the
weekend, but my husband was in and out so fast he couldn't eat much."

Her husband was an idiot.  "Is he always so busy?"

"It's worse lately."  Her smile grew sheepish.  "I should be grateful.
So many people are out of work, and Doug is deluged."

She passed him a glass of lemonade.  He drained it and hunkered down by
the chicken.  "Gratitude is nice, in theory.  I was grateful that Gayle
had a career.  I had all the pride and respect in the world for her,
but I hated it when she wasn't home when I was."

"She must have felt the same about your career."

"Maybe yes, maybe no.  She was self-sufficient in nearly every respect.
She didn't need me."

"But she married you."

"Not from need.  From want."

"All the nicer."

Brian wasn't so sure.  "She was on the go all the time.  Marriage stood
for something settled in her mind.  Same with having a baby.  She was
raised in a traditional family that said marriage and children were
musts.  Her career didn't allow much time for them, but without them
she would have felt like a failure."

"Was it the same way with you?"  Emily asked.

He reached for a piece of chicken.  "My career wasn't any more generous
than hers.  I've been known to work round the clock for days in a
row."

"On murder investigations?"

"Mm."  He bit into the chicken, salivating even before the meat hit his
tongue.

"Did you have to have a body to launch a murder investigation?"

He shook his head and finished what was in his mouth.  "But we needed
some evidence of foul play.  It didn't have to be physical evidence. In
the case of a missing person, it usually wasn't, not in the sense of
blood-stained somethings.  But there were other things that could get
us involved."

"Like what?"

"Like a car abandoned where it shouldn't have been.  A wallet thrown in
a trash can.  Appointments missed.  Those cases were always a
challenge.  Like finding pieces of a puzzle, one by one, and putting
them together."

"How successful were you?"

"I had a pretty good batting average--but it took time, which meant
time away from Gayle and from Julia."  He wondered if Julia was taking
a nap.  He would never forgive himself if she cried herself to sleep.
Not that he would ever know, since she wouldn't say.

He felt discouraged.  "There are times when I wonder if we're going to
make it, Julia and me.  I'm groping blind on hostile turf."

"Not hostile, just new.  My husband would have felt the same way if
he'd had to jump in all of a sudden and mother Jill."

"He wasn't a doit-all father?"

"Not quite," she drawled, then held up a contrite hand, "which was
okay.  He had his business, and I was perfectly happy mothering Jill. I
didn't want him worrying about her.  So if anyone's at fault for his
not having been involved, it's me."

"He's lucky to have you.  Full-time mothers are few and far between
these days."

"I have that luxury because he works."

"So when will I get to meet him?"

"Soon.  He'll be back."

"John said he was a business consultant.  Does he have an office here
in Grannick?"

"In our den.  His computer has a fax and a modem, and programs that do
incredible things.  Several times a day he accesses his mail and
messages.  It's ingenious, really.  But you must know about all that.
Aren't the police using electronics much more?"

Brian shrugged.  "We can match fingerprints, trace license plates, pull
up rap sheets faster than we could before.  But nothing substitutes for
good old-fashioned legwork."  He thought about legwork while he ate,
thought about someone changing Julia's diaper, putting her rabbit in
with her to nap, rubbing her back for a bit.  "Like raising kids.
Computers can't do it."

"She's fine," Emily assured him, reading his mind.  "You've called
twice.  She wasn't crying either time."

"She probably cried herself into a stupor."

"She's probably intrigued by the other kids."

"She's never been with others much.  We always had a sitter at our
place."

"Then this is good."

He figured she ought to know, since she had raised an only child,
herself.  "Hard to imagine Julia interacting with other children."

"She won't yet.  But she sees them.  She imitates them.  She learns
that she can't have every toy the minute she wants it1.  And she learns
that even though her father leaves her, he always comes back to get her
and take her home."

He remembered the nightmare of leaving her that morning.  "It kills me
to think she's feeling abandoned."

"You give her too much credit.  Not that she isn't bright.  Not that
she isn't the brightest one there," this said, with a knowing
half-smile, "but kids are fickle.  They're easily distracted.  Show
them a new toy and they're fine.  She may cry each morning when you
leave--"

"That doesn't stop?"  he interrupted, appalled.

"Eventually.  Jill cried for the longest time when I left her with her
play group We were very close, even then."

"I'll bet you miss her a lot."

Emily studied the broken-down wall.  "Six weeks and counting 'til fall
break.  That's why this is good.  It distracts me."  She frowned at the
window.  "What if it rains tonight?"

He willingly leaped from parenthood to carpentry and the surer footing
he had there.  "We'll stretch a tarp over the hole before we leave. Two
guys from the station are coming by first thing tomorrow to help with
the window.  We'll have it in by noon."

Shortly after noon on the following day, Emily sat in the very same
spot, feeling awed.  The arched window looked spectacular.  She was
starved for the sunlight and the cheer it added.  Doug hadn't called
last night.  After the fiasco of the weekend, that hurt.  She had
hoped he would want to apologize, or mend fences, or simply see how
she was.  Apparently not.

"So, what do you think?"  Brian asked.  He stood tall above her,
regarding the window with a well-deserved pride.

She let the sight of him lighten her mood.  He was so different from
Doug, so positive, so earthy in a clean, sexy way.  "It makes the room
into something special.  Jill will be angry we didn't think to do it
when she was around."  She offered up a sandwich.  "Roast beef on rye,
with Russian dressing."

"I thought it was my turn to buy lunch."

"Tomorrow," she promised, figuring that otherwise he would argue. Lunch
was a small price to pay for his help, not to mention his company.  He
was easy on the mind.  She liked him.

He sat down beside her and unwrapped the sandwich.  "How is she
doing--your daughter?"

Emily sighed.  "She isn't as wild about classes as she was about
orientation, but she'll be fine."  At least, Emily kept telling herself
that.  Jill had suddenly realized there was more to college than
parties.  She was feeling intimidated and lonesome.  And she kept
asking about Doug.

"You two ought to plan a vacation," she'd said.  "A real going-away
kind of trip, now that I'm gone.  My roommate's parents just got back
from Bermuda, kind of to celebrate their freedom.  They loved it."

"Your father travels all week."  No way would he spring for a weekend
away, what with the other expenses they had.  Emily knew enough not to
ask.  "Staying home is his vacation."

"But it's not much of one for you."

"I'm fine."

"Really, Mom?  Are you okay without me?"

"How are you doing without her?"  Brian asked.

Emily was a minute in separating his question from the one Jill had
asked, and another in deciding how honest to be.  She could gloss over
the loss and say she was fine.  But she was tired of doing that.  It
wasn't the truth, not really.  "I miss her."  She patted her heart.
"There's a big hole where her presence has always been.  She's been my
world for a long time."  She took a breath.  "But I'd better get used
to it, right?  This was what I raised her for, to let her go."  She had
read that on a mug once.  It sounded good.

"Did you ever work?"

From another mug.  "Every mother works."

"Outside the home."

"No.  Not formally.  I dropped out of college to marry Doug.  When Jill
got old enough for school, I started taking courses down the street,
but more for my own sake than for that of a job."

"Did you get your degree?"

She nodded.  "In English.  I've always loved to write.  I write for the
local paper sometimes.  Fill in for the regular reporter."

"Do you really?"

"Yup.  It's fun."

"I'll bet."

"While I was getting my degree, I got to know the professors.  I grade
papers for them sometimes, or help organize their research, like their
own personal editor.  It's a loose arrangement.  We swap--my work for a
free ride taking extra courses.  I've taken some good ones.
Criminology.  Abnormal Psychology.  People interest me.  Their motives.
Why they go wrong or crack up or do bizarre things.  Why a gunman
randomly opens fire in a crowded subway.  Why a motorist plows his car
into a crowd of Christmas shoppers.  What really happened to the
Lindbergh baby."

"He was kidnapped," Brian said.

"Some say his father took him as a prank, then the prank went awry."
The thought of it gave Emily a bone-deep chill, still she had read it,
had taken in every last argument for and against the theory.

Brian was thoughtful as he ate.  Finally, he shook his head.  "There
was the ladder used in the kidnapping, the ransom note, the money--all
traced to Hauptmann.  He had a record.  He had escaped from a German
jail."

Emily was delighted that he knew the case.  She certainly couldn't
discuss it with Doug.  "But there were no witnesses.  Hauptmann's wife
protested his innocence to the end."

"What about the later threats against the Lindberghs?  Did Lindy make
those?"

"He could have," she said, because anything was possible when minds
were warped.  "I'm not saying he did.  But he was a complicated
person."

"Many people are.  There aren't always answers to why they do what they
do.  Motive is right up there with murder weapon in making or breaking
a case.  That's most often what the all-nighters are about."

"Have you ever been involved in the search for a missing child?"

"In New York?  Sure.  Kids disappear there all the time."

"Do you find them?"

"Depends on the situation.  If a kid is just lost, separated from a
parent, he'll show up.  If he's abducted, things become more dicey.  We
usually get them back if there's money involved, where the intention
all along is to make an exchange.  If the abduction is the result of a
custody battle, it could go either way.  If perversion is involved--sex
or insanity--it's not good."

"Because the family isn't contacted, so there's no trail?"

"Partly.  And because we're dealing with crazies.  They can be
brilliant covering tracks.  They can lie convincingly."

Emily swallowed.  It was a harrowing thought.  "Did you ever work on a
case where the victim was gone for years?"

"Six years, once."

"How did you crack it?"

"We got a tip."

"Hey!"  came a bark from downstairs.  "Is anyone home?"

Not now, Emily cried silently, resenting the interruption.  But then,
that was foolish.  Her discussion with Brian would hold.  There was no
urgency, after all.

"Must be the floor man," she sighed and rose.  "He's doing the bathroom
this afternoon.

By late Tuesday, the flooring was in, a simple brick pattern in a pale
gray faux-marble that Emily assured Brian wouldn't show dirt.  She also
convinced him that bathroom walls papered with vinyl would withstand
both moisture and a child better than bare paint, and that a child's
room papered with vinyl had greater potential for excitement.  She
drove into town and found several rolls of a handsome navy and gray
plaid, and several rolls of primary-color paint streaks on a glossy
white field, and began measuring out strips for the bathroom and for
Julia's room, respectively, while Brian put the finishing touches on
the arched window.  By Wednesday the bathroom was done and the kitchen
had arrived.  By Thursday the cabinets had been installed and the
appliances were delivered.  By Friday the appliances were functional,
as were new, bright, modern light fixtures.

"Not bad for a first week," Brian decided, looking around.

Emily agreed.  They both looked vaguely worse for the wear, slightly
dirty, generally sweaty, and more than a little tired, but they had
plenty to show for it.  "We may finish next week, after all," she
remarked.

"Doubted me, huh?"

"Maybe a little, at first.  But I'm learning."

"We'll start the walls on Monday."

"I may start tomorrow.  Doug's been delayed."  She tried for
nonchalance, but she was upset.  He had called last night, apparently
for the sole purpose of telling her, since he hadn't had anything else
to say.  He refused to talk about his week, and when she told him about
work on the apartment, he answered with bored uh-huhs.  Five minutes,
and he'd been off the phone with what she guessed was relief.

"Is everything all right?"  Brian asked.  He was studying her with
those iridescent eyes that saw too much.

"Yes," she said, smiled, frowned, shook her head.  "No.  I wanted to
have both nights.  I'm disappointed.  It's scary with him gone so
much."

"Scary staying alone?"

"No.  Scary--" she gestured, hard put to say the words aloud--"his
work.  No free time."

What was scary was the thought that this was her life.  Doug wasn't
apologizing.  He wasn't saying things would change.  Whenever she
alluded to loneliness, he got angry, as though it were her fault,
something she had brought on herself.

Maybe it was.  But that didn't ease the hurt, or the confusion.  If she
couldn't get through to Doug, where were they headed?

"Want to come shopping with Julia and me tomorrow?"  Brian asked.
"We're buying furniture."

Something inside her lifted.  It was a better offer than Doug had made
her in weeks.  "When are you going?"

"We're flexible.  When's good for you?"

She and Kay were spending the morning pampering Celeste, but otherwise
she was free.  "Noon?  One?  Two?"  She was without pride.

"Noon."  He grinned.  "See you then."

They bought a long oak-framed sofa that opened to a large bed, and two
matching side chairs.  They bought a low coffee table, a large
wardrobe, several bookshelves, and a table and chairs, all in the same
warm oak.  They bought two large impressionistic landscapes for the
main room, and two small circus prints for Julia's room.  They bought a
rattan coat tree.

Everything was scheduled for delivery the following Friday.

Doug came home in time for dinner Saturday night.  Emily served a rack
of lamb that had been absurdly expensive, a Silver Palate pasta dish
that had been absurdly complicated, and fresh broccoli.  She had made
an English trifle for dessert.

It was an ominous choice.

Doug took a bite, chuckled softly, and announced that he was going to
London for two weeks.

Emily was startled.  "Two weeks?"

"This is a new account.  A good one.  There's a whole day of travel at
either end."

"But that's twelve days there.  You never spend twelve days straight
working on one account."

"This is London, Emily.  It's a new door opening to me."

"That's wonderful," she said, trying to see his point.  "But where does
it leave us?"

"A little more comfortable financially."

She felt a sudden fury at his insensitivity, his blitheness.  "Damn the
money.  Where does it leave us?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Us, Doug.  You and me.  Our marriage.  The time we're supposed to be
spending together now that Jill is away."

"I don't know who told you about that time."  He tossed his napkin on
the table and rose.  "It's a fantasy."  He walked off.

"Wait!  Let's talk about this!"

He turned back with a long-suffering look.  "What's there to say?  It's
my business.  What can I do?"

"Change it.  Shorten it.  You don't need to go so far."  She sounded
desperate.  She was desperate.  Her husband was growing less and less
familiar to her, more and more distant.  She felt that if she reached
out to pull him back, he might just slip through her fingers and
dissolve.

"Are you kidding?"  he countered.  "I've been waiting for years for
this kind of contract to come through.  I'm not giving it up."

"Can I come?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It isn't appropriate."

"Why not?  I can spend the day at museums."

"And then what?  What'll you do at night when I'm working with people
over dinner?"

"I'll listen in.  I can be a pleasant dinner companion."

"Now, what would you have to say to those people?"  he asked, stopping
just shy of a belittling laugh.  "Absolutely nothing.  Your world and
theirs are light years apart."

"And yours?"  she asked, thinking of the man who had once lived in
jeans, an honest smile, and a healthy sweat.

He was slower in answering, but no less confident.  "Mine is somewhere
in the middle.  I want it to move closer to theirs in the course of
this trip.  Don't you understand," he pleaded, "this could be a
breakthrough for me.  It could mean the beginning of an international
reputation.  Do you know what that's worth?"

It struck Emily then that he wasn't hearing her.  He had no idea what
she was trying to say, and, worse, he didn't care.  They were at
opposite ends of a marital spectrum.  She might as well be his maid,
given his level of involvement with her.

That thought shook her from head to toe.

"I'll be in the den," he said.

She carried the dishes to the sink, loaded the dishwasher, then turned
back to the table, where the English trifle sat.  It was a beautiful
creation, a froth of berries, sherry-soaked cake, and whipped cream, as
artistic as it was indecently good.

Lifting the bowl by the stem, she up-ended it in the sink and washed
the lot down the drain.

Monday morning, she was back at work beside Brian, painting the walls
while he labored over the woodwork.  She tried not to think about
Doug--thinking about him brought a pain she couldn't do anything
about--but the thoughts were as stubborn as her emotions.  They ate at
her, monopolizing her mind.

"Emily?"

She jumped, startled to find Brian beside her.

"You look like you're about to cry.  Is something wrong?"

She shook her head.  "Just thinking about things I shouldn't."

"Like what?"

She sighed.  "Like getting old."  It was true, in a sense.  That was
what life after kids was about, deciding how to spend the rest of one's
days.

"You have a while to go."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me.  I said it for my benefit, seeing as I'm the same age
as you."

He gave her a sweet smile and returned to work, leaving Emily to wonder
why Doug never smiled at her that way.  But then, Doug was her husband.
They had been married for twenty-two years.  They had a life together,
had shared a major trauma.

Traumas either brought people together or drove them apart.  Since she
and Doug remained married, she had always assumed the former.  Now she
wondered.

By dusk Wednesday, the painting was done.  Early Thursday, they sanded
the wood floor.  By the end of the day, they had lacquered the planks
and left to allow them to dry.

"This calls for a celebration," Brian said.  "Got any beer in your
fridge?"

Emily did it one better, uncorking the bottle of champagne that had
come so long ago with her book.  Since Doug didn't want to drink it,
much less acknowledge its existence, she saw no harm in sharing it with
Brian.

He raised his glass.  "To a job well done."

She took a sip, then sat back against the rocks.

They were in the backyard by the pond.  The late afternoon was
serene.

"This captures what I first saw in that apartment," Brian said, looking
out over the pond.  "The peace.  It's what Julia and I both need."

"I'm glad.  I hope it works for you."

"And you?"

She looked at him, bemused, but only for a minute.  His eyes--those
penetrating eyes--said that she couldn't fool him.  "Maybe for me, too,
some day," she confessed and felt a lump form in her throat.

"Not now?"

She waited for the lump to shrink.  "Now's a difficult time.  Things
are changing."

"With Jill?"

"And Doug."

"Are there problems between you?"

Problems?  She sighed and looked up at the leaves.  "I suppose you
could say that."  The lump in her throat returned.

"Want to talk about it?"

She didn't look at him, afraid that if she did, she would cry.  He was
such a nice man.  He was gentle and understanding in ways she hungered
for.

"You don't have to," he said.  "We haven't known each other long.  But
we have the makings of a friendship.  I respect what you've done with
your life."

She had no idea why.  "I haven't done much."

"You don't call making a home much?  Or raising a child much?  Or
waiting around for your husband much?"

"It's not like having an occupation.  Not like what your wife did."

"There was a trade-off.  She wasn't a mother or wife like you are.  She
didn't have the patience for it, or the self-confidence."

Emily did look at him then.  "Self-confidence?  From what you've told
me, she could handle herself in any situation.  If she was invited to
London for two weeks, she would have had plenty to say at dinner."

"She needed a paycheck.  That was the only way she could judge her
success.  She wanted a child, but she couldn't give up the other.  She
didn't have the self confidence to say to her colleagues, "Okay, guys,
it's family time."" He paused.  "No self-confidence.  No desire."  He
rubbed his eyebrow.  "No desire.  The bottom line."

Like Doug, Emily thought, and sure enough, looking at Brian, whose face
was a work of kindness etched in strength, she felt her eyes fill. Doug
didn't want to spend time with her.  No desire.  The bottom line.

She looked away.

"I'm a good listener," Brian coaxed.

She nodded.

"It's gotten worse as the week has gone on," he remarked.

"Just thinking more," she managed to say.

He grew quiet.  She knew that he wouldn't force her to talk, if she
didn't want to.  And she did.  But it was hard.

"I'll be moving in tomorrow," he said on a lighter note.  "It's kind of
exciting."

Yes.  It was.  But after two weeks in a flurry, the work was done.  She
didn't know what she would do with herself come Monday.

The upstairs bathroom, probably.

But why?  Doug was never there.  She had picked out paper with him in
mind.  If the bathroom were hers alone, she would have made a different
choice.

She could choose different paper now.  And put it up.  Then see what
Doug had to say about it when he deigned to visit.

Fuck you, probably.  No, that was wrong.  More likely, he wouldn't
even notice.  He was past caring about bathroom walls.  He was past
caring about her.

He had moved on.

So where was she?  she cried and felt a catch deep inside.  She put her
head to her knees and tried to erase the thought.

She felt Brian's hand on her shoulder.  "Things work out," he said, but
it wasn't his voice she heard.  It was John's, saying the same thing
nineteen years before, only it was a crock.  Things hadn't worked out.
Things hadn't worked out at all.

She pushed up to her feet and away from Brian.  "I have to go."  She
took off across the grass.

He was beside her in an instant.  "I want to help."

But she couldn't talk, couldn't think.  Guilt, fear, despair re surged
inside her.  Why now?  she cried fleetingly, and though she didn't have
the wherewithal to formulate the answer, she felt it.

With Jill gone, she was alone.

An hour later, Brian marched into the Grannick Police Station, strode
through the squad room, and burst into John's office without so much as
a knock.  Julia was on his hip, utterly silent, seeming to know not to
fuss, just as everyone he passed knew not to speak.

John looked up in surprise.

"Tell me about her," Brian ordered.

"Who?"

"You introduced me to Emily Arkin.  You went along with the idea that I
could get her apartment ready, and you knew I'd be working with her.
Well, I have, and I've seen sad, even haunted looks.  There's more to
her than meets the eye, but I don't know what it is.  I want you to
tell me."

John stared at him.  His mouth was tight, but it was the sorrow in his
eyes that made Brian uneasy.  "Did you ask her?"

"I've been asking her all week.  Her prick of a husband is abandoning
her, and that's part of the problem, but my gut says there's more.  I
want to know why he doesn't want to be with her.  I want to know why
she only has one child, when she clearly makes children her life.  I
want to know why she's so interested in my work.  She asks direct
questions, always around the same theme.  My gut tells me you know what
that theme is, plus a whole lot more.  I could turn this place upside
down looking for answers, but that'd be pretty messy, and it would take
a hell of a lot of time.  Spare me the effort, huh?"

John stared at him for a minute longer.  Finally, looking sadder than
ever, almost defeated, he curved his hands around the edge of the desk
and pushed off from his chair.  He went to a corner file cabinet,
opened the lowest drawer, and pulled out a folder.  It was inches
thick.  He tossed it on the desk.  Brian was staring at it, his heart
batting against his ribs, when a book landed on top.

"Might as well take that, too.  It'll tell you where she's at."  When
Brian raised his eyes, he added, "If you get any suggestions, I'm all
ears.  It's been a guilty time for me, too."

For a split second, Brian wasn't sure he wanted any part of either the
folder or the book.  Then he thought of Emily and the promise of
serenity that she had come to epitomize in his jumbled life, and he
knew without knowing a goddamned thing else, that if he didn't try to
save the promise, he would be guilty, too.  seven

EMILY ARKIN WAS NINETEEN WHEN HER FIRST

child, a boy, was born.  He was named Daniel, after his paternal
great-grandfather, and she and Doug doted on him.  Doug, who owned a
farm on the outskirts of town, often stopped home midday to see him.
For the rest of the time, Daniel was his mother's constant companion
and, as such, became well known around town.

A reluctant napper he often fell asleep in the car while Emily did
errands.  Such was the case one October day when the boy was two.  She
pulled into the parking lot outside the local post office, saw that
Daniel was sleeping, and, knowing that she wouldn't be long, left him
in the car while she ran inside.  She was there for five minutes.  When
she returned, she found the straps that had held him in his car seat
neatly unfastened and Daniel nowhere in sight.

The local police arrived within minutes.  While Emily swore that Daniel
couldn't have freed himself from the seat on his own, they searched the
parking lot and the surrounding areas on the chance that he

__ had done just that, and had wandered off.  They questioned the
other patrons at the post office, as well as those who had emerged
while Emily was inside.  They canvassed the local shops.  They combed
the center of town and fanned outward.

Daniel was gone.

The police dispatcher phoned the state police and the neighboring
police departments to alert them to Daniel's disappearance, but without
description of either a vehicle or a suspect, there was little to go
on.  Photographs of Daniel were passed around.  The FBI was notified.

John Davies, the officer assigned to the Arkins, questioned Emily and
Doug extensively.  Whatever dubious leads emerged from that questioning
were thoroughly explored and discarded.  Meanwhile, the Arkins held
vigil by the telephone for a ransom call that never came.

In the weeks that followed, largely at Emily's prodding, appeals were
made in an ever-widening radius of towns, cities, and states, but with
nothing more than Daniel's picture, the case grew cold as ice.  After a
time, other matters were occupying the Grannick police, and though the
Arkin case remained open, it slid into inactivity.

Brian read the "Dear Chief" that John had written, both the short
report filed immediately after the child's disappearance, and the
later, more lengthy one that detailed the investigation in its
entirety.  He studied the pictures of Daniel, one alone, one with his
parents.  He pored over the questioning of Emily and Doug, their
neighbors and friends, Doug's employees, the owners of the shops Emily
had visited that day prior to stopping at the post office.  He waded
through a cataloging of the efforts of other law enforcement agencies
that the Grannick police had contacted.

Then he opened the book Emily had written and read it from cover to
cover.  It was about the case she had mentioned to him, the kidnapping
of Susan Demery, a local college student, by a disgruntled former
employee of her father.  The girl had been taken from her dormitory
room late one winter night and stashed, bound and gagged, in a tool
shed on the grounds of the local estate where one of the kidnappers
worked.

The Demery kidnapping had taken place five years before, fourteen years
after Daniel's disappearance.  The handling of the case was a study of
the advances in investigative technology that had occurred during those
fourteen years, from computer hookups between police departments, to
fingerprint matching, to fiber analysis of the carpet in the dormitory
room from which the girl was abducted.

The book was well-organized, the case clearly presented, the writing
itself no less than brilliant, given the pain Emily had to have
experienced in its course.  Brian couldn't begin to imagine that pain,
or the pain she felt thinking of Daniel even now.

He slept for a brief hour before waking to the sounds of Julia talking
to her rabbit.  Moaning, he threw an arm over his eyes and cursed
whatever it was about childhood that began at dawn.

Then he remembered all that he had spent the night reading, and his
pique vanished.  He pushed himself up on his elbows and watched his
daughter play, and as he did, he saw far more.  Since Gayle's death,
his feelings for Julia had been dominated by anxiety over her care.  He
had been preoccupied with minutia, blinded to the larger picture.  He
had forgotten that children were miracles--and it didn't matter that
he had originally wanted to wait longer before having a child, he had
been in the delivery room when Julia was born.  He knew the awe that
came with the emergence of a fully formed, perfectly functioning,
miniature human being that he had helped make.

He had forgotten that awe.  He had forgotten the pride, the
possessiveness that had been a recurrent swelling in his throat during
those first few weeks of her life, before the demands of his work had
made him swallow it away.

It returned now in spades.  With the image of Daniel Arkin wavering in
his mind, he watched Julia with a new appreciation.

Her play was innocent.  She was trying to make the rabbit sit, but
succeeded only until she let go.  Then the rabbit's legs popped
straight and it toppled over.  She picked it up again, sat it down,
watched it fall.

She did it again and again, her cheeks pink, her tiny mouth moist, her
hair a mess of curls, and all the while she was talking, saying things
he couldn't understand.  Then again, maybe he could.  He listened.  He
caught the repetition of sounds.  Yes, indeed, there was a slurred
"bunny" in there, a vague "sit," and lots of ooooos of appreciation.

Leaving the bed, he hunkered down beside the crib.

She looked at him.  Her eyes were softer in the morning, more baby blue
than silver.  He fancied she was pleased he was up.

"Hi," he said softly.  "Playing with bunny?"  He reached through the
slats of the crib, picked the toy up, and sat it down before her.  "Hi,
Julia," he bunny voiced.  "Want to play?"  He hopped the bunny forward
and tickled her tummy with its head.

She scrunched herself around the tickling and giggled.  It was a
heavenly sound.  He moved the bunny back, hopped it forward, tickled
her again.  The giggling was precious, both in its lack of guile and
its spontaneity.  He was amazed at how easily it had come.

But that, like dawn risings, was what childhood was about.  When Julia
hurt, she cried.  When she was tickled, she laughed.  Her responses
were impulsive.  Nothing about her was intellectualized.

But she did take cues from those around her.  What was it Emily had
said--that Julia could sense the tension in his arms when he held her?
And he was tense.  He was terrified when he thought of raising a child
alone.  He wondered if Julia sensed that, if her unhappiness had more
to do with his own upset, than with Gayle.

Needing to hold her close, he brought her out of the crib and into a
hug.  "I love you, Julia Stasek.  I may be a bungling idiot when it
comes to parenting, but I can learn."  He shifted her so that she could
see him, and grinned.  "We can both learn.  How does that sound?  Daddy
screws up, you tell him.  Julia screws up, I tell her.  Either of us
does good, we celebrate.  Fair enough?"

She didn't smile, but there was a warming in those knowing eyes of
hers, and she said something sweet.

"Fair enough," he interpreted.  Then, feeling buoyant, because she was
safe and sound and relatively content in his arms, he said, "Know what
today is?  Today's moving-in day.  I'm going to drop you at
Janice's--no, now don't pout, because you know that you're starting to
like her.  Didn't you do finger painting yesterday?  Wasn't that fun?
Didn't you play in the sandbox?  Didn't you have an ice cream cone?
Yes, you did do all of those things, and I have the dirty clothes to
prove it, which I am going to wash tonight in that brand-new
washer-dryer at our own brand-new place.  I am very excited about that.
Just think.  No more running to the laundry room while you're asleep,
and shoving quarters in, and timing myself to be back before some
no-good son-of-a-bee takes off with them.  "Course, I don't know what
any no-good son-of a-bee would want with your sleepees, do you?"

He kept up the monologue through a diaper change, and it worked.  Julia
was listening intently, seeming to understand everything he said.  She
was less pleased when he started to dress her.  The jersey he chose had
shrunk something awful in the wash-he didn't know why--but it wasn't
fitting over her head, so he pushed and pulled, getting it half-on
before he realized that it hadn't shrunk at all, but was buttoned at
the neck.  He fought with the buttons, wondering how he'd gotten it off
her, and by the time he realized that Janice must have taken it off and
rebuttoned it, Julia's hair was tangled around a button.

The pulling started her crying.  He fiddled with the tangled curls for
a minute, but he was all thumbs, and in the end, for want of a
scissors, he used his razor to cut her free.

They never quite recaptured those earlier moments of communion, but
Brian wasn't discouraged.  Once he and Julia were settled in the
apartment, their lives would gain a semblance of order.

This day, when he left her at Janice's, he held her tightly for an
extra-long minute before handing her over.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked into John's office.  The hollow
feeling that had lumped in the pit of his stomach for most of the night
was back.  He slid into the chair by the desk.  "I want to talk."

"Figured you would," John said, tipping his own chair back.  "Did you
read the file?"

"Every sentence.  Same with the book.  Were you the one who suggested
she write it?"

"I was the one who put the possibility into words, but it didn't take
any brains.  From the minute word spread about the Demery girl, Emily
was here.  She watched the investigation unfold, and it wasn't like we
could kick her out.  We all knew what she'd been through.  I swear she
kept us on our toes without saying a goddamned word."

"Did you know her before Daniel's disappearance?"

"As much as any small-town cop knows of people in his town."  He
paused, self-conscious.  "Well, maybe a little more.  We'd had our
troubles with the kids at the college protesting this and that, and
then these two come along looking like hippies, wanting to grow alfalfa
sprouts without chemicals.  We watched them close.  It wasn't until the
boy's kidnapping that we learned they were nice people."

"Then you don't think the husband had anything to do with it."

John recoiled.  "Are you crazy?  He adored the kid.  You read the file.
The guy was out in the fields at the time.  Three separate people
confirmed it.  Why would you think he was involved?"

Brian thought it because he didn't like Doug Arkin.  "The man's
strange, how he treats his wife, being gone so much.  Besides, there
was something Emily said, when she and I were doing the apartment.  She
mentioned the theory that Charles Lindbergh kidnapped his own son. She
knew all the arguments in favor.  I was wondering if there were
parallels."

John shook his head with conviction.  "If there was a ransom demand, I
might have said Doug wanted the money to bolster his business, but
there was no insurance, and there wasn't any money in either of their
families, so where was the money to pay a ransom supposed to come from,
and besides, there wasn't ever any ransom demand."

Brian remembered clearly what Emily had said.  "The Lindbergh theory
holds that Lindy was a prankster, and this was a prank gone wrong.
Could that have been the case with Doug?"

John was shaking his head even before he finished.  "Doug isn't a
prankster.  Doesn't have much of a sense of humor, leastways not that
I've seen, and Kay and I've been friends of theirs for a long time.
Maybe he had a sense of humor before the kidnapping.  Maybe the
kidnapping changed him.  But that'd be another argument against his
involvement."

"Most kidnappings are parental."

John stood his ground.  "Not this one.  I don't like the guy, but he
isn't a kidnapper."

"Why don't you like him?"  Brian wondered if their reasons were the
same.

They were.  "Because he's lousy to Emily.  She's one of the nicest
people I know.  Good-hearted.  Generous.  She'd give you the shirt off
her back, and then iron it for you.  She was a second mother to my
daughter.  She picked up the slack when Kay couldn't be there.  I owe
her a lot."

"You like her, then."

"I just said I did."

"Do you see her much?"

"I see her around town."

"Are you anything more than friends?"

There was a pause, then a cautious, "Come again?"  "Is it purely
social--you and your wife, and Emily and Doug?"

A chill replaced caution.  "What are you saying?"  Brian knew it
sounded wrong.  He wasn't sure why he had brought it up--yes, he was.
John said he had gone through a guilty time.  Brian wanted to know what
that meant.  "You have feelings for Emily."

"Damn right, I do.  For all the reasons I've already given, and then
some."

He looked furious.  For an instant, Brian wondered if he'd blown his
new job.

Then John went on.  "The fact is that it's none of your business."  He
paused, brooding.  "But since you've read that file, and since you're
living in her garage, and since you'll be in a position to see for
yourself and maybe even help, I'll tell you.  Once, and no more, and if
you bring it up again, you're out on your can."  Eyes and voice both
leveled.  "I got to know Emily during the search for Daniel, and after
every lead turned cold, we became friends.  She was newly pregnant when
the boy was taken, and so was my wife.  Our girls are best friends.  So
are Emily and Kay.  They see each other a lot, independent of anything
the four or six of us might do.  I'm a long way from being as close to
Emily as Kay is, but I like her, and I feel bad for her.  I also feel
responsible."  "Because you couldn't solve the case?"  "Well, what did
I have to work with?"  he burst out, betraying his frustration.  "You
read that file.  There's nothing.  It's like someone waved a wand and
the kid vanished."  He grunted.  "I don't know why I even mentioned
leads turning cold.  There were never any leads to speak of.  In the
whole of my career, it's the dam nest case I've ever seen."

So much for anything juicy going on between Emily and John.  Brian
could sniff out lies.  He hadn't heard any yet.  There was guilt, but
not from sex.  It didn't matter that the FBI had been involved, or that
John had been a mere patrolman at the time.  He had been the officer
assigned to the Arkins and had taken the case to heart.

"All things considered, Emily seems surprisingly normal," Brian
remarked.  "She must be a very strong woman.  Either that, or a
religious one."

"She's not religious.  I don't know if she was before, but after, well,
what kind of God would do what He did to her?"

"Still, something is holding her together.  Unless I'm missing the
boat.  Will she freak out if I mention Daniel?"

"No.  She doesn't freak out."

Brian heard a catch.  "Go on."

John did so with clear reluctance, as though hating to betray a
confidence but wanting Brian to know.  "For months after Daniel
disappeared, she would walk around town, up one street and down the
next, looking, listening for a cry, like he might be hiding in the
bushes.  She stopped doing it when Jill was born, but I caught her at
it again a couple of weeks ago.  It was right after Jill left.  The boy
would have been twenty-one and at college, too.  This must be a tough
time for her."

"Her husband's no help."

"Never was.  I don't think he ever understood what Emily was feeling.
Maybe that woulda been too much to ask.  He was suffering.  Then he
changed.  Like he got tired of suffering."

"After how long?"

"A few years.  We kept the case active as long as we could, until there
just wasn't anything more to do.

After that, Doug just wanted to forget.  He made Emily put Daniel's
pictures away."

"That's very cold."

"No," John cautioned.  "Think about it.  Think about how you'd feel if
he was yours, if you didn't know if he was alive or dead, healthy or
maimed, happy or sad.  Think of grotesque things happening to him.
Think of him crying and crying for you and not understanding why you
won't come.  Then realize that you can't do a fucking thing about it.
It's eating you alive, but you're totally helpless."  He looked at
Brian in a humbling way.  "You might want to forget and start over,
too."

Brian thought of Julia.  "I could never forget."

"Wrong word.  Try fill-yourlifewithother-things.  Emily filled her life
with Jill and her friends and their kids, and making a home for Doug.
Doug filled his with work.  That was when he got involved in the
management and marketing end of his business, and started to travel.
Awful to say, but he would never have built the farm to what it was
when he sold it, or have the business he has now, if that little boy
hadn't disappeared."

"Emily would have been better off without any of it," Brian believed.
"She lost the child, then the father."

"He supports her financially.  It's more than some men do."

It struck Brian that as a husband, he hadn't been much different from
Doug.  Uncomfortable with that thought, he tried another.  "Was Emily
overprotective of Jill?"

"At times.  But she knew she couldn't smother Jill.  Mind you, she
never left that child alone in the car.  She never left the child alone
anywhere for the first few years of her life.  She wasn't risking it.
And she struggled later on, too.  When Jill got so she wanted to walk
to a friend's house, Emily was dying, but she knew Jill needed to do
it, so she let her go.  You have to respect her."

Brian pushed himself out of the chair.  "Yeah.  Well, I do, but that
doesn't help her much, does it."

"Sure does.  She needs support."

"She needs more than support.  She needs a crystal ball to tell her
what happened to the boy.  She needs closure."  He ran a hand along the
back of his neck.

"Got any ideas?"  John asked.

He had a few, but they were long shots The case had been cold for
years.  It wasn't like new leads had suddenly popped up.  Not now.  Not
before.  Not even bogus leads.  "Let me think about it.  There may be a
few things we can try.  Can I hold on to the file for a while?"

"It's yours.  But do me a favor.  Don't say anything to her.  Chances
are pretty slim.  Y'know?"

Emily was reading the morning paper when Brian arrived.  She heard the
Jeep pull into the driveway and started to rise, intent on
hiding--making the bed, doing the laundry, dusting the living
room--anything to avoid a conversation, should he stop by on his way to
the garage.  She was feeling foolish, having aired her dirty laundry in
front of a stranger.

Well, he wasn't exactly a stranger.  At least, he didn't feel like
one.

With that thought in mind, she slowly sat herself back down.  She
looked at the paper.  She waited.  She didn't look up, even when she
heard him climbing the stairs, and when he knocked, a wave of renewed
embarrassment held her still.

"I can see you," he sang through the screen.

Slowly she set down the paper.

"I have butter crunch donuts."

She smiled at his shamelessness.

"And coffee.  And time to talk, if you want."

Did she want?  No.  Yes.

She looked up finally and gestured him in.  He promptly set a bag on
the table, removed and uncapped two coffees, and unwrapped the
donuts.

"You can't keep doing this," she said then.

"Why not?"

"I'll get fat."

He took the chair beside her and slid one of the coffees her way.  "I
doubt that."

She wrapped her hands around the cup.

"But you're right.  I can't keep doing it.  I start work Monday
morning."

He was darling, striking a light note, but she couldn't forget their
last discussion, which hadn't been a discussion at all, or a
celebration, for that matter.  She had run off in tears.

Awkward, she said, "You're feeling sorry about last night.  But you
shouldn't.  I get down sometimes.  It passes."

"I know about Daniel," he said softly.

Her eyes widened.

"I read the file," he explained.

Oddly, she felt relieved.  She wanted him to know.  Daniel was part of
who she was.  "It happened a long time ago."

"But it was never resolved.  That has to be hell."

"Only when I think," she said with a crooked smile.  "I try not to.  It
won't get me anywhere.  If he isn't dead, he's certainly gone.  I
accept that."  She studied her coffee cup.  "I used to dream that
someone who was desperate to have a baby walked by, saw him there in
the car, snatched him up, and walked off, and that whoever it was,
raised him well and loved him the way I did."  She couldn't look at
him.  "Silly, huh?"

"No."

"But not likely.  What kind of person would take someone else's baby?
Not someone who knows right from wrong.  How could that kind of person
possibly raise my son the way I would?"  She could feel the old panic
rising inside her and took a steadying breath.  "There was another
dream.  It had two possible endings.  Daniel was taken by his kidnapper
across the country to a remote part of Montana, where he was abandoned
at a rest stop.  The first ending had him being picked up and raised by
a well-meaning soul who assumed he was abandoned by his parents."

"What was the second ending?"

"He wandered away from the rest stop and was raised by a pack of
wolves."  She looked up with a self mocking smile.

But his eyes didn't mock her.  They were silver-soft and sympathetic.
"I'd be dreaming the same things, if it was my child.  What does Doug
say?"

Emily felt a catch at the sound of his name.  When she was thinking
about Daniel, she wasn't thinking about Doug.  Two sources of pain and
confusion.  Room for only one at a time.

She considered lying.  But only for a minute.  Brian was her friend.
She wanted him to know.  "Doug says nothing.  He deals with Daniel's
kidnapping by pretending he never existed."

"How can he do that?"

Since they couldn't discuss it, she could only guess.  "Daniel was the
first child, the son.  He was handsome and responsive and quick,
everything a father could ask.  Doug can't cope with the pain of what
might have been."

"Does that bother you?"

"Sometimes.  On Daniel's birthday."  Her voice cracked.  She stared at
her coffee for a minute before swallowing and continuing.  "I can't
forget giving birth to Daniel.  My body knows it happened.  It
remembers the contractions.  It feels them again."

"Was Doug in the delivery room with you?"

"Yes.  But he's never home on Daniel's birthday."

"Geez."

"It's okay.  I mourn by myself."

"Does Jill know about Daniel?"

"She does now.  But for a long time I couldn't say anything.  I didn't
want her fearing that the same thing might happen to her.  I taught her
the rules--tell us where she's going, go with other kids, run fast and
yell loud if someone threatens her in any way--but I tried to make it
sound like a standard precaution."

"Remarkable that you were able to be sane about it."

"The alternative was to make her neurotic," which Emily had refused to
do.  It was bad enough that she had left Daniel alone and unguarded in
the car.  To screw up Jill because of it would have compounded the
error.

"How did she react when she learned about Daniel?"

"She kept saying there had to be something we could do to find him.  I
tried to explain that everything had been done, and that too much time
had passed.  She accepts it now, like I do.  You can't keep living with
something like that, day in, day out.  I go through periods when I
don't think of Daniel at all--like Doug, I guess--then something hits
me, and I'm back there again, in that police station, reporting his
disappearance, reliving the horror of it."  She was reliving it now,
feeling the jangles that came with total panic.  "I thought they would
find him.  Really, I did.  I wasn't in the post office for more than
five minutes.  He couldn't have gone far in that time."

She stopped.  She did drink her coffee then, for the warmth, and when
she set it down, Brian took her hand.  She clung to it.  "I shouldn't
have left him alone in the car.  It was my fault.  It wasn't like I was
in a strange town," she reasoned.  "If I'd been anywhere else, I never
would have left him.  But it was Grannick."  She held his hand tighter,
caught up in dismay.  "No one saw a thing.  John and the others
interviewed half the town, but no one saw anything.  It's bizarre. This
is a provincial place.  If you get a new car, people see it and spread
the word.  Same if you have a baby or get divorced.  Gossip spreads
fast.  But no one was looking that day.  No one saw anything." She
caught herself and took a breath.  She sat straighter.  She gave Brian
an apologetic smile and reluctantly drew her fingers from his. She
tucked them in her lap.  "He would have been twenty-one."

"Yes.  John said that."

"Things are different today.  Today, there's the National Center for
Missing and Exploited Children, and networks like CJIS and NCIC.  They
circulate reports of kidnappings nationwide in no time flat.  If Daniel
disappeared today, the FBI would be crawling over the car picking up
the tiniest traces of fingerprints and fibers.  Photographs would be
circulated by the millions.  The story would be carried by the
networks, talked up by Oprah, written about in People, plastered on
milk cartons.  None of that happened back then."

She had been been driven wild by the frustration of it, wanting to do
more when there simply wasn't more to do.  She had pushed and pushed,
until the pain of hitting that brick wall again and again and again had
finally numbed her.  Only then had she ceased.

"Want to see his room?"  she asked.  When Brian's eyes went wide, she
stood.  "I dust there, but I haven't touched it otherwise."  Nor had
she shown it to anyone else.  But it seemed right that Brian should
see.

Knowing that he would follow, she set off.  She didn't stop until she
had climbed the stairs, and gone down the hall to the only door that
was closed.

She opened it and stood aside to let him in, then leaned against the
door frame staring back down the hall, and even then the pain hit her,
a wound unbandaged, raw and inflamed, even after all this time.  She
didn't have to look to see the lineup of tiny matchbox cars, the
stuffed animals, the Lego blocks.  She knew when Brian was looking at
the picture books lined up along the bookshelf, and when he opened the
closet door to see the little boy clothes that hung there, and when he
lifted one after another of the many pictures that had graced the
living room mantel before being banished by Doug.  As she stood against
the door frame, looking away, she was enveloped in the baby smell that
had been Daniel nineteen years before, and though she knew that it
couldn't possibly still exist, her memory brought it back and made it
real.

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, determined not to cry, but
the emotion rose in her and wouldn't be quelled.  Daniel had been so
small, so helpless, so innocent.  She had played with him when she
dressed him, singing, laughing, hugging him afterward, all chubby
little belly, arms and legs wrapped around her.  Then he was gone.

She cried softly, unable to help herself, and when Brian drew her to
his chest and wrapped his arms around her, she continued to weep.  She
couldn't remember when she'd had the luxury of crying over Daniel in
someone's arms.  So she indulged herself, until her tears slowed and
she pulled back.

Leaving an arm around her shoulder, he guided her away from the room.
She heard the door close and felt a weight lift from her chest.  Freed,
she drew in a long, shuddering breath.

He led her back down the stairs.  At the bottom, she took an
independent breath, wiped the tears from her face, and stepped clear.
She threw him a self conscious smile.  "Now you know."

He had his hands in his pockets.  His eyes were silvery warm.  "Now I
know."  Voice and expression were both so gentle she nearly started
crying again, not for Daniel, this time, but for everything she didn't
have with the one man she should.

She told herself there was still hope.  But with Doug in England for
another full week, she felt helpless.

So, later that morning, when the small apartment over the garage
suddenly filled with the newly delivered furniture and the contents of
Brian's Jeep, she helped unpack.  She loved arranging furniture.  She
loved hanging pictures on the walls, helping set up Julia's crib,
putting bright little toys on shelves in her room.  She loved going
with Brian to buy plants and lamps and food.  She loved watching the
apartment take on warmth with each little touch, and when he invited
her to join Julia and him for a dinner to christen life there, she
couldn't turn him down.  eight

EMILY ARRIVED AT CELESTE'S ON SUNDAY MORNing with her arms filled.

"What did you bring?"  Celeste cried in dismay when she opened the
door.

"I'm making brunch."

"Not for me.  I'm dieting.  I need a thin body to go with my face." She
turned her head for Emily.  "What do you think?"

Emily studied her face, one side to the other.  She had liked the old
Celeste.  This one was still a little strange.  "The swelling is
definitely down."

"Emily."

Emily smiled.  "It's an adorable nose."

Celeste turned so that Emily could see behind her jaw.  "The stitches
came out yesterday.  See how thin the scars are.  They'll fade to
nothing.  Same with the black eyes.  Actually, the green eyes. Yellow's
next."  She rubbed her hands together.  "Everything is going according
to plan.  By the time I'm looking human, I'll be getting responses from
my ad.  The deadline's tomorrow.  I want you to help me with the
wording."

Emily was more inclined to try to talk her out of placing it, and was
about to say so, when Kay pulled into the driveway.

Celeste grinned.  "Ahh, good.  Three heads are better than two."

Leaving her at the door, Emily went back to the kitchen.  She was
making brunch whether Celeste ate it or not.  It was an exercise that
Emily needed to perform.

The two joined her moments later, Kay with an agenda of her own.
"Emily, has Jill talked with Dawn?"

Emily removed fresh bagels from the bag.  "Not for several days.  She
keeps getting the machine."

"Same with Marilee.  What's she doing, Celeste?"

"Beats me," Celeste said.

"Hasn't she called?"

"Oh, yes."

Emily set a melon on the counter.  "And?"

"She says she's fine.  When I ask what's happening, she says she's
really busy and that everything's great.  When I ask for details, she
gives me the details of something totally irrelevant."

"Wily child," Kay remarked.

"She says I'm too controlling.  Am I too controlling?"

Emily busied herself slicing the melon.  She had never thought of
Celeste as controlling.  Fixated on grades, perhaps.  But only because
she wanted Dawn to succeed.

"Am I?"  Celeste prodded when Kay, too, remained still.

"No more so than us," Kay said with tact.  "But you have more to
control.  Dawn's wild streak is wilder than Marilee's or Jill's."

"Well, Dawn will be fine.  Trust me.  If she doesn't study, she'll
flunk out, and if she does that, she's back home with me."  Celeste
made a sound.  "Don't know who that would punish most, her or me."  She
cleared her throat.  "Moving on to important things."  She opened a
folder.  "How does this sound.  "Sexy blond

DWF--'"

"You aren't blond," Kay said.

"I will be.  "Sexy blond DWF--'"

"Not 'sexy."  It's too flagrant.  You have to be more subtle.  Think of
the kind of man you'll attract leading off with that word."

"Precisely," Celeste admitted.  "I don't want a eunuch.  I want a
red-blooded American male.  Besides, if I'm subtle, my ad will just
fade away.  Trust me, bold is the way to go."

"Use 'intelligent."  It's more classy."

Celeste sighed.  "Okay.  Intelligent.  "Intelligent blond DWF."" She
made a face.  "Doesn't have the same ring."

"Maybe you ought to tell more about yourself," Emily suggested in a
half-hearted attempt to join in.  "You could say you're slim and
witty--"

"Let me finish.  "Intelligent blond DWF whose second life is just
starting is looking for tall knight in shining armor to share
Montrachet, Harley, and Tanglewood.""

"Harley?"  Kay cried.  "Celeste, you'll get bikers.  You'll get leather
and tattoos and group sex."

"I will not.  I'll get someone like me who thinks young."

Emily began cutting the cantaloupe.  "You haven't mentioned your
age."

"Should I?"

"Yes."

"You certainly can't hide it."

"Kay," Celeste protested.

"What she means," Emily said, turning around, "is that unless you
decide to hide Dawn, whoever you date will know you're older than
thirty.  You wouldn't have had her when you were twelve."

"I could have.  I might have been a child bride."

"That's John's latest line of worry," Kay said.  "He asked how I'd feel
if Marilee got pregnant.  Like I haven't taught her the facts of life.
Like I haven't drummed safe sex into her."

"How would you feel?"  Emily asked.  She much preferred talking about
the girls to talking about shopping for men, though either was
preferable to thinking about Doug.

Kay considered the question.  "I wouldn't be thrilled.  I like to think
she's saving herself."

"Realistically."

"Realistically?  John would have the old shotgun out.  Not that I think
he'll need it.  Marilee wants an advanced degree.  She knows she can't
get it if she does anything irresponsible.  How about you?  What if
Jill had a baby this young?  How would you feel?"

Emily didn't have to give it much thought.  "Worried.  I think
eighteen, nineteen, whatever, is too young."

"You were married at eighteen."

Oh, yes, she had been indeed, and look where she was now.  "Maybe it
was wrong."

"Wrong?"  Celeste asked.  "How?"

Emily wrapped her arms around her middle.  "We were very young.  We've
grown up into different people."

"Different from each other?"  Kay asked.

Very different.  Irrevocably different.  Emily had pretended it wasn't
so for weeks, months, maybe longer--but it was too obvious to be
ignored anymore.  She ached when she thought of Doug, ached from the
realization that her marriage wasn't right and never would be.

She wanted her closest friends to tell her she was wrong.  "Jill was
our link.  With her gone, there isn't much else."

"There must be."

"You're just feeling blue about Jill."

"No," Emily insisted.  "I've made allowances for that."

Celeste threw a hand in the air.  "Well, damn it, you and Doug might
have something if he was ever around!"

"I don't think he wants to be."

"Why do you say that?"  Kay asked.

Emily smiled sadly.  "I can fool myself all I want--I can let myself be
fooled by what Doug says--but he doesn't have to travel as much as he
does.  He has an office at home equipped with state-of-the-art
electronics.  He could cut the travel time in half and still pull down
the same income."

She paused, waiting.  She looked from Kay to Celeste.  "No one's
arguing."

"Have you told him this?"  Celeste asked.

"No.  I haven't admitted it to myself until now."

"Will you tell him?"  Kay asked.

"I guess.  At some point.  Unless things suddenly take a turn for the
better."  When neither Kay nor Celeste said that they would, she made a
pained sound.  "It's a lousy situation."

"What do you want to happen?"

"I don't know."

"I think you should confront him," Celeste declared, and that was fine
and dandy.  Celeste was already divorced.  She wouldn't be threatened
by a confrontation.  She had nothing to lose.

Emily did.  "I don't know as I'm ready to face the consequences," she
admitted.  "I'm barely able to think of them.  Anyway, that's why I
don't want Jill to get married so young.  I want her to be older and
wiser.  Same with any potential husband."

"Doug was older than you were."

"Not old enough.  We were kids then.  We've grown into different
people."

"I feel so badly."

"Is there anything we can do?"

She shook her head and managed a smile.  "One of these weekends, Doug
will be home for more than a day.  We need time together.  That's all.
One good talk could clear the air.  I'm not throwing in the towel yet."
She cleared her throat, ready to change the subject, since she hadn't
heard any miracle cure for her woes.  "In any case, I want more for
Jill.  Your turn, Celeste.  How would you feel if Dawn had a baby so
young?"

Celeste didn't answer.

Emily could tell from the look on her face--from Kay's, too--that they
were reluctant to leave the subject of Emily's marriage.  "There's not
much more to say," she told them softly.  "I don't know what's
happening, I just don't, and it hurts to dwell on it.  I need you guys
to cheer me up.  So answer me, Celeste.  How would you feel?"

Celeste was another minute in putting the issue of Doug aside, and then
she was subdued.  "I'd hate it.  I'm too young to be a grandmother."

Kay pointed out, "At forty-three, you're young enough to really enjoy a
grandchild."

Celeste shook her head.  "Not yet."

"Have you told Dawn that?"

"In no uncertain terms.  I've also told her--God only knows how many
times--that she has the brains to do great things in life, assuming
she doesn't mess up.  She says she may not want to do great things in
life."

"What does she want to do?"

"She doesn't say."

"Doesn't she want a career?"

"Who knows."

"Haven't you asked?"

"Dozens of times."

"Aren't you curious?"

"Kay, enough," Celeste complained.  "I can't answer your questions.
Good God, you're starting to sound like John."

Kay looked from Celeste to Emily.  "Want to hear the latest?  He
suggested we fly down to Washington next weekend.  To sightsee."  When
Celeste barked out a laugh, she added, "He said we could stay at a nice
place and make a romantic weekend of it."

Emily felt a pang.  She had been planning romantic weekends for Doug
and her not so long ago.  At the time, Kay had expressed envy.  Now the
tables were turned.  "And you thought he wasn't a romantic," she
chided, but she was distracted, wondering whether Doug was enjoying
London, whether he was sightseeing, whether his client was pleased with
his work and what that would mean for her marriage.

"John isn't a romantic," Kay was saying.  "Nor is he interested in
sightseeing.  Monuments and museums bore him to tears, and then there's
his back, which acts up whenever he has to do something he doesn't
like.  No, he doesn't want to sightsee."

"He wants to visit Marilee," Celeste suggested.

"Spy on Marilee," Kay corrected.  "He must be bored with work.  Or
going through a mid life crisis ten years late.  In any case, Marilee
told him she was worried about Dawn--knowing, I'm sure, that he would
get on Dawn's case--and he's been grilling me ever since, so if I
sound like him, indulge me.  No doubt he'll meet me at the door wanting
to know what you know."

Celeste sighed.  "Dawn is eighteen years old.  She says I'm
controlling.  Well, I'm done being controlling.  She's on her own, all
of ten minutes away."

Emily wished Jill were that close.  Then again, maybe it was just as
well that she wasn't.  Emily needed time before she saw Jill to figure
out what was going on with Doug.

"You aren't nervous at all?"  Kay asked Celeste.

"Of course, I'm nervous, but she's at a top school, with top kids, and
she's no longer a minor.  She's free to make her own mistakes."

"But if you can help her avoid--"

"How?"  Celeste cried.  "I can't be there.  I can't."

In that instant Emily realized that Celeste wasn't as ho-hum about Dawn
as she acted.  It was reassuring.

"So," Celeste said in the same, frustrated voice.  "Is the ad okay?"

Kay scowled at her, then snatched up the paper.  "Take out the Harley
part.  It may discourage a great guy who drives a Porsche."

It was a brilliant tactic, Emily thought.

Celeste crossed out the Harley part.

"Better still," added Kay, "make it generic.  Say fine wine, adventure,
and song.  And give your age."

"Okay," Celeste said in a mollifying way.  " "Sexy blond DWF--'"

"I thought you changed 'sexy' to 'intelligent.""

"Not if I'm cutting out "Harley."  It'll be too tame.  "Sexy blond DWF,
40--'"

"You're forty-three."

"Why don't I say fortyish

"Because then they'll think you're forty-nine."

"No, they won't."

Kay skimmed the personals Celeste had clipped from the paper.  "Most of
them list their ages.  Here's one who doesn't.  She says she's looking
for a doctor between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five.  How old
would you guess she is?"

"Forty-five," Emily said.

Celeste didn't answer.

"Why not thirty-five or younger?"  Kay asked Emily.

"She would have listed her age if she were younger."

"Bingo.  Without specifics, people assume the worst."

Celeste threw up a hand.  "Okay, okay.  I'll list my age, but it goes
against my grain.  My age shouldn't matter.  I may be forty-three in
body, but I'm twenty five in spirit."

"Yes, well, that may be true," Kay conceded, "but men don't look at
things that way.  It's the in-body figure they're most concerned
with."

Emily thought of the weeks it had been since Doug had reached for her
with anything remotely akin to passion.  She had chosen to blame it on
exhaustion, but many an exhausted guy wanted sex, and then there were
the mornings when he wasn't exhausted at all.  It was like he had
outgrown her physically, too.

She didn't understand how that could be.  She had turned him on once.
Wasn't chemistry a constant?  She hadn't gained weight.  She wasn't
lined or gray or stooped.  Okay, so everything hung a bit lower than it
had twenty-two years ago, but she was still attractive.

Wasn't she?

"Emily."

She looked up to find Kay and Celeste standing before her.

Kay touched her arm.  "You look tortured.  Maybe you should spend a
few days here with Celeste."  "I'd love it," Celeste coaxed.  "I have
room."  But Emily wanted to be back in her house, in case Jill called,
in case Doug called.  Like the plates beneath the earth's crust at the
time of a quake, the underpinnings of her life were shifting.  All she
could do was to take shelter under the most stable structure she knew,
and wait it out.

She drove home after brunch, with the best of intentions.  Having spent
all of Saturday with Brian and Julia, she was determined to leave them
alone today.  Julia needed to bond with Brian.  Brian needed to grow
more comfortable with Julia.  They needed to make the new apartment
theirs without Emily's intrusive presence.

She had no sooner entered the kitchen, though, when she spotted Myra
coming around the garage from the direction of the apartment.  Curious,
even a bit concerned, she went outside.

Myra instantly veered her way.  "I've just had the nicest visit with
Detective Stasek and his daughter.  What a lovely man he is.  I'm
afraid I caught him before he'd had a chance to shave, though.  I hope
I didn't embarrass him.  Did you know that he grew up in Chicago?
Imagine, Grannick having someone so worldly on our own police force.  I
brought day lilies from the garden, and when Detective Stasek didn't
have a vase, I went and got one of mine."

"That was sweet, Myra."

"It's the least I can do.  I still can't believe that he's living right
here on our street.  The police department has been needing someone
new.  Chief Davies has been here too long."

Emily defended John.  "He does a wonderful job."

"He's too old.  He doesn't see things.  No, we need a fresh eye.
Detective Stasek will be good for us."  She frowned.  "Funny, you'd
have thought his wife would have had a vase or two.  Most women do."

"I'm sure she had some, but he left most of their things behind."

Myra nodded.  "Because of the memories.  I can understand that.  But
it's good to preserve them, sometimes.  That's why I tend the ground
around my willow.  Willows can be messy things, growing so large, what
with all that pond water to drink and that moist earth to spread their
roots in.  Did you know that the upper portion of my willow nearly
exactly duplicates what's underground?  Nearly, mind you.  Not
exactly."

Emily let her ramble.  Myra was a bit weird when it came to her willow,
but she was a kind woman.  It couldn't have been easy for her, living
with Frank, who had been mean to the core.  Emily had heard him roar
many a night.

She had never suffered anything like that with Doug.  He rarely raised
his voice, certainly never raised a hand.  She was lucky, in that
sense.

Maybe she was being too sensitive.  Maybe it was the Jill-leaving
blues, after all.  Maybe she was being selfish, expecting him to be
around all the time.  Maybe she expected too much, period.

"You know," Myra was saying, "I remember what you said about the
detective not wearing a uniform, being a detective and all, and since
that's the case, I'm going to have him over for tea with Frank.  Do you
think he would clean himself up if I invited him?  Frank doesn't like
beards.  He says he wants to see a man's face when he's talking to him.
He wants to know what he's up against.  When he doesn't know, he gets
angry."

Emily put a hand on her arm.  "Myra, Frank is dead."

"Yes, but I think we should be cautious, anyway.  Frank's anger is a
frightening thing."  She set off for her house.

Emily was watching her cross the cul-de-sac when Brian came quietly
around the side of the garage.  Indeed, he was unshaven and disheveled,
nearly as much as the first time she'd seen him, but he didn't look at
all desperate now--or disreputable, despite Myra's worry.  Emily
actually thought he looked wonderfully male, with bedroom eyes and a
warm, welcome grin.

"Myra brought flowers," he said, letting the grin grow crooked and
fun.

Suddenly, Emily wasn't brooding about Doug or longing for Jill.  She
felt oddly anesthetized.  "So she told me.  I hope she wasn't a
bother."

"Nah.  She's sweet, if eccentric.  She wanted to tell me that the
LeJeunes have rats.  She's worried they'll spread to her place, or
worse, the pond.  She asked me how she would know if they did, and if
maybe I would come over and take a look.  She worries about her
willow."

Emily fought a smile.  "Her tree is perfectly safe.  The pond doesn't
have rats, and neither do the LeJeunes.  What they have is an
exterminator who does his preventative thing every three months.  His
truck is shaped like a rat.  Myra jumps to conclusions."

She let the smile come then, because Brian was smiling, and it was
impossible not to catch his good mood.

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  "I came looking for
you earlier.  Julia and I were going for a walk in the woods.  I was
going to make you come so we wouldn't get lost."

"Obviously, you didn't.  Get lost, that is."  Though she would have
loved to have gone.  "Is Julia sleeping?"

"Soundly.  The exercise wore her out."

"Sweet."

"She is."

Emily liked feeling happy.  "Want a beer?"

"Sure."

She gestured him into the house, pulled two bottles from Doug's stock
in the fridge, and handed him one.  "This is my husband's last vestige
of an earlier life.  When we were young and poor, we preferred beer to
cheap wine.  Doug is into better wine now, but when he's watching a
football game, he still wants a beer."

"When's he due back?"

"Friday."

"For the weekend?"

"Longer, I hope," she said in a nonchalant way that made her almost
believe it.  And why not?  She had been making believe for years.
"Let's go outside.  We can sit in back and hear Julia if she cries."
She grabbed the phone on the way out and led him to a shady spot
beneath a gnarled oak.  It was wide enough for both of their backs,
with space to spare.

"This is nice," he said, settling against the bark.  "Different from
where I was.  We had Central Park, but it wasn't like this."

"Did you take Julia for walks there?"

"Sometimes.  Gayle did it more than me.  The nanny did it more than
Gayle."  He snorted.  "Was I ever a lousy father."

"Your work kept you busy," Emily offered.

"Yeah, well, that sounds good, and it was the truth, but it didn't have
to be.  I pulled my share of overtime.  I didn't need to do that."

"You were conscientious."

"About work, sure.  But what about Julia?  My priorities were screwed
up."

Emily shrugged.  "Tradition says that since you're the man, you're the
breadwinnner, rather than the child-rearer."

"So look at me now."

She was doing just that.  "You look pretty together to me."

"Right now, sure.  I'm sitting here with the baby asleep and a beer in
my hand and a beautiful woman beside me, but pretty soon the baby'll
wake up and I'll have to find something for her to do."

"Why?  She has toys to play with," Emily said, though she might have
dwelt longer on the beautiful woman part.  She was stowed for comments
like that.

"Toys aren't enough.  You have to do things with kids."

"Uh-huh.  Show them how to play with those toys.  Read to them.  Take
them to the park.  Mostly be with them.  You could do whatever you'd
normally do on a Sunday, and take Julia right along."

"She wouldn't appreciate the Mets."

"Well.  Maybe not.  But you could take her along for most else."

He was looking like he wanted to believe her.  "What about kids'
things.  Like ballet."

Emily tried not to smile, he was so serious.  "She has a while to go
yet."

"But what'll I do when the time comes?  I don't know anything about
ballet.  I wouldn't know the first thing about putting her in a tutu. I
wouldn't know the first thing about buying one."

"There's a ballet store in town.  They'll answer your questions."

He was frowning at the grass, then at her.  "I don't know the first
thing about buying her clothes, period.  Okay, she's set for now, but
pretty soon she'll be outgrowing the things she has.  I haven't ever
bought her clothes before."

"It's easy."

"Fine for you to say.  You're a woman.  You've been through it all. But
it won't be easy for me.  I have enough trouble buying my own
clothes."

"Brian," she insisted, "it's easy.  You'll drive to the nearest
department store, go to the children's section, and tell the
salesperson what Julia needs."

He was skeptical.  "How will I know what she needs?"

"You'll know.  When winter sets in, you'll know that she needs
something warm, so you'll look at the snowsuits, and the one-piece
suits are going to look much easier to put on."

"What if Julia doesn't like it?"

"Tough," Emily said gently.  "She'll wear it anyway.  By the time she's
older, the two of you will walk into the store, and she'll tell you
which one she likes.  Before you know it, she'll be shopping for
herself."

"What about her hair?"

"Most snowsuits have hoods."

"I mean, what about haircuts and braids and bows and other things
little girls like?"

"I've seen your bows.  They're good."

He made a doubtful sound and looked off.

She touched his arm.  "You'll do fine.  Look how far you've come.  Look
at all you're doing for Julia that you weren't doing a few months
ago."

"Necessity is the father of invention."

"Isn't most of life that way?  When it gets so that you can't do
anything with Julia's hair, you'll go to a hair shop and have it cut.
When you start having to cram her feet into her shoes, you'll go to a
shoe store and get her new ones.  When her teeth start rotting and
falling out--" He shot her a horrified look.  She squeezed his arm.
"Just kidding."

"When do I have to start with the dentist?"  he asked weakly.

"When she's three."

"What about toilet training?"

Emily sat back.  "That depends.  Jill was ready when she was eighteen
months.  Daniel couldn't have been bothered even at two."  Thought of
Daniel brought an old, familiar ache.  More quietly, she added, "Maybe
he was punishing me ahead of time for leaving him alone in that car."

Brian faced her.  "Did you know that, statistically speaking, there are
more abductions in small towns than large ones?  People in small towns
live and breathe trust.  It may not be wise, but what's the
alternative?  We can't live like we're under siege.  Hell, that's why I
left New York and came here.  You weren't remiss, Emily.  My guess is
you were a better mother than most."  He sighed.  "No parent is
perfect.  You sure have answers to things that drive me to a cold sweat
in the middle of the night, and I've seen you with Julia.  You're a
natural."

He seemed genuine--not at all patronizing, like Doug had always been.
She had never completely believed Doug's denials.  Brian, she did
believe.  She figured it had to do with his being a cop.  And an
impartial observer.  And having eyes with an eerie power.

They were truly stunning eyes--shiny in the way of steel, without the
hardness--and, yes, otherworldly.  If he said she hadn't done wrong,
she hadn't.

"Maybe I should open a day-care center," she said only half in jest.
She knew Doug wouldn't hear of it, much less guarantee a loan.  "I was
counting on the apartment taking several months of my time.  But it's
done now, and the work I want to do in the house won't take long.  So,
who will I be then?"

"You're a writer."

"That book was a once in a lifetime thing."

"Did you enjoy doing it?"

"Yes.  It was therapeutic.  Writing's always been that for me."  She
studied the grass.  "I kept notes after Daniel was taken.  They kept me
sane."  She tugged at the sleek green blades.  "Maybe I'll do more
writing for the Sun.  Or for friends at the college."  Doug didn't have
to know about either.  "Of course, Jill will be home in three and a
half weeks, then for Thanksgiving, then again in December, and it'll be
for a whole month then.  And long before that I'll have Doug."

"Next weekend."

"Uh-huh.  That's right."

Doug had little to say.  He arrived Friday evening, professing to have
eaten on the plane, and after briefly allowing for Emily's questions
about London, left to work out at the health club in town.  When he
returned, he sank down in front of the television, where he stayed
until after she had fallen asleep waiting for him.  When she awoke in
the morning, he was the one who was asleep.

She studied his face, looking for softness, familiarity, hope, but felt
distanced.  She didn't know why.  In sleep, certainly, his features
were no different from before.

She tried to put herself back several years, lying like this, looking
at him when things had been better between them, but the only such
memories she had went back to the time when they were newly married.
And, perhaps, when Daniel was a baby.  She remembered the three of them
lying in bed, remembered looking from Daniel to Doug and back,
marveling at how lucky she was.

She couldn't remember lying in bed with Doug and Jill.  But Jill had
come after Daniel.  Emily had done far less lying around feeling lucky
and far more running around--trying to please Doug, wanting to mother
Jill, needing to compensate for her one tragic lapse, which they never,
ever discussed.  She had learned to follow Doug's example and keep her
thoughts to herself, about Daniel and, increasingly, about the rest of
Doug's life.

She assumed that was the distance she felt now.  She wished she were
imagining it, but as the weekend passed, it became more and more clear.
She and Doug rarely discussed anything.  Nor did she confront him on
it.  He was home for such a short time that she didn't want any
unpleasantness.  So she watched him push aside his orange juice, saying
that he preferred pineapple juice, and she nodded sweetly when he asked
if his shirts would be ironed on time, and when she suggested going out
to dinner on Saturday night and he opted for a movie instead, she
didn't argue.

Something inside her snapped, though, when she saw him with Brian.  She
had been wanting them to meet.  But the juxtaposition was too much, the
differences between them too stark.  There was Brian-wearing jeans, a
sweatshirt, and no shoes, carrying Julia, who was dressed the
same--talking with Doug, who wore pleated pants, a pressed shirt, and
polished loafers.  Brian smiled more, skillfully directing the
conversation from the apartment, which he took Doug to see, to the
fiscal management of Grannick, to the horsepower of Doug's precious
car.

Beside Brian, Doug looked one dimensional and stodgy.  Brian looked
warmer and kinder and far more attractive to her.  And that infuriated
Emily.  She was angry at Doug for being so strange and superior and
aloof, and angry at herself for making the comparison to Brian.
Excusing herself, she fled into the house.

Minutes later, Doug joined her and said with enthusiasm, "He's a nice
guy.  I'm glad you have someone like him here with you, while I'm away.
I worry about your being alone."

She gave him a sharp look.  "I've been here alone for years, and you've
never worried."

"You've always had Jill."

"Jill's my daughter.  It's not the same as having you around."

He stared at her, then at the wall.  "Don't start in."

"What's happening, Doug?  We see less and less of each other at a time
when we should be seeing more and more."

He rolled his eyes.  "We've been through this before."

"But I don't understand it.  You talk like the money you may make
tomorrow will be the difference between staying afloat and going under,
but it doesn't make sense.  Your business is thriving--and yes, we have
bills," she said before he could, "but they aren't any greater than
anyone else's."

"I have a child in college."

"So do millions of other people, and they survive.  We aren't
spendthrifts.  We lead frugal lives.  At least, I do."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"All it means," she said with a sigh, "is that we should have more
than enough money to keep us comfortable, college tuition and all, so
why can't you stay home more?  You did, before Jill left."

He put his hands on his hips and faced her.  "Business has picked
up."

"Turn some down.  Take time off."

"But I like the direction my business is going."

"You like being on the road five days a week?  Six, sometimes?  You
don't want to spend time at home?  Ever?  Or will you just do it when
Jill is home?  For show."

He sighed.  "What are you suggesting now?"

For a split second she considered backing off, but she had come too far
and was too upset.  Her sole concession was to lower her voice.  "What
do you want from our marriage?"

"A place to come home to."  He looked around.  "This house, this town,
you, Jill."

"What do I do for you, besides wash your clothes?"

"You're my wife."

"Do you like being with me?"

"Of course I do."

"Eight days a month."

"Emily, what is wrong with you?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, touched her forehead, shook her head. Maybe
it was her.  Straightening, she dropped her hand.  "I don't know who I
am.  I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing or where I'm supposed
to be going.  How am I supposed to fill my time?  I can only fiddle
around the house so much.  After a while everything's done, and then
what?"

"You want to work."  He threw his hands in the air.  "Christ, Emily,
we've been through this one, too.  You're not qualified to do anything.
All you'll do is bring in a piddling amount that will raise our taxes
and make a mountain of paperwork for me."  He headed for the door.
"Why can't you just--just watch television?"

She went after him.  "I am not unqualified to do anything.  I got my
degree."

"Yeah.  In English.  That degree, plus two bits, won't buy you a cup of
coffee."

She reeled, but only for a minute.  Then she was following him up the
stairs.  "That isn't true, Doug.  There are lots of things I could do.
But you don't want me to work."

"For reasons I've explained a dozen times.  Why don't they sink in?"

"Because they don't make sense.  And they aren't fair."

He swore under his breath and turned into the bedroom.

She hung on the doorjamb.  "I need to do something.  I can't just sit
around here."

"Why not?  My mother did."

"She had a husband."

He glared at her.  "Her husband didn't do the kind of work I do--or
make what I do."

Finally, an acknowledgment that he wasn't on the verge of bankruptcy.
"But what good is the money, if we're not happy?"

"I'm happy.  I'm perfectly happy.  At least, I am when you're not on my
back."  He shot her a withering look.  "Ease up, huh?"

Emily did draw back then.  She went outside to the pond, and stayed
there until Doug came out to say goodbye.  Nothing had been solved. She
felt worse than before.

But she feared that if she pushed he wouldn't come home at all, and if
he didn't, her marriage would be well and truly over, and if it was,
Jill would be hurt.

That worried her most--which was interesting, since there were so many
other things that should worry her, too, like what would become of the
house if her marriage ended, how she would pay for food and clothes,
what in the devil she would do when her failing car fell apart.

Only then, sitting by the pond with Doug off and gone again, and the
whole of her future looming ahead, did she realize just how dependent
she was.  nine

EMILY SAT BY THE POND UNTIL IT GREW DARK.

For the first time, she wasn't concerned about missing a call from
Jill.  She didn't know what she would say if Jill did call.  Lying
about having a lovely weekend with Doug was growing harder, and Jill,
bless her, always asked.

Jill was Emily's best friend.  They could hug each other.  They could
cry on each other's shoulders.  Emily was desperately in need of both a
hug and a cry just then.  But she couldn't tell Jill what was
happening.

She thought of calling Kay or Celeste.  They came in second to Jill in
the best-friend category, and she was sure they would be wondering how
the weekend had gone.  But she didn't call them.  She felt too bottled
up, even for that.

For the first time in years, she wished she had a mother who would come
and hold her and not demand a word.  That was what Emily did for Jill
when something upset her too much for talk.  The holding helped loosen
the congestion inside, and the talk inevitably came.

But Emily's mother had been dead for a long time, and even in life,
she had been cold.  Widowed early, she'd had to work to support herself
and her daughter.  She never let Emily forget it.

Emily had no siblings.  Contact had long since been lost with what few
aunts, uncles, and cousins there were.  There was no one at all to
call.

So she sat for a while in the dark.  When the night air cooled, she
went inside and made a cup of tea.  Then she sat in the dark again,
this time in the living room with the haze of a smoky clarinet rising
from the stereo.

The phone rang several times, once from Jill, once from Celeste.  She
let the machine take both and didn't move, other than to curl more
tightly into herself.

The music was long done when she finally rose and went upstairs.  From
the bedroom door, she studied the remains of Doug's stay.  The closet
and a bureau drawer were open.  A shirt was thrown over the arm of the
chair, a stray sock lay on the floor by the bed.  Miscellaneous change
was on the nightstand, mostly pennies.

Like a tip!  A lousy tip!

Wheeling away, she raced down the stairs, threw on a jacket, and
slammed out the door.  She hit the sidewalk at a savage pace, kept it
up to the end of China Pond Road, down Walker, down Sycamore, and onto
LaGrange at the Berlo estate.  She didn't see much of what she passed.
Her mind roiled with anger at Doug.

Don't start in--when she said she wanted him home more.  What is wrong
with you--when she tried to pin him down about his feelings.  You're
not qualified to do anything--when she broached the topic of work.  And
when he was tired of talking--Ease up, huh?

He didn't listen, didn't understand, didn't care.  She had to get
through to him.  But she didn't know how, which was pathetic.  They had
been married for twenty-two years.  They had a daughter they loved.
Emily didn't want a divorce.

The question was whether she could survive, alone this way.  She had so
much to give, so much love and caring that she was choked by it
sometimes.

She passed through the center of town, crossed the street, and started
back.  Her pace grew more sane as her anger wore itself out.  In its
place was a deep, dark, familiar hole that took away all the warmth,
the hope, the pleasure of life.  She had always thought it had Daniel's
name on it.  She wondered now if it didn't have Doug's.

She zipped her jacket, tucked her hands in its pockets, and pulled up
the collar.  Even then she shivered.

Shadows lurked on either side, but she didn't look as she passed.  She
kept her eyes straight ahead, her thoughts focused on reaching the
house, climbing into bed, and burrowing under a mountain of blankets.
She figured she might stay there forever.

Foolish thought.  But she couldn't think of a better one.

She tried to clear her mind by concentrating on breathing in, breathing
out, relaxing the muscles of her thighs, her arms, her back as she
walked, but the chill fought her, tightening everything she tried to
loosen.  By the time she reached China Pond Road, she gave up the
struggle.  Eternity under a mountain of blankets was sounding less
foolish with each cold step.

She was nearly home when she saw him, sitting on her steps, rising when
she approached.  She slowed.  Her knees were startlingly weak, given
the stiffness of her legs, but they managed to take her to where he
stood.

"I saw you leave," he said.  "Are you okay?"

"Oh, God," she breathed in a sigh.  "I wish I knew."

When he opened an arm, she moved into it.  She felt it close around
her, felt a large hand press her head to his chest, felt intense
relief.  If there was impropriety in the embrace, she didn't care.  He
was warm and strong.  She figured that absorbing even a teeny bit of
either quality would be an improvement.

She didn't know how long they stood there, he with his arms wrapped
around her, she with her eyes closed and all responsibility for herself
and her life momentarily forgotten.  She relaxed as she hadn't been
able to do on the walk home.  She inhaled his warmth.  She made a small
sound of pleasure, then one of protest when he started to pull back.

"You're freezing," he said in a half-whisper.  "Let me get you
inside."

Inside was his place, and she didn't argue.  The apartment was
pleasantly messy, but peaceful.  It didn't hold the memories for her
that the house did, now that it was renovated and filled with Brian's
things.

The hot chocolate he gave her felt good going down.  So did his
presence.  He was wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he wore them
well.  So she simply sat and let the sight of him do for her what his
arms had outside.

He settled beside her on the sofa.  "Better?"

She nodded.  She held her hot chocolate in both hands and kept her eyes
on him.

"Julia said "Daddy' tonight.  Screamed it actually, in protest.  I was
changing her.  She has a diaper rash.  I wasn't sure what to do."

"Try zinc ointment."

"Zinc ointment?"

"It's messy, and it smells, but it usually does the trick."

She wondered what it was about Brian that she found so appealing.
Feature for feature, he wasn't as handsome as Doug, but the overall
package was far more appealing.  It was masculine, yet approachable.
More than approachable.  Hard to resist.

Not sure about the direction of that thought, she hitched her chin
toward the folders that were strewn on the coffee table.  "What are you
reading?"

"Files of all the juvenile offenses committed in town in the last few
years.  John wanted to wake me up.  Kids here aren't as innocent as I
thought."

"You're talking about the vandalism."  In recent months there had been
a rash of minor incidents-spray-painted graffiti, broken windows, even
a cemetery desecration.

"Vandalism seems to be in vogue right now, but there's still the
occasional truck race at the quarry and the more than occasional orgy
on the railroad bridge.  The races and the orgies are the work of the
trade school kids and coincide with their school schedule.  The
vandalism is more random, a little something here, a little something
there.  Individuals may be behind it, rather than a gang.  I'll see
what I can pick up at the high school.  I work pretty well with
kids."

"And to think you're afraid of Julia," she teased.

"Julia's mine.  That's one difference.  Another is that she can't
communicate."

"Many high school kids can't either," Emily said, and felt instantly
hypocritical.  She wasn't communicating with Brian about what had sent
her out walking.

Her reason?  She liked being with him.  She didn't want to taint that
time with her problems.  She didn't want to dwell on those problems,
period.  "Have you been to the school?"

"Not yet.  I needed a cop's view of the town first.  Sam Webber's been
taking me with him on patrol."

"I haven't seen Sam in a while.  We were together a lot while we were
doing the book.  How is he?"

"Fine, I guess.  Wary.  I'm the new guy on the force."  He waved the
problem away.  "But it'll get better."  His hands fell between his
knees.  He regarded her expectantly for a minute.  Then he sighed and
smiled.

In that instant, Emily wanted to set down her drink and return to his
arms.

Thinking better of it, she set down her drink and rose.  "I'd better
leave you to your work."

He was beside her before she reached the door and followed her down the
stairs.  At the bottom, she turned back and focused in the general area
of his chest.  "Thanks."

"I didn't do much."

"You did.  Believe me."

"I wish I could do more."

She closed her eyes against the torment of having Doug distant and
Brian close, Doug cold and Brian warm.  It was a complication in what
had become for her a terribly complicated world.  She didn't need it.

Ah, but she did.  When Brian drew her close, her arms went around him.
She breathed him in and thought improper thoughts, and when a humming
began inside, she enjoyed it--but for only a brief, forbidden minute.
Then she drew back and with a guilty little smile, let herself out.

Early Monday morning, Brian strapped Julia into the back of the Jeep,
tossed his files into the front, and was about to follow them in when
he glanced at the house.  There was no sign of life, unusual for Emily,
who customarily had the kitchen door ajar.  Granted, it was a cool
morning.  But she hadn't brought the newspaper in either, and she
usually did that before seven.  After last night, he was concerned.

He fetched the paper from the front walk, climbed the steps, knocked,
and waited with a hand on his hip and his head bowed.  When there was
no response, he knocked louder.  He shaded his eyes and peered inside.
Everything was neat.  There was no sign of mayhem.

Not that he expected it.  Not from Emily.

But then, he hadn't expected Gayle to be hit by a car.  He had shown up
too late to do anything about that, but if Emily's upset of the night
before had taken a turn for the worse, and if he walked off just like
her asshole husband and came back too late, he would never forgive
himself.

He tried the bell, though she must have been roused by his knock,
because he had barely removed his finger when he saw her making her way
through the kitchen, tying a robe.  She ran a hand through her hair,
opened the door, and gave him a groggy smile.

He felt suddenly foolish.  "Hey.  I'm sorry."

She shook her head.  "Not your fault.  I was the one who overslept.  I
had trouble falling asleep."

Brooding about her husband, no doubt.  "I'm sorry for that."

She repeated the headshake, repeated, "Not your fault."

"Well, I'm sorry, anyway."  A noise came from the car, but he ignored
it.  Emily was more needy than Julia just then.  "Certainly sorry I
woke you.  I was worried.  I hate seeing you down."

He wished she would tell him about what had happened with Doug.  It
couldn't have been rewarding, not with her clinging to him the way she
had last night.

But she didn't betray her husband.  All she said was, "I'm better, I
think."  She gave him a tremulous smile.  "Thanks for caring."

"I do."  What to blame it on?  The vacuum left by Gayle's death?  The
inherent unfairness of Emily's situation?  The fact that she was his
landlord or that, as a homemaker, she was an endangered species?  Or,
simply, that she was small and vulnerable-looking?  Whatever, he felt
protective.

So he handed her the paper.  "Go back to bed."

"I might."  Her gaze dropped a notch.  "Neat tie."

It was a garish thing, toned down by a white shirt, jeans, and a
venerable corduroy baseball jacket.  He was about to say something
about establishing his identity in the department, when Julia cried
again.

"Your fan club calls," Emily said with a glance at the Jeep.

"We're stopping at the drugstore.  Zinc ointment?"

She nodded, then waved when he pulled out of the driveway.  Holding the
image, he headed for town.

Content now that the car was in motion, Julia was a pretty picture in
his rearview mirror.  He had tried something new this morning, letting
her play in the bath while he shaved, then rinsing her off with him in
the shower.  She hadn't loved the shower part as much as the bath part,
but he figured she would get used to it.  It sure had saved time.

"How ya doin', toots?"  he called back.  "Feelin* good?  So am I."  He
kept picturing Emily waving him off.  "Look at those trees!"  They were
red and orange, vibrant in the autumn sun.  "They didn't look like
that in New York, let me tell you, not even in the park."

He wondered how much she remembered.

"Mom-mce."

Lots, apparently.  "Mommy's not here.  Just Daddy.  He's going to take
you to the drugstore, then to Janice's.  Where's bunny?"

He breathed a sigh of relief when she waved the rabbit in the air.
Yesterday he had forgotten it and had to turn around and go back.  He
had been late getting to work, which hadn't bothered John any, but
Brian sensed that the others had noticed.  Sam wasn't the only one wary
of him.  They all were.  Not only was he the new guy on the block and
from New York City, but he was a detective lieutenant, answering only
to John.

Brian wasn't desperate for the approval of the others on the force.  He
wasn't looking for tight friends, didn't have time for them, what with
Julia.  But good rapport would make for a more pleasant work
environment, and in the absence of heart-pounding, adrenaline-pumping,
sweat-popping criminality, a pleasant work environment would be nice.
Showing up late two days in a row wouldn't help.

He nosed into a space in front of the drugstore, jumped from the car,
and was halfway across the sidewalk when he heard Julia's protest.
Backtracking, he pulled open the door and leaned in.  "Zinc ointment.
That's all I'm getting.  Two seconds.  It'll be easier if you stay
here."

"Ah-kahhh."

"You don't want to keep bunny company?"

"No."

He sighed and reached for her.  "Okay.  Let's make this quick."
Tucking her under his arm, he strode into the store.  The owner and
his wife were in their daytime places.  "How are you, Harold?"

"Not bad, Detective."

"Zinc ointment?"

"Last aisle over."

Brian went to the last aisle over and found the ointment in a snap.
Figuring that between the ease of that and his brilliance in putting
Julia in the tub earlier, he might just be on a roll, he headed for the
photo booth at the back of the store.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of quarters.  "Let's
give it another shot, toots.  One good one.  That's all Grammie wants.
You, me, and my neat tie.  She'll be thrilled."  He slid into the
booth.  "No, no, baby, don't stiffen up.  Just take it easy, take it
easy while I get these things in."  He fiddled with the quarters, but
Julia was arching her back and twisting, and just when he finally
managed to get the first quarter into the slot, a loud buzzer sounded
outside the booth.

Julia broke into a wail to rival the buzzer, which went on and on and
on.

Brian ducked out of the booth.  Muffling her cries against his shirt,
he unsnapped the service revolver bolstered under his jacket, and stole
around the back of the aisle for a view of the cash register.

Harold was there, calmly talking with a teenaged boy.  The buzzer
stilled.  Harold's wife, Mary Elizabeth, joined them.  Neither Harold
nor Mary Elizabeth seemed threatened.

Straightening, Brian relaxed his hold of Julia, whose cries subsided
into sniffles.  Snapping his revolver back into place, he approached
the front of the store.

The boy looked to be seventeen or eighteen and, judging from his
clothes, well-off.  He wore tan bucks, designer jeans and shirt, and a
jacket whose buttersoft leather oozed style.  His backpack was high-end
L.L. Bean.  It lay open on the counter, having disgorged the large
bottle of vitamin C that had set off the alarm.  Harold held it now,
along with two candy bars.

"I must have dropped it in there when I went for my money," the boy was
saying, sounding neither apologetic nor embarrassed.

Harold spoke quietly.  "Do you want to buy it?"

The boy dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty.

"Everything all right here?"  Brian asked.

Harold shot him a quick look as he rang in the sale.  "Just fine.  No
problem."

Brian wasn't sure he believed that and glanced around, wondering if the
boy had accomplices, if a greater threat lay beyond the immediate
action.  He didn't see anything more suspicious than a shiny new sports
car waiting at the curb.

When the boy pocketed his change and headed for it, Brian put the zinc
ointment and a five in Mary Elizabeth's waiting hand.  "Was it an
accident?"  he asked Harold, who shrugged.  "Has it happened before?"

This time the shrug was more a quirk of the brows.  "He isn't a bad
boy."

"What's his name?"

"Richie Berlo."

"Berlo, as in the walled-in mansion on the corner of Sycamore and
LaGrange?"  Brian passed the place every day on his way into town.  Sam
had given him a rundown on the money behind it, which would easily
explain the car and the twenty.

"The same."

"Does the father know the boy has a problem?"

"It isn't really a problem."

True, the boy didn't have a rap sheet.  Brian would have noticed if
there had been a file among those in the car.  Still.  "Shoplifting is
against the law.  Why else do you have this alarm system?"

"Look, Detective," Harold said lightly, "I know what you're thinking,
and you're right, the alarm's there to catch thieves, but Richie Berlo
is the son of Grannick's biggest donor.  Nestor Berlo has built us a
library and a senior citizens' center, and he's a major donor to the
college, and the college means business for us."  He chuckled.  "It was
only a bottle of vitamin C, and the boy did pay for it.  I'm only sorry
the alarm upset your daughter."

Brian took the tube of zinc ointment and his change.  He wasn't worried
about Julia, who had quieted nicely.  "You may not be doing that boy a
favor by looking the other way.  It's sending him a bad message."

Harold only smiled and shooed him out the door.

Brian might have stayed to argue if he had more time, but he had
already spent longer at the drugstore than he intended, and by the time
he left Julia at Janice's, picked up coffee at Nell's, and drove to the
police station, his mind had moved on.

The department had two computers.  He had hoped to use one to type up
the notes he had made after reading the juvenile records, since John
wouldn't ever be able to decipher his scribbles.  But both computers
were in use when he arrived, so he picked up the report from the night
before.

There had been one drunk driving arrest, one suspected prowler, one
heart attack, and one stolen car--a tame night, by Brian's standards, a
typical one by Grannick's.

Setting the report aside, he checked the computers again.  When he
found them still in use, he went to John's office.  "Got a minute?"  he
asked from the door.

John waved him in.

He wandered along the side of the room with his hands in his pockets.
"I reread the file on Daniel Arkin.  I take it you weren't in charge of
the case at the time."  He wanted to know how freely he could speak
without insulting John.

"I was assigned to Emily and Doug.  Chief called the shots.  Say what
you want."

Brian accepted the invitation.  "The investigation left some holes.
There were people in the post office at the time of the abduction who
were never questioned."

John wasn't fazed.  "They were inside the whole time.  They said they
didn't see anything.  Chief didn't see the point in pursuing them as
witnesses."

"Sometimes people see things without knowing it.  One of them might
have gone out for a smoke, or seen something out of the ordinary inside
but thought nothing of it.  There were also people in the stores across
the street who weren't questioned.  The owners were, but not their
customers."

"Chief felt that in a town like Grannick, if any of those had seen
something, they'd have come forward on their own.  He didn't want to
badger."

Brian stopped at the desk.  "Christ, John, a little boy disappeared. It
might have been worth the badgering."

John held up a hand.  "I'm just telling you Chief's rationale.  Most
everyone knew Emily.  Most everyone liked her.  Chief assumed that for
her sake alone, anyone who knew anything would have come forward."

Brian sighed.  "Well, that sounds good, but you and I both know it
doesn't always work that way.  What if someone saw another person, a
friend, or the friend of a friend, doing something suspicious, and
didn't want to implicate that person?"

"Emily talked with some of those others who were in the stores.  She
was asking questions long after we stopped.  She couldn't let it go.
Not that she was loud about it.  She just kept after us in her own
quiet way.  I did some extra questioning on my own.  Once I got to know
her, I had a personal stake in it.  But there was only so much I could
do then, once Chief said enough, and now, well, a lot of them are gone,
moved on to other places."

"Why didn't Emily?"  Brian asked.  "You'd have thought she would want
to go someplace where there wasn't a painful memory around every
corner."

"She can't leave.  This was the only home Daniel knew.  As long as the
case is unsolved, she'll stay here."

Brian felt the pain of it.  "She's a prisoner, then.  That's doubly why
I should question whoever I can find."

John remained skeptical.  "Memory fades, after all this time."

Brian disagreed.  "It's not like we're asking about a random day on the
calendar.  Everyone who was living in town at that time knew when
Daniel Arkin disappeared.  My guess is that anyone who had a potential
lead hasn't forgotten a thing."

"Do you think the boy might still be alive?"

Brian dropped into the chair.  "No.  But I don't see the harm in
questioning the people we missed the first time around.  I'd also do a
computer enhancement of Daniel's picture, to come up with something of
what he might look like today, and I'd do a fingerprint match."

"Huh.  Where you gonna get a fingerprint."  It wasn't a question.

"From one of the little boy's picture books.  They're still in his
room.  Fingerprints spread as they get larger, but the points and loops
stay the same.  I'd also do a computer cross-check on kidnappers who
were at it when Daniel was taken.  And I'd work through a list of
Grannick's sex offenders."

John drew back.

"Doesn't it make sense?"  Brian asked.

"We weren't thinking that way in the seventies."

"There were sex offenders then."

"Sure.  But we didn't blame them for every crime, and we didn't put
their names on a list.  Not in Grannick.  Not until two years ago."

Brian was astounded.  "Why not?"

"Because these are our people.  We don't like compromising them.  If
one of our own does something wrong and serves his time, we feel he has
a right to come back here and start over with a clean slate."

"So why'd you start doing it two years ago?"

"Had to.  The college appointed a professor who had served time for
rape, the locals learned about it, and made a stink.  Personally, I had
no problem with him.  He'd been five years at another school before
coming here, and his record was spotless.  Stayed spotless, too.  But a
lot of people were nervous.  So the right to public protection took
precedence over the right to privacy."

"I take it your list is confidential."

"Sure."

"So the right to privacy is respected, too."

"Except if guys like you want to dig up the list and start questioning
the people on it."

Brian couldn't not look at that list.  "If someone abducts a little boy
and never sends a ransom note, you rule out greed as a motive, right?
So what's left?"

He thought of Emily's dream.  "It'd be real nice if it turns out that
someone just wanted a baby to raise, but the chances of that are slim.
The truth is that among kids abducted by strangers, the majority are
sexually violated."

"He was just a baby."

"No matter, to a crazy."

John was scowling.  "Have you mentioned this to Emily?"

"Christ, no."

"Don't.  It'll make her sick."

"You think she hasn't imagined it?"  When John didn't answer, he said,
"You can be sure she's following every missing child case that gets
coverage, and what she doesn't imagine on her own, the media paints in
living color."

John was quiet.

"Let me give it a try," Brian urged.  "I'll be subtle.  There doesn't
have to be a formal reactivation of the case."

"Start questioning people," John warned, "and word will spread.  It
always does, in Grannick."

"I'll say we're cleaning up loose ends, tidying up the files, and in a
sense that's all we are doing.  I'll say I'm new here, that the case
fascinates me, and I thought this would give me a chance to meet some
of the townsfolk.  They'll buy it."

"What about Emily?"

"Not a word.  She accepts that he's dead.  I can't raise her hopes,
what with the odds against us after all this time."

John looked torn.  Finally, he grumbled, "Keep it quiet and
unoffensive.  If word gets back to me that you're antagonizing people,
I'll call it off.  Hell, it's not like something new just came up.
It's not like we suddenly have a concrete lead.  It's just you,
falling hard for Emily Arkin."

Brian held up a hand.  "Hold on.  The lady's married."

"Try to remember it, huh?"

It was one thing to remember that Emily was married, and another to
stop thinking about her.  Brian liked her a lot.  Something about her
made him feel calm, even now, when he knew that her life was as
unsettled as his.  When he saw her, or thought about her, he felt a
deep, curling warmth.

It wasn't sexual.  At least, he didn't think it was.  He doubted he
could be thinking about sex, with Gayle barely cold in her grave and
Julia a full-time occupation on top of the other.

If he was ready to be interested in sex, he could be interested in
Emily.  But he wasn't ready for that.  Just for friendship.  And as
Emily's friend, he was worried.

That was why, with Julia happily chasing dandelion fluff beside the
white picket fence, he rapped on the kitchen door on his way home from
work that night.  Oh, yeah, a deep, curling warmth.  There it was, when
she opened the door.

"Hi," she said softly.

He studied her face.  "You look better.  I wanted to make sure."

"I went back to bed after you left."

"And slept?"

"And slept," she acknowledged.

Her smile lingered, toying with the corners of her mouth in a way that
heightened the deep curling warmth he felt, and at that moment it
struck him that the attraction was sexual after all--unless he was
misinterpreting what he was feeling down low, the pooling that came
from her smile, or from her petiteness, or from the hint of breasts
under her sweater, or from the memory of their feel against him the
night before.

"So."  He cleared his throat.  "What did you do, today?"

"This and that.  Lazy things mostly.  I talked with Jill.  She sounded
good.  That always gives me a lift."

"When will I meet her?"

"Two and a half weeks and counting."

Julia ran over, holding up a partly denuded dandelion.

"Ohhhh, pretty," Emily said, going down the steps, dropping to her
haunches, and drawing her close.  "Did you blow?"  She gave a noisy
demonstration, then moved the flower close to Julia's mouth.  "You try.
Blow.  No?  Okay.  How about we shake it?"  She gave the flower a sharp
shake.  When the fluff flew in all directions, Julia squealed in
delight, reaching, jumping, squatting.  Emily laughed at her, then gave
the flower another shake, setting Julia off again.  When the flower was
nothing but a stem, Julia ran off for more.

Brian was smiling when Emily stood.  "It's good to hear her laugh. Good
to hear you laugh, too.  Are you meeting your friends tonight?" It was
Monday, after all.

"Uh-huh."

"Will you talk with them?"  He meant, about the weekend, about Doug.

The waning of her smile said she understood.  "I think so."

"It helps to share," he said, and because she was a friend and he felt
the need, he drew her into a quick, close, bolstering hug, before
returning to Julia.

Myra saw the hug from her dining room window and couldn't have been
more pleased.  She didn't for a minute think that Emily was doing
anything improper--not Emily--but the closer she and the detective
grew, the better.

He was the key.  Myra just knew it.  She could feel it in her bones,
along with the arthritis that kept reminding her of her age and
frightened her no end, given all there was still to do.

Back in the kitchen, the table was set, the ham ready.  She cut a neat
slice for herself and two for Frank, and arranged them on plates, put a
small potato on her own and a large one on Frank's, then added green
beans and a dribble of raisin sauce.  Pleased with the pretty picture,
she put the plates on the table.

"Dinner's ready, Frank!"  she called and began to eat.  "This is very
good.  What a perfect size ham.  I'll be able to make a package for
Emily and one for the detective."  She took another bite.  "And I'll
mash the potatoes for the little girl.  Children love mashed
potatoes."

She wondered when Julia's birthday was, thinking that a party under the
willow would the most delightful thing.  But something told her that
the birthday wasn't until spring.  She couldn't possibly wait that
long.

October was already here.  If she didn't do something soon, the ground
would freeze and the snow would come, and then all hope would be gone
until the thaw.  But she couldn't wait that long.

A tea party wasn't right.  The detective wouldn't be interested in
that, any more than her sons had been, and she had certainly invited
them often enough.  Dinner, perhaps.  Or a cookout.  Yes.  A cookout.
Emily would bring the grill, and Myra would do the rest.

But it had to be soon.  Fall was here.  The leaves were changing.

She glanced out the window toward the pond, and in the next instant was
jumping up from her chair, scurrying out the back door and down the
steps.

"Shoooo!  Shooooo!"  she cried and watched the Canada geese fly off.
"Messy little pests," she muttered, "doing their business under my
willow."  She scrutinized the grass there, relaxing marginally when it
appeared to be clean.  She bent to pluck up the few bits of lint that
had gathered in the short time since she had last been out.  Then she
sat down on the scrolled wrought-iron bench and envisioned the day when
she could relax completely, when she would be unburdened and safe.  She
ached for that day, ached so badly sometimes that she terrified
herself, thinking that she was having a heart attack, or a gall bladder
attack, or an arthritis attack that would paralyze her for good.

A cookout.  That would be just the thing.  A hamburger would lure him
if he was anything like her sons, and then once he was here, he would
know.  She wouldn't have to say a word.

That was the way she wanted it.

AnOTHER LONG WEEK PASSED.  EMILY WAS PLODDING along in a state of
limbo when she arrived at the Eatery Monday evening.  After being
buffeted in turn by highs and lows, she was emotionally bruised, and
there were no answers in sight.

Grateful, at least, to know where she was headed at this very moment in
time, she zeroed in on Kay and Celeste and headed their way, only to
stop when she found Brian and Julia in a booth along the way.

Her heart skipped a beat, then re surged with a spill of warmth.  Brian
affected her that way.  He was the one most often responsible for her
highs.

"Hey," she said, smiling.  Two pairs of pale blue eyes touched her,
both mellow and warm.  "How are you guys?"  "Not bad," Brian answered
for the two.  "Thought we'd eat out tonight."  He shot a look around.
"I figured this place would be empty on a Monday, but half the town's
here."

"Recuperating from the weekend," Emily said.  When Julia offered up a
french fry, she took it.  "What

__

en a sweet little girl.  Thank you."  She took a bite.  "Mmmmm.  This
is good.  Are you sharing with your daddy?"  She smiled when Julia
pushed a fry toward Brian's mouth, and kept smiling when he sucked it
in like a piece of spaghetti.

Oh, he was bad, and sexy, and dangerously attentive, looking into her
with those appetizing eyes of his.  She half-wished she could scoot in
and have dinner right here.

But she had more proper plans.  With a glance over her shoulder, she
said, "My dates are waiting.  See you later?"

He nodded, and as she turned away, she thought about twists of fate.
The tenant she hadn't wanted was turning out to be a lifeline for her.
Brian was easygoing, understanding, and appealing--for which reason she
should be keeping her distance, but she couldn't.  She awoke each
morning looking forward to seeing him.

Proper?  No.  Exciting?  Definitely.

Still high when she reached Kay and Celeste, she slid into the booth
with a grin.  "Hi, guys."

"Is that Brian?"  Celeste asked.

Emily slipped out of her jacket.  "Uh-huh."

"Nice-looking guy.  Very masculine."

"He has a child," Emily reminded her.  "You're not interested."

"He has great eyes.  I saw them on my way in.  They stop you in your
tracks, know what I mean?"

Did she ever.  "Heeey, lookin' good," she said, scrutinizing Celeste's
face.

"Well, I thought so," Celeste complained, "which is why I agreed to eat
out again."  She shot a disparaging glance at the Eatery's clientele.
"Would you believe no one's noticed?"

"Isn't that good?  You don't want them to notice.  You want them to
think you look wonderful but be too shy to say so, lest they imply that
you didn't look good before."

"Emily's right," Kay said.

But Celeste remained doubtful.  "There's still some swelling.  They're
probably thinking something's wrong with me."

Emily glanced around.  She saw familiar faces, one after the other, and
acknowledged a few before turning back.  "Is anyone staring?  No.  And
you know they would if they thought something was wrong."

"The surgeon told me to allow six weeks.  It's only been four and a
half."

"So, there you go," Emily said.

Kay turned to her.  "You're chipper.  Does that mean things went well
with Doug?"

But Emily wasn't ready to talk about Doug.  "First, you guys."  To Kay,
"How's school?"

"Great.  The kids are finally getting into the swing of things.  Summer
vacation sets them back.  It takes a full month to get them working up
to speed again."

"Hi, Mrs.  Arkin," said their waitress, Jenny Yeo.  "Can I get you a
drink?"

Emily saw iced teas sitting in front of Kay and Celeste.  "I'll have
the same.  Are we ready to order?"  she asked the others.  She hadn't
eaten an actual meal since brunch the day before, and she knew the
Eatery's menu by heart.  "I'm starved."

Celeste ordered the Southwestern salad, Emily chicken fajitas, and Kay
nachos with extra hot cheese and jalapeno peppers, "Because I'm in a
daring mood," she explained, and, when Jenny had left, said, "I've been
lobbying for it for years, and the go-ahead just came through.  We're
starting a debate team."

"In eighth grade?"  Celeste asked.

"Sure.  Okay, so the debates won't be polished, but it's a great
introduction to public speaking.  We'll be competing around the state
on Saturday afternoons."

"We, as in you, personally?"  Emily asked.

"I am the adviser."

"Does John know?"

"No, but he won't mind.  He doesn't count on me on Saturdays."

Emily wondered if that was by choice or default.  Kay always seemed to
have something to do on Saturdays that kept her occupied and out of
reach.  One year it was a community service project, another year a
class-wide internship with the local newspaper, now the debate team. As
noble as those activities were, Emily didn't know that she would
immerse herself so totally, if she had as kind a man as John waiting
for her at home.

"If we start the kids younger," Kay was saying, "we'll get them
involved before they reach that disgusting stage where they're either
too self-conscious to speak before a group, or too social to want to
bother.  Which was it with our kids?"

Emily thought back several years.  "For Jill, a little of both.  The
self-consciousness came from social awareness.  She wanted to blend in,
not stand out."

"Marilee was self-conscious, long before she was socially aware.  She
didn't like her hair, didn't like her complexion, didn't know what to
do with the things growing on her chest."

"Dawn never had that problem," Celeste said dryly.  "She is
small-busted to this day, but defiant enough not to care."

"That's precisely why she won the Shakespeare competition last year,"
Kay suggested.  "She isn't inhibited.  She just went out there and gave
it her all."

"Yeah.  On two days' notice and with little preparation.  I felt bad
for those kids who spent weeks rehearsing.  It didn't seem fair.  I
told Dawn that.  She's going to want something someday and assume that
it'll come just as easily, but it won't.  She's in for a fall."

"She's very bright," Emily argued on Dawn's behalf.

"So are the other kids she's competing with now.  If she doesn't study,
she'll find herself at the bottom of the heap."

"So, is she studying?"

"She says she is.  She says she loves it.  I told her that if she wants
to keep on loving it, she'd better buckle down, or she'll find herself
booted out and back home with me, in which case I will be furious with
her."

"What did she say to that?"

"She says she'd run away first."

"With a laugh, naturally."

"Unfortunately."

"But you have to hand it to her," Kay said.  "She has guts."

"She gets those from me."  With a flourish, Celeste drew a large
manilla envelope from her lap and opened the clasp.  "Are you ready?"

"Uh-oh."

"Responses to your ad?"

"My God, that's some pile."

"I'm not sure I want to hear."

"They're interesting," Celeste said and picked up the first.  " "Dear
GC403'--that's my mailbox at the magazine--"I am forty-eight and tall,
and I do like fine wine, good music, and adventure.  My ex-wives say
that I'm no knight in shining armor, but I'm working on that.""

"Ex-wives, plural?"  Kay asked.

Celeste turned to the next letter.  " "Dear Sexy Blond DWF, Everything
about you sounds great, only you don't say how much you weigh.  If you
are at all ashamed of your body, we aren't for each other.  I am a
practicing nudist.""

"He's direct," Emily mused.  She folded her hands together.  "You're
right.  These are interesting."  And certainly a diversion from the
rest of her thoughts.  "Go on."

" "Dear GC403,1 am a gastroenterological surgeon at Massachusetts
General Hospital.  I have degrees from the Choate School, Harvard, and
Harvard Medical School.  I have served on three different president's
commissions and have published fifty-six articles in twenty-one
prestigious medical journals in ten foreign countries.""

"Humble."

"Wait," Celeste said with a grin, setting the doctor aside.  "This gets
better."  She held up the next for them to see.  "Hand-typed,
single-spaced, at the very top of the page, with no letterhead."  She
read, "I am the presedent'--misspelled--'of a large
corperation'--misspelled--'which has offices in New York, Texas, and
San Antonio.""

Emily laughed.  "Celeste, these are awful."

"Don't they get any better?"  Kay asked.

Celeste nodded, still grinning.  "But you gotta hear these, so you can
appreciate the good ones."  She waved a torn piece of paper.  "Here's
my ad.  This guy circles it, writes in the margin, "Send picture,"
along with his own post office box.  Screw him," she said with feeling
and turned to the next.  "Here we go.  This one is sweet.  "Dear GC403,
I am blond, too, and my friends say that I'm sexy, though since I don't
turn myself on, I can't know that for sure.  I am a SWM, who is
six-four and into Whitewater rafting.  When I'm not shooting the
rapids, I am writing articles for a regional magazine.  I love sitting
by a campfire and making love under the stars.  If you don't have a
hang-up about dating a younger man, give me a call.""

"Younger?"  Emily asked.  "How much younger?"

"He put his age as an afterthought at the bottom of the page, very
small, like he really feels it's insignificant."

"How old?"  Kay asked.

"Twenty-five."

"And he knows you're forty-three?  He must have an Oedipus complex."

Celeste looked doubtful.  "He does sound sweet, not to mention honest
and interesting.  Besides, there is something to be said for young
flesh."

"Please, Celeste," Kay protested and turned to Emily.  "Tell her she's
nuts."

Emily couldn't do that.  The man did sound sweet and honest and
interesting.  Not that Emily would want to date a twenty-five-year-old,
if she were free.  She would want to date someone her own age.

"Is that the best?"  she asked Celeste over the rim of her newly
arrived iced tea.

"No.  Here's a cute one.  "I am forty-four, tall, dark, and handsome,
and definitely sexy.  I am a banker by profession.  I am also an avid
reader who has just discovered poetry and would like someone to discuss
it with.  I do feel that I have to be up front and tell you that I am
currently serving two to five years at the federal penitentiary in
Allentown--'"

"Let's hear the good ones," Kay prompted.

"You don't want to hear about the guy who says he's been a victim all
his life?"

"No."

"Or the guy who says he likes black lace?"

"We."

"Okay."  Celeste set down several of the letters.  "Here.  This one
isn't bad.  "Dear Sexy Blond DWF, I am a fifty-year-old widower with
three children.  Now that my youngest has just left home to go to
college, I am looking to form new relationships.  I am British by
birth, am chivalrous to a fault, and do indeed like fine wine,
adventure, and song.  If five-ten is tall enough for you, drop me a
note."" She looked up.  "Think he might be too stuffy?"

Kay shrugged.  "He says he likes adventure."

"But what if he's only saying that because I said it?"

Emily was uncomfortable with the prospect of Celeste actually going out
with these men.  "Isn't that what you have to ask yourself?  How honest
will any respondent be?"

"He doesn't say he's drop-dead gorgeous," Celeste reasoned.  "He
doesn't say he's ultra-tall.  And he's certainly at the same stage in
life as me.  But if he's stuffy--"

Kay gestured toward the letters in her hand.  "Read another of the good
ones."

Setting the widower aside, Celeste skimmed over the next.  "This one
sounds straightforward.  He starts off by saying that this is the first
time he has answered an ad, but that he hates the singles scene almost
as much as he hates being fixed up by friends.  He says that he doesn't
like dancing around issues, the way men and women often do.  "I am in
health care management.  I am also a marathoner, which means that I am
tall and slim, but that I spend much of my free time training, so I
don't have time to waste.  I am looking for a woman who can be honest
with me about things that she does or does not want to do.""

"Hi, ladies."

"John!"  Kay cried.  "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged and looked idly around.  "There was nothing doing at home.
I figured I'd take a ride.  The car brought me here."

"Cute, but you can't eat with us.  There are no men allowed at this
booth."

He looked lonesome.  Emily's heart went out to him.

"Whatcha got there, Celeste?"  he asked.

"Here?"  Celeste looked at the papers in her hand.  "Uh, letters.
Letters I wrote to my parents.  At different times.  Growing up."

He craned his neck.  "Anything funny?"

"Nah," she said, pushing the papers aside.  "Just girls' stuff."

"Ah."  He put his hands in his pockets.  "What'd you order?"

"Salads, fajitas, and chips," Kay said.  "Did you see Brian over
there?"

John looked around.  "Huh.  Maybe I'll go say hello.  Join him for a
cup of coffee.  Looks like the baby's asleep."

Julia was indeed.  Emily melted at the sight of them, her with her head
on Brian's shoulder, and him with his back to the wall and his legs
sprawled along the booth bench.  He looked like he was half-asleep
himself, though he gestured John over.

"Close," Kay breathed when he left.

Celeste made a noise.  "I hate lying."

"You could have told him the truth."

"Really."  She drew the papers front and center again.  "So.  What's
the verdict on the marathoner?"

Emily supposed that he was better than the others.  "Not bad."

"A maybe," Kay decided.  "How many more do you have?"

"Just two."  Celeste lifted the first of those.  " "Dear Sexy Blond
DWF, I was attracted to the part of your ad that said your second life
was just beginning.  I feel that way about mine.  My wife of twelve
years recently left me for a childhood sweetheart.""

"Poor guy," Kay said.

Celeste read on.  " "I'm a veterinarian, with a successful practice.
Since I've always loved animals, I consider myself fortunate to be
doing something that I find satisfying.  Many people don't have that. I
am not a playboy, but I am a romantic.  I much prefer intimate dinners
at home, eaten in front of the fireplace, to dinners at fancy
restaurants.  I like Bach, Beethoven, and Liszt, though I have been
known to go on easy-listening binges with the likes of the Eagles, Cat
Stevens, or Simon and Garfunkel.  I chop my own firewood, by the way. I
am interested in meeting someone who will introduce me to new things,
at the same time that she values my quiet life.  I may be barking up
the wrong tree answering an ad that starts with sexy and blond, but if
there is substance beneath the looks, please drop me a note.""

"Whew," Emily said.

Kay agreed.  "He sounds the most sane so far."

"Assuming he doesn't have a menagerie living in his house," Celeste
cautioned.  "But wait.  I've saved the best for last.  Listen."  She
read from the final letter.  " "Dear GC403, I'm not sure how to answer
your ad.  I'm not a hunk, though I am good-looking.  I'm not an
adventurer, though I enjoy trying new things.  I'm a dark haired,
brown-eyed guy, age forty-one, six-foot even, one-eighty pounds, who
designs houses for people with lots of money to spend.  In the past,
business has taken me traveling, but my name is finally established
enough so that I can stay more in one place.  I'm looking to put down
roots, and at the same time cultivate the kind of relationship that my
work always made difficult.  Money isn't an issue.  I want
companionship and laughter.  If love develops, fine.  I'm old enough to
recognize it, and young enough to make the most of it.""

Celeste set down the letter.  She raised speculative eyes.
"Tempting?"

Emily looked at Kay.  "He sounds intelligent, articulate, humble. There
must be a catch."

"The catch," Kay told Celeste, "is exactly what you asked about Brian
Stasek when I first mentioned him.  Do you remember?  You asked what's
wrong with him, if he's forty and single.  Brian's excuse is his wife's
death.  What's this guy's excuse?"

"His work," Celeste said.  "As long as it kept him on the move, he
couldn't pursue deep relationships."

"You said you didn't want to get married again," Emily reminded her.

"I don't.  This guy doesn't mention marriage, and he only mentions love
as an afterthought.  But I have nothing against deep relationships."
She came forward.  "Look at it this way.  He's a successful
professional.  He's well-traveled, which means that he has a certain
worldliness.  I'm sure that he still has to spend some time at whatever
site he's designing for, so I wouldn't be stuck with someone hanging on
me every minute.  But then he works at home in a stunning studio that
he has designed himself, and he's his own boss, so his hours are
flexible.  You heard him.  Money is no object.  The possibilities are
endless."

"Assuming he's telling the truth," Kay warned.  "How do you know?"

"I don't, for sure."

"You would make a date with him, not knowing for sure?"

"Yes, I would.  I'd arrange to meet him for drinks somewhere very
public, and tell him to look for the blond holding the rose.  He
wouldn't know my name, much less my address or phone number.  If it
doesn't work out, that's it, the end.  He can't bother me further."

"What if he follows you?"

"I'd make sure he didn't."

"How?"

"Kay, there are ways."

"Like what?"

Celeste sighed.  "Like climbing into a cab and having the cabbie drive
around before delivering me back to my car.  If I really think the
guy's a problem, I'll make a beeline for the nearest police station.
I'm telling you.  There are ways."

"And you really want to risk it?"

Celeste stared at her.  "Yes, I do.  I have common sense and solid
instincts.  I am not getting into trouble with this."

Emily touched her arm.  "We're worried.  That's all.  We don't want
anything to happen to you."

"Nothing will," Celeste assured her and sat back, waiting for Kay's
capitulation.

Their dinners arrived, a timely buffer.  As though calmed by the act of
separating a cheese-covered nacho from the pile on her plate, Kay said,
"Okay.  You're determined to follow through.  What happens next?"

"I contact the ones who interest me and propose a meeting."

It sounded very clinical to Emily, but who was she to criticize.  She
had spent the day systematically taking apart her marriage, step by
step, item by item.  "Which ones will you contact?"

Celeste started on her salad as she separated letters from the pile.
"The architect is the best.  No doubt about it.  Next in order of
preference is the vet, the marathoner, then the widower.  For good
measure, I may just throw in the doctor and the twenty-five year
old."

Kay gave her a pleading look.  "Why the twenty-five year-old?"

"Why not?"

"Because you're forty-three.  You look great, Celeste, and not a day
over thirty-five, but even then, you have ten years on him.  He'll have
smooth skin, unwrinkled hands, and firm thighs.  You'll feel old beside
him."

"If I turn him on, I'll feel flattered.  Besides, I'm not ashamed of my
body.  Are you ashamed of yours?"

"My body isn't an issue.  John and I have been married too long for
that."

"And John has twelve years on you.  Why is it okay for the man to be
older, and not the woman?"

"That's just the way it's always been."

"Not anymore.  Not nowadays.  There are plenty of relationships where
the opposite is true."

"In Hollywood."

"Those are the ones we hear about, but there are others."

"Name some."

Celeste threw up a hand.  "Uh ... uh."  She scowled.  "It happens all
the time.  I just can't think of names off the top of my head."  She
looked away.  In the next instant her scowl faded.  "Yes, I can."  She
lowered her voice and leaned forward without taking her eyes off the
person in question.  "Cynthia Berlo.  She's been involved with her
husband's accountant for years."

"Pure rumor," Kay said.

"She's fifty-eight to his thirty-five."

"There's no proof they're involved."

"I heard it from Enid Hildridge, who does Cynthia's tailoring.  Cynthia
brought the accountant with her one day.  They were all over each other
in the dressing room."

Kay looked dismayed.  "What in the world would a thirty-five-year-old
want with Cynthia?"

"She happens to be in great shape."

"But she's fifty-eight."

"So?  That doesn't mean she can't desire a man, or feel sexual
pleasure, and it sure doesn't mean she can't turn a man on.  Sex
doesn't end with menopause, Kay."

"I never said it did."

"Guys," Emily broke in, putting a hand out to each.  "There isn't any
point in arguing, especially about Cynthia Berlo.  She isn't a role
model, by a long shot."

"I agree," Kay grumbled.  "Comparisons to her make me ill."

"There isn't any comparison.  We're talking apples and oranges. Celeste
is smart and sane.  Look, I'm nervous about her dating these men, but
she's thought it through, and it is her life."

"What about yours?"  Celeste asked.  "How was the weekend?"

Emily sighed.  She still wasn't ready to talk about Doug.  Then again,
she needed to air her angst.  "Not great."

"What did he do?"  Kay asked.

"Nothing.  That's the problem.  He comes home and goes through the
motions, like going through the motions is enough.  I suggested we
drive to Stockbridge; he shrugged.  I suggested we buy lobsters and
boil them; he shrugged.  I suggested we go to a lecture at the
college; he shrugged.  It's impossible to get a rise from the man."

"Is he just tired?"

"If he were, he'd spend the weekend sleeping, but he doesn't.  He's
just not interested in doing things with me.  I try to engage him in
discussions about what's happening in the world--he prides himself on
being out there in the middle of it all--only he won't be engaged.  He
gives an answer or two, then finds something else to do.  It's like I
bore him.  Well, y'know, he bores me."

"Whew," Kay said softly.  "That's quite an admission."

"Well, I can't keep defending him," Emily cried in despair.  "I have no
idea what he wants from our relationship.  He has nothing to say to me,
which is a statement, but I don't know what of.  Does he want a dull,
boring marriage to balance the other parts of his life?  Does he want
me to be different in some way I can't imagine?  Or does he want a
divorce?"

"Have you asked him?"  Celeste asked.

"About the last?"  Emily couldn't repeat the word.  It shook her up.
"Not like that."

"Maybe you should."

"What if he says yes?"  Her heart thundered.  She didn't want a
divorce.  She wanted things back the way they had been twenty-two years
before--which was an absurd notion.  She and Doug were different people
from the ones they had been then.

Thoughtful, troubled, Kay said, "This isn't any kind of a life for you,
Emily."

But she couldn't throw in the towel, not yet.  "It's not so bad.  I
talked with Rod Meany over at the Sun last Thursday.  He gave me a
couple of assignments, little things that are more fun than
substance."

"You deserve substance."

"I'll get that from Petra Drovski."  Petra was head of the English
department at the college.  Emily had talked with her, too.  "She needs
help editing a collection of critical analyses of the works of American
writers in the early 1900s.  It's an interesting project."

"Won't keep you warm at night," Celeste advised.  "Your husband is
supposed to do that, on weekends, at least, but he's not here even
then.  Doug is involved in your marriage in name only."

Emily started to deny it.  Only it was true.  Name only.  They hadn't
really talked, hadn't shared laughs, hadn't made love in weeks and
weeks.

"What are you going to do about it?"  Celeste asked.

Emily couldn't exactly seduce him, not if he didn't want to be seduced,
which was the impression he gave.  "Keep trying, I guess.  I can't just
chuck twenty two years.  Parents' weekend is coming up.  We'll meet in
Boston.  He promised he'd come.  Maybe being together in a hotel will
inspire him.  Maybe being with me away from here will."  It had
occurred to her that Grannick might be the problem.

"Does Doug spend any time with Brian?"  Kay asked.

Emily pictured the two men together, Brian head and shoulders above
Doug, and so much more appealing to her that she was frightened.  "They
say hello in passing.  That's about all.  Why?"

"I'd think he would be jealous.  There you are at home with a
good-looking guy right next door.  I'd think he would want to rush home
and restake his claim."

Emily would have thought so, too.  She remembered feeling guilty the
first time she had referred to Brian by name.  But Doug wasn't jealous.
"It doesn't occur to him that I might even be remotely attracted to
another man."

"Are you?"  Celeste asked.

She was.  Very much so.  But she still hoped to salvage her marriage,
so she said, simply, "Brian is a wonderful man.  If I were the type to
be unfaithful to my husband, he could tempt me."

"He could tempt me" Celeste said.

Kay swatted at her.  "Oh, hush."

"Well, he could.  Those eyes are something to do a strip-tease for. But
he has a child.  You can have him, Em."

Emily half-wished she could, more than half-wished it, if the truth
were told.  She had had a dream or two about Brian, and while her
fantasies hadn't involved a strip-tease, neither dream had been pure.
Both had awakened long-dormant feelings, both had raised guilt.

Far better, she decided, far safer and wiser, to concentrate on what
she had, which was Jill, home in ten days and counting.  eleven

JOHN WAS LEANING AGAINST A LiGHT POST LOOKING idly down the street,
when Kay emerged from the Eatery with Emily and Celeste.  She told
herself to be grateful he was there, given Emily's woes.  Still she
felt vaguely piqued.  "I thought you'd gone home," she said and
followed his line of sight.  "Is something up?"

John was looking at her now.  "Nah.  Just seemed silly for Celeste to
have to drive you, since I'm already here."

"But you left an hour ago."  With Brian, she had thought.

"I've been walking around.  Caught some of your students lighting up
behind the pizza house."

"Who?"  An ex-smoker, Kay hated the smell, sight, thought of the stuff,
particularly with regard to kids.  She had every intention of collaring
the offenders the next day.

But John wasn't giving up names.  "I promised I wouldn't tell, in
exchange for their handing over the smokes.  I lectured 'em good."  _
She could believe that.  It was some solace, at least.

He pushed off from the light post "All set?"

No, she wanted to say.  She loved Monday nights.  She prized her time
with Emily and Celeste.  She didn't want to feel chaperoned, much less
guilty for abandoning John for the evening.  This was her time, and he
knew it.

But it seemed foolish to stand on principle.  Dinner was done, and John
was here.  Of course, he would drive her home.

To the others, she said dryly, "My keeper calls.  Talk with you
tomorrow?"  When they waved her away, she set off beside John.

"Are you annoyed?"  he asked.

Yes, she was annoyed.  She didn't like being tailed.  "There are times
when I feel like you're checking up on me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Beats me.  You're the one with the imagination."

"I wasn't checking up on you.  I was bored, that's all."

The car was parked down the block--mercifully Kay's car, not the
cruiser.  He saw her in, rounded the front, and slid in behind the
wheel.  When they were on their way, he said, "The house is empty when
you're not there.  I hate it."

"I've been doing this on Monday nights for years."

"It was different when Marilee was home."

Kay steeled herself for questions.  When did you talk with her last?
What's she doing?  Who's she doing it with?  Is she studying?

None came.  She glanced at him.  His eyes were on the road.

"It'll be good seeing her," he said.  "Having her around the house
again."

Ten days until fall break.  Kay was looking forward to seeing Marilee,
too.  Still, she cautioned, "Don't count on her just hanging around.
All of her friends will be home, too.  She'll want to see them."

"But we're her parents."

"She'll see us first, then she'll run out."

"But I want to spend time with her."

So did Kay, but she was a realist.  "Parents aren't high priority for
eighteen-year-olds."

"That isn't right.  We love her."

They did, indeed.  But that didn't warrant putting her under house
arrest.  "If we love her, we give her wings.  She'll fly off and
establish her independence, then fly back to us when it's time."

"When's it time?"  he asked in a way that was a little pouting, a
little impatient, and oddly endearing.

Kay smiled.  "Not yet.  She's just discovered how to work the wings.
Give her time.  She'll be back."  She had read about what to expect.
"Fall break can be tough for freshmen.  They run to each others' houses
in triumph, having survived seven weeks as cool college kids, then they
race back to high school and discover they've been dethroned.  Remember
senior spring?  Remember the headiness Marilee felt?  She's thinking
things will be the same, but they won't.  It's sad.  All rites of
passages are.  The old has to end to make way for the new."

"Huh.  I'm not sure I like the new."

Kay sighed, thinking back to the evening's discussion.  "You may not be
the only one.  The Arkins are having a time of it."

"How?"

"Emily is frustrated.  Doug isn't much of a husband, and it's worse
with Jill gone.  She's wanting to do things, and he's as eager as a wet
rag."

"Hard to be eager if you're never there."

"Precisely."

Kay thought about Emily through the rest of the drive.  Of the three of
them, Emily was the most vulnerable, the one who most needed her
husband, now that her daughter had left.  Celeste was enjoying freedom,
and Kay had her work.

Kay also had John, who, once they reached home, followed her into the
house, through the kitchen, and into the hall.

"Will Emily be okay?"  he asked.

She turned at the newel post.  "For now.  In the long run, I don't
know."

He leaned against the front door, hands in his pockets, and frowned.
"Bad timing.  She loses Jill.  She loses Doug."  His frown deepened.
"Things are different when the kids leave.  The playing field changes.
A new game starts."

Kay was bemused.  John had never been one to talk in analogies.  She
hadn't thought he had it in him.

His eyes met hers.

He had something on his mind.  Instinct--or simply his troubled
look--told Kay he wasn't thinking about the Arkins.  A new game?  She
didn't like the sound of that, certainly not if he was thinking about
them.

When he didn't seem to know how to go on, she asked, "What's the new
game?"

He shrugged.

"A new game for us?"

He studied the floor.

"John, are you trying to tell me something?"

It was a while before he said, "Maybe."

Her mind was scrambling to think of what that something was, but the
only thing popping up was unacceptable.  John loved her.  He wouldn't
want a divorce.  He wouldn't want another woman.  Would he?

Wary, she sat down on the stairs.  "Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

His shrug was one-shouldered this time.

"John, don't keep me in suspense.  Tell me what's wrong.  Are you
unhappy--with us, with me?"

"No," he blurted out, "but I wish we could do more together."

"More, like what?"

He gestured uncertainly.  "I don't know.  More,"

"When?  We work."

"We have nights and weekends to ourselves now.  But you fill them up
with other things."

He was jealous?  "One night a week with my friends."

"I'm talking about the other stuff.  The stuff for school."

"That's my job."

"Do you have to volunteer for committees that meet three nights a
week?"

"I have seniority.  They need me on those committees."

"Maybe I need you here."

"To do what?"

"I don't know.  Something.  And Saturdays.  Why do you have to work
Saturdays?"

"Because there isn't time during the week for some things."

"The unions don't bargain for Saturdays."

"Neither do most of my colleagues, but that's their problem.  Mine is
dedication."

She geared up to defend herself, but he only looked at the rug, shifted
his feet, folded his arms over his chest.  "You're the best teacher
they have.  And I know you like what you do."  He raised his eyes. "But
if you wanted to be with me, you'd make time for that, too."

Was he feeling sorry for himself?  "Have I ever said I didn't want to
be with you?"

"You're always making plans to be away."

Kay was mystified as to the cause of John's mood.  She wondered if, at
fifty-seven, he was going through the mid life crisis he had never gone
through in his forties, or whether he was simply having trouble
adjusting to Marilee's absence.  In either case, she felt wrongly
attacked.

"Remember when we were first married," she asked, "when I stopped
working to raise Marilee, and I was alone here, day after day and then
nights, while you were putting in overtime to get your gold shield? 
Did I ever complain?  Did I tell you you worked too much?"

"I was building my career.  You understood."

"Yes, I understood.  But it wasn't always easy.  I was lonesome.  I
might have liked you home more."

He put his hands on his hips.  "So you should know what I'm feeling
now."

"I don't.  You don't need help with a child.  Or the house.  Or food.
You're a big boy."

"That's right.  And big boys like big boy things."

"John.  What are you getting at?"

He looked away.  After a minute of scowling at the wall, he said,
"Maybe I'm getting tired of working.  How long does it go on?  Until we
die?  We just work 'til we drop?  Isn't there more to life than
that?"

"What, more?  What do you want?"

He made a grumbling sound.  "It might be nice," he said, glancing at
her, then away again, "if once in a while you'd touch me.  Men like to
know that they're loved."

She was taken aback.  "You know I love you.  I tell you so."

"You say the words."

"Isn't that the best way?  Straightforward and direct?"

"It's one way.  There are others."

"And I do them.  I shine your badge and polish your shoes.  I make
dinner for you even when I'm going out to meet my friends.  Aren't
those ways of conveying love?"

He looked straight at her.  "I'm thinking about physical ways."

She would have had to be dense not to catch his drift, and in that
split second, taking in the whole of him as he stood braced against the
door, she was swept back twenty-two years, a new teacher in Grannick
chancing upon one of Grannick's finest.  He had been striking in his
blues, quiet in a way that made him all the more masculine, and so
tender in the night that her inhibitions had eased.

She had been twenty-three then.  She was far older now.  But time had
been kinder to John.  At fifty-seven, he was an eminently virile man.
He was tall, broad in the shoulders, and while not as narrow in the
hips as he had been in his prime, tapering still.  He had neither a
beer gut nor a double chin.  He had all his teeth and all his hair.  It
didn't matter that the latter was gray, it was striking.  Likewise the
lines fanning from the corners of his eyes.

John Davies was a very attractive man, speaking aloud of physical needs
for what Kay believed was the very first time.  A self-conscious flush
rose to her cheeks.  "I can't believe you're saying this."

"I've been trying to say it for days."

"When?"

"I suggested we spend a weekend in Washington."

"To see Marilee."

"And to have time alone."

"We have time alone here."

"Huh.  When I come near you, you're either reading or doing something
for school.  Even tonight.  I was hoping you'd be pleased I came by to
drive you home, but it didn't turn you on one bit."

Her color deepened.  "For God's sake, John."

"What?"

"We've been married for years.  We aren't teenagers."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.  Clearly, they weren't
teenagers.  Clearly, they weren't newlyweds.  But as people grew older,
they settled into routines, and the Davieses' routine wasn't highly
sexual.

The thought that John might want it to be unsettled her.  She hadn't
married the playboy, but the stalwart policeman.  It had been a long
time, a dozen pounds, and a slathering of cellulite since she had
thought of herself in sexual terms.

Feeling awkward and hating it, she looked at her watch.  "It's late.  I
have to go over my lesson plan."  She rose and, without a look back,
went up the stairs to the spare bedroom she used as an office.  She had
put her notebook there when she had come home from school and now
opened it and turned to the proper page, but that was the extent of her
diligence.  Her mind wasn't on lesson plans.  It kept returning to
John.

He wanted closeness, touching, sex.  But she wasn't a physical person.
She had been twenty-three when she had married him, and she hadn't been
a physical person even then.  Not that they hadn't had an active sex
life.  They had, but over the years the excitement had mellowed into a
more relaxed pleasure.  If they made love once every few weeks, that
was fine.  She was satisfied.  She had thought he was, too.

After looking over the lesson plan for the third time without absorbing
a thing, she closed the notebook and stood for a time at the desk,
massaging the tired muscles in her lower back, listening for sounds of
John.  It wasn't until she moved quietly into the hall that she heard
the television downstairs.

Okay.  He was set.  He would watch for a while, fall asleep, wake in an
hour or two, and come to bed.  She would be sound asleep, but he would
snuggle close, and that would be fine.  There was warmth in that. 
There was love in that.  Wasn't there?

She asked herself the question all the way down the hall to the
bathroom, and was no closer to finding an answer when the tub was
filled than she had been at the start.  Undressing quickly, she slid
under cover of the bubbles.

She didn't have to see her body to know its shape and size, and it
wasn't a bad body, as forty-five-year old bodies went.  It was straight
and, cellulite aside, not terribly overweight.  It had pleasant curves,
but like an ice sculpture too long in the warmth, those curves had lost
their crispness.  The end result was lumps.

So she wore blouses that bloused around her waist and skirts that
skirted her hips, and she stayed with neutral colors that never drew
attention to her body.  Her mind was the thing that counted, and it was
in rare form, indeed sharper with age.  She kept telling herself that.
It was some solace for the fact that she had lousy hair, that her skin
was thinner with each year that passed, that her hands were veined. She
couldn't change those things.

She wished she were petite like Emily or leggy like Celeste.  Or had
the kind of metabolism that permitted eating french fries without
gaining weight, or the kind of bone structure that looked spectacular
from birth to death.

Mostly she wished John had never raised the physical issue, because,
much as she wanted to be a femme fatale, there was no way in hell she
could do it.

Ten days.  Celeste studied her calendar.  From the start her goal had
been to be gorgeous by fall break--and she was going to make it, which
meant that the first part of her game plan was complete.  The second
would kick in once Dawn was back at school.

There were six men on her list.  Three of the six had given phone
numbers for her to call--the marathoner, the veterinarian, and the
twenty-five-year-old.  Area codes told her that the marathoner was from
eastern Massachusetts, the vet from Vermont, and the boy from upstate
New York.  The others had given post office boxes, one at the magazine,
two at what she assumed to be home.  If that assumption was correct,
zip codes told her that the doctor was from Maryland and the widower
from Connecticut.

She had no idea where the architect was from, but the added mystery
made her all the more intrigued.

On her simplest white stationery, she jotted brief notes to the three
with post office boxes.  In each case she revealed little more than
that she lived in western Massachusetts and was interested in meeting
centrally for either lunch or an afternoon drink.

That was innocent enough, safe enough.  John wouldn't panic.

As she finished each note, she gave it a light spray with cologne
before sealing it up and setting it aside for a morning mailing.  When
the three were done it was after eleven, and while she might have liked
to have phoned one of the others, now that she had gotten an okay of
sorts from Emily and Kay, she was hesitant.  The marathoner was forever
in training.  He would be asleep.  Same with the veterinarian, if he
put in as busy a day as she imagined a Vermont animal doctor might do.
That left the twenty-five year-old.

The boy.  She had to smile.  Kay was scandalized by that one, for sure.
Not that Celeste was seriously interested in him.  She wasn't sure how
much she would have to say to a twenty-five-year-old.  Still, it was
flattering to think that she could interest one.  And she had to admit
to curiosity about the sex.  He was young.  His body would be fresh,
his energy boundless.  And he was an expert at shooting the rapids.
Talk about undulation.

While she had her money on the architect as the best of the batch, the
twenty-five-year-old was a teaser.

She reread his letter--SWM, six-four, a writer.  She had never been
Whitewater rafting, herself.  She had never sat by a campfire and made
love under the stars, as he said he liked to do.  Jackson wouldn't have
dreamed of those things.  He hadn't been a spontaneous sort.

So why had she married him?  At the time, she had been twenty-two and
coming off four years of spontaneity to the extreme.  She had managed
to graduate from college, but barely, and hadn't the slightest inkling
of where to go and what to do.  Parentless and lost, she had needed a
stabilizing force in her life.  Jackson fit the bill.

He was a computer genius who programmed every aspect of his life, and
he had stabilized hers, and then some.  By the time Dawn was born,
she'd had it with his directives.  It was one thing for her to be
organized to the nth degree in her own life, but with a baby?  She
couldn't do it.  She didn't want to try.  She'd had it with facing
tests she was destined to fail.

In a hail of ugly words, no doubt exacerbated by postpartum depression,
she had kicked him out--and he went.  That had been his single greatest
sin.

She had been defiant enough to stick with the decision.

Defiant still, she picked up the phone and punched out the telephone
number the twenty-five year-old had given.  It rang twice before a
voice on the tenor side said, "Hello?"

For a split second, she was tongue-tied.  He sounded young, indeed.
Then she steadied herself.  "Uh, in," she said with what she hoped was
a certain nonchalance.  "This is GC403."  She kept her finger on the
phone, ready to disconnect in an instant if this wasn't her man.  He
was tall.  She had expected a deeper voice.

But it was a nice voice.  "Hi, GC403," it said.

"Am I calling too late?"

"For me?  No."  She heard a smile.  "I wasn't sure you'd call at
all."

His frankness was welcome.  She relaxed a little.  "Neither was I. I'm
still not sure I should be."  Frankness deserved frankness.  "It's
possible you have a serious hang-up."

He laughed.  "I don't."

"Then why did you answer my ad?"

"Because I was curious.  I've dated women my own age.  Now I want to
try something different."

"Ahh.  The adventurer."

"Isn't that what you want?"

"In a fashion," she said, though the age differential wasn't what she
had initially had in mind.  "I know that you're a rafter and a writer.
Tell me more."

"I grew up in Schenectady.  My parents still live there."

"Are you in love with your mother?"

He laughed again.  "I'm the youngest of six.  My mother was forty-one
when I was born.  That makes her a lot older than you are, nearly
another generation.  I love her, but she doesn't give me the hots.  So,
no, I wouldn't be thinking of her if you and I were to date."

"Well, that's good to know.  How'd you train to be a writer?"

"I have a degree.  Two, actually.  BA and MA."

"In journalism?"

"English.  Journalism is what pays the bills while I write the great
American novel."

"I see.  Then this--our conversation--any possible relationship--is
research."

"No.  It's life."

Celeste's phone clicked.  "Hold on a second?"

"Sure."

She flipped into call waiting.  "Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Dawn."  Not who she wanted to hear from just then.  "Good God, you're
calling late."

"I just talked with Jill.  She's worried about her mom.  Is Emily
okay?"

"She's fine.  But I'm exhausted."  And otherwise occupied, sweetie.

"Jill was really upset.  I was thinking it'd be cool if I went down to
Boston to see her this weekend.  Can I take the car?"

"No, you cannot.  I need it.  Besides, you'll be seeing her next
weekend."

"But if I can help her now, isn't that what friends are about?  She's
always been there for me.  It's only right that I be there for her.
Besides, there is nothing going on here this weekend."

"No parties?  I'd have thought the place would be hopping the weekend
before fall break."

Dawn made a disparaging sound.  "Everyone's studying for midterms."

"Shouldn't you?"

"I will.  I'll bring books with me."

"You won't get any decent studying done that way.  No, Dawn.  You can't
go."

"But I told Jill--"

"We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"Jill said--"

"I can't stay on the phone now, Dawn."

"But Mom--"

"Call me tomorrow.  Good night."  She clicked back to the
twenty-five-year-old.  "Still there?"  she asked, wondering if he had
given up.

"Still here," he said in his higher-than-expected voice.  It struck her
then, with the echo of Dawn's eighteen year-old voice in her ear, that
he was probably more suited to her daughter than to her.  The thought
was discomfit ting

"I'm sorry," she told him, suddenly needing a breather.  "I have to
pick up the other line.  Can we talk more another time?"

"It's your call," he said with the kind of ease that suggested he
didn't care deeply one way or the other, and that annoyed her.  She
wanted a man of conviction, not a wimp.  She wanted a man who wouldn't
leave, like Jackson had, without a fight.  She wanted a strong man.
That was adventure.

"Sure thing," she said and hung up the phone.  It was her call.  She
would send out her notes in the morning and phone the other two within
the next few days.  With any luck, by the time fall break was done and
Dawn returned to school, her calendar would be filled with dates.

Emily was looking forward to fall break with both excitement and dread.
She was dying to have Jill back home, but not quite sure how Doug would
be.  Oh, he would be fine toward Jill.  She didn't doubt that for a
minute.  But if he showed as much disinterest in Emily as he had been
showing of late, Jill would notice.  Emily didn't want that.

Her solution, reached after much silent debate, was to keep the weekend
moving steadily along with events planned before, preferably with
Doug's help, certainly with his approval.  She intended to take care of
that while he was home this weekend.

On Wednesday morning he called to say that he wanted to get ahead by
working through the weekend, so he wouldn't be home until Jill was.

Emily didn't plead.  She didn't argue.  She didn't say a word in
complaint, though one part of her wanted to ask what was wrong with her
that he didn't want to be with her.  The other part was relieved.
Weekends with Doug had become increasingly tense.  Her stomach was
always jangling, her heart thudding, her hopes and needs seesawing.

Okay.  He would be home with Jill.  This weekend was Emily's.

She took a long, deep, relaxing breath.  She wrote up a short piece
that Rod wanted on the coffeehouse that was opening at the church, and
drove it to the newspaper office, then went out to lunch with Alice
Baker, who was the copy editor for the Sun.  Halfway through, they
were joined by Alice's sister, who worked at the library and insisted
Emily return there to see several new books.  By the time Emily was
back home, most of the afternoon was gone.

Wandering into the yard, she climbed onto the rocks overlooking the
pond, lay back, and basked in the sun.  Its summertime heyday was done,
its shaft lower and weaker, its pale light more precious.  Come
November, the mornings would be iced, the trees bare, the pond murky.
Today, though, there was a lingering warmth enriching the scent of
moist earth and crisp leaves.

As precarious as other things might be, her marriage most immediately,
nature never changed.  It was a comforting thought.

She lost track of time as she lay there.  Her mind whisked over the
pieces of her life without dwelling on a one, but, rather, focusing on
the breeze that rose to kiss her face and finger her hair.  She
stretched and settled, and suddenly new thoughts entered her mind.

She was forty and in her prime.  Her major responsibility was no longer
a major responsibility.  She had easily as many years ahead as behind.
And she was female.

The last thought came from nowhere, startling her, but she didn't chase
it away.  It wasn't unpleasant, given her mood.  She felt sensitized,
as she lay supine on her rock in the slanting rays of the late-day
sun.

She heard the Jeep pull into the driveway, heard a door slam, then
Brian's, "Hey, you!  Where are you going?  Come back here, you minx!"

Emily smiled at the sound of an explosive giggle and turned her head on
the rock to see Julia barreling toward her, curls bobbing, arms waving.
Brian caught her halfway and tossed her over his shoulder, prompting
another round of giggles, before setting her down again.  She hit the
ground running, heading for the pond this time.  Emily slid down the
rock and headed her off.

"Oh, no, you don't."  Wrapping her arms around the child, she bent over
her from behind.  "That water is cold and wet and too deep for a monkey
like you."

"Laloo," Julia said, pointing at the pond.

Emily glanced at Brian, who had come up from behind.

"Water," he interpreted.

"Ahhh.  Laloo.  How did I miss that?"  To Julia, she said, "Want to
take a closer look?"  She walked her to the water's edge, picked up a
pebble, and tossed it in.  "Look.  See the circles it makes?"

"Laloo," Julia said.

Emily tossed another pebble, let Julia watch the ripples, then offered
her a pebble.  "Want to try?"

Julia closed her fist around the tiny stone, but when she raised her
hand and tossed it toward the water, her timing was off.  She didn't
open her fist until the toss was done.  The pebble fell to the ground
by her sneaker.

"Ooops," Emily said and picked up another.  "Here we go.  Let's try
again."  It was two more tries before things clicked, and then Emily
clapped Julia's hands together.  "That was a good one!  Good for
Julia!".

Julia took over the clapping, grinning triumphantly at Emily, then at
Brian.  Emily sat beside her and gave her a hug.  "Incredible, how they
need our approval," she said to Brian.  "Can you imagine a parent who
doesn't give it?"

He was hunkering down nearby.  "I've seen them.  Their kids try most
everything to get their attention.

When they can't do it by fair means, they try foul, and even then the
message doesn't always get across.  Some parents don't want to hear."

"So what happens?"

"The kids spend time in detention.  They mix with other troubled kids
and hear about bigger and better stuff, and before they know it,
they've forgotten about their parents and are wanting the approval of
their new friends.  It's a lousy cycle."

"How do you break it?"

"Beats me.  Boot camps aren't the panacea some people hoped they'd be.
You can give a kid a new self image in a new environment, but put him
back in the old environment, and the old self-image is back right along
with the bad influences.  So there's your answer.  You don't put him
back in the old environment.  Unfortunately, in a democracy, you can't
tell him where to go once he's done his time."

"That must be frustrating for you."

"Very.  One of the biggest battles a cop fights is with his own
cynicism.  That's why changes are good sometimes.  Like my moving here.
I miss the action, but I don't miss the tension that goes with it.  I'm
sleeping better."

"The apartment is comfortable?"

"It's perfect."

He smiled at her then, making her feel feminine indeed.  "When's Doug
due back?"

Emily enunciated each word.  "One week from tomorrow."

"Not this weekend?"

"He wants to get ahead, to make up for next week."  When Brian looked
disappointed for her, she said, "It's okay.  Makes things easier, in a
way."  Feeling guilty and sorry and even, in that instant, angry at
Doug, she took a quick breath.  "I was thinking I'd do something
special."

"What?"

"I don't know.  I haven't gotten past something special."

"Julia and I are going exploring.  We're heading north, letting the
road lead us where it will.  Want to come?"

She liked the idea.  She liked it a lot.  "That sounds nice, but maybe
you and Julia should be alone."

"We're alone every night.  I think she'd like the change.  I sure
would."

Emily went.  They set off Saturday morning heading north, had lunch in
Hanover, New Hampshire, and walked around the town, then headed east
toward the lakes of south-central Maine.  They stopped there to let
Julia run over paths strewn with pine needles, and then, because she
was sleeping soundly in the backseat, and because they couldn't think
of any good reason to turn back, they drove on.  By nightfall, they
reached the coast.  They ate fresh boiled lobster in a rustic shack,
with a fire going in the hearth to ward off the evening chill, and when
the headlands were too tempting to miss at dawn, they took rooms at a
nearby motel.

In her own room, nude under the covers, since she hadn't packed for the
night, Emily lay awake enjoying her body's warm buzz.  She hadn't felt
it in a very long time, wasn't sure she had ever felt it before.

She didn't analyze it deeply, simply took it for the pleasure it gave,
and the pleasure went on the next day, through breakfast, a morning
walk on the beach, and the leisurely drive back home.  She was feeling
mellow when they passed the town limits and entered Grannick, and when
they turned onto China Pond Road, she was wishing the day wouldn't
end.

Then she saw two cruisers in front of Myra's house and her serenity
took a jolt.  She sat straighter.  "Something's wrong."

Brian pulled into the driveway.  Emily was out in a flash, running
across the cul-de-sac and up to Myra's front door.  It was pulled open
before she could do it herself.

"There you are!"  Myra cried, looking shaky and pale.  "I've been so
frightened.  First the lights didn't go on in your house, and then they
didn't go on over the garage, and when the Jeep didn't come back, I
figured you'd gone somewhere with him.  I kept waiting and watching,
but when you didn't come back today, I thought something terrible had
happened."

"I'm fine," Emily assured her.  Her eyes darted past those of three
patrolmen to John's.

But Myra wasn't done.  "It's so unlike you to leave without a word.  I
thought for sure he had done something to you."

"Brian?"  Emily asked, puzzled.  "He wouldn't do anything to me."

"Well, of course, Brian wouldn't.  I'm not talking about Brian."

"Then who?"  John asked.

Myra looked startled by the question.  "Why, well, any man might have
come, any man," she stammered.  "Doug might have come.  He's her
husband.  Husbands hurt their wives all the time."

"I'm sorry," Emily apologized softly to John.  "We started driving
yesterday and just kept going."

John raised a hand that said she owed him neither apology nor
explanation.  He looked less forgiving when Brian came through the
door, but before Emily could speak up in his defense, Myra said, "I
didn't mean to suggest that the detective had done anything wrong.
Thank goodness, you're all right," she said to Brian, then to Emily, "I
was so afraid.  You are coming to my cookout on Wednesday night, aren't
you?"

"Of course," Emily assured her.  "I'm bringing the grill."

"Ahhh," Myra said with a great sigh of relief.  She put her hands
together and smiled.  "That's good.  Very good.  Maybe things will be
all right after all."  twelve

EMILY PREPARED EAGERLY FOR JILL'S HOMEcoming.  Since she didn't have
Doug's input--he neither asked about her plans, nor offered any
suggestions when she asked him--she decided to simply stock the kitchen
with enough food to handle most any situation that might arise.  She
baked all of Jill's favorites, packed the freezer with goodies, stocked
the cupboards.  Upstairs, she opened the windows and aired out Jill's
room, then dusted, item by item, careful to put each back exactly where
it had been.  She didn't open a drawer or the closet.  Those were
sacrosanct for this little while more.

Tuesday night, bored and itchy, she repapered the upstairs bathroom
with the wallpaper that Doug had liked.

Midday Wednesday found her looking for something to do, but Kay was
working, Celeste was at the hair shop getting streaked, and Myra
refused to let her bake for the cookout.

So, Emily set off on foot down the street to enjoy Grannick at its
brilliant autumn best.  The air was cool, the day clear.  Between the
sun, and her sweatshirt and leggings, she was pleasantly warm and
calmer than usual, but only until she started thinking.  Then, like
shadows under the sun, the old questions returned.

Who am I?  Where am I going?

She took her usual route into town, counting the Victorians on LaGrange
until she forced herself to stop.  But without counting, what?  What to
do?  Who to be?

She stopped at the drugstore to chat with Mary Elizabeth, and at the
bookstore to say hello to Connie Yeo.  Since the day was so lovely, she
walked on into Grannick's college half, passing stores that the
students frequented, heading for the college itself.

There was work to do here, even beyond Petra.  If Emily was desperate,
she could teach writing.  She had been offered the job once, but had
refused, preferring to work at her own pace, in her own time.

It wouldn't hurt to do another book, if Doug could accept it, but she
doubted he would.  She wondered if Kay and Celeste were right, that he
was threatened by the thought of her success.

Troubled, she turned around at the stone pillars that marked the
college's entrance and headed back along the less scenic route, past
the auto body shop, the plumbing parts store, and the bus station.  As
she approached the last, a large bus pulled up and opened its doors to
a cluster of back-packed students waiting at the curb.  As they climbed
aboard, Emily swore she saw Dawn.

She raised a hand to wave, but the girl was already inside.  The bus
closed its door, shifted into gear with a groan and a noxious expulsion
from its tail, and pulled away from the curb.  Emily was wondering if
it had truly been Dawn, when a horn sounded.  Looking around, she saw
Brian's Jeep.  She broke into an easy smile, went to the lowering
passenger's window, and set her elbows on the rim.

"Are you lost?"  he asked, smiling back at her.

The eyes, ahhhh, the eyes.  They cleared the mind of all else.  "Nope.
Just walking.  It's a nice day.  Hey, neat tie."  It was covered with
little pink pigs.

"I thought it made a statement."

"Definitely.  Are you on patrol?"

"Vaguely."  He reached across and opened the passenger's door.

"Is this allowed?"

"If I say it is."

Unable to argue with such sound logic, she slid in.  Being with Brian
was as uplifting as any fine autumn afternoon.

"I'm getting to know streets and faces," he said, starting off.  "See
those old guys?"  There were three, sitting under a worn awning in
front of a cement box of a building.  "They're always there.  Nine in
the morning, noon, three--rain or shine--weekday, weekend.  That's
their life, watching the street."  He waved as he cruised by.  They
waved back.  "They know my car now.  That's good.  Guys like that come
in handy.  They see everything."

Emily gave the men a token glance before returning to Brian.  He was a
study in contrasts--New York-knowing, Grannick-feeling; cop-tough,
daddy-soft; hard of body, gentle of voice.  In his jeans, shirt and
tie, and jacket, he was easy on the eye.  And then there was his scent.
The car held it.  It was clean and male.

He shot her no less than three separate looks, while she shamelessly
studied him, before asking, "What got you out walking?"

"The sun."

He shot her another look, this one was uncertain.

"Really," she assured him, touched by his concern.  "It wasn't like the
nights.  I finished everything at home.  It was nice out.  I wanted to
move."

They were circling behind the college, through the section of town
known as the kitchen, for the support staff it gave the school.  It was
an area of aged two- and three-family houses, of skewed porches, packed
clotheslines, and rusted pickups.  Its shabbiness was heightened when
the sun moved behind a cloud.

"I don't like doing nothing," she said.

"What about the Sun?"

"Two more articles, done.  I write them faster than Rod can assign
them.  I need more to do.  If Doug is going to be away as much as Jill
is, I'm in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

Oh, God.  Where to begin.
"Boredom--loneliness-frustration--impatience--envy--hunger."  The last
tumbled out quite spontaneously, rather like her thoughts on being
feminine the other day.  The two weren't unrelated.

"What kind of hunger?"  Brian asked.

The kind that isn't allowed, she thought but was mercifully saved from
having to say it aloud or lie, when the two-way radio made a stat icky
sound.

Brian listened in.  "There's a problem three streets over," he said and
picked up the handset.  After logging in his position, he conversed
with the dispatcher.  Then he put the car into gear.  "A woman just
reported a peeping Tom.  Feel like taking a ride?"

What to do?  Who to be?  Riding shotgun with Brian was right down her
alley.  "Definitely."

"Her name's Leila Jones."

"I know Leila.  She was several years ahead of Jill in school, but they
played town soccer together."

"Were they friends?"

"No.  There wasn't time.  Leila moved up to the next division.  Then
she got pregnant and dropped out of school, out of soccer, the whole
thing."

"How old was she?"

"Fourteen when the first was born.  She's had others since."

He made a frustrated sound as he turned onto Leila's street, and
moments later pulled up before the shabbiest house there.  It was a
three-decker, with peeling paint, windows covered with graffitied wood
planks, and broken toys strewn on the lawn.

Brian released his seat belt.  "Want to wait in the car?"

"Not particularly."  She was tired of being spectator to other people's
sport.

"I can't talk you into it?"  His eyes tried.

She slipped out of the car and started up the front walk.

Easily catching up, he reached ahead of her to ring the bell.  "Let me
do the talking, at least."

"I think the bell may not work."

He knocked.  Child sounds, mixed with television sounds, came from
inside the house.  He knocked more loudly.

"Is this her?  First floor?"  Emily asked.

"That's what they said."

The door opened.  Emily recognized Leila instantly, even with one child
in her arms and another clinging to her leg, though she was dismayed at
the girl's state.  Her hair was uncombed, her clothes worn, her eyes
large and tired.  She looked nearly as old and rundown as the
house--which put things in perspective for Emily.  For all her own
concerns, her life was far safer, saner, more secure than this
girl's.

Brian showed his badge.  "I'm Detective Stasek.  I understand you're
having some trouble."

Leila looked unsurely at Emily, until he said, "Mrs.  Arkin is my
sidekick for the afternoon," when she stood back to let them come in.

The inside of the house was as depressing as the outside, with most
everything worn, broken, or patched.  In addition to the two children
clinging to Leila, two others were fighting over a toy, while a third
one sat crying in a wooden crate.

"Shut up, Joey," Leila snapped at the crying one, who only cried
louder.  "You can't play with the others 'cause you bite."

"Momma, it's my turn," screamed one of the squabblers.  "Gimme it,
Lissie!  Gimme it!"

"But I'm not done," Lissie cried.

"You had it too long!"

"Lissie, let Davis have it!"

Lissie clutched the toy to her stomach and bent over, at which point
Davis began pummeling her.

Leila rushed over, leaving the child who had been attached to her leg
staggering on its own.  "Davis Jones, don't you hit your sister that
way."  She hauled the child off by the arm.  Behind her, the abandoned
child sat down hard and started to wail.

Emily lifted the child.  "Hey, hey," she said softly.

"This is all I hear," Leila complained over the ongoing noise.  "All
they do is scream and fight."

"How old are they?"  Brian asked.

Leila pointed.  "Seven, five, four, two, and ten months."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"Is there a father around?"

"There shoulda been, for the two littlest ones, but he couldn't stand
the noise, either, so he left.  They all do.  They just leave the
babies with me, but how am I s'posed to take care of them?  How am I
s'posed to do everything they can't?"

"Shouldn't the oldest be in school?"

"They sent her home for lice, so I gotta treat that and make sure none
of the others get it, and they will, they always do."

"I thought your mother was helping you out," Emily said.

"She did until the last baby came along, then she said that if I was so
stupid as to have another one, I could just take care of it myself, but
I'm having trouble getting everything done, and all they do is scream."
She turned on the one in the crate, who continued to cry.  "Shut up,
Joeyr She pointed a shaky finger at Brian and encompassed the other
children in her gaze.  "Do you know who this man is?  He's a policeman,
and he's gonna lock you up in jail and leave you there, if you don't
all shut up this minute!"

Emily pressed the head of the child she held to her breast.  If the
shrillness of Leila's voice upset her, she could imagine what it did to
the children.  Leila broadcast panic.  The children were catching it.

Speaking in a voice that was starkly calm by contrast, Brian said,
"Tell me about the man who was looking in your windows.  Do you know
him?"

"No."

"Has he ever been here before?"

"I don't know."

"What, exactly, was he doing?"

"I'm hungry, Mama!"

"I wanna go out!"

Leila tried to free herself from the older two, who, having forgotten
about the toy they had been fighting over moments before, were tugging
at her shirt.  "You can't go out," she told the little girl.  "It's
gonna rain."  To Brian, she said, "He was walking around the house,
looking in the windows.  Don't pull at me, Davis!  Lissie, get Davis a
cookie."

"I don't want a cookie.  I want cheese."

"I don't have cheese.  Lissie, get him a cookie."

"The windows are raised off the ground," Brian said.  "Do you mean that
he was looking up at them?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe him for me?"

"He was dark--dark clothes, dark hair."

Brian made notes in a small notebook.  "Caucasian?"

"Yes."

"I wanna go out, Mama," Lissie whined.

"I told you to get Davis a cookie!"

"How old was he?"  Brian asked.

"I don't know.  He was wearing a hat."

"What kind of hat?"

"I guess it was a baseball hat."

"Did it have anything on it?"

"I don't know.  Maybe."

"Writing?  A picture?"

"I couldn't see."

"Mama, I wanna watch television."

"No, Davis!  It's broken!"  Davis ran into the other room.  "Joey, stop
crying."

"Can you tell me how tall he was?"  Brian asked.

She raised a hand as high as it would go.

"Was he heavy?"

She frowned, then shrugged.

"Was there anything unusual about him?  Any distinctive feature?"

"I didn't see any, I was so nervous.  He just kept wandering around
the house, looking in at us.  It was making the kids scared.  He didn't
look like he was passing by, I mean, he was looking for something."

Emily was wondering if he was trying to decide what to repair first,
when Brian asked, "Do you think he might have been hired to paint the
house?"

"He didn't have any stuff with him.  He was just looking in at us,
walking around and looking in."

"Who owns this house?"

"Ray Telly.  He lives on the third floor."

Brian noted that.  "This man who was walking around looking in--did he
see you looking back at him?"

"He must have, because the kids were looking out at him, and I kept
yelling at them to get away, but they wouldn't.  He's going to come
back.  I know he is.  Maybe he wants to do something' to one of the
kids."

Emily felt a shudder of remembrance.

Gently, Brian asked, "Why would he want to do that?"

"I don't know, but something awful might happen if he comes back.  I
can't watch these kids every minute."  A crash came from the back of
the house.  She raced in that direction with Brian on her heels.

Emily followed.

Leila was shrieking even before she reached the kitchen.  "Davis, what
did you do?  I was heatin' that water to give the baby a bath, and now
you got it spilled all over the floor.  Why'd you go and do that?"

Brian put a hand on her arm.  "Yelling at him like that won't help."

"What will?"  she yelled at Brian.  "I've tried everything, but
whatever I say, they don't do."  Her thin body was shaking.  She was on
the verge of hysteria.

Emily's heart went out to her.  "Isn't there someone who can give you a
hand?"

She shifted the baby, took a dirty cloth from the counter and dropped
it on the puddle on the floor.  "No one'll come.  But if I'm all alone
here, that man will come in and do something awful."

"You have no idea who he was?"  Brian asked.

"No.  I told you.  I never saw him before."

Brian slipped the notebook back into his pocket.  "Tell you what.  I'm
going to take a look around outside.  Then I'll talk with your
neighbors about what they've seen."  He turned to Emily, but she spoke
before he could.

"I'll help Leila out until you're done outside."

She did what she could.  By the time he returned, the two youngest
children had been bathed and changed, the three others were playing in
a fort under a blanket-draped table, and in the marginally cleaned
kitchen, Leila was cooking a pot of spaghetti.

She faced Brian apprehensively.

"I didn't learn much," he confessed, "but I'll take what I have back to
the station and pass it around.  We'll keep an eye on the house for a
couple of days.  Sound fair?"

Leila swallowed.  She looked at Emily, then at Brian, and nodded.

"What did you find?"  Emily asked when they reached the car.

"Footprints, lots of different ones in the dirt around the house, and
cigarette butts, same thing, different brands.  I checked the neighbors
on both sides, plus the two living above.  No one saw any strange man
walking around."

"So what do we do?"

"We?"  he asked, sliding her the corner of a smile.  "We do nothing.  I
file my report and keep an eye on her."

"She needs help."

"She needs birth control.  Why do these kids keep doing it, over and
over again?  She can't handle four, so she has another?  It doesn't
make sense."

"Maybe sex is her only pleasure," Emily suggested.  "Maybe that's the
only time she feels loved."

"Okay.  Have sex.  But use something, for God's sake."  He leaned
toward the wheel and peered up.  "It's getting darker out there.  Think
it'll rain?"

"Lord, I hope not.  Myra will be distraught."

"When are we due there?"

"Six."

"I'll drop you home, then go back to the station to file my report
before I pick up Julia.  Okay?"

"Okay."

Julia was quiet when Brian arrived.  She toddled straight to him and,
when he swung her up, put her head down on his shoulder.  He sensed
something was wrong, even before Janice said, "I don't think she's
feeling well.  She may be coming down with a cold."

He felt a wave of panic.  She hadn't been sick since they'd been alone.
In fact, she hadn't been sick at all.  "What do I do for a cold?"

"Start with baby aspirin.  She feels warm.  If she needs a
decongestant, your pediatrician will suggest one."

Brian wasn't taking the chance of needing one and being without.  On
the way home, he stopped at the drugstore for aspirin and the
decongestant that Harold said Julia's pediatrician liked.  He bought
cough syrup and an antacid for good measure.

Julia lay quietly against Brian while he paid for the medicine, and
then, because she felt warm, cuddly, and unusually docile, he strolled
toward the back of the store.

He dug quarters out of his pocket and slid into the photo booth.
"Grammie will never know that you weren't feeling well.  I don't think
she believes me when I tell her we're doing fine, so we'll take this
picture and send it along.  Here we go.  Real quick and easy.  One
quarter, two, three, four.  There."  He settled himself in and gave
Julia a nudge.  When she didn't move, he checked her face.  Her eyes
were closed, her mouth open and moist.  She was sound asleep.

He grunted just as the first flash went off, and gave her another
nudge.  "Wake up, toots.  Time to smile for Grammie."  He shifted her,
but she was like a limp scarf, molding to his shoulder regardless of
how he tried to arrange her.  The second flash came and went with her
breathing heavy against his neck.  Her cheek was flushed.  He touched
it, disconcerted by its warmth.  Sighing, he asked, "No picture yet?"
as the third flash went off, then said, "What the hell," and produced a
broad smile for the fourth.

She didn't wake up when he put her back in the car and slept all the
way home, but when he tried to put her into her crib, she began to cry.
That made giving her the aspirin easy.  Once that was done, he picked
her up and sank into the chair.  She settled against him, content once
more.

Myra scowled at the sky.  She didn't understand.  It had been so
beautiful--bright sun, blue skies, crisp air all day.  Now that the
time of her cookout was approaching, clouds had moved in.

Her guests were due at six.  The rain might hold off.  Maybe there
wouldn't be rain at all, just clouds, in which case they could stay
out in the yard.  She had candles for when it grew dark, white candles
in lovely little glass cups that reminded her of the ones in church.

She turned on the radio in the kitchen and moved the tuner up and down
the dial, skipping over music, stopping at words until she heard the
ones she wanted.  "... Southbound is clear to the Pike.  The weather
forecast isn't as promising.  Clouds will be moving in--"

"They're already here!"  she shouted.

"With rain likely by dusk and continuing on through the night."

She turned off the radio and shot a worried look at the clock.  It was
five-thirty.  Dusk wasn't until six fifteen.  They had a chance.

But if the clouds were already in, Grannick was ahead of the rest of
the world, which meant that the rain could come any time.

She tried to call Emily, but reached the machine instead and hung up.
She hated machines.  A machine couldn't tell her that Emily was in the
bath, which was where, no doubt, she was.  She had been out walking
earlier.  Myra had seen her leave.  Brian had driven her home, then
left.  He had just returned with Julia.

She dialed Emily's number again, hung up on the machine, and counted to
ten before dialing again, hanging up again, counting again.  She
repeated the sequence three more times before Emily answered.

"Emily, I know you were in the tub, and I'm very sorry to get you out,
but you said you would help me with the coals for the cookout, and it's
time."

"Myra!  Good Lord, I was frightened.  I didn't know who it would be,
calling over and over again."

"The clouds are already in, which means that the rain may come sooner
than they say.  I can't let that happen."

"It's no problem, Myra.  We can always eat inside."

"But this is a cookout.  Eating in defeats the purpose.  I thought that
if you could come right over, we might get started.  We'll call Brian
as soon as the coals are done.  Come now, Emily."

"You'll have to give me ten minutes to dress."

"Ten minutes.  Oh, dear.  I suppose I can start taking things from the
refrigerator.  You won't be any longer, though, will you?"

She hung up the phone and glanced outside.  Beneath the willow, on the
grass by the bench, was the beautiful green blanket she had spread,
and, on top, the brightly colored paper plates and napkins that she had
bought in town.  The colors looked brighter beneath the backyard lamps.
The sky looked all the darker by contrast.

Hurriedly, she began taking the results of two days' work from the
refrigerator.  She had made three different salads--potato,
carrot-raisin, and the five-bean salad Frank loved.  She had baked corn
bread and had stuffed mushrooms.  She had sliced tomatoes and red
onions, had made a fruit compote and mixed up punch.  Not knowing
Brian's preference, she had bought regular chips, ripple chips, and
barbecued chips, not to mention ketchup, green and red relish, brown
and yellow mustard, and green and black olives.

She rushed back and forth from the kitchen to the yard, setting bowl
after bowl on the blanket.  She was just carrying out the platter of
meat when Emily arrived.

"And none too soon.  Hurry, Emily.  Light the grill.  There's not a
moment to spare."

"Hamburgers, hot dogs, and chicken?  Myra, you have enough food here
to feed an army!"

Myra saw the willow sway.  "Oh, dear.  The wind is picking up.  Hurry,
Emily, hurry."  But even as she spoke, she felt the first drops of
rain.  "Oh, no," she wailed.  "I've waited so long for this.  It can't
rain now!  My plans will be ruined."

"No, they won't," Emily said, filling her arms with the dishes that
Myra had just carried out.  "We'll simply eat in the house.  Let's get
these back inside."

"But it has to be here," Myra cried.  "That was the whole point."

Arms laden, Emily made a dash for the house.  Myra stared at the spread
on the blanket, so lovely moments before, now growing wet, and she
thought of the opportunity being lost.

She looked skyward.  Frank had to be there.  She couldn't think of any
other explanation.  He was controlling things still.

"Hurry, Myra!"  Emily cried, grabbing her hand.  "You're getting
soaked."

Myra didn't feel the chill of the rain seeping through her dress, to
her skin, as she was led toward the house.  All she felt was an old,
familiar sense of defeat.

Brian was just as glad that they were eating inside.  It was far more
comfortable, what with Julia collapsed on his shoulder.  Poor Myra,
though, remained dispirited, despite every attempt to cheer her up.
They complimented her on the food, on the drink, on the paper plates
with their large autumn flowers.  Brian, for one, ate far more than he
wanted to, just to show her how good it was, and he stayed longer than
he would have, given Julia's cold.

Inevitably, though, it was time to leave.

"Thanks, Myra," he said at the door.  "You were good to have us
over."

She looked heartsick.  "I wanted us to sit outside."

"Another time, we will."

She considered that for a minute, then looked up.  "Really?"

"Really."

"Soon?"

"If the snows hold off.  Otherwise next spring."

"I may be gone by then."

Emily put an arm around her.  "You'll be here.  Thanks for dinner,
Myra.  Everything was wonderful."

Brian opened his umbrella, while Emily held Julia.  He drew them close
to keep them dry as they crossed the cul-de-sac.

At her door, Emily said, "I'd invite you in, but Julia needs to be in
her crib."

He looked down at Julia.  Her nose had started to run.  "I've never
lived through a cold with her."

"Keep giving her aspirin.  If she feels really hot and gets cranky, put
her in a tepid tub.  That'll bring the temperature down.  She may wake
up crying from time to time, but that's because she doesn't know why
she feels lousy.  Just keep reassuring her, and she'll be fine."

Brian clung to those words.  He bathed Julia and put her in her
pajamas, gave her another dose of aspirin, then held her for a while.
Long after she was asleep, he held her, and it wasn't because he
thought Gayle would have.  Gayle would have been in bed, asleep in
anticipation of the next busy day.  No, he held Julia because he
remembered being held as a child, himself.  He remembered being cared
for and loved.  He wanted Julia to feel thac, too.

It was nearly eleven when he finally carried her to her crib, drew
bunny close, and covered them both with the blanket.  He stood over her
for a minute to make sure she was sleeping, then quickly showered and
checked in on her again, before returning to the main room, pulling out
the sofa bed, and stretching out.

He barely had time to think about feeling lonely or frightened, before
he was asleep, but both hit him head-on when, several hours later, he
awoke to a godawful sound.

It was coming from Julia's room.  thirteen

JULIA WAS SITTING IN HER CRIB, CRYING, BUT THE

sound of it was like nothing Brian had ever heard.  His first thought
was that she was suffocating, but when he grabbed her up and switched
on a light, she wasn't blue at all.  Her cheeks were pink and her nose
running furiously.  She looked as terrified by the noise she was making
as he was.

Wrapping her in the blanket, he raced into the other room and was
pushing his feet into his sneakers at the same time that he picked up
the phone and called Emily.

She said a groggy, "Hello?"

"Julia's making horrible sounds when she breathes.  Listen."  He held
the phone to Julia, who wheezed obligingly.  "Hear that?  I'm taking
her to the hospital."

"No, no, Brian.  Don't.  There's no need.  Not yet, at least.  She has
croup."

"Croup?"

"Laryngitis for babies.  She needs moisture in the air.  I have a
humidifier that I used for Jill.  I'll bring it over.

In the meanwhile, take her into the bathroom, close the door, and run
the shower hot.  Let the room fill with steam and sit there with her.
I'll get the humidifier going in her room.  Is the downstairs door
unlocked?"

"It will be in two seconds."

He hung up, raced down the stairs and unlocked the door, then raced
back up and made for the bathroom, holding Julia all the while.  "There
we go," he told her when he had the shower running.  "Full force, on
hot."  He wiped her nose with a piece of Kleenex.  "This will help.
Emily knows."

For an instant there, he had imagined a hospital emergency room, with
tubes and respirators and doctors taking him aside with their arms
around his shoulders and their eyes filled with regret.  He had
imagined losing Julia.

But she was safe in his arms, looking around the room as it grew misty,
seeming alert and aware.  The hoarse sound still came when she
breathed, but it was less ominous, now that it had a name.

Emily hauled the humidifier down from the top shelf of the linen closet
and, pausing only to pull a sweater on over her nightgown, ran through
the rain, across the driveway to the garage apartment.  She let herself
in and hurried up the stairs, passing right through the living room to
knock softly on the bathroom door.

Brian opened it enough for her to slip inside.  She set the humidifier
in the sink and turned to Julia.  "Hey, pretty girl," she touched her
cheek, "did you give your daddy a scare?"

Julia touched her cheek right back in a way that made Emily's heart
melt, all the more when she said in her hoarse little rasp, "Em-mce."

"Poor baby, you sound terrible, when you probably don't feel terrible
at all.  Am I right?"

Julia pointed at the shower.  "Daddy la loo

"Definitely croup," Emily told Brian.

"How long does it last?"

"The worst will be over by the morning.  Actually, the worst is
probably over now, the panic that first time."

"I'll bet you didn't panic."

"Are you kidding?  I thought Jill was choking on something that I had
left in her crib.  Doug was running around, yelling at me.  It was a
nightmare."  She took the top off the humidifier and began to fill it
with water.  "I'll get this going in her room."

It didn't take long.  Once a fine mist was radiating into the air, she
closed the door to concentrate it, and returned to the bathroom.  Brian
was sitting on the floor with his back against the tub.  Julia was
between his legs, reading a vinyl book.

"She doesn't seem any worse for the wear," Brian remarked.  "I wish I
could say the same for myself.  That little scare aged me a year."

He didn't look it, Emily thought.  She thought he looked wonderful, all
sinewy arms and hair-spattered legs.  He was the image of the modern
father taking care of his child, and there was a sweetness, a
gentleness to it that made her ache.  The fact that he wore nothing but
a pair of gray, slim-fitting, thigh-long knit boxers enhanced the
contrast, male with child.

Brian peered down at Julia.  "She looks wide awake."

"So am I. Funny how a scare can do that."

He turned warm, tired eyes on her.  "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Don't be silly.  I'd have been upset if you hadn't.

Not that I know all the answers, and if she was sounding worse now,
I'd be driving you to the hospital, myself, but if there's the chance
of an easy answer, why not take it."

"I'm grateful."

She smiled.  "That's why it's so nice to help you out."  Thinking that
Doug was never grateful for anything, she reached over and turned off
the shower.  "The moisture will hang in here for a while."

"How long do we stay?"

"Another few minutes.  By then her bedroom should be moist."  It
occurred to Emily to return home, but she truly was wide awake, and
then Julia was scrambling to her feet, running to her with the book
held high.  "What's this?  A book?  How lovely.  What's it about?"  She
turned a page.  "A house that talks?  What's it saying?"  She hunkered
down and looked at the book with Julia, who hunkered right down beside
her.  After a minute, it simply seemed more comfortable to slide to the
floor.  Julia climbed into the crook of her legs.

"How sociable she is at one in the morning," Brian mused.  "Is this a
harbinger of the future?"

"Nah.  She was frightened, too.  This is relief."

"Dog," Julia said in her hoarse way, pointing at the book while she
looked up at Emily.

"Actually," Emily observed, "I think it's a squirrel, but that's kind
of hard to pronounce, so we'll call it a dog."

"Did Jill get sick much?"

"For a while, when she started spending time with other children.  Then
she built up her immunities."

"So Julia caught this at Janice's."

"Probably, though croup is her own body's response to a cold.  Another
child might have the cold without the croup.  Jill still gets
laryngitis."

Julia climbed out of Emily's lap, leaving the book there, and went to
Brian.  When he scooped her up, she put her head on his shoulder and a
thumb in her mouth.

"This is nice," he said.  When she gave a coarse little cough, he
stroked her curls.  He was calmer now and passed the calm along.

"I should leave," Emily said, but his eyes caught hers, and then, as
though to second his protest, Julia coughed again, longer and more
loudly.  "Do you have cough medicine?"

"On the kitchen counter."

"Have you given her any?"

"Not yet."

Emily rose to get it.  She returned with both the cough syrup and the
baby aspirin, and knelt beside Brian while he turned Julia in his arms.
The aspirin went down just fine.  Julia even sucked on the dropper. The
cough syrup was another matter.  The smell somehow made its way through
her stuffy nose even before she tasted it, and then she twisted to
escape it.  When Brian tried to hold her still, she fought.

In the end, it took four adult hands and two refills of the dropper
before a proper dose was inside her, and by then both Brian's chest and
Julia's pajamas were sticky with the stuff, and her crying was a
hacking sob.

He carried her into her room, and paced the small space, talking
softly, rubbing her back to soothe her.  Emily took her from him so
that he could shower the medicine away.  By the time he was done, she
had changed Julia and was rocking her in the chair under a dim glow
from the lamp.

"Want me to take over?"  he asked.

But Emily was content.  She was doing what she knew best, what she
loved.  "I'm fine.  You must be exhausted.  Go lie down.  I'll sit with
her a while."

"She's my responsibility."

"So's work.  You have it tomorrow.  I don't."

"I don't like taking advantage of you."

"Why not, if I offer?  Go to sleep, Brian."

He stretched out on his stomach on the small rug before the crib,
reaching, as an afterthought, for the pillow that Emily had displaced
when she had sunk into the rocker.  She thought to tell him that she
hadn't meant for him to sleep on the floor, but he was quickly settled
in.

So she rocked in the chair, with Julia's warm weight against her, and
though she tried looking anywhere but, her eyes kept returning to his
long, prone form.  He was damp from the shower, the hair darker than
its usual honey on his head and his limbs.  His back was well-toned,
ropy higher, lean lower.  His waist was firm, his backside tight.

She hummed softly to Julia and closed her eyes, but his image lingered
behind her lids, and then little things started coming to mind--the
comfort she felt when he held her and the pleasure of it, the way his
eyes made her insides flow, his calling her beautiful.  She remembered
the awakening she had felt as she lay on the rock by the pond,
remembered feeling luxuriously feminine, talking of hunger even before
she realized she felt it.

She didn't have to remember the way she tingled when she was with
Brian.  She was doing it now.

"She's sleeping," he whispered close by her ear.  Her eyes flew open as
he slid his arms against her body, lifted Julia, and put her gently in
her crib.

Emily was still throbbing from the feel of his arms, when he took her
hand and drew her up.  She heard a raggedness in his breath, and met
his gaze, and suddenly, whether from a trick of the dim light or not,
there was nothing otherworldly or super powerful about his eyes.  They
were simply human, wholly male, and rich with desire.

"I've been lying down there," he said in a gritty whisper, "telling
myself I should be thinking about my daughter and thanking God she's
all right, but I'm not thinking about Julia, I'm wanting you."  When he
drew her close, she could feel how much.  With trembling arms wrapped
around her and his breath uneven on her temple, he said, "I know it
isn't a good time in your life for this, I know you're not free, and
I'm not either, really, but that doesn't make it go away.  If you don't
want it, better leave now."

Emily was as stunned by his bluntness as by his suggestion.  It was one
thing to fantasize about him, another to be with the man, in the flesh,
and hear him ask to make love.

He was right.  It wasn't a good time for her.  She was married to
another man.

But that other man hadn't wanted her in ages, and she was powerfully
drawn to Brian.  The fact of that draw being mutual, of his wanting her
with a hunger that thickened his voice and drew his body taut, was
golden.  His need excited her as much as everything else about him did.
It was a salve on the bruises left by Doug's neglect.

She moved her face against his chest.  His eyes might have finally been
human, but he smelled divine--not only clean and male, but sexy--such
that even if some tiny part of her wanted to leave, she wouldn't have
been able to tear herself away.  There was comfort here, and excitement
and warmth, such warmth.  It radiated from his skin and deeper, from
her skin and deeper, and that wasn't to mention the knot in her belly,
growing tighter, making her shake with the tension of it.

She had such need, such need.  When she opened her mouth against
Brian's skin to breathe that need, he echoed the thought with a
guttural sound.  He took her face in his hands and began to whisper
soft kisses top to bottom.  With repetition, the kisses grew less soft
and more wet, until his mouth was liquid on hers and his tongue deep
inside.

Hunger was one word for what she felt, desperation another.  She ached
to be loved, body and soul.

She didn't protest when she found herself on Brian's bed in the next
room, and when he pulled the sweater over her head, all she could think
of was holding him again.

He busied her mouth with long, caring kisses that said she was
precious, and touched her through her nightgown until the knot in her
belly began to burn.  She writhed against the heat.  There was some
relief when he drew the nightgown over her head, but it was
short-lived.  Once his boxers were gone and he was naked against her,
the heat rose tenfold.

Emily had never known such a charge from body contact alone.  Perhaps
it was the newness of Brian, the texture of his body, its scent.
Perhaps it was the famine she had lived through.  Perhaps the
excitement came from the chemistry between them, or the way he moved
against her belly and between her legs.  Whatever, she was caught up in
a need to be closer, ever closer, then part of and absorbed, and when
he finally buried himself inside her, she cried out in sheer relief.

Just this once, she promised herself in one of the few fragmented
thoughts he allowed, because he had turned her mindless, a creature of
sensation.  She felt heat and need as she arched to his hands and his
mouth, tingled and buzzed and ached as he stretched her and stroked
her.  She cried out again when he withdrew completely and thrust back
in, and when he praised her with hoarse sounds and the imminence of his
climax, she soared.

She clung to him while all else around her faded and the yearning
inside sharpened, and when he drove into her with a final heightened
force, everything hung there, hung there, then burst.

The descent was slow and sweet, moments of pleasure interspersed with
ones of shock.  When the throbbing inside her eased, when her breathing
steadied and her fingers relaxed on his chest over damp, curling hair
and a hammering heart, when her limbs rested entwined with his, she
pressed her face to his collarbone.

He allowed it for a short time, holding her tightly, as though he were
as reluctant as she to let it end.  Inevitably, he relaxed his hold and
rose on an elbow.  "I'm not sorry," he declared.

Just this once.  For something so consuming, so uplifting, so
rewarding.  "Me, neither."  She focused on his throat.  "Does that make
me wicked?"

"Not in my book.  He isn't satisfying your most basic needs, and I'm
not talking about sex.  He's never here.  He doesn't help with the
loneliness, or the boredom, or the loss you feel with Jill away.  He
doesn't talk with you, and he isn't here to hold you when you cry, and,
yeah, let's talk about sex.  When was the last time you had it with
him?"

Emily couldn't remember exactly when, it was that long ago.  "I told
myself that it was natural for sexual interest to decline with age."

"You are not in decline," Brian said with a chuckle, and she tried not
to join him--the situation wasn't funny at all--but she couldn't
contain it completely.

Still, the sound that came out held an element of self-consciousness.
"I swear, I wasn't looking for this."

"Don't feel guilty."

"I do.  I am."

"You're beautiful, is what you are."

She was a mess--hair rumpled, face naked--but his eyes mirrored his
words, making her believe.

"You're also sexy," he said.

"I don't know about that."

"Trust me.  You are."

She thought of the dreams she'd been having, dreams of skin on skin, of
hands touching forbidden places and breath whispering into private
nooks.  "Maybe," she conceded with a blush.

"Sexy.  Oh, yeah."  He smiled, then settled onto the pillow and drew
her to face him.  Looking at him that way, she felt a whole new wave of
desire.

"What?"  he asked.

"I'm--uh--I don't know how to handle this."  Just this once, she had
sworn, but that once was over, so what in the hell was she feeling?

"Handle what?"

"This.  I didn't expect it."  Her eyes grew pleading as they roamed his
face.  "What am I going to do?"  she whispered, because that new wave
of desire was making her want to melt against him again.  "He's my
husband.  I believe in fidelity.  If he was unfaithful to me, I'd be
crushed."

Brian brushed his fingers over her mouth, then her cheeks before
sliding them into her hair, and all the while his eyes held hers,
airing need and desire, even love, if she chose to believe it.

She gasped when he slid a hand low on her belly over the spot where she
was still sensitive.

His voice was hoarse.  "I love that sound, your surprise when you feel
it.  You did it wherever I touched you before."

She gasped again when his fingers slid deeper.  "Brian."

"Mmmmm."

"I can't do this."

"Does it feel good?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you want it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then let me love you."

Being loved was all she had ever wanted.  It was why she had married
Doug so young, why she had set aside her own pain over the years and
made a pleasing cocoon for Jill and him.  It was why, she supposed, she
was drawn to Brian, who had offered compassion and affection and need
right from the start.

She didn't think of Doug or Jill.  For once, she thought of
herself--something new--and of Brian.  She touched him, and found new
excitement in the touching, and when he was huge in her hand, she
tasted a new sense of power.  Rather than being threatened, as Doug
would have been, he coaxed her on with low words and the smooth shifts
of his body, until she pulled him to her.  Their coupling was wild,
less gentle than before and shocking, as she thought of it later, not
that she would have stopped or slowed the pace or sought anything
milder.  Fierceness was another new experience.  She found it exciting
beyond belief.

This time when it was done, breathless laughter mingled with moans.
Brian clutched her close, his mouth to her hair.  "Jesus.  What did you
do?"

"I don't know.  I just did.  What did you do?"

"Beats me, but it sure felt good."

Ahh, it had.  If she was to be damned for betraying Doug, at least she
had enjoyed herself in the process.

Brian's chest was damp, the hair there curled, dark gold and
masculine.  She looked down his body to those parts that were even more
so.  When she looked up again, it was in amazement at what she had done
and felt, still felt.

Suddenly Brian's eyes went wide.  "Christ."  In the instant he was out
of her arms and the bed, and running into Julia's room.  He reappeared
moments later, resting briefly against the doorjamb, before crossing
the room and returning to bed.  "She's still sleeping.  Some father I
am.  I forgot all about her."

Emily had, too.  "We would have heard if she was worse."

"Not me.  I was gone."

"Really?"

"Totally."  He looked down at her.  "You sound surprised."

"Doug was never totally gone."

He settled her in his arms.  "Well, I was."

She felt him relax, felt his breathing slow and grow rhythmic with the
approach of sleep.  "I should go," she whispered.

"Noooo," he whispered back and drew her closer.

Being wanted was a heady experience.  More than heady.  Irresistible.
Would it hurt to stay the night?  Just this once.  It had been so long
since she had slept wrapped up in a man, so long since she'd had that
comfort.  One night wouldn't hurt.

Come morning, she would face what she had done.  For now, she curled
close.

Dawn brought the inevitable guilt and the realization that making love
with Brian added another wrinkle to an already over wrinkled life.  But
Emily was a survivor.  She lived one day at a time.

Doug would be home Friday afternoon.

Jill would be home Friday evening.

Brian would be nothing more than the man renting the apartment over the
garage.

Emily was an expert at pushing troubles from mind--first Daniel's
disappearance, then Doug's career.  So now she refused to dwell on what
she had done with Brian.

There would be time.  But not now.

Jill arrived on the five o'clock bus.  Quite content to leave Doug at
the health club, Emily met her and held her and didn't stop grinning
once, not during the tour of Grannick that Jill insisted on, nor during
the triumphant drive down China Pond Road, nor during the excited exit
from the car, the eager entrance to the house.

When the phone rang, Emily fully expected it to be for Jill, but it was
Celeste, in a mild panic.  "I have no idea where Dawn is.  I thought
for sure she'd be here by midafternoon.  She told me a friend was
driving her home, or I'd have picked her up.  No one answers her dorm
phone."

"When did you talk with her last?"  Emily had seen her on Wednesday
afternoon.

"She called Tuesday.  Briefly.  She's still angry because I wouldn't
let her visit Jill last weekend, but I didn't see the point, with Jill
here this weekend."

Suspicious, Emily put the mouthpiece to her neck and asked Jill, "When
was the last time you talked with Dawn?"

Jill looked at her watch.  "Five hours ago."

"Where was she then?"

"In my dorm room.  She's been visiting since Wednesday night."  Eyes
narrowing, she took the phone from Emily.  "She's staying one more day.
She told me you knew."

"No, I didn't!"  Emily could hear Celeste cry.  "She said she'd be home
today.  How is she getting here tomorrow?"

"She met a guy.  He'll give her a ride."

"What guy?"

"He's the friend of a girl on my floor."

"Give me your mother."

With a look that was expectant to the point of parody, Jill handed the
phone to Emily.

"She met a guy," Celeste started right in.  "Swell.  Does she need one
in every port?"

Emily remembered the list of five men--or was it six--that had come
from Celeste's ad.  "He may just be a friend."

"She is an impossible child."

"She's not a child.  That's what she's trying to tell you."

"Well, don't you think a trip to Boston last weekend would have been
dumb?"

"Yes, but she didn't, and she's saying that she's of age and can do
what she wants."

"On my dime."

"On Jackson's dime.  Give her room, Celeste."

"Do you give Jill room?"

Emily hooked an arm through Jill's.  "I don't have to.  She isn't a
rebel."

"Well, you're the lucky one, then.  I have a major problem."

"No, you don't.  Just grant that Dawn is eighteen.  I thought you
wanted her to be independent."

"Not when I'm waiting for her to come through the door."

"Then let her know you were worried."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Mom," Jill whispered, "can I run over to the Davies's before Dad gets
home?"

Emily nodded and let her go.  To Celeste, she said, "You're coming over
with her tomorrow night, aren't you?"  Jill was having a homecoming
party.  Doug wasn't pleased with the prospect of young bodies traipsing
in and out, but Jill wanted it, and Emily was feeling defiant.  Jill
hadn't been home in seven weeks.  Doug had, for what little he chose.

"We'll be there, if she ever gets home," Celeste said.  "How many are
coming?"

"How many, Jill?"

Jill turned back at the door.  "Twenty, maybe twenty-five."  She turned
again just as Brian and Julia appeared through the glass.

Emily felt a fris son of excitement.  She had been waiting for weeks to
show Jill off to Brian.  "Gotta run, Celeste.  Stay sweet?"

"Yeah, yeah."

She hung up the phone and joined Jill at the door.  "Jill, meet Brian
and Julia."

"Hi," Jill said with a bright smile.  "So you're the guys who've taken
over my playroom?"

"Sure are," Brian answered.

To Julia, in a childlike way, Jill said, "Well hello.  You're a pretty
little girl."

"Can you say 'in'?"  Brian asked Julia, but Julia just stared at Jill.
"It takes her a while.  Your face is new to her.  Not to me, though.
I've seen pictures.  You have one proud mother."

Jill blushed.  "Of course, she isn't biased."

"Perish the thought."

"Mom says your place is great."

"Want to see?"

"Can I later?  I have to see a friend before my dad gets home."

"Sure."  Brian held the door wider for her to pass.  "Drive carefully."
When she looked back in amusement, he gave a sheepish smile and
shrugged.

Jill laughed.  "If you hadn't said it, Mom would have."

"Drive carefully," Emily called for good measure and watched her back
out of the driveway.

"She's you," Brian remarked.

"That's what Doug says when he doesn't like what she's doing."

"Doug's a jerk," he said, which was one of the things Emily liked about
him.  He stuck up for her.  He didn't blame her for losing her son.
Even aside from the physical, he made her feel good.

Not that the physical was easily set aside.  There was a new intimacy
in his eyes--those incredibly penetrating eyes--that suggested indecent
things.  They made her feel naked and hot.  They made her blush.

Looking away, she took the baby's hand.  "How's Julia?"

"Better than she was."

"Good.  Will you come to our party tomorrow night?"

"Both of us?"

"Sure.  Doug will be in and out, but John and Kay will be there, and
Celeste, and all of Jill's friends."  Plenty of people.  Perfectly
safe.  "The girls will go wild over Julia."

He gave her a heart-stopping grin.  "Thanks.  We'll stop by."  He
backed away from the door.  "Enjoy Jill."

"I plan to."

His eyes held hers as he went sideways down the stairs.  "Have a nice
dinner."

"You, too."

"What are you serving?"

"Veal piccata.  It's Jill's favorite."

"Mine, too," he said with a naughty smile.

"You can't come."

"I figured that."  He was walking backward across the driveway.  "Don't
stay up too late talking with Jill."

She grinned and shrugged.  When he finally turned, she dragged in a
breath.  Between his grin and his eyes and that long, hard body of his,
she was aquiver.  She stood for a minute at the door with her hand on
her chest, steadying the beat of her heart, chastising herself for
being so susceptible to a man who wasn't her husband.

Then she banished the thought.

Jill was home, Doug was home, they were a family again, having veal
piccata for dinner.  fourteen

CELESTE WAS UP FIRST THING SATURDAY WAITING

for Dawn.  She read the morning paper with one eye on the driveway. She
threw on a jacket and raked leaves in the front yard.  Inside again,
she stalked from window to window, chomping on carrot sticks when noon
came and went, then stalking some more.  By the time a blue pickup
deposited Dawn and drove off, she was fit to be tied.

"Hi, Mom!  I'm home!"

Celeste entered the kitchen with her arms on her hips.  "Where have you
been?"  she demanded.  She didn't care what Emily advised.  She
couldn't hide her anger.

"Boston," Dawn answered, dropping her bags.  "I told you I was
going."

"No.  You said you were going last weekend, until I nixed the idea."

"So I waited until Wednesday to go.  I stayed with Jill.  Didn't she
tell you?"

"Sure.  After I was out of my mind with worry.  She said you said that
I already knew.  Dawn, I expected

25?  you home yesterday.  You said the dorms closed yesterday."

Finally, a note of sheepishness.  "Yeah, well, I got in a little
trouble sneaking back in just now, but I only had a backpack with me in
Boston.  I had to get the rest of my things."

"What things?"  Celeste eyed the bags on the floor.  "You'll only be
here for four more days.  What is in those?"

"Laundry."

"Laundry.  Swell.  You drive me out of my mind with worry, and you want
me to do your laundry?  Fat chance!"

"I'll do it," Dawn said with a defensive tilt of her chin, then she
frowned.  "You look strange."

"Thanks.  Well, you look good, at least."  Blond hair cascading over
T-shirted shoulders, no sign yet of the freshman fifteen on
jean-covered hips.  "Irresponsibility always did agree with you."

"Mom, come on."  She kept staring.  "Why do you look different?"

Celeste wasn't about to say.  "Maybe because you haven't seen me in
seven weeks."

"Oh, I've seen you--in my mind's eye every day, saying, "Do your
homework.""

"Hah, hah."

Dawn came closer.  "You had your hair colored, didn't you.  You had
highlights put in, like I wanted to do, only you wouldn't let me."

"You're eighteen.  I'm forty-three."

"That's no good reason," Dawn said, staring still.  "Different makeup?
No.  It's your nose."  With a look of disbelief, she studied Celeste
from the side.  "You had it done?  You did have it done.  And you
didn't tell me!  How could you, Mom?"

"I did it for me.  No one else.  Just for me.  I didn't see the point
in making a big thing of it."

"But I'm your daughter.  You had surgery, and you didn't tell me.
Thanks a heap.  That makes me feel great.  I'm at school right down the
street, and you kept me in the dark.  What did you think I'd do?  Run
all over Grannick telling people?"

"What does your being at school in town have to do with anything?"

"I could have helped if you were sick."

"Whoa.  You were the one who only agreed to go to school here if you
didn't have to come home until fall break.  You were the one who said
you'd call me, not the other way around."

"But I was thinking that nothing in the world would be new.  I can't
believe you had your nose done.  Would you have told me, if I hadn't
noticed it?"

"Of course.  It's not a secret, and it's no big thing, just something I
wanted to do."

"So do I. Only you say I can't."

"Tell you what," Celeste suggested.  "You graduate from college, get
married and have a baby or two, and then when they go off to college,
you can have your nose done, my treat."

"Whoopee," Dawn said and turned away.  She hauled one of her bags to
the kitchen table.  "By that time I'll be able to afford it myself."
She unzipped the bag.  "It'll be so nice not to have to beg for what I
want."  She tossed one shirt here, one shirt there.

"What are you doing?"  Celeste cried, imagining the house that had been
so neat for seven weeks being suddenly reduced to a sty.

"Separating light and dark.  Isn't that what you always tell me to
do?"

"Do you have to do it now, here?"

"Why not?  I have nothing better to do.  It's not like you had special
plans to take me to lunch or anything.  I mean, that'd be too much to
ask."

"I'd have gladly taken you to lunch if you'd been home at lunchtime.
Dawn, it's two-thirty in the afternoon."

"Well, I'm sorry, if I'd had my own car, I could have left Boston
earlier, but I had to wait for someone else, and then I had to stop at
the dorm to get my things, so how could I have been here earlier?"

Sweetly, Celeste said, "If you'd come home yesterday, like everyone
else, we'd have had time to do things together today."

"So we have tomorrow, and Monday, and Tuesday."  She threw a pair of
jeans on the dark pile and glared at Celeste.  "Three whole days.
Aren't you thrilled?"

Celeste sighed.  "You may not believe this, but I was looking forward
to seeing you."

Dawn went back to her sorting.  "Yeah.  Sure."

"I've missed you."

"Hah."

"I have.  The house has been very quiet."

"You love it that way.  You always did."  The phone rang.  Dawn rolled
her eyes.  "Ahh, God.  Now I'm gonna hear it."  She changed her voice.
" There's the phone.  There's the phone again.  There's the phone
again.  If that ringing doesn't stop, I'm going to tear the goddamned
thing right out of the wall.""

"Well, it was ringing nonstop last year," Celeste said and snatched up
the receiver.  "Hello?"

"Hi, Celeste.  Is she home yet?"

Celeste held the receiver out.  "It's Marilee.  She's called three
times."

Dawn took the phone with a brilliant smile.  "Marilee!  How are you?"

Celeste moved to the other side of the room, which was the only
concession to privacy that she allowed.  She hadn't seen Dawn in seven
weeks.  Hard to believe.  Seven weeks.

Dawn did look good.  And yes--surprise, surprise-Celeste had missed
her.  Seeing her now was nice.  Having her home was nice.  Knowing that
she was going back to school in four days was nice, too.

Celeste had forgotten the raw energy that Dawn brought with her into a
room.

She hadn't forgotten the discord.  From the time Dawn was the littlest
girl, they had argued about most everything.  After seven weeks apart,
that hadn't changed.  Celeste wondered if it ever would.  Some mothers
and daughters were like two peas in a pod, others like fire and water.
She and Dawn were of the latter bent.

Dawn hung up the phone, her eyes alive.  "Everyone's hanging out at
Marilee's.  Can I go?"

"In other words, can you take the car."

"Look at it this way.  If I do, I'll be back sooner.  You and I can
have dinner together before we go to Jill's party.  You are coming,
aren't you?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

Dawn's fingers found the car keys like a magnet to steel.  She swept
them up and made for the door.  "This is great, Mom.  Thanks.  I won't
be long."

Celeste listened to the ensuing silence with a surprising sense of
regret.  She had been looking forward to Dawn coming home.  So what had
she gotten?  Five minutes?  Ten?

Then her gaze settled on the piles of dirty clothes on the floor, and
she sighed.  Oh, yes, she had been looking forward to Dawn coming home,
but for the life of her, she didn't know why.

By nine o'clock Saturday night, cars lined China Pond Road from the
cul-de-sac halfway to Walker.  What had started as a small gathering
was resembling a class reunion--and Emily didn't mind a bit.  Jill had
earned this impromptu party, in payment for all the years she had
limited herself to the few friends who wouldn't disturb Doug's
weekend.

And where was Doug?  Talking business with the president of the
college.  He had asked Jill if she would be angry if he took off for
several hours.  Jill had sent him off with a hug.

The stereo filled the house with sounds Emily didn't know, but she knew
the kids and moved eagerly from one to the next, listening to their
tales, plying them with food.  The dining room table was covered with
the munchies she had made.  When they were gone, she called the pizza
house, and when the soda supply thinned, John went out for more.

Eating and drinking their share in the kitchen along with the other
parents who popped in to say hello, were Kay and John, Celeste, and
Brian.  Julia had been part of the younger set, passed from one
erstwhile babysitter to the next, until she had fallen asleep in
Brian's arms.  As often as he said he ought to take her home, he was
such a comfortable member of the kitchen circle, that each offer was
met with protest by the others.

Once, returning to the kitchen with a bag of empty soda cans, Emily
stopped at the door, looking in.

"Someone's pleased with herself," Celeste remarked.

"I am."  She left the door, set the bag down by the sink, and came to
stand between John and Brian.  Her fingers found Julia's baby-silk
curls.  "I've always wanted this kind of open, happy feeling, with
lots of friends milling around.  I'm sorry I didn't do it sooner."

She was feeling ebullient, thinking that if Doug was perfectly happy at
the college for several hours while she and Jill did what they wanted
most to do, then everyone won, when the telephone rang.

It was Linda Balch, Myra's daughter-in-law.  "I'm sorry to bother you,"
she said hurriedly, "but we've been trying to reach Myra and we can't
get through, not yesterday, and not today.  We thought she might have
been out earlier, but I can't imagine she still is.  Not so late."

Neither could Emily.  "I'm sure that I saw the lights go on before.
There may be something wrong with the phone.  Let me run over and
check."

"I apologize.  It sounds like you have a party going on."

"It won't take but two minutes to check, and now that you've mentioned
it, I want to know, too."  She took down Laura's number.

When she told the others where she was going, Brian started to rise.
John put a restraining hand on his shoulder.  "Baby's sleeping. Sit."

Leaving the sounds of the party behind, Emily and John went across the
street.  The lights were on, but when they rang the bell, no one
answered.  They rang again.  They tried knocking.  They peered in the
front windows, but saw no sign of Myra.

Emily grew worried.

"Let's take a look in back," John said.  "Maybe she's having trouble
hearing."

The backyard was all murky shadows and pond damp smells.  They went up
the steps and knocked on the door.  Emily found it unlocked and pushed
it open.  "Myra?"

She heard an answering sound, quiet and indistinct.  "Where are you?"
she called.

She stepped into the kitchen, but did an about-face when John said,
"Out here."

"What?"

"She's out here.  Over there."

Emily hurried back down the steps and across the lawn.  Myra was a
wraithlike figure, pressed against one end of the wrought iron bench.
"What are you doing here, Myra?  It's too dark and cold to be out at
this hour."  She slipped onto the bench and took Myra's thin hand. When
she felt how icy it was, she stood right up again.  "Let's get her into
the house," she told John.

Myra went meekly.  She didn't protest when Emily sat her in a kitchen
chair and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and she took a cup of
hot tea in her hands.

"Maybe we should get her to the hospital," John suggested under his
breath, but Myra heard and shook her head.

"No hospital."

Emily drew up a chair.  "Why were you outside?"

"I wanted to be near the willow."

"Laura was worried.  They tried to reach you yesterday, and again
today."  She looked at John, who picked up the phone and listened for a
dial tone, nodded, shrugged.

"I heard the phone ringing," Myra said before Emily could ask.  "I just
didn't feel like answering.  I didn't want to talk with anyone."

"Why not?"

Myra drank her tea, one sip after another.  She stared broodingly at
the cup.

"Why not, Myra?"

"Because people don't listen.  They don't hear what I say.  I'm just
an old lady, babbling on."  She set the cup on the table.  "Thank you,
Emily.  I think I'll go to bed now."

"Would you like to sit at my house for a little while?"

But Myra held up a hand in refusal, rose, and set off for the door.
Emily was ready to catch her if she swayed, but she didn't.

"I'll stop in tomorrow," she called, then said to John as they let
themselves out, "She's lonely.  Her family thinks she's losing it.  I
never thought so."

"Do you now?"

"No.  She's not irrational.  Just sad.  I guess that's what aging is
about?"  She looked to John for an answer, but he didn't have it, and
once they were back at Emily's, once she had called Laura with a
modicum of reassurance, she was swept up in the party again.  She was
in the living room, surrounded by Jill's friends, when Brian came
looking for her.  She returned to the kitchen with him.

John was at the back door, ready to leave.  Julia's sleeping lump had
been transferred to Kay, suggesting Brian was going with him.

Emily's first thought was of Myra, but before she had time to imagine
anything horrible, Brian said, "John got a call from the station about
an auto theft.  They thought we should come."

"For an auto theft?"  Emily asked in surprise.

John said, "The stolen auto is Nestor Berlo's Lotus."

"Ahhhh."  Enough said.  "Will you be long?"

"Depends on what we find and when we find it."

Brian added, "Kay says she'll take Julia back to my place and put her
to bed if the party breaks up before."

But Emily had a better idea.  "Julia can stay with me.  I'll make a
bed for her on the sofa.  Celeste will drop Kay home."

Brian was comfortable with that arrangement.  He liked having an excuse
to return to Emily's.  He wanted to see what was going on there.  He
wanted Doug to know that Emily and he were friends.

And from that?  Maybe jealousy.  Maybe anger.  Maybe an exasperated,
"Do what you want.  I'm outta here."

Brian wouldn't mind if Doug walked out.  It wouldn't change Emily's
life, other than to allow them to be together without the guilt.  It
seemed like forever and a day since they'd touched.

John drove to the Berlo estate, turned in at the stone gates, and
followed the curving drive to the four-car garage.  All four doors were
open.  The cruiser was parked nearby, its headlights glancing across
the bays while its red-and-blues lit the night.

Nestor separated himself from the patrolman and was waiting when they
climbed from the car.  "I'd like this handled quietly," he told John.

Brian was puzzled.

Not John.  "I understand.  When did you find it gone?"

"Just before I called you.  I was out for the evening in the Jaguar,"
which stood behind him in one of the four bays.  "As soon as I pulled
in, I knew."

"Think your wife took it?"

He gestured toward the small Mercedes in another bay.  "That's hers.
She never drives the Lotus."

"Was she with you?"

"No.  She's with a friend."

Brian was wondering why a couple would go their separate social ways
on a Saturday night, when John asked, "Could her friend be driving the
Lotus?"

"If he was, his car would be parked here.  It's an Olds."

The only other car, also in the garage, was a shiny new sports car.

"Then it's the boy," John said.

"Damn right," muttered Nestor.

"Think he's gone far?"

"He never does.  He'll be cruising around Grannick.  You'll find him
fast."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Hold him for the night."

"Huh.  You sure?"

Nestor turned and set off.  "I'll come by for him tomorrow."

A short time later, combing Grannick for the Lotus, Brian said, "What's
going on?"

John shrugged.  "He has money.  We aim to please."

"The chief of police, babysitting on a Saturday night?"

John shrugged again.

"Is Berlo that important to the town?"

"He gives money.  He's also worth watching."

"What do you mean?"

"Whole family's screwed up."

"Screwed up, how?"

"Father has a lover, mother has a lover.  There's an older son who went
off to college and never came back."

"Never?"

"Maybe for a day or two here and there.  Far as I know he hasn't
stepped foot in town since he graduated.  That'd be two years, now."

"What about the younger one?"

"He isn't a bad boy."

"Funny, that's what Harold said when the kid tried to lift a bottle of
vitamin C from the drugstore."

John spared him a brief look.  He drove down one street and up the next
before he said, "What'd he want with vitamin C?"

"That's not the point.  The point is, he had money on him.  He didn't
need to shoplift.  I got the impression from Harold that he's done it
before.  Know anything about that?"

John thought about it a bit too long.

"So what's the kid's problem?"  Brian asked.  "Simple rebellion?"

John shrugged.

Brian pushed.  "Is the father as tough as he seems?"

"He's tough on his kids."

"Abusive?"

"In a way."

" What way?"  Brian asked, growing impatient.  Of the things he enjoyed
about Grannick, small-town protectionism wasn't one.  "Spit it out,
John."

"The father's gay."

Gay.  Brian hadn't imagined that.  "How do you know?"

"There was some trouble a while back."

"What kind of trouble?"

"At the golf course over in Melon Falls.  He was having a thing with
one of the caddies.  The boy was from Grannick.  Nestor would pick him
up to drive to the course, only sometimes they never got there.  When
the boy's parents got wind of it, they were upset."

"Jesus.  I'd think so."  He guessed the outcome.  "Berlo wasn't
prosecuted, was he."

"Nope.  They settled."

"His name wasn't on your list of sex offenders in Grannick."

"We owe him that much, after what he's done for the town.  The incident
I just told you about happened a long time ago."

"How long ago?"

"Seventeen, eighteen years."

"Now, there you go," Brian complained.  "There's a sex offender who was
in town when Daniel Arkin disappeared, and his name doesn't appear once
in the report.  Was he ever questioned?"

"Officially, no.  I told you, we didn't make assumptions on pedophilia
then, like we might now.  Besides, he was out of town the whole
week."

"Was that corroborated?"

"Yeah.  Besides, Nestor was never violent.  He never forced the caddie,
just promised goodies afterward.  That's how the parents found out. 
The kid started coming home with a new bike and fancy sneakers. 
There's the Lotus."

John pulled up behind the car.  It was one of four parked on the rim of
the quarry, Grannick's lover's lane.  Brian wondered what they would
find in the Lotus.

Richie was alone.  He was glaring out the window with both hands on the
wheel.  He knew he had company.

So did the occupants of the other three cars.  They also seemed to know
who that company was.  With comic speed, heads popped up, and the
drivers fired up their engines and took off.

John put a knuckle to the window and gestured for Richie to roll it
down.  Brian leaned against the hood of John's car.

"How're ya doin'," John said.

"I'm okay."

"Like the car?"

"It's okay."

"Your father thinks it's more than that.  He thinks it's special."

Richie made a disparaging sound.

"He's not happy you took it."

Richie said nothing.

John opened the door.  "Come on out now.  We'll take a ride to the
station."

Brian waited for him to protest, and was profoundly sad when the boy
only said, "Will he be there?"

"Tomorrow."

The hands on the wheel loosened a bit.  "What about the car?"

"My partner will return it."

Brian approached.  Richie gave him a wary look.

John made the introductions.  "Richie Berlo, Brian Stasek."

If Richie recognized Brian from that time in the drugstore, he didn't
let on.  He simply asked, "Do you know how to drive this?"

Brian eyed the beautiful beast and smiled dryly.  "I can manage."

"You'd better not grind the gears.  He'll know.  He goes ape shit over
this car."

"Is that why you took it?"

Richie looked abruptly furious, seeming ready to explode with the
reasons why he had taken the car.  Then his anger fizzled.  "Yeah.
That's why."

"Come on now," John repeated before Brian could ask another question.
"It's late."

Richie left his car and entered John's.  He sat in the passenger's
seat, no questions asked.

Brian waited until John drove off before starting the Lotus, but as he
drove, it wasn't the sleekness of the car he was thinking of, or its
power.  He was thinking that Richie Berlo led a troubled life, and
that, irrespective of his father's largesse where the town was
concerned, someone had to address that.  The boy was begging for it.

Brian wondered what he would try next.

Exhausted but content, Emily and Jill sat curled against the pillows on
Jill's bed with only Cat between them.  Jill yawned into a smiling
sigh.  "That was fun.  Thanks, Mom."

"Don't thank me.  I had as much fun as you did.  You have nice
friends."

"I want you to meet my friends from school.  They're nice, too.

"They seem it--at least, the two who've already called here do.  Who's
Adam?"  He was one of those calls.  Emily didn't want to make a big
thing about it.  All she wanted to know was how old he was, where he
was from, what he was studying, whether he was a prude or a lecher.

"A friend.  He's sweet, but I'm not rushing to hook up with anyone.
It'd be too confining, when there are so many great kids there.  I've
met some really nice ones.  I'm lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it.  Nice people attract nice friends."

Jill made a face that was only half comical.  "So how'd you attract
Daddy?"

Emily touched her hair.  "Hey.  Where'd that come from?"

"He isn't very sociable.  He could have hung around to see my
friends."

"You gave him permission to leave."

"Because it was clear he wanted to.  Parties make him nervous."  She
grinned.  "But it was a great party.  I loved seeing everyone.  Brian's
cool."

Emily had been wondering what Jill thought of him, but would never have
asked.  She was doing everything in her power not to think about Brian.
Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

"He has incredible eyes," Jill remarked.

"Quite.  And a precious daughter, and nice ways."

"I'm glad he's living here.  It makes me feel like you're less alone.
The bathrooms look great.  What else will you do?"

"With the house?  Clean this room."

"No.  Not this room.  Not yet."

"Jill, it's a mess."

"But it's my mess.  I like it this way.  I was nervous on the bus ride
home.  I kept thinking I'd walk in here and everything would be
changed.  It's nice to know nothing has."

Emily felt a pang of guilt.  Things had changed.  Big things.  Like
Emily taking a lover.  Only it didn't show in ways Jill could see.

Emily didn't know what to do about Brian.

"So what are you going to do with yourself?"  Jill asked.  When Emily
looked blank, she said, "If you're not doing more around the house. Can
you and Daddy take a vacation?"

"We are.  In two weeks."

"That's Parents' Weekend.  It doesn't count."

"Sure, it does."

"You should go away away."

It was a thought that had even more merit now than when Jill had first
suggested it.  Doug wouldn't go willingly.  But they needed time alone,
good quality time, to work things out.  The last thing Emily wanted
was to be cheating on her husband, but when basic needs weren't
met--no, there wasn't any excuse for it.

"I'll work on him," she said.

"Are you doing more for the Sun?"

"Uh-huh.  Whatever Rod needs.  And Petra, whenever."  Emily prayed it
would be soon.  Jill would be back at school in three days--the thought
brought a giant hollowness, still, yet, again.  Doug would be back at
work, wherever it was he was going this week.  Without some kind of
diversion, Emily would be thinking about things she shouldn't.  "Connie
Yeo needs help in her store.  I love books.  Selling them might be
fun."

"What about writing them?"

"I'm toying with the idea."

"What will you write about?"

"I don't know."  She had been writing about Daniel for years, small
scraps of thoughts packed away.  She had a book right there.

"You have an office with a word processor downstairs.  I think you
should do it, Mom.  This time it could be your own book from start to
finish.  This time we could make a big celebration."

"We celebrated last time."

"We went out to dinner with Sam and Donnie.  It wasn't much of a
celebration."  Her voice grew excited.  "I'll throw you a party this
time."

Emily smiled.  "You will?"

"Yeah, like you threw for me tonight.  It was super, Mom.  Thanks."

Emily's contentment swelled.  The future remained an enigma, but as
long as she had warm times like this, she would survive.

Marilee flew back to Washington on Monday afternoon.  Kay might have
called in sick and stayed home from school if John hadn't announced
that he was taking the day off from work, himself, to take Marilee to
lunch and the airport.

She was surprised.  John had always been a stickler for duty when it
came to the department.  She remembered his taking time off when he had
the flu, when his father died, when Marilee was born, when she
graduated.  He and Kay had driven her to college on a weekend, so he
hadn't missed any work then.  Amazing, that he was taking a whole day
off now.

Amazing, too, that he thought to bring Marilee by to see Kay, for a
final goodbye on the way from lunch to the airport.  Kay had had
trouble saying goodbye that morning.  Amazing that he had sensed it.

She didn't know why the parting was more difficult this time.  She
hadn't had as much trouble in August.  Maybe parting was a novelty
then.  Now it was real.  Now she understood its deeper meaning.  Now
she saw, as she hadn't seen for all her intuitive brilliance, that
Marilee's departure left her and John alone with each other for the
rest of their lives.

That thought remained with her long after the car was gone from the
school parking lot.  She was thinking about it still, later that
afternoon, when she packed up her briefcase and headed home.

She did love John.  He was steadfast and sure.  In marrying him, she
had gotten the stable home she wanted and the child she had nearly
given up hope of having.  With that child grown now, she and John were
in each other's limelight.  She was feeling unbalanced by the glare.

The cruiser was in the driveway.  She parked beside it and went
inside, half-expecting to find a sex-starved madman waiting to drag her
to bed.

But there wasn't any sex-starved madman, just John, leaning against the
kitchen counter, holding a bouquet of yellow roses.

"For me?"  she asked when he held them out, then murmured, "I guess,
they have to be, since there's no one else here."

"Thanks for a nice weekend.  From Marilee and me."

Kay was startled.  "They're beautiful.  You didn't have to."

"I wanted to.  I thought they'd cheer you up.  She'll be back home
soon."

Kay nodded.  Oddly tongue-tied, she took the flowers.

He smiled, touched her cheek, and went off to watch the news before she
could muster the wherewithal to say a thing.

Emily lay in bed, wide awake.  Doug had left that morning after a
flurry of perfunctory hugs that had left her depressed, but it was
Jill's afternoon departure that brought tears.  Emily wondered if the
pain of parting would ever get easier, if the silence of the house
would ever grow less stark.

The furnace kicked on from time to time, shooting heat through the
pipes as the house cooled, but Emily wasn't aware of any chill.  Beyond
the pain and the silence was something else, something distractingly
hot and sly.  It was lodged in her belly and rose each time she thought
of Brian.

Tossing the covers aside, she went to the window.  Myra's night light
fickered beyond the spattering of leaves that lingered on the front
yard maples.  Beyond the yard the fence was pale, beyond the fence the
street dark.

It was a typical Grannick night.  Only nothing felt typical inside
Emily.  She wanted.  Stunningly, selfishly wanted.

She went into the bathroom for a drink of water, but that made her no
less restless, so she headed for Doug's den to surround herself with
his trappings, sat in his chair with her feet on the desk, and flipped
on the television.  She went through the channels twice before flipping
it off.

She put something smooth and smoky on the stereo, went to the living
room window and swayed before it in the dark for a while, but what
should have been soothing became sensual.  Well before the music ran
out, she was in the kitchen, tugging the last of the sweet red grapes
from the bunch that Jill had otherwise denuded.

She tried to feel guilty for feeling desire, but the desire was too
strong.  Neither guilt nor reason could kill it.  Shyness didn't even
have a chance.

She went to the back door, held the knob for a minute, turned around
and leaned against it for another minute.  She directed her thoughts to
Jill, inviting the pain of that particular loss, but Brian came again
in no time flat, filling her mind with all that she had been telling
herself she couldn't have.

This is wrong, this is wrong, her mind sang, but her body kept hearing
a different tune.  Snagged by its beat, she slipped into her jacket and
stole out the door.  She took the longer, darker, colder way around the
back of the garage, giving herself every opportunity to change her
mind, but the beat went on and the heat held.

She knocked softly on his door.  He couldn't possibly hear, she knew,
but she couldn't get herself to ring the bell and wake Julia.  So she
knocked again, still softly, then put a shoulder to the doorframe and
waited.

She figured that either she would come to her senses, turn around and
go home, or she would get chilled and forget about sex.

Both scenarios became moot when she heard his footfall on the stairs.
Pulse skittering, she waited with her head down, wondering what to say,
what to do.  The door opened.  She looked up, feeling positively
depraved.

"I shouldn't be here," she said, but before she could turn and run, he
drew her inside, out of the cold that she didn't feel, and closed the
door.  She settled against it.  "I shouldn't be here.  I was lying in
bed.  I couldn't sleep."

"You're missing Jill."

"Some."  She focused on his shirt.  It was a heavy, faded plaid, open
over a pair of jeans.  "Weren't you sleeping?"

"No.  I was reading.  Dozing.  Whatever."

The jeans weren't snapped.  The sight of his navel upped her heat
several notches.  Not knowing what to say, but needing, needing, she
reached over and caught his waistband.  "Make me leave," she begged.

A throaty whisper.  "I can't."

"This is wrong.  My husband was just here."

"Did you make love with him?"

"No.  And I wouldn't have been thinking about him, if I had."  She had
been praying Doug wouldn't reach for her, for just that reason.  The
betrayal would have been compounded.

Brian's breathing had grown uneven and his body tight against her
fingers.  She put her cheek to his chest.  "There's this ... awful...
restlessness.  It won't go away."  She touched his middle, then, when
desire got the better of her, higher.  The hair on his chest was soft
by contrast to the firm skin beneath.  Her hand was in heaven, knowing
what it wanted and taking it in ways that her mind resisted.  The loud
beat of his heart in her ear chipped at that resistance, as did the
elbow he hooked around her neck to hold her close.

He wanted her.  That fact alone made her love him.

And then it all seemed so necessary to life--the heat, the desire, the
budding of things that were female and too long put down.  She brushed
her mouth over his chest, pushed at the lapels of his shirt, touched
her tongue to one hot, hard nipple.  She was someone she hadn't been
before, a different woman from the one who was married to Doug.

A different woman.  That was better.  Easier to accept.

Egged on by the shaky glide of his hands on her back, she moved
impatiently against him.  She needed to taste more, touch more, but the
hunger wouldn't be sated, it seemed, and then, tasting and touching
weren't enough, not for her, and not for him.  When he urged her hand
lower, she unzipped his jeans and let him loose.

Untamed was one word for what happened then.  Brian had her nightgown
bunched at her waist in no time, had his hands under her and her back
to the wall.  In no time, he had her filled so full she thought she
would burst, but he held that off, stoking her with fierce thrusts that
pushed the pleasure up and up, well beyond what she would have thought
she could bear.  With her arms and legs wrapped around him, she held on
for dear life until she was lost, then found, then cradled ever so
gently in the damp, dark afterglow, in the stairwell by the garage.
fifteen

CELESTE WALKED INTO THE SUNFLOWER WITH A

rose in her hand and stood quietly in the waiting area just beyond the
hostess's post.  The restaurant occupied a glass bubble that clung to
the side of a hotel in downtown Springfield.  She had chosen it for its
openness and its brightness, and would have actually preferred to have
been there in daylight.  Unfortunately, what with work and
transportation, her men couldn't meet her for lunch unless they took
the whole day off.  She couldn't blame them for not doing that.  They
didn't know her name, or whether they would like her in the least. They
didn't know if she would even show up.

She didn't know if they would, either, but the drive from Grannick to
Springfield was an easy one, and if she was stood up, nothing but her
ego would know it.

So the rationale went.  It was seven o'clock, the very time she was to
meet the marathoner for supper.  Not dinner, supper.  She had made that
clear.  The Sunflower specialized in salads and sandwiches.

Anything heavier would have entailed more of a commitment, not to
mention taking longer.  If the marathoner turned out to be a dud, she
wanted a fast supper and a faster escape.

There he was.  She knew instantly.  He had said he was tall and slim,
and he was slim, indeed--to the point of gauntness.  Not that he was
ugly.  Just very angular.

He approached her.  "I was told to look for someone holding a rose."

"You found her."  She extended her hand.  "My name's Celeste."

His hand was knobby.  "Craig."

It fit him.  She moved toward the hostess.  "Did you have any trouble
finding the place?"

"No.  I've run races in Springfield."

"Ahhh.  Two, nonsmoking," she told the hostess.

During the walk to their table, Celeste cursed whatever impulse had
made her do this.  She hated small talk, hated awkwardness, hated first
dates.  But first dates led to second dates, which weren't so bad.  Not
that she thought she would have a second date with Craig.  Gut instinct
told her he wasn't the one.

Maybe gut instinct was wrong.  She supposed she could sit through
supper and see.

They sat down at the table.  "You're very pretty," he said in a
straightforward, almost factual way that took something from it.

"Thanks."  She tried to think of something to say back on the same
vein.  All she could come up with was, "So you're a marathoner.  How
many have you run?"

"Seven."  He listed them, along with his times for each, along with the
winners, the first-runners up, and notable also-rans.

"Ahh," she said.  She smiled and turned to her menu.  "They make a
wonderful chicken Caesar here."

"I don't eat eggs."

"No, no, I'm talking salad."

"Caesar dressing contains eggs."

She wanted to tell him that the roll he was reaching for did, too, but
she didn't want to sound snippy.  So she said, "Take anything in
moderation, and you'll do fine."

"I newer eat eggs."

She closed her menu and set it aside.  "What do you eat?"

"Complex carbohydrates.  Pasta is a mainstay of my diet."

The waitress materialized.  "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Bottled water for me.  I don't touch alcohol."

Celeste looked the waitress in the eye.  "I'll have a glass of the
house chardonnay.  And the quiche, please."  She asked Craig, "Do you
know what you want?"

He ordered rot ini with sun-dried tomatoes and basil, no oil, no cream,
no garlic, no salt.  It sounded boring as hell to Celeste.  He sounded
boring as hell to Celeste.

But she was determined to give him a chance.  So, patiently, she said,
"Tell me what you do.  You said you were in health-care management."

"I'm in the accounting department of an HMO on the North Shore."

"Ahh.  An accountant."

"I'm actually looking for another position.  Health care isn't a stable
field anymore."

She knew enough not to open that can of worms.  "What are you looking
for?"

"Something in sporting equipment.  My friend is opening a running
store.  I'd be a natural for it."

"To sell?"

"To manage the books.  I'm an accountant."

How could she have forgotten.  "Would that be a full-time job?"  It
didn't sound it to her, and if not, where would he get the money to
indulge in the fine wine, good music, and adventure that he claimed he
wanted.  If he was looking for a woman to bankroll their relationship,
he was sitting across from the wrong one.

"I've never worked full-time," he said.  "If I did that, I wouldn't
have time to run.  I do a hundred miles a week."

"Really."

"I have to, to keep in shape."

Celeste didn't see any shape.  She assumed there had to be muscle
somewhere, but she couldn't see much beyond skin and bones.  She
couldn't see herself reaching for that in the night.

"Are you into fitness?"  he asked.

"I don't run, if that's what you mean."

"You should.  You have the build for it."

Celeste had no desire to run.  With a dismissive smile, she said, "I
wouldn't know where to begin."

He proceeded to tell her.  He talked about shoes and sing lets
sweatbands and gloves.  He talked about starting slow and building up,
about keeping a log, about warm-up exercises and cool-down ones.  He
talked about shin splints He named the kind of watch she would need. 
He even pontificated on jogging bras.

By the time he was done, their food had come and gone, as had every
last bit of Celeste's interest.  She glanced at her watch.  "I have to
leave.  I have a long drive home."  She put enough money on the table
to more than pay for her meal, then rose.  "It was nice meeting
you."

"If you give me your address, I'll send you a notice when my friend
opens his store.  We could set you up to get started."

"Tell you what," she said.  "I have your phone number.  When I get the
urge to run, I'll give you a call."

Two days later, Celeste walked into the Sunflower with a rose in her
hand and was immediately approached by the hostess.  "The gentleman is
already here.  Right this way."

Celeste followed her to a corner table--valued not for privacy here,
but for the lovely sense of being surrounded by glass--and got her
first glimpse of the British widower.

He had said he was fifty, and he looked it.  His hair was gray and his
face lined and round.  But it was the kind of warm, friendly face that
was perpetually wreathed in a smile.

He left his seat when she approached, thanked the hostess, then held
out his hand.  "I'm Michael."

"Celeste.  It's nice to meet you."

His face smiled more broadly.  "The pleasure is mine."  He saw her
comfortably seated before he returned to his own chair.

"Have you been waiting long?"

"No.  I'm compulsively early."  He made a tsking sound.  "But I
shouldn't use that word, now, should I, when I'm trying to impress
someone new."  His accent was mild and quite pleasant.

"Compulsive?"

"It isn't a positive trait, or so my children say, and they're usually
right."

He respected his children.  That was sweet.  "How old are they?"

"Twenty-nine, twenty-five, and eighteen.  And you?  Do you have
children, or was the 'second life' you mentioned in your ad to do with
a marriage that has ended?"

"My marriage ended when my daughter was one.  She's eighteen now, too,
and in college."

His face beamed.  "Really?  Well, we have that in common, although my
eighteen-year-old is a boy.  He and I are quite close.  His leaving
home has hit me hard."

"How long ago did your wife die?"

"Five years.  It was very sudden.  I don't know what I'd have done
without my children.  They have been hugely supportive.  My oldest, a
girl, is married with two children.  She lives in Bloomfield.  That's
twenty minutes from Hartford, where I live.  My middle is a boy.  He
works with me."

Lovely.  "What kind of work do you do?"

"I make nuts and bolts--or my workers do.  I sit at a desk beside a
large window that overlooks the plant.  Jay--that's my son--has his own
apartment.  I have to confess that there have been times in the last
few weeks when I would have liked him living back home."

Celeste couldn't imagine that.  She couldn't imagine anyone welcoming
the work, the responsibility, the dissention that a child at home
entailed.  She had breathed a sigh of relief when fall break had
ended.

"My children and I grew close after my wife died," Michael said.  "I
needed them as much as they needed me.  Ahh, here's our waitress.  I
took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine.  It's a rather
interesting Chardonnay.  Is that all right?"

His pre ordering almost made up for the great relationship he had with
his kids.  "Chardonnay is my favorite," she said with a smile as he
poured.

"That's what my youngest always says.  Of course, he's underage, so
I'm not terribly impressed.  For you, it's fine."  He raised his glass.
"To a lovely lady bearing a rose."

She touched her glass to his.  He was either as chivalrous as he had
said, or corny as hell.  She wasn't sure which.

"I take it you've eaten here before?"  he asked.

"Several times."

"Do you have any recommendations?"

"The chicken Caesar is good, although I always love the quiche.  It may
be more of a luncheon dish, but I think people pay far too much heed to
conventions like that.  Your stomach doesn't know what time of day it
is.  I've read articles calling pizza a perfectly appropriate
breakfast."

The marathoner would have died.  Michael merely chuckled.  "My kids
have been eating pizza for breakfast for years.  Even the two oldest,
when they were living at home, before their mother died.  She never
believed that it was worth a fight, and while I much prefer the great
British breakfast, I don't believe in fighting, either."

"What is the great British breakfast?"  Celeste asked before he could
return to the subject of kids.

"Eggs, kippers and sausage, broiled tomatoes and mushrooms and toast.
It's quite large.  I can't eat like that anymore, of course.  My doctor
says I'm too large, and besides, I'm not the best of cooks at any time,
much less first thing in the morning.  So a tradition has arisen in my
house.  Special occasions are marked by the children coming over and
cooking me the great British breakfast.  Not that it's often, mind you.
But it is fun."

For just a moment, Celeste wondered what it would be like to be part of
a large and congenial family.  Then she pushed the thought aside.
Large families meant more food to cook, more clothes to wash, more
misdeeds to monitor.  She didn't wish it for the world.

"Have you decided?"  Michael asked when the waitress returned.

Celeste ordered the quiche.  During the time it took him to order the
chicken Caesar, she noted that his hair was vaguely shaggy, as were his
clothes, clean but shaggy.  He had a distinctly broken-in look.

Once the waitress left, he asked her if she was having the same trouble
adjusting to being without children at home that he was.  She couldn't
lie.  To his credit, he didn't look shocked.

"It must be different for a woman to shoulder the responsibility of
parenthood alone, than for a man," he said and proceeded to talk about
the years since his wife had died as they related to his children.

At one point, Celeste tried to bring the discussion around to what he
did in his own time for fun, but his own time appeared to be family
time.  If he wasn't visiting his grandchildren, he was taking his older
son to Whalers' games, or attending parents' weekend at the younger
one's school.  He took one vacation a year, with both sons, his
daughter and son-in-law, and grandchildren.

Celeste was not ready for grandchildren.

By the time their food had come and gone, she realized that she wasn't
ready for Michael, either.  She was tired of hearing about his kids.
She was still too close to parenthood to want to talk about it all the
time.  Granted, he sounded like a great father.  But she wasn't looking
for a father.

Then again, as she bid him goodbye, she felt a twinge of regret.  There
was something endearing about his smily face.  It wasn't an inspiring
face, or a pensive one.  But it was kind.

Not that he was in serious contention as a suitor, she decided as she
drove home to Grannick.  There wasn't any chemistry between them, and
chemistry was important.

She might find it with the veterinarian.  He had a lovely, deep voice
that was definitely a turn-on.  Unfortunately he had left to go to a
conference the day after she called.  They were meeting at the
Sunflower the following week.

So there was that to look forward to.

And the doctor, though she had certain qualms about that one. Arranging
a date with him had been as complex an ordeal as reading his resume had
been.  In response to her note suggesting the Sunflower, he had sent
his telephone number.  The first challenge, then, had been to reach
him, rather than his answering service.  The second challenge had been
to find a suitably accessible meeting place.  He was from Baltimore and
had no business, whatsoever, he claimed, in Springfield. So they were
meeting in Boston, where he had meetings the following week.

He had sounded almost begrudging, as though she was one more
appointment to be squeezed into an already over booked schedule.  She
wasn't sure why she hadn't hung up on him.  Maybe because doctors
earned a bundle.  More probably because she had just returned from
striking out with the marathoner.  She might yet call and cancel.

Then, sigh, there was the architect.  As she had done with the others,
she had sent him a note suggesting a meeting at the Sunflower.
Unfortunately, since she had to write through the magazine post office
box, it had taken him longer to respond.  The wait had been worth it.

"Dear GC403, I loved your note.  Supper at the Sunflower sounds
perfect, though I actually had another thought.  One of my clients, an
artist, is having a showing of her work at a gallery in Cambridge.  A
large open house is planned for the last Sunday in October.  If you
were to come, you would not only see a sample of my work, but hers, as
well.  There will be many interesting people there, including artists
and authors from the area, so that even if you think me a total bore
and never want to see my face again, the afternoon won't be a waste. On
the chance that you find me as interesting, if not more so, than some
of those others, there is a wonderful coffeehouse nearby where we can
go for drinks and entertainment, before I put you in your car and send
you home."

It was the kind of adventure that sounded full of possibility.  Her
anticipation of it, as she drove home from Springfield with Michael's
kind face in her mind, was peppered with heat and spice.

Brian looked despairingly in the direction of his kitchen.  Pots, pans,
and baby bottles filled the sink.  Dirty dishes littered the counter.
Laundry was piled on the floor by the dryer.

He was exhausted looking at it.  He was exhausted thinking about it. It
seemed he had been doing nothing but pots and pans and dishes and
laundry for two months straight.

If there was a heaven, Gayle was up there enjoying the irony of the
do-nothing father doing all.  Well, at least he was trying, which was
more than she was doing.  She had let a goddamned car wipe her out.

He should have cleaned the kitchen and folded the laundry last night,
but he had been tired.  Why?  Because he had been up into the wee hours
the night before making love to Emily.

So maybe Gayle was enjoying herself out of spite.

Women would be the death of him yet.

"Brian?"

But a sweet death it would be.  The sound of her voice, alone, made him
jump.  He reached the door just as Emily arrived at the top of the
stairs and braced his hands on either side of the frame.  "You can't
come in yet."

"Why not?"

"Because this place isn't ready for viewing.  I need ten minutes."

"I'm not viewing."

"Five minutes."

She ducked under his arm and took a look around.  "Mmm.  You're right.
Not for viewing."

"I try to keep ahead of it, but it's impossible.  As soon as the
clothes are clean, they get dirty again.  Same with pots and pans, and
I swear I make up that goddamned sofa bed ten times a day.  Dust the
table, and there's more in an hour, so what's the point?  It's doing
and redoing, doing and redoing.  There's never an end to it."

She shot him a droll look.  "Now you know."

"How do women survive?"

"You get used to it after a while."

"But what do I do before 'after a while' sets in?"

"Listening to music helps.  Some women make phone calls while they're
folding laundry.  Some watch television while they're doing the beds.
Unfortunately, if we don't do the work, it won't get done, and we want
it done."

Brian stalked to the bed and began pulling at sheets.  "You've got it,
there.  I tried leaving the bed unmade on the theory that no one's here
during the day to see, but then I had to see when I walked in at night,
and when Julia saw the thing open, she insisted on playing there and
having supper there, and she spilled food all over the place, so I had
to wash the sheets."

Emily nudged him aside.  "I'll do the bed.  You do the laundry."

"No.  It's my bed."

"I've spent some time in it myself this week."

"Not enough," he grumbled.  She rarely spent the night.  He knew that
she was struggling with the morality of their affair, that she came to
him against her better judgment, but he was dying to wake up with her.
She was, still, that little pocket of calm in his life.  Even when they
were making love, he felt stabilized.

But he was loath to pressure her, when she was so vulnerable.  So he
ran a hand through his hair and sighed.  "Sorry.  I rushed to get Julia
to day care so I could come back here and clean before work, but it's
not my idea of how to best start the morning."

His idea of how to best start the morning entailed taking Emily in his
arms, but something about her said that wasn't why she had come.
Suddenly frightened, he reached for her hand.

Emily closed her fingers around his.  "We have to stop."

His fear grew.  "You don't want to be with me?"

"I do.  Too much.  I love being with you.  Then I go back home and feel
guilty, and it isn't only the cheating on Doug.  When I'm with you, I'm
not thinking about him."

"That's the point."

"But he's my husband, and we have a daughter.  Unless I'm prepared to
ask for a divorce, I need to think about him more.  I need to try to
make my marriage work."

"Why?"

"Because he's my husband.  And because we had a good marriage once."

"That was before Daniel disappeared," Brian said and regretted it when
a shaft of pain crossed her face.  But it had to be said.  "Isn't it
true?"

"Yes, but one thing may not have caused the other.  Doug has grown.
He's changed."

"Do you love him?"

"I don't know him the way I used to."

"That's not a good answer."

"Well, I don't have a better one, and until I do, I have to look for
it!"  She took a breath.  "Being with you clouds the picture."

Brian heard her anguish.  It was some solace for what she was saying.
Feeling helpless and more than a little inadequate, he drew her close.
"When you're with me, you smile.  You laugh.  You enjoy yourself.  You
deserve to do those things, Emily."

"Maybe someday."

Inadequate.  Oh, yeah, he felt that.  Doug was a major roadblock in
their relationship, but he wasn't the only one.  Daniel was right there
beside him.  She claimed he was dead, but she wouldn't leave the house,
or the town where he had lived.  Brian feared she wouldn't leave Doug
for the same reason.

He almost told her about the photograph.  It had arrived several days
before, a computer rendition of a file photo of Daniel.  At twenty-one,
he was handsome, half-scholar, half-rogue.  His blond hair had darkened
to a shade of brown midway between Doug's lighter and Emily's darker.
His face was more narrow than the child's had been, his eyes
intelligent, his mouth gentle.  He looked markedly like Jill, except
for the shadow of a beard.  Emily would have been proud of the young
man in the print.

But showing it to her wouldn't help anything.  He had sent it out
through every channel possible, and could do nothing now but wait.  He
was also waiting for the fingerprint enhancement to be done, so that he
could run a check on it.  And he was preparing to question those people
who hadn't been questioned the first time around.  He had even greater
incentive to do that now.

Startling, how dependent on her he had grown.  She offered him the kind
of guileless devotion no other woman had, and he loved it.  He felt
pampered.  He felt needed.  Whereas his relationship with Gayle had
been programmed to allow for a wedding, a child, a simple evening
together, his relationship with Emily was spontaneous and hot.

She complemented him.  She challenged his mind.  She brought sun to his
day.  And damn it he brought it to hers.  He knew he did.  Even now,
with her arms wrapped around him and her face burrowing into his neck,
he could feel her drinking off his strength, his sturdiness, his love.
Rather than being depleted by what she took, he was always enhanced.

"I don't want to let you go."

"I have to do this," she whispered brokenly.

He would have argued, if he hadn't been so loath to cause her pain.

"We'll still see each other," she said.

But not that way, and that way was what set their relationship apart
from the relationships they had with other people.  He thought to tell
her he loved her, but that would only make things harder.  So he simply
held her for a while.  He waited for her to draw back, but she didn't.
So he held her longer.  Still she didn't draw back.

Finally, sensing that she needed him to do it, he released her.  "I'll
be here," he said and managed a smile.

She nodded.  "It's good to know."

"Julia loves you."

"I love her, too."  She looked around, drinking in the room with
thirsty eyes before finding a diversion.  "Why are there dishes in the
sink?  Is something wrong with the dishwasher?"

"Yeah.  It's full.  Everything inside is clean.  I just haven't had a
chance to unload it."

She took a deep breath.  "Okay.  You fold the laundry.  I'll do the
bed."

"John would kill me."

With a dry, "John's not here," she put Brian's newest jazz revival disc
on the player and set to work.  It was her way of saying that though
they wouldn't be sleeping together, not much else would change.

Brian took heart from that.

At the moment of Daniel's disappearance, there had been four other
customers and three employees inside the post office with Emily.  The
only employee questioned at the time had been the one helping the
customers.  The other two had been sorting mail in the back room.

One of those had died nine years before.  The other was retired and
living with his daughter two towns east of Grannick.

"Arthur Terrell?"  Brian asked when a white-haired man answered his
knock.

"Yes."

He flashed his badge.  "Detective Stasek.  Grannick Police Department.
I understand you were working at the post office nineteen years ago
when Daniel Arkin was taken from his mother's car.  Do you remember
that day?"

"Arkin.  Sure do.  Ever find the boy?"

"No.  We're doing some clean-up on the case.  The file says that you
were in the back room at the time of the crime.  Do you remember how
long you'd been there that morning?"

"I was sick about the boy.  His picture was on our wall for a long time
after.  He was a cute-looking thing.  My daughter had one just his age.
Couldn't imagine something like that happening to him."

"Mr.  Terrell?"

"How can I help you, sir?"

"How long were you in the back room?"

"The back room?  That's where we sorted the mail.  Did it all by hand
in those days.  The carriers kept coming back to get more."

"Were you in the back room the whole time Mrs.  Arkin was there?"

"I didn't know when she was there.  We couldn't see anything up front.
Didn't know nothing had happened 'til the police showed up."

"You didn't leave the back room at all?  Not to poke your head out
front?  Or go outside for coffee or a smoke?"

"Don't smoke."

"How about getting fresh air?"

"I always stayed inside 'til the job was done.  Didn't see nothing
outside, seeing as we didn't have no windows."  He frowned.  "I figured
it had t've been someone passing through town.  No one in Grannick
woulda taken the boy.  No one in Grannick woulda kept the boy, seeing
as Emily was so upset.  Such a nice girl.  My heart broke for her."

Brian's, too, but he wanted a lead.  "You mentioned the carriers coming
back for more mail.  Did any of them come or go while Mrs.  Arkin was
there?"

"I just told you.  I didn't see her there."

"Okay.  I'll rephrase that.  The police arrived within ten minutes of
Mrs.  Arkin's leaving the post office.  Did any of the carriers come or
go during, say, the half hour before the police showed up?"

Arthur thought about that.  "Don't remember, really."

"How about sounds?  You couldn't see what was going on out front, but
could you hear?"

"Some."

"What does 'some' mean?"

"If there was a ruckus, I'd a heard."

"Did you hear one that morning?"

"No."

"Did you hear anything at all unusual that morning?"

"Not that I recall.  I used to stand out back listening to the voices,
playing a game, trying to recognize them, just to pass the time, know
what I mean?  You couldn't always hear the ladies' voices.  Oh, you
could hear Constance Marret's voice, no one could miss that one, it was
all high and whiny.  Emily's woulda been softer, like a hum.  Once the
police came through and said what happened, I remember thinking that
the voices were too calm for something like that.  "Course, Constance
had been in earlier, and Archie Hickocks"--he upped his own voice--"who
made high little sounds, kind of like this," he paused, "and Frank
Balch was in, and his voice was the worst.  Could always hear Frank. He
had a mean voice."

"Was it any meaner than usual that day?"

"No meaner.  Just the same.  Those were the times when my
partner--Horace, he passed on a few years back--my partner and I'd look
at each other and be real happy we weren't working out front."

Brian got nothing more.  After passing Arthur his card, he returned to
the Jeep and considered the next name on his list.

Four patrons had been inside the post office with Emily that day.
Archie Hickocks had left on foot, heading down the street to the
sandwich shop that had been where the Eatery now was.  His arrival had
been well documented.

Frank Balch had climbed into his own car without seeing Emily's car or
the child.  He had been counting out change from the twenty dollar bill
he had used to pay for his stamps and thought he'd been gypped of a
dollar.  He had been ready to storm back in, when he had found it.

Selma and May McDougall had left the post office and gone to the dress
shop across the street.  They hadn't seen a thing.

The owner of the dress shop had been interviewed within an hour of
Daniel's disappearance.  Not so the two customers who were there when
the McDougalls arrived.  They were Mary Viola and Susan Boyd, mother
and daughter.  Mary had moved to a retirement community in Florida, but
Susan still lived in Grannick with her husband.

Brian showed his badge and introduced himself.  "I'm new to Grannick.
I've been reading old files and want to tie up some loose ends
regarding Daniel Arkin's disappearance."

Susan looked startled.  "Daniel Arkin?  That's a very old case."

"This is just housekeeping," he said nonchalantly.  "You weren't
questioned at the time.  Do you remember that day?"

"Very well.  I have two boys of my own.  My husband and I had
nightmares about what happened."

"Did you see Emily's car pull into the post office lot?"

"No.  I was trying to help my mother buy a dress.  She wasn't the
easiest person to shop with."

"Did you look across the street at all?"

"Not until afterward.  I didn't know anything had happened until I was
paying for my mother's dress.  Selma McDougall was the one who noticed
the police car.  Then we saw people milling around."

Nineteen years hadn't changed the story.  It was identical to the one
in the files given by Belle Fraser, the owner of the dress shop.
Belle's window had the best view in town of the post office lot.

"Where were the people milling?"  Brian asked.

"In front of the post office and in the parking lot.  I saw two
cars--Emily's and a police car."

"Did you see any peripheral movement off to the side or at the back of
the parking lot?"  "No."

"Did you hear anything unusual, something that might have registered,
even while you were dealing with your mother, like the squeal of
tires?"

Susan looked apologetic.  "You wouldn't be asking that if you knew my
mother.  She talks nonstop.  All the while we were at Belle's that
day--I remember, because when we found out what had happened, it seemed
so petty--she was jabbering on about how unflattering the dress styles
were and how much smaller the dressmakers were making their things, so
that she had to buy a bigger size than she used to.  She took time off
to complain about Frank Balch and his old car and the awful noise it
made, but all I heard was her voice.  I'm sorry.  I wish I could
help."

Later, sitting in John's office, Brian repeated that thought.

"They all want to help.  But they're not telling me anything new.
Everyone liked Emily.  Everyone feels bad for her.  No one knows who
would take her child or why.  Frank Balch's name keeps popping up.
Sounds like he was a mean son of a bitch.  Could he have done more than
he said?"

"Don't know how.  Don't know why.  He hated kids."

"Maybe that was why."

"Nah.  He had just gotten rid of his own.  He wouldn't want to go
anywhere near Daniel.  Besides, we questioned him, questioned him two,
three times.  His story didn't change.  Myra corroborated it."

"She wasn't with him."

"No, but she was at home when he got back, and that was five minutes
after he left the post office.  So what's he gonna do?  Take the kid
and dump him in five minutes?  Give me a motive."

"Meanness."

"Meanness ain't no crime.  The guy never even got a speeding ticket."

Brian sighed.  "Well, I'm sorry he's dead.  I'd have liked to talk with
him."

"No, you wouldn't.  Trust me."

But Brian held firm.  "Guys like that are sometimes the biggest help.
They have chips on their shoulders.  They love bad-mouthing other
people.  They have the guts to say things that kinder people don't.
They don't protect anyone."

"No kidding.  Poor Emily was going through a time of it, and all Frank
could do was flay her for leaving the child in the car.  Sweet guy,
huh?"

Myra sat on the bench under the willow.  She was wrapped in the large
wool jacket that Frank used to wear to chop wood.  Her daughter-in-law,
Linda, wearing a more stylish parka, sat beside her.

Myra hadn't invited her over.  Linda had just shown up and insisted
they talk.  So Myra had said, "Fine, but I'm going outside," as she
pulled on the jacket.

It was cloudy at midday, and chilly as October days went.  The grass
had been crunchy that morning, and though it had softened some, crunchy
meant winter was at hand.

"We worry about you," Linda said.  "Carl doesn't like the idea of your
being out here all alone."

"I'm not alone.  I have people in town.  And Emily and Brian.  And
Frank."

"Yes, well, we were wondering if you'd consider a move."

"Good Lord, no.  I'm not moving."

"There's a wonderful place, garden apartments not a half hour from us.
The people are lovely."

"I can't move."

"Why not?"

"I've lived here for thirty-seven years.  Everything that matters is
here."

"Maybe when Carl, Peter, and Nowell were home, and when Frank was
alive, but it's only you now."

"It's more than that."

"These apartments are wonderful, Myra.  You'd have a bedroom, a den,
and a living room, all carpeted.  The kitchen was just redone.  It even
has a microwave."

"I can't work a microwave."

"You can learn.  It's freezing out here.  Wouldn't you like to go back
inside?"

"No," Myra said.  She brushed shriveled leaves from the bench and
tipped back her head.  The boughs had thinned.  Two more weeks, and a
good rain would leave them bare.

"Would you just look at this apartment?"  Linda asked.

"No.  You'd only have to drive me right back.  I'm not interested in
moving."  She gazed out over the pond.  It was what she had first loved
about the house.  She couldn't imagine living where there wasn't a
pond.

"It's adorable, Myra.  The bedroom and den are up a curved stairway.
The living room has a separate dining area with a door to the kitchen.
And there are sliding doors off the living room that lead to a private
patio."

Myra wondered why Linda thought a patio would appeal, when she had all
this.

"The closet space is good.  There's a window in the bathroom.  There's
even a ceiling fan in the bedroom."

That gave Myra a moment's pause, but only a moment's.  "Frank wouldn't
like it," she said.  Rising, she went to the water's edge.  It was dark
where it lapped at the rocks, and, farther out, gray beneath the
clouds.  She imagined that a world of creatures lay under the murk.

"Myra," said Linda, softly, from behind, "Frank is dead."

Myra didn't bother to argue.  Linda couldn't understand that Frank
lived on, any more than Carl could, or Peter or Nowell, or Emily or
Brian could.  But he did live.  Myra felt the force of him every day
and every night.

As she stood there beside the pond, with Linda going on about an
apartment that Myra wouldn't move to, couldn't move to, she dreamed
that the creatures under the surface rose up one night, took form, and
left the water.  She imagined that they came across the grass to the
willow.  sixteen

EMILY SAT IN THE ATTIC WITH HER BACK AGAINST

A carton labeled jill's dolls and her legs askew on the aged wood
planks.  Open before her lay the large accord ian-pleated folder that
held all the bits and snatches of things she had written in the days
following Daniel's disappearance.  They weren't in any order.  She had
jotted down thoughts as they'd come, on whatever material was handy,
and had stashed them here.  After years of random extractions and
returns, they were a jumbled mess.

She drew out a piece of paper and read, "I touch his crib and see him
playing with his toys on the floor, then I blink and see nothing, just
my mind playing games.  I remember him as he was, doing all the things
he loved, and I want him to do them again.  He's been gone four months,
an eternity in such a young life.  With each day that passes, chances
of things ever being the same grow smaller."

She reached in again and drew out a phone bill with writing on its
back.  "I lost control again today.

We were eating dinner in silence, as seems our way since Daniel, when
I started to sweat and shake.  I left the table and went outside for
air.  Doug was annoyed with me, but I couldn't help it.  The walls were
closing in.  I felt that if I didn't move I would suffocate.  So I
started walking down the street and kept going, into town and around
and back.  At the head of China Pond Road I saw him, or imagined I did.
He was wearing the same clothes he had on that day, the little
dungarees bulging around his diapers, the red striped jersey, the
sneakers, the baby baseball hat with the pin on the front.  daddy's
boy, it said.  Doug bought it for him."

Emily remembered that hat, clear as day.  She remembered the dungarees,
the jersey, the sneakers.  She remembered thinking horrible things
about what might have happened to those clothes, picturing them torn
and bloody.  She remembered coiling into herself on the edge of the
sidewalk, hugging her knees, wanting to die there and then if all there
was to her future were torn and bloody thoughts.  She remembered John
coming by, stopping, talking softly.

She hadn't remembered those silent dinners until now, though.  Once
Jill had been old enough to join in, her presence had livened things
up.  But there had been that silence before.

Her marriage had been good until Daniel disappeared.  Much as she had
downplayed cause-and-effect when Brian suggested it, she might have
been wrong.

She sifted through the folder for the piece of faded yellow
construction paper that she often drew out.  She had been in the
process of making a card for Doug, when he had burst into the room,
wanting to know why his partner had seen her car parked at the office
of her obstetrician.  There had been no point in making a card then,
since the cat was out of the bag.  Later, she had simply written out
her thoughts.

"I'm pregnant again.  Still can't believe it.  Must have conceived
shortly before Daniel disappeared, because Doug and I haven't had sex
since.  Some would call it a cruel joke, what with the hell of our
lives now.  I call it a miracle.  After so many nights when I honestly
didn't care if I lived to see the day again, I do now.  A new baby
means a second chance."

She tucked the yellow paper in with the rest and stretched a thick
elastic band around the accord ian pleated folder.  Then she went down
to Doug's den.  She set the accord ian-pleated folder on the desk,
pulled up the telephone, and dialed New York.

A receptionist announced that she had reached Renton Press.

"Kate Cerrillo, please."

She looked off toward the pond.  Framed by the mullioned window, Canada
geese were poking their bills through the backyard grass, three, four,
five of them.  They would be gone soon, flown farther south, leaving
the chicadees and the squirrels to fight for the feeder's seed.

"Kate Cerrillo."

"Hi, Kate.  It's Emily."

"Emily!  Good to hear from you!  I've been thinking about you.  How's
Jill?"

"Jill is great.  Back at school after fall break, and liking it a
lot."

"Do you like advanced parenthood as much?"

"I'm not sure yet.  It's different.  I'm still adjusting."

"Emily."  All business.  "I need a book."

Emily smiled.  It was a familiar line, delivered by Kate each time they
talked.  "What is it now?"

"A juicy scandal brewing in Washington.  One of the president's top
aides is involved with the wife of a senator from the opposition party.
No, you haven't read anything about it yet, mainly because there is
bipartisan opposition to a leak, but the leak is coming.  We want a
book.  It has your name written all over it."

Emily didn't think so.  "Not good timing for me."

"Why not?  Jill's away.  Doug travels.  You're young and energetic. I'd
do it if I weren't so old."

"You're not old."

"For running in and out of corridors and up and down marble steps?  I'm
nearly sixty.  Besides, too many people know me.  Not you, though.
You're low key enough to slip through doors that would be shut in my
face.  It would mean spending time in Washington.  Don't worry about
money.  We'll cover all your expenses--"

"It's not that.  I'm kind of involved in something else."

"Something to do with writing?"  Kate asked.

"Possibly."

There was a pause, then a hopeful "Are you serious?"

"I'm getting there."

A quietly excited "About Daniel?"

Emily's smile was skewed.  "How'd you guess?"

"I can hear it in your voice.  It's your Daniel tone.  You're
terrified, but you're thinking of all those notes you've kept all these
years, and you know that you won't be able to write anything else until
you've done this."

"But can I do it?  That's the question."

"Sure, you can.  Writing was an outlet for you after Daniel
disappeared.  It kept you sane.  You told me so."

She had indeed, during one of several lunches that had gone on for
hours and hours.  From the start, there had been a rapport between Kate
and her--not quite mother and daughter, not quite best of friends, but
a tight connection nonetheless.

"Okay, it'll be tough reliving things," Kate went on, "but you have all
the raw materials right there."

"Would you be interested in publishing it, if I did it?"

"I've been wanting it for years.  Give me a month, and you'll have a
contract."

But Emily wasn't ready to commit.  "No contract.  Not yet.  I said I
was getting there.  I didn't say I was there."

"Do it, Emily.  Please?"

Kate's plea was still echoing in Emily's ear when Brian called.  "How
about lunch?"  he asked.

She brightened.  Lunch was innocent--a broad daylight rendezvous
between friends.  "Can you take the time?"

"Sure.  It's a quiet day.  Want to?"

"Yeah."

"Great.  I'll be there soon."

When he pulled into the driveway five minutes later, she was wearing a
fresh sweater and slacks, and a pleased smile.  She ran out to the Jeep
and slipped inside.

"Hi," she breathed.

"Hi, yourself," he said with a grin and started off.

"This is a treat."

"My treat.  You're the prettiest thing I've seen all day."

"That may or may not be a compliment."

"It is.  I wasn't sure you'd come."

"This is safe, isn't it?"

"Depends what you'd call safe.  If you mean we can't make love at the
Eatery, you're right.  But I won't promise that my eyes won't give it a
try, and if you feel a wandering hand under the table--"

"You won't."

"Why not?"

"Because I asked you not to.  Right?"

He didn't answer the question, simply said a soft, "I'm glad you
came."

Over sandwiches, they talked about his morning's interrogations of one
drunk driver, one obscene phone caller, and one victim of a
spray-painted car.  Emily told him about her talk with Kate, but it
wasn't until they had been there for nearly forty minutes, that Brian
said, "This is the first time we've been out together in public."

"We've eaten here before."

"Not without Julia.  It's different without Julia.  What if people
talk?"

"If?  Make that when.  And it won't bother me."  She had sworn off sex,
not friendship.  "Will it bother you?"

"No.  Will it bother Doug?"

Emily wasn't sure.  It was actually an intriguing thought.  "He thinks
you're great.  He tells me he's glad you're next door.  He feels better
leaving me alone, knowing you're here."  She found the irony of it
amusing.  "He should only know."

"Detective Stasek?"  It was their waitress.  "Chief Davies just
called."  She passed him a slip of paper, along with the bill.

Brian read it, took money enough from his wallet to cover lunch and a
tip, and drew Emily out of the booth.  On the sidewalk, he said,
"Something's come up.  I'll have to drop you home."

"What is it?"

"Another visit to Leila Jones."

As he settled her in the Jeep, she asked, "What's up?"

"She's having trouble with her kids."  He shut the door, rounded the
hood, and slid in behind the wheel.  "I won't know what 'til I get
there."

Emily accepted that for all of thirty seconds.  He had barely swung a
U-turn when she decided that he knew more than he was letting on.  Most
everyone in Grannick knew Leila Jones better than Brian did.  Yet John
wanted Brian there.

She reached over and pulled John's note from his pocket.

"Emily--"

The words she read tied her stomach in knots.  "One of her kids is
missing?"

He sighed.  "That's what it says."

"I'm coming."

"You're not."  He continued along LaGrange in the opposite direction
from where Leila Jones lived.

"I'm coming," Emily insisted.

"You can't.  This is police work."

"I came once before."

"That was different."

But Emily wasn't giving up.  Who better to be in on the search for a
child than one who knew firsthand how it felt?  "I know Leila.  I know
what she's thinking.  I can stay with her and help keep her calm while
you look for the child."

"No.  It's too close to home.  I don't want you upset."

She let him have it.  "I'll be more upset sitting home waiting for
word.  I'll be imagining that the child was kidnapped by some perverted
stranger who is doing the same kind of unspeakably terrifying things to
it as someone did to Daniel.  I'll be thinking that the first few hours
are the most crucial, and that if I could be there with Leila, I could
maybe pick up something from her that would give a clue as to who took
the child and where they went, I can be a help, Brian," she begged,
needing the redemption of it.  "Don't deny me that."

His mouth was set, his eyes firm ahead, but when he reached China Pond
Road, he swore, made another U-turn, and started back toward town.
"This is not good.  I just know it.  I don't know why I listen.  Either
you are the most persuasive woman in the world, or I'm just such a
sucker for a sweet thing that common sense goes right out the window."
His finger pointed at her, while his eyes hugged the road.  "If this
upsets you, don't come crying to me.  I've warned you.  I've tried to
protect you.  You are impossible."

"But you do love me."

He sighed, his fight gone.  "Ain't it the truth."

It was a light moment, that dissipated the closer they came to Leila's
street and was forgotten completely when the flashing lights atop the
cruisers at Leila's house came into view.  Neighbors were standing in
small clumps, keeping their distance.  A baldheaded man in an
undershirt was watching the goings-on from the sill of the third-floor
window.

Memory, and the smell of tragedy pulled the knot in Emily's stomach
tighter.

Leila was on the front steps with the baby on her lap and the three
other children looking out from the door behind her like caged beasts,
eyes wide, noses flattened on the misshapen screen.  The children were
silent.  Leila was the one making noise this time, a wailing sound,
halfway between a whine and a sob.

Immersing herself in Leila's grief, Emily sat and slipped an arm around
her shoulder.  John and another officer were hovering, with two more
officers wandering around the house.

Leila's eyes went to Brian.  "I was out back hanging the wash.  I had
the baby, but the others was s'posed to stay /nside.  Travis followed
me out."

"Travis is the two-year-old?"  Brian asked.

"I told him to stay inside, but he's never listening to what I say.  I
told him to stay with the others, and that if he didn't something bad
was gonna happen to him, but what was I s'posed to do, stay inside
watching him every minute?  I had to go out to hang the wash, and then
when I came back inside, he wasn't there, and the others told me he was
out, so I went back out, and he was there, and then he wasn't."

"Did you see anyone around the house?"  Brian asked.

"I didn't see no one.  I was hanging out the wash.  There was so much
of it, nothing stays clean for long, they're always spilling stuff all
over the place.  I try my best, but I can't do everything, not with
them squalling all the time."

Brian turned to John and said in a low voice, "Has someone searched the
house?"

"He isn't in the house," Leila cried.  "He came out, after I told him
not to.  I told him so many times to stay inside with Lissie and Davis
and Joey, but they're always doing awful things to him, even when I
tell them not to, so he wanted to come out."

"Sam's in there now," John told Brian.  "Hooks and Munroe are out back.
We got a description of the boy.  I put it on the horn."

Brian made to lean against the stair rail near Leila, but caught
himself when it started to give.  "Did you actually see Travis
outside?"

"He was right there, walking all through my clean laundry, pulling on
things so I had to slap his hand."

"What did he do then?"

"He sat down and screamed."

The baby started to cry.  Leila put it to her shoulder and began a
convulsive rocking.  Emily offered to hold her, but Leila didn't
respond.  Her eyes were fixed on Brian.

"What did you do then?"  he asked.

"I went back to hanging the laundry.  He got quiet, and I didn't hear
anything else."

"He didn't cry out, maybe when someone snatched him up?"

"I couldn't hear.  The baby had been sleeping in the basket and woke up
and was crying then, too, so I couldn't hear nothing."

"Do you remember the last time I was here?"  Brian asked.  His eyes had
grown demanding.

Emily would have told those eyes most anything.

Leila answered, "Yes."

"The man you saw hanging around the house?"

She nodded.

"Was he back again after that?"

"I don't know.  I think so."

"Did you see him?"

"I guess.  But as soon as I get a look out the window, one of the kids
is needing something or other, and by the time I'm back there, he's
gone."

Brian's eyes were steady.  "Same guy, dirty blond hair, kinda short,
wearin' a wool cap?"

"I guess, but I don't know if he's around.  Like I said, one of the
kids is always wanting me for something.  I don't get a minute of free
time to be looking around."

Brian left them and took John out of earshot, but Emily knew what he
was saying.  He was saying that Leila had described the first man as
tall, dark, and wearing a baseball hat.  He was saying that something
wasn't right, and while nearly every other impulse in Emily was crying,
Look for the child, get a description, put out an APB, there isn't any
time to spare, a small one was agreeing with him.

"We're taking a look around," Brian called and set off with John.

Leila looked miserable.  "I can't be a mother to these kids the right
way."

From behind came a high-pitched, "Where's Travis, Momma?"

"I'm hungry."

"Momma, can we come out?"

"We," Leila shrieked without turning, "you can't come out until I say,
and I'm not saying it yet."

"They aren't bad kids," Emily coaxed softly.

"But I can't take care of them by myself.  One wants something, and
then the other wants something, and then the baby is crying and wet and
spitting up.  I can't do everything, not by myself."

"Didn't someone come to see you, after we were here last?"  Brian had
arranged it.  Emily had insisted.  "Someone from Social Services?"

Leila nodded.  "She didn't stay long."

"What did she say?"

"She said I was doin' okay."  Leila started shaking her head
hypnotically.  "But I'm not.  I'm all alone here.  I need help."  The
head shake outlasted the words.

At this stage nineteen years ago, when Daniel had disappeared and the
police had arrived, Emily had been in a panic looking for him.  She had
been running around the parking lot, looking under and behind shrubs,
under and behind the employees' cars.  She had been asking nearly as
many questions as the police.

Leila wasn't in that kind of panic.  She seemed more overwhelmed by her
children, in general, than worried about Travis.

It struck Emily that Leila knew about Daniel, just like the rest of the
town did, and that if she was looking for an attention-getter, Emily's
presence last time might have put a bug in her ear.

"Where do you think Travis is?"  Emily asked.

"I don't know."

"Would he have wandered off by himself?"

"Maybe."

"Has he ever done that before?"

"Well, he plays out here with all the other kids.  When they go across
the street, he goes, too."

Brian returned.  He put a foot on the stair and an elbow on his knee.
"Do you have any idea why someone would take Travis?"

"No."

"What about his father?  Could he have come and taken the boy?"

"I keep asking him to do it every time I see him, but all he says is
he's going to Boston to find work and he can't take Travis, so I have
to keep him.  That's what they all say, but they're not the ones stuck
with the kids."

"We can get you help," Emily said softly.  "The first woman must have
misunderstood.  There are ways to help young mothers like you."

"There are?"

"Of course."

Leila looked at her as though she was afraid to hope, but wanted to
more than anything.

Brian's voice gentled.  "Tell me about Travis.  Does he play hide and
seek?"

Leila began picking tiny wool balls off the baby's dirty sweater.  "He
runs after the bigger kids sometimes."

"Where do they hide?"

She went on picking.  "I don't know.  Under the porch.  In the Henzis'
shed.  Sometimes behind the trash cans."

"Anywhere else?"

"The dig."

"Where?"

Even Emily had had trouble catching the words.

"The dig," Leila repeated, frowning at the sweater.  "Down the street.
Where they're building."

Brian caught Emily's eye for an instant before asking Leila softly, "Do
you think I should check there?"

Leila didn't look up.  She hesitated, then nodded.

The following Monday night, Emily discussed the experience with Kay and
Celeste.  "They found the little boy in an empty appliance box that
someone had dumped off there.  He had a little pile of dirt with him
and was happy as a pig in you-know-what.  One of the neighbors
confirmed seeing Leila carry him there."

"Is she being charged with anything?"  Celeste asked.

Kay said, "John couldn't get himself to do it.  Leila has problems
enough without.  Technically, she put him there like it was a playpen,
with every intention of going back for him later."

"But she reported him missing.  She got half our police force out
looking for him.  Isn't that false something or other?"

"Technically," Emily echoed Kay, "and if she were living in a big city,
she'd probably have been taken into custody for it.  But we all know
Leila.  She isn't evil.  She is simply and totally overwhelmed by the
portion that's on her plate.  So she's doing what she has to do to get
attention.  It's a classic cry for help."

"Will she get it?"

"Hopefully.  I talked with her mother.  Not much by way of sympathy
coming from that front, but the woman did agree to stop by.  Brian also
raised a stink with DSS.  They're sending another worker over this
time, one with more stamina than the first."

"Will they take the kids away?"

"I hope not.  Leila loves them in her way, and they're not being
mistreated, at least, not yet.  DSS may suggest a temporary placement
while she pulls herself together.  Can you imagine--five children, and
she's just twenty-one?"

Celeste snorted.  "I couldn't handle one child at twenty-five."

"Was it difficult for you?"  Kay asked Emily.  "Being with Leila when
they thought her little boy might have been kidnapped?"

Emily remembered arriving at Leila's house, the neighbors milling, the
cruiser lights flashing.  "At first.  I was back in the post office
parking lot.  The scene had the same panicky feel."  She waved the
image away.

"How's Doug?"

The missing-child image was gone, but not the unease--different cause,
same intensity.  "Doug is Doug."

"The weekend was a bust?"

"By my standards.  He refuses to talk."

"About anything?"  Celeste asked.

"Anything substantial."  Emily had tried so hard, had been solicitous
and easygoing, had modulated her voice to sound innocent and
nonthreatening, just curious.  "He won't talk about his work.  He won't
talk about mine.  He won't talk about Grannick, couldn't care less
what's happening here.  He'll talk about Jill.  He'll talk about the
weather and how it may affect his flights.  That's it.  He certainly
won't talk about Daniel."  She studied her fork.  "Brian thought there
might be a connection between Doug's attitude toward our marriage and
Daniel's disappearance.  So I asked Doug if he ever thought about
Daniel."

"What did he say?"

"He said no.  Then I asked if he thought Daniel's disappearance had
shaped his life any.  He looked at me like I was dumb."  Which was
nothing new, but still hurtful, particularly given the subject matter.
"He said of course it had shaped his life, anything that serious shapes
a person's life.  When I asked in what ways, he rolled his eyes and
said he wasn't in the mood to give a lecture in elementary psychology,
and walked off."  She looked at her friends.  "I don't think he likes
me anymore."

"Jerk."

"The man doesn't know what he has."

Emily's insides were jangling.  Thinking about Doug set it off. "Yeah,"
she sighed, "well, he doesn't seem to care.  I can't make him talk.  I
can't make him listen.  He has his own agenda and won't deviate from
it.  Do you think he's trying to tell me something?"

"Like what?"  Kay asked.

"Like he wants a divorce."  She hated the word, but it kept coming to
mind.

"Your husband is a self-centered man," Celeste argued.  "If he wanted a
divorce, he'd ask for it."

"Does it follow, then, that if he's not asking for it, he doesn't want
it?"  Emily asked.  She was trying to reason things out, trying to get
a grip on this man who had grown so elusive.  "Should I keep fighting
to find something worth saving?"

"Do you want to?"  Kay asked.

"I think so."

Celeste looked mystified.  "Why?"

"Because I'm married to him, he's my husband, we have a child."

"At some point, those things become secondary."

"Maybe.  But I'm not there yet."

For several minutes, no one spoke.  Emily picked at the remains of her
sandwich, wondering if she was foolish clinging to something with so
little substance, wondering why it had so little substance and whether
it could ever have more.

"What are you going to do?"  Celeste asked.

"Keep at it, I guess.  We'll be together in Boston for Parents'
Weekend.  I may get the opening I want."

Oh, she would get the opening.  The question was whether Doug would
take it.  Emily knew the others were thinking the same thing.  She
could see it on their faces.

"Back up a little," Kay said.  "How did you come to be discussing Doug
with Brian?"

Emily felt her cheeks warm.  "Brian lives over the garage.  He sees how
little time Doug spends home."

"You and he talk about things like that?"

"Sure.  He's a cop, like John."  It was a good point, she thought.  "He
asks lot of questions.  He does it in a way that makes it hard not to
answer."

"It's the eyes," Celeste said.  "I warned you about those."  She raised
her soda to her mouth and remarked around the straw, "I hear you had
lunch with him the other day."

"He was free.  So was I."

"I hear you made a nice couple."

"Who said that?"  Emily asked, evading the issue.

But Celeste had a one-track mind.  "You do make a nice couple.  Would
you be interested in him?"

"I'm married."

Celeste held up a hand.  "If you weren't, would you be interested in
him?"

Emily made a show of deliberating.  She finally shrugged.  "Why not?
He's a nice guy."

"Nice?  Those eyes alone can make a woman melt."

You should only know the half, Emily thought with another, even
greater rush of warmth.

"Hypothetically," Celeste went on, "if you weren't married to Doug,
would you be looking at other men?"

"I don't know."  But she did.  Brian would be first on her list, if she
weren't married to Doug.

"Would you be interested in sex?"

"If you're asking," Emily said with a sigh that she hoped sounded
bored, "whether I think it's all right for you to be wanting sex, I
think it is.  I just think you have to be selective about who you have
it with."

"Do you want sex?"

"This minute, no," she snapped, annoyed that Celeste persisted.  "In
the future, yes."

"You don't think people outgrow it?"

Emily gave her a look.  "You don't believe that.  Why are you asking
me?"

"I want to know if I'm strange.  Am I oversexed, looking for a lover at
my age?"

"You're only forty-three."

"Forty-three isn't twenty-five."

That struck a familiar note.  "Ahhh.  You're thinking about the boy who
answered your ad."

"He isn't a boy.  He's a younger man.  I've talked with him on the
phone twice now.  He's nice.  Sounds very mature.  Seems totally
comfortable with the idea of having sex with an older woman."

"He talks about it?"  Kay asked.  It was the first thing she'd said in
a while.

"Yeah.  It's kinda racy.  But safe.  Phone sex is."

"What happens when you meet him?"  Emily asked.

"I doubt I will."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not comfortable with the idea of his having sex with an
older woman.  Besides, there are enough others closer to my age to
keep me busy for a while, even with the marathoner and the doctor
crossed off the list."

"You crossed off the doctor?"  Emily asked in surprise.  She had
thought Celeste was meeting him later this week.

"He sent a message through the magazine--urgent, he said, so they
actually called me on the phone to tell me that he won't be in Boston
this week after all."

"Why don't you just reschedule?"

"Because, A, he had his secretary call the message in, and, B, when I
tried to call back, I got his answering service three times.  I don't
need that.  I don't care how wealthy he is.  I don't want to be dealing
with a secretary, or an answering machine, and I don't want to be
squeezed in between meetings.  I have no idea why he placed his ad in
the first place.  That was one thing about the widower, Michael.  He
made me feel like he had all the time in the world just for me.  Okay,
so there weren't any fireworks, still, I liked that feeling.  Besides,
I'm meeting the veterinarian on Wednesday.  And then," she grinned, "on
Sunday," she sighed, "the architect."

Emily had been hearing about the architect for days.  "I hope you're
not setting yourself up for a fall."

"I'm not.  I'm telling you, he is going to be the best.  I just know
it."

Kay hung behind a bit when they left the Eatery.  When Celeste climbed
into her car, she attached herself to the nearby parking meter, and
when the car pulled away from the curb, she didn't move.

Emily joined her.  "You were quiet back there."

"I was uncomfortable."

"With Celeste's men?"

"More than that."  It was late.  She had school tomorrow.  But there
were things on her mind that would keep her awake anyway, and, awkward
as it was to express, she needed feedback.  "Are you in a rush to get
home?"

"Me?  For what?"

"I don't know.  A call from Jill.  Doug."

"Jill knows I'm with you guys," Emily answered, "and Doug's only been
gone for a day.  He won't call."  She sat down on the curb and patted
the spot beside her.

Kay took it.  She wrapped her arms around her knees.  "I feel bad about
Doug."

"I know."

"Do you still love him?  The truth, Em."

It was a minute and several cars rolling past before Emily said, "I
don't know.  I don't feel a rush when he walks in the door, just a lot
of nervousness, and hope, hope that things will be better this time.
Only they never are.  Our relationship stinks."

"Do you sleep together?"

"We sleep in the same bad."

"Do you miss the other?"

After a minute, she said, softly, "Yes."

She sounded like she wasn't entirely comfortable talking about sex,
which helped Kay, since she wasn't either.  The darkness helped, too.
She didn't feel quite so exposed.

"Did you mean what you told Celeste?  About sex?  About wanting it with
another man, if you and Doug split?"

"This is an awkward discussion."

"I know."

They sat for a time before Emily said, again softly, "I'm not ready to
shrivel and die."

Kay looked out across the street.  "You don't think sex is overblown
for women our age?"

"We're not terribly old."

"I'm older than you are."

"By a few years.  That's not much.  Do you think sex is overblown for
men our age?"

"They're different.  Society assumes they'll keep on going.  They don't
reach menopause."

"You haven't, have you?"

"No."  She hugged her knees.  Menopause scared the living daylights out
of her.  She felt less than sexy now, but at least she was fertile. She
couldn't imagine not having something so female as a period.  "Was sex
with Doug good?"

"In the beginning."  Emily watched her fingers steepling.  "It changed
after Daniel."

"How?"

"Became mechanical."

"Could that have been marital blahs setting in?"

"Possibly."

Kay didn't know why she had asked.  Her problem wasn't the blahs.  When
it was dark, when John touched her, she liked it.

Emily came forward to hug her knees, too.  In a gentle voice, she
asked, "Are you having trouble with John?"

"Actually," Kay sighed, "he's having trouble with me."  She blurted it
out.  "He wants more, and I'm not even talking about all-the-way sex.
He wants touchy feely before dinner.  He wants sweet talk and kisses
here and there, for no reason at all.  Isn't that weird?"

"No.  It's nice."

"He wants me to take the initiative.  I don't know if I can."

"Why not?"

"It's just not me."

"Aren't you attracted to him?"

"Yes, but I don't define myself in sexual terms.  I just don't think
that way.  It doesn't occur to me to do little physical things.  I
thought our marriage had gone past that point."

"Slid into a kind of elderly status?"  Emily teased, nudging her, thigh
to thigh.

"You know what I mean."

"Slid into a pattern."

"Yes."  But John was amenable to most anything she wanted, and he
always saw her satisfied.  So why was she having trouble giving a
little on her own?  "I feel like a fraud," she blurted out.  Emily
remained silent beside her, their legs bumping comfortingly.  "When I
think of myself pretending to be sexy, I'm mortified.  I'm not sexy.
I'm not attractive."

"You are so."

"Not like a Sharon Stone or a Geena Davis."

"John isn't leaving town to run after either of them.  He's staying
right here with you."

"I'm fat."

"You're not fat."

"Compared to when I was married, I am.  My body is getting older.  In a
few more years, I'll look like my mother did."

Emily gave her thigh a knock.  "I loved your mother.  She was the
sweetest woman in the world."

"She was obese.  I used to come home from school, and there she would
be at the kitchen table, eating candy."  Kay let her memories out of
the bag she had kept them stashed in.  "Know what she used to say?
She'd say, "Look at your mother, Kay.  Look long and hard, and make up
your mind right now that you won't ever grow up to be like her."  Then
she'd pop another candy into her mouth.  It was like she was absolved
of overeating as long as she warned me against it."

"You don't overeat."

"Not like she did.  But every ten years a few more pounds go on.  When
I look in the mirror, I see my mother.  How can I feel sexy?"

Emily swiveled to face her.  "John loves you.  He isn't seeing your
mother when he looks at you.  He's seeing you."

"But I don't feel attractive."

"Then do something about it."

"Like what?  I don't want to have my nose done like Celeste did, and if
I ever had my hair colored that way, I'd feel like even more of a
fraud.  Can you imagine having gorgeous hair on a blob by body?"

"If your body's the problem, do something your mother never did.
Exercise."

"I do.  I run around school all day."

"Join an aerobics class."

"Emily, I'd make a fool of myself at one of those."

"Okay, then an exercise class."

"Wearing a leotard?  Right."

"Okay, then walk.  Get a warmup suit that covers everything up, put it
on every morning, and go for a half hour walk before school.  Do that
for a month, or two, or three, and you'll feel different about
yourself.  Think about it.  Your mother never exercised.  She was too
heavy.  So as long as you get yourself out there, you're different from
her."

Kay wanted to argue.  But she wanted to believe even more.  "You really
think I'd feel different?"

"I do."

"Just half an hour?"

"That's all."

"What if it rains?"

"Skip a day."

"What if someone stops and tells me I'm rushing Halloween?"

"Kay."

"What if John laughs at me?"

"He won't."

"What if he does?"

"Tell him that for every day you walk, you add a day to your life, and
that he can laugh all he wants, but when he's dead and gone, you'll be
going strong and having a ball without him."

"If I tell him that, he may just walk with me."

"For protection.  Sweet."

Kay laughed.  Her smile stayed.

"Do it," Emily urged softly.  "You have nothing to lose, nothing but
something that's been haunting you for years.  Put it to rest, Kay.
It's time."  seventeen

BRIAN WAS ACUTELY AWARE OF HALLOWEEN'S

approach, not because the department had been hitting the schools with
safety tips, or because every store window in town sported pumpkins and
witches, or because Grannick's vandal had started in with raw eggs, but
because this was his first Halloween as a single parent, and he was
taking the role to heart.  Julia needed a costume.  So he left work
early one day, fetched her at Janice's, and drove to the mall.

"Well, look at this," he announced when they were standing before the
largest display of costumes in the place.  "You can be a witch, or a
ghost, or Snow White."  He moved on.  "You can be a dinosaur.  You can
be a Ninja turtle.  You can be Aladdin.  You can be Princess Jasmin. Or
a ballerina.  Or a mermaid.  Or a ladybug."  He gave her a little
squeeze.  "What'll it be, toots?"

Julia was staring wide-eyed at the mannequins.

"Okay, let's simplify things here.  These are the little girl choices.
Not politically correct of me, but what the hell, you are my little
girl.  You can be Snow White, Princess Jasmin, a ballerina, or a
mermaid."

"Dis," Julia said, pointing.

"Which?  The mermaid?"

"Dis."

"The ladybug?"

"Bug."

"That wasn't one of the choices.  Look at Snow White."  He approached
that one.  "Isn't she beautiful?"

"Bug."

"Let's see what sizes there are."  He bent to study boxed Snow Whites.
"Large.  Large.  Medium.  Large.  Large.  Swell.  Okay, not Snow White.
How about the princess."

"Bug."

"The bug is weird.  It has a green face and funny things sticking out
of its head.  The princess is you."  He bent at the princess pile.
"Medium.  Medium.  Large.  Large.  Large."  Straightening, he looked up
and around until he spotted a salesgirl two aisles over.  "Miss? Excuse
me, miss?  Could I have some help here?"  When the girl arrived, he
said, "My daughter wants to be Princess Jasmin, but there aren't any
costumes in her size."

"Only the big sizes are left," the girl said.

"Well, I can see that, but I was thinking that there must be some in
back,"

"Everything we have is on display."

"How can you run out two full days before Halloween?"

"These have been on sale for a month.  Most people come early."

"Bug," said Julia.

The girl glanced at that pile.  "There's a small."

"I don't like the ladybug."

"Bug, Daddy."

"Why do you want the bug?"  Brian asked, spearing her with a look.

She speared him right back.  "Daddy, bug."  She reached toward the
costume and began to squirm.  By the time he had her shifted and
securely anchored again, the salesgirl was holding out the proper
box.

"Thanks," he grunted and strode gracelessly toward the front of the
store.

A short time later, in a nearby McDonald's, he put Julia in a booster
seat, slid in across from her, and began to tear apart her meal.  "What
was so appealing about the ladybug?"

She stuck a piece of hamburger in her mouth.

"You'd have made a pretty Snow White.  Or a ballerina.  Why a ladybug,
of all things?"

Julia offered a string of garbled words.

"Okay.  It's cute.  I suppose."  He put his weight on his forearms and
questioned her in earnest.  "But why the bug?  Why not the ghost?  Or
Aladdin?"  He was intrigued by the fact that she'd had such a definite
opinion.  She was very little to be having definite opinions.

She reached for a fry.  "Emmy."

"Emily did not suggest a ladybug.  She said she had a worm in the
attic.  A worm is not a ladybug."

Julia offered him a piece of meat.  He took it.

"You really liked the ladybug?"

The look on her face, incredibly, said that she was surprised he would
ask, when clearly, the ladybug was the best costume there.

"Okay," he conceded.  "It may not have been the one I wanted, but I'm
not the one wearing it, right?  If you like it, that's what counts.
You'll make an adorable ladybug."

She grinned, ear to ear, and his heart melted.  It struck him that
Gayle should see that grin, that she should see her daughter forming
definite opinions-God, so like her!  He missed Gayle, in the same way
that he would have missed a good friend, because she had been that,
and a part of his life for so long.  He would have liked being able to
sit down with her and tell her everything that had happened since she
had died.

He would even tell her about Emily.  Gayle would like Emily, would like
the idea of someone with a heart of gold spending time with her
daughter.

Brian missed Emily, and not just the sex.  He missed lying together,
talking softly, being on the same wavelength in ways that Gayle and he
had never been.  He missed discussing problems.  He missed having fun
and feeling peace.  Emily had helped him through a rough time.  He
would love her forever for that alone.

They were far from finished, Emily and him.  That thought raised his
spirits.  And he was doing okay with Julia.  And he was doing okay with
his new job.  So he might just make it after all.

Suddenly in a better mood and ferociously hungry, he went back to the
counter and bought two Big Macs for himself, and then, when Julia
seemed done with her meal, he bought an ice cream cone for them to
share, and then, when the opportunity seemed too good to pass up, he
stopped on the way home at the drugstore, grabbed Julia and the ladybug
mask, and went straight to the photo booth at the back.

Studying the mask for the first time close-up, Julia was preoccupied
enough not to notice when he fit his quarters into the slot.  She was
still staring at it when he propped it beside the camera's eye.  She
was startled when the first flash went off.

"Look, toots," Brian cajoled, bobbing the mask up and down.  "Smile at
the ladybug."

Julia's eyes were growing larger when the second flash went off, and
even larger when the third one came.  In a last ditch attempt to get a
smile, Brian put the mask to his face and made what he thought would be
a ladybug sound.

Julia let out a blood-curdling scream.

JHMfcMMflBBF he muttered, dropping the mask.  "It's me, it's Daddy," he
pleaded, but she was sobbing hysterically, so he scooped her up,
stuffed yet another pathetic quartet of photos in his back pocket, and
left.  It wasn't until he turned onto China Pond Road that he
remembered the mask.

"No problem," Emily said when he told her what he had done.

"Easy for you to say.  You're not the one whose kid will be the only
one without a mask.  How could I have left it in the Booth, after all
that?"

Emily was trying not to laugh.  He was adorable in his distress, so
earnest in wanting to do things right.  "You were shaken," she
reasoned.  "Julia was screaming.  You wanted to get away from the scene
of the crime, so to speak."

They were on the floor in Brian's living room, with their backs against
his sofa and their legs outstretched, denim to denim.  Those legs were
actually similarly shaped, Emily noticed, straight and lean.  Only his
were longer.  And the bare feet sticking out of his were larger and
more knobby.  And his toes didn't have Sensuous Burgundy on the
nails.

She wished she could have said that she had painted her toenails for
Doug, but Doug wasn't coming home that weekend.  He had called to say
he was working straight through to be entirely free the following
weekend for Jill.  Not for Emily.  For Jill.

Emily wondered if there was a message in that.  She wondered why so
many companies suddenly wanted him on Sundays.  She wondered how much
golf he was playing.

She had painted her toenails after he called, in defiance that he would
pick golf over her.

She wasn't with Brian in defiance, though.  She was with him because
she wanted to be.  They couldn't make love, though Lord knew she ached
to, with her insides abuzz and his warmth running up her side.  Oh,
yes, she was trying to be good.  But she couldn't deny herself
completely.

"So what do I do?"  he was asking.  "I called the drugstore, but the
night girl went looking and couldn't find it, which means that some
little kid has a ladybug mask with no costume.  What'll I do for
Julia?"

The little lady in question was sleeping soundly on his chest, the book
that Brian had been reading to her prior to Emily's arrival discarded
on the floor nearby.

Emily thought back to Jill's earliest Halloweens.  Then, because she
felt safe when she was with Brian, she allowed her thoughts back
farther, to the two Halloweens she had had with Daniel.  "Daniel hated
masks, not to look at, only to wear.  He wouldn't let me put anything
over his face.  So I put him in the body of the costume, got a little
wool hat and pinned ears to it, and drew whiskers on his face.  He was
a mouse."  So sweet to remember.  Not as painful as it used to be.  "I
took my lesson from that when it was Jill's turn.  The worm costume was
a little tube of reddish-brown fabric that I stitched together.  I made
a bonnet out of the same material for the head, but her face was free.
I put lipstick on her and darkened her nose and drew in exaggerated
eyelashes.  Not that worms have eyelashes.  But she looked cute.  So
would Julia.  A little nose, some eyelashes, some whiskers.  I can pick
up a little plastic headband at the drug store, and attach pipe
cleaners for the antennae.  She'll look precious."

His eyes relaxed and warmed.  "You're good at this."

"I love it.  And I've had practice.  Years of Halloweens.  Years of
Valentine's Days.  Years of teacher conferences and PTA meetings.  My
life has been geared to kids things for so long, it's weird being
without."

"You were a conscientious mom.  I'll bet you wouldn't have lost a
mask."

"Maybe not.  But I lost a child."

"Emily."

"It's true."

"No, it's not.  A child was taken from you.  There's a difference."

Emily might have argued that she had left the child alone, except that
she was tired of taking the blame for something that happened so long
ago.  She was tired of feeling guilty.  Oh, she still ached for Daniel.
But she needed to smile.  She needed to relax.  Daniel was gone, but
she needed to live.

She planned to tell Doug that when she met him in Boston the following
weekend.

Celeste arrived at the art opening in Cambridge on Sunday afternoon,
holding a rose in her hand and her poise by a thread.  She felt she was
dying of foreplay, teased by expectation to the point of implosion.  It
was all she could do to look calm and sophisticated, which was the
image she had chosen for the afternoon.

She was wearing a suit in ivory wool, a black sashed ivory hat, and
sexy black heels.  Being dressed up for the first time in so long added
to the fantasy, as did the airy, near-brilliance of the modern gallery
into which it seemed she had fallen.

She needed this, after the fiasco that Wednesday evening with the
veterinarian had been.  He turned out to be shy to the extreme, talking
only in response to what she asked, avoiding her gaze.  He hadn't been
kidding when he'd said, "I may be barking up the wrong tree answering
an ad that starts with sexy and blond."  She felt bad for him.  He was
lonely.  He wanted human companionship.  But she was no martyr.

She looked slowly around the room, passing over artsy types and
business types until her eye found a man who was a combination of both.
He was conservatively dressed in a dark suit and held a glass of
champagne, but the way his curly dark hair framed a tanned face and
striking brown eyes suggested a wildness that set him apart from the
rest.

Those eyes held hers in ways that the veterinarian couldn't have even
begun to comprehend, much less do.  He was the right age, the right
height, the right weight.  He was the one.  No doubt about it.  He was
the reason she had had her nose done and her chin tucked.  He was the
answer to her prayers.

She didn't move, but waited for him to come to her.  He sipped his
champagne.  He conversed with those around him.  His eyes rarely left
hers for long.

Finally, murmuring something to his companions, he wove his slow way to
where she stood.  His lips twitched, male and satisfied.  "And they
said it couldn't be done through an ad."

She allowed herself the smallest of smug smiles, but said nothing.

"My name's Carter."

"Celeste."

"Celeste."  Again, the twitch of the lips, then the tiniest break in
his voice.  "That's lovely.  As you are."  He stared at her for another
minute, before catching himself and looking around.  "Come.  Let me
introduce you to my friends."

With the lightest touch to her back, the whisper of a palm over the
closure of her bra--sweet, private, intimate--he guided her around the
room.  She met the artist whose work was being shown.  She met the
owners of the gallery.  She met other artists.  She met Carter's
partner.

The scene was as much a dream as Carter, worlds away from any other
date she had ever had, worlds away from anything she had ever
experienced in Grannick.  For an instant she imagined herself an
imposter here, outclassed and ill-prepared in spite of her clothes and
her dreams.  Then she looked at Carter again.  As smooth as he was, he
was reassuringly down to earth.  When he found her a glass of
champagne, took a fresh one for himself, and said, gently, "To new
people," her qualms dissolved.

As she had known he would, he took the lead.  From a quiet shaded
corner with a view of the angular lines of the building, he told her
not about his children or grandchildren, as the widower had done
interminably, but about the people she had just met, about each one's
work, each one's life.  He made no assumptions about her knowledge of
art, but spoke in plain terms, with neither arrogance nor
condescension.

Celeste was enthralled.  He was articulate and learned where art and
architecture were concerned-and intuitive enough to judge her level of
understanding perfectly, neither exceeding it, nor underestimating
it.

"But I've been doing all the talking," he finally said with a rakishly
diffident smile.

"That's fine.  What you've said is far more appropriate to the setting
than anything I might be saying."

"Then we'll have to change the setting."  His gaze touched her mouth
before it returned to her eyes.  "There's still a little sun left to
the afternoon.  Would you like to walk?"

Harvard Square was filled with people.  Most were far more casually
dressed than they were, but that was part of the fantasy, too.  Sunday
afternoon strolling was the epitome of romance.  They walked in a
bubble of elegance, aware always of something simmering at its core.

It was outwardly innocent, walking and talking, but there were periods
of walk without talk, when Carter held her hand or hooked her arm
through his.  At those times she realized how in step with each other
they were.  There was no impatient striding, as she imagined there
would have been with the marathoner, but a comfortably matched gait. It
felt right to Celeste, the prelude to a destined something, even
sweeter than she had dreamed.

In time, they found themselves in a cafe with cappucino roy ales and
when they began to feel the liquor, Carter suggested stopping at a
small restaurant several blocks over for something to eat.  The
restaurant was Indonesian.  Celeste was content to hide her ignorance
by letting him do the ordering.

Afterward, she couldn't have said what it was that she ate, because the
place was dark, their corner intimate, and her thoughts a long way from
food.  She nibbled on whatever arrived, and watched Carter do the same,
but all the while she was remembering the marathoner and his neuroses,
the doctor and his scheduling, the vet and his shyness, and she gloated
silently, thinking, "I knew it would be like this, I knew it would."

At the end of the meal, when he offered a husky, "My place is right
down the street," she didn't think twice.  She had been waiting too
long.  She wasn't waiting a minute longer.

Darkness had fallen by the time they reached the house, a small frame
structure that proved to be nearly as spectacular as the art gallery
had been.  It had been gutted and rebuilt with a dearth of walls and a
keen eye for angle and line.

Guided only by the glow of the street lamps spilling through windows
and Carter's hand on her back, Celeste climbed the open stairway to a
landing that extended far enough to allow for a huge platform bed.

The only pause she felt had to do with the magnitude of the moment.
Carter was a dream, the embodiment of everything good and strong and
caring in a man.

Piece by piece, he removed her clothes until she stood naked before
him.  He didn't touch her then, or kiss her, but simply looked at her
body while, piece by piece, he removed his own things.

Celeste felt the chill of the air on her skin, but it only heightened
her arousal.  Her body was swollen, her insides throbbing and wet.  By
the time he discarded his shorts and applied a condom, she was dying
for what she had seen.

"Lie down," he whispered.

Breathing fast, she did, and raised her knees when he came between
them.  The reward was golden.  He filled her with a pulsing strength
that took her from one orgasm to another, dream upon dream, pleasure
after pleasure.  It didn't occur to her that she didn't know his last
name, or where he had grown up, or what he did to keep his body in
shape.  He inspired trust, and she gave it.

The moon played in and around the clouds over China Pond Road.  It
splintered through Brian's windowed wall and fell in silvery shards
across everything in sight.  Brian had long since put Julia to bed and
was sprawled on the sofa, wishing Emily were there, when the telephone
rang.  He hobbled the receiver before getting it to his ear.

"Yeah."

A high voice, alarmed but distinctive, said, "Detective?  Detective, I
need your help.  Something's coming out of the pond.  I don't know what
it is, but it keeps lifting its head, higher each time.  Something's
out there.  I know it is, but I don't know what it's going to do.  You
have to come.  Come quickly."

Brian sighed.  This wasn't the first such call he'd had.  There had
been three in the past week, each one a false alarm.  "Is it the
Haffenreffers' dog again?"

"No.  It isn't a dog.  It's something else."

"Maybe a deer.  I saw one in the woods the other night."

"It is not a deer.  I know what deer look like, and this isn't that."

"What does this look like?"  he asked, patient in deference to Myra's
age.

"It has a long neck, a very long neck and a very small head and eyes
that glow."

"That glow."

"Green," she said.

Brian scrubbed at an eye with the heel of his hand.  The monster had
never glowed before.  "Someone's playing a Halloween prank."

"No, no, no.  This isn't a costume.  It's real, and it's dangerous, and
it's after my willow.  I have to go outside and do something to stop
it.  I'd wake up Frank, but he had a very long day.  Will you come,
Detective?"

The last thing Brian wanted was to go out in the cold.  But Myra was
old and widowed, like his mother, and although his mother was more
lucid, more social, and more active, he still made the link.

He sighed.  "Sure, Myra.  I'll be right there."

He stepped into his sneakers and pulled on a jacket, then checked on
Julia.  She was dead to the world.  So he trotted down the stairs, and
jogged down the driveway and across the cul de sac to Myra's front
door.  When she didn't answer his ring, he went around back.  The moon
appeared long enough to show her on the bench under the willow.

He sank down on the other end and tucked his hands in his pockets for
warmth.  "It's a chilly night, Myra.  You shouldn't be out here."  She
was wearing a coat.  Still.

"I have to be."

"Why?"

She seemed taken back by the direct question.  "Because."

He studied the pond.  Its surface was a glassy reflection of bulbous,
moon-fringed clouds.  "I don't see anything here."

"No.  It's below now."

"A monster."

"It's been here for years.  I kept telling Frank, but he wouldn't
listen.  But it's there, and I can't stand it."

"A monster.  With glowing eyes."

She took a breath and seemed to steady herself.  "Well, I don't know if
the eyes are glowing.  It just seems that way sometimes."

In a soft voice, he asked, "Myra, is Frank buried here?"  It seemed one
logical explanation for her fixation on the area, particularly if she
had been so controlled by the man in life that she couldn't accept his
death.

"Here?  Oh, no.  He's on the other side of town.  The monster is buried
here."

"Buried?"

"In the water."

Brian's eyes skated over the water's surface to the trees at the far
side.  He didn't see a thing.  "You said it was after the willow.  Why
do you think so?"

"The willow's roots go right to the water.  The thing will pull and tug
until it sucks the willow right underground."

"But why would it want the willow?"

"Because the willow protects us."

Brian turned sideways.  He looked Myra square in the eye, giving the
emphasis to his words that he kept gentle in his voice.  "There isn't
really a monster."

She stared at him.

"Nothing's going to dig up your willow."

"Someone has to."

"Why?"

She looked confused.  "I don't know."

"Come."  He drew her up.  "It's too cold for you here.  Let me bring
you inside."

"But I'll only have to call you another night.  He's out here.  I saw
him."

"Well," Brian said, "you'll call me another time, then."

"But you won't be able to do anything once the ground freezes."

He slipped an arm around her shoulder and guided her up the stairs.
"I'll be here, Myra.  You'll call me, and I'll come right over."

With that promise, she allowed herself to be shown into the house.

Elmira

LY DROVE TO BOSTON WITH THE HIGHEST OF

hopes the following Friday.  She was thrilled to be seeing Jill, and
nearly as excited about meeting her friends and learning her favorite
haunts.  She wanted to be able to put faces with names, wanted to be
able to visualize the reading room of the library, the dining hall, the
student union.  She wanted to be able to picture every little detail
when Jill called on the phone.

Doug was another matter.  She was nervous.  Much rested on the weekend,
on the precious little time when they would be alone.  She needed to
see if there was any feeling for her left in him.  If not, their
marriage was doomed.

When the skyline of the city appeared on the horizon, she remembered
the last time she had made the trip.  She and Jill had been holding
hands, fearing the unknowns ahead, dreading the moment of parting. 
They had been focused on Jill's college experience.  Emily hadn't had a
clue about the shifts her own life would take.

This time around, Jill was waiting outside the dorm,

ighteen running to the curb with a huge smile when Emily pulled up.
Emily was teary with happiness at the sight of her daughter the college
student, laughing, holding Jill tightly.  Then there were the
introductions, because no less than five friends had been waiting with
Jill, and a mini-tour in advance of the full one for Doug.

Emily had arranged to meet him at the hotel at five.  He didn't arrive
until five-thirty, and if it hadn't been for Jill's nervous looks at
her watch, Emily wouldn't have minded.  She loved being alone with
Jill, without having to be alert to Doug's needs.

Doug was buoyant enough when he arrived to compensate for the delay.
After a brief stop upstairs while he changed clothes, they headed back
to the campus.

Friday night consisted of dinner in the dining hall, a concert by the
college's three singing groups, and a reception at Jill's dorm.  It was
late by the time Emily and Doug returned to the hotel.  High on the
goodwill of the evening, Emily was perfectly happy to climb into bed
and fall asleep.  When she awoke the next morning, Doug was out.

"Gone running," said the note he left on the pad by the phone, though
it didn't say when he had left or how long he would be.

Emily showered and dressed, then sat in an armchair and waited
anxiously.  They were meeting Jill at ten.  She didn't want to be
late.

It struck her that Doug was late a lot.  He never used to be.  She
wondered if he was late for work, too, or whether it was just home
things that he had grown so lackadaisical about.

She didn't ask, because he returned sweaty and out of breath, with just
enough time to get ready, and then they were swept up in the day's
events, so that she didn't think about it until later that night, when
it no longer seemed critical.  He had been with them for the entire
day.  He had been a good sport through tours, lectures, a luncheon, a
football game, dinner at a restaurant with Jill's closest friends and
their parents, and several hours of dorm-hopping to meet and spend time
with others.  He had been friendly.  He had been personable.

Granted, he didn't spend much time talking with Emily.  She suspected
he knew more about the daily lives of some of the people he had met
that day than he did about hers.

But Jill was happy having him there.  If she was aware of his lack of
attentiveness to Emily, she didn't let on.

Emily lay in bed that night, curled on her side with her back to Doug.
She didn't know if he was sleeping and neither asked nor slid back
until their bodies touched.  She was quiet.  She kept her breathing low
and even.  Though the weekend was supposed to be a time of marital
regeneration, she did nothing to suggest she wanted to make love.  And
she felt guilty as hell.

It was hours before she fell asleep.  When she awoke, Doug was out
running again.  She was relieved and, therein, felt more guilty than
ever.

Doug was her husband.  She should want him.  But she didn't.  He was a
stranger to her.  If he had been one of the fathers she had met
yesterday, she would have smiled and exchanged surface pleasantries,
then moved on without a backward glance.

Jill was their only link.

The more Emily thought about it, the more frightened that made her.
People who liked each other as little as she and Doug did, usually
ended up divorced.

Divorced.  God, she rated that word.

But it made sense for them.  Particularly in light of Brian.  If Emily,
who prized fidelity so highly, had slept with another man, something
was really wrong with her marriage.

Divorce made sense.

Still, she fought it.

Feeling jittery, she bolted out of bed and hurriedly dressed and
packed.  Doug returned just as she finished, as sweaty and breathless
and short of time as he had been the morning before.

Wishing she could put it off, but knowing it was now or never, she
followed him into the bathroom.  "Can we talk?"

He set his running watch down by the sink.  "I'm late."

"We never talk, Doug.  I think we need to do something."

To his credit, he didn't start in with condescending looks, or ask why
she was trying to ruin a fine weekend.  He didn't pretend not to know
something was wrong.  Instead, neutrally, he asked, "Like what?"  and,
bending over, began washing his face.

"Like see a counselor."  It was a last ditch effort.  She couldn't
think of anything else.

She had to wait until he had straightened and was reaching for his
shave cream before he said, "Why do you want to see a counselor?"

"Because our relationship stinks.  We can't talk."

"We can talk.  We just don't."

"Okay.  Same thing."

"No, it's not.  If we choose not to talk, we choose not to talk.
There's nothing wrong with that."

"There is if we're both innately social, and we are, Doug.  We talk
with everyone else, just not with each other."

"That's the nature of our relationship."

"I want to change it."

"Fine.  Go to a counselor."

"I want us to."

He finished lathering his lower face and reached for his razor.  "I'm
not seeing a counselor."

"Why not?"

"It's a waste of time and money."

"Not if it improves our relationship.  Don't you want to do that?"

"I don't think our relationship needs scrutiny."

"You think it's good?"  she cried.  "Doug, we go separate ways.  We
rarely even pass in the night.  We share Jill.  Period."

He systematically stroked away one strip of shave cream, then
another.

"Is it Daniel?"  she asked with her heart in her throat.

"No."

"It's natural to be thinking of him, with Jill gone."

"I'm not."

"Then what?"

"How the hell do I know?"

"What's on your mind?"

"Right now?  Getting ready in time."

"Doug.  This is important."

He rinsed the blade.  "Don't nag.  There's nothing I hate more than a
woman who nags."

Emily closed her mouth, but the injustice of his criticism had her
reopening it the next minute.  "What's happening with us isn't right.
Life should be opening up, not closing down, now that we don't have the
everyday responsibility of kids.  Don't you want something more out of
life?"

"Like what?"

"Like living.  Smiles.  Laughter.  Fun."  She pictured Brian, with whom
she had all of that, and felt guilty.  Her guilt intensified when she
realized that she was looking at Doug in only the skimpiest of running
shorts, and feeling nothing.

"I have those things," he said in an offhanded way.

"With work, but what about a woman?"  she blurted out.  "Don't you want
a woman?"  He was a normal, red blooded male.  At least, he used to be.
Now he wasn't even asking for sex.

He hadn't in a while, and even then, Emily had had the feeling that he
wanted it when she didn't to punish her.  Now he had lost even that
urge.

She hadn't lost the urge, as Brian had so eloquently pointed out.

"I have you," Doug said illogically.

"But we don't have fun together, not just us two.  We don't touch.  We
don't make love.  Don't you want that?"

He rinsed the blade again.  "If you were that desperate for sex, you
could have told me."  He shot a look at his watch.  "It's a little late
now."

"God, Doug," she breathed, amazed at his coarseness, his ignorance, if
he thought she still wanted him, what with the lack of love.

The lack of love.  That was it in a nutshell.  She didn't love Doug. He
didn't love her.  They had no business staying together.

Except for Jill.

Except for the fact that Doug did rely on those few hours home between
trips.

Except for the house they shared.

Except for Daniel.

Emily turned and left the bathroom, wondering if Doug ever thought
about those things.  She wondered if he ever thought about divorce. She
wondered how he could not think about it.

She was still wondering hours later, heading west on the turnpike,
toward Grannick.  She was feeling blue, anyway.  Leaving Jill had been
hard, even knowing that Thanksgiving was only eighteen days off.
Leaving Doug had been easy.  That was upsetting Emily no end.

The familiarity of Grannick failed to settle her.  Nor did the haven of
the dark house at the end of China Pond Road.  She saw lights on above
the garage.  It was all she could do not to go there.

But being with Brian meant closing her eyes to problems that had to be
faced.  She wished she knew what to do.

Flipping lights on as she went, she carried her suitcase up to the
bedroom and unpacked.  Then, wanting to lift out and savor the
weekend's good times, she took refuge in Jill's room.  There was
comfort here, a sense of love, at least.  She sat on the bed and hugged
Cat, remembering not so much the weekend just done, but fun times she
and Jill had had here at home in years past.

Her eye roamed the room.  It was a teenager's room, messy as was a
teenager's way.  Yes, she had dusted-gingerly--but the mother in her
itched to sort through the basket of magazines and toss out the oldest,
to do something with the single red prom rose that stood dead in its
bud vase, to wade through the papers and books piled on the desk.  But
Jill wanted things the same, and Emily knew that was going to be a tall
order when it came to Doug.

So she kept on hugging Cat, swaying a little in time to a lullaby that
drifted back from years before.  She remembered singing it to Jill. No.
To Daniel.  It had been his favorite.  She had sung it to him every
night, sometimes three or four times when he cried for more.  His eyes
would grow heavier with each round, until the final, "Mo-a, mo-a," was
little more than a dazed murmur.  Daniel sleeping, had been a
hauntingly innocent sight.

Feeling chilled, she went to the closet, reached into Jill's sweater
basket, and pulled on the first one she touched.  It was a ratty cotton
thing that had been wisely left behind, but it was fine for Emily.  She
wasn't fussy.  She much preferred sweaters with history to ones with
panache.

The basket was filled with such time-worn sweaters, tossed in with a
general abandon.  Thinking that there might be others to borrow--no,
she was not cleaning the closet--she took out the next one, shook it
straight, and gave it a once-over.  She held it close for a minute,
breathing in Jill and the comfort that brought, before folding it
neatly, setting it aside, and reaching for another.  She didn't think
she would use this one either, so she folded it and put it carefully on
top of the first.  The next one in the basket, a teal heather, looked
more promising.  She pulled it out.  That was when she saw the folded
paper that lay on the bottom most sweater.

Setting the teal heather aside, she unfolded the paper.  It was
something Jill had written for English class the spring before.  Emily
didn't see a grade at the top, didn't see any marks on the page.  For
that matter, she didn't see the wear and tear that usually came with
being crammed into a notebook and carried to and from school.  The
paper looked clean and crisp, as though it had just emerged from the
Imagewriter.

"Seeing Things," was the title.  Emily began to read.

"All my life I've been looking forward to going to college.  My parents
met there and always talked about the fun they had.  After looking at
lots of different schools, I applied to the ones I liked.  I was lucky.
I got into my first choice.  Same with my best friends.  We were all
excited.  In April my college had an open house for the students who
had been accepted.  I signed up to go and was matched up with a girl
there who would take me around with her."

Emily remembered it clearly.  A nervous, but very excited Jill had
taken the bus into Boston on a Thursday afternoon.

"The girl, Jessica, was cool.  She met me at the admissions office and
took me to dinner with her at the dining hall.  That night, there were
parties in the dorm.  The college kids had been told they weren't
supposed to drink with the pre-frosh, but there was some beer anyway,
not enough to get drunk on, just enough to feel like we were in
college.  I had a ball."

Clever Jill.  She hadn't told Emily about the beer.

"The next morning Jessica took me to classes, but by lunchtime we'd had
enough.  She suggested we walk to a favorite cafe of hers for lunch
with some of her friends, and we did."

Yes.  The Harvard Bookstore Cafe.

"After lunch, we walked on Newbury Street.  It was neat.  I loved the
shops and the people.  I come from a college town and never thought of
Boston as being one, but it did feel like it there, because there were
college students all over.  One of the other pre-frosh bought some
things in one of the stores, and then we all went for yogurt.  Finally
we had to start back, so that I could get my things and take the bus
home.  We crossed over Commonwealth Avenue, walked another block, and
were crossing the next street when I saw him."

Emily frowned.

"He was coming out of one of the townhouses, wearing a business suit
that I had seen many times before, and I thought that it was an awesome
coincidence that he was doing business here at the same time I was
visiting, because I wouldn't have to take the bus home after all.  "My
God," I told my friends.  There's my father!"  I was just about to call
out to him when a woman followed him out of the townhouse.

She was carrying a little boy.  As I stood there watching, my father
took the little boy from her and held him.  He wrapped his other arm
around the woman."

But Doug had been in New York that day--Emily remembered because she,
too, had thought it would be wonderful if he could drive Jill home,
only he had ruled it out.

Pressing a hand to her chest, she read on.

"Jessica asked if the woman was my mom.  That was when I realized I'd
made a mistake.  My father knew I was in Boston.  If he was going to be
there, too, he would have arranged to meet me and drive me home.
Besides, my father wouldn't be holding another woman that way.  He
wouldn't be kissing her that way, or hugging the little boy so tightly
before unwrapping his arms from his neck and handing him back to the
woman.  The man on the steps couldn't possibly have been my father.  He
belonged to that family, not mine.  He just looked a lot like my
dad."

Emily was breathing shallowly.

"I still think about that man.  The other day I started wondering if it
was possible for a man to have two families.  If he traveled a lot,
like my dad does, he could.  He could see one family during the week
and the other on the weekends.  My own father wouldn't do that, but
another man could, I suppose."

The writing ended.  Emily whipped the page over, but it was blank. Same
with the one after it.  Flipping back to the first, she reread the last
paragraph, then reread the whole piece, breathing faster with each page
until her whole body shook.  "Oh my God," she whispered.  "The
bastard."

Heart pounding, she set aside the paper and, not knowing what else to
do, took out the last sweater.  Trembling wildly, she folded it as best
she could and replaced it.  She put each of the others on top, slid
the basket back into the closet, and shut the door.  Then she took the
paper and went downstairs.

"The bastard," she murmured, returning a hand to her chest in an
attempt to check the tumult inside, but her fury needed an outlet.  So
she began to pace the floor, back and forth, trying to accept that he
had actually done the one thing she had positively refused all these
years to consider, even after Brian, because just considering it had
seemed a betrayal of Doug!

"How could you?"  she cried as she paced, hurt now, as well as enraged.
"A woman and a child?  How could you betray us like this?  It must have
been going on for years!  And I felt so guilty.  I don't believe
this!"

Needing to vent the ugliness churning inside, she dropped the paper,
swept out the front door, and set off into the night.  She walked at a
furious pace, then broke into a run.  Breathless by the time she
reached Sycamore, she stopped, bent at the waist to put her hands on
her knees, and tried to catch her breath.

Stupid, starry-eyed Emily.  Refusing to see, to imagine, to accept. But
it made perfect sense!

Panting, she resumed her stride, as oblivious to the snap of the dried
leaves underfoot as she was to the spectral arms of the trees, the
shadows, the November cold.  Driven by more adrenaline than she could
handle, she stormed all the way through town and back.  She was home
before she felt the first inkling of fatigue, and when it hit, it was
overshadowed by grief.

Sickened, she stumbled into the backyard.  At the edge of the pond, her
legs gave out.  She fell to her knees, then her heels.  Her hands went
flat on the grass for support, but the ground was cold, the grass un
giving Everything around her was dark.  She felt bereft in ways she
hadn't since the day she had accepted that Daniel was gone.  Doug's
betrayal was a final twist in that same, seemingly endless tragedy.

Tears came in a rush, then.  She couldn't stop them, couldn't slow
them.  All she could do was to hug her middle and try to hold herself
together against the pain that threatened to split her apart.  She
cried for herself and for Jill--and for Daniel and all the many things
that had been lost that day at the post office.  She rocked a little,
but the motion didn't ease the pain, so she slid to her bottom, hugged
her knees, and buried her face.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her hair, then her shoulder, and in the
next sobbing breath she was being gathered to a chest that was solid
and warm.  He didn't ask why she was crying, didn't beg her to stop,
didn't say anything at all.  He just held her and let her cry, which
she continued to do as though she had been granted permission, finally,
deservedly, to be weak.

In time, the tears slowed.  Embarrassed, she eased her hold on his
sweater.

"We have to stop meeting this way," he teased, but his arms remained
looped around her.

She made a sound that might have been a laugh, and nodded.

"The weekend was bad, huh?"

"Some."

"Want to talk?"

She shook her head.  Her thoughts were too raw.  She had to let them
sink in.

He chafed her arms.  "You're freezing.  Want to come up to my place?"

She gave a tiny headshake.

"For a brandy?"

She repeated the headshake.

"Maybe you shouldn't be alone."

With a choppy sigh, she said, "I have to be.  I have to work out some
things in my mind."  She wiped her cheeks with the heels of her
hands.

He rose, drew her up, and walked her to her kitchen door.  "Are you
sure you're all right?"

She nodded, even managed a small smile.  "When you hit rock bottom,
there's nowhere to go but up."  She liked the idea of going up.  It
seemed forever that she had been dreading that fall to rock bottom. But
she had survived.

"Thanks, Brian," she whispered, knowing that she owed him more than two
words, but unable to do more for now.

She caught his acknowledging smile in the dark.  He touched the tip of
her chin, turned, and left.

Emily actually slept.  She woke up early the next morning, rested
enough to be able to handle the storm of emotion that immediately hit
her.  Seeking an outlet in activity, she filled the house with the
sound of Miles Davis and tore off the new wallpaper she had put in the
upstairs bathroom such a few short weeks before.  She crushed it,
crammed it into a trash bag, and took it to the dump with the rest of
the garbage.  On the way home, she picked up wallpaper far more suited
to her own taste than Doug's, and spent the morning putting it up.

Because that felt good, she drove to the mall and bought new sheets and
a comforter in a pale blue and white floral pattern that was feminine
and fresh, plus extra sheets to make curtains, plus a slew of throw
pillows with ruffles.  Caught up in her statement of self, she bought
blue paint for the walls, and then, because blue made her think of sun,
sand, and surf, she bought several large seaside prints.  Then she
stopped at the local garage and made an appointment for a new muffler,
new fan belts, and new tires.

Riding a wave of bravado, she came home and called Jill.  When the
answering machine came on, she left a light-hearted message about how
much she had loved seeing Jill.  She didn't mention finding the paper.
She didn't know what to say about it yet.

Likewise, to Kay and Celeste.  Monday meant dinner with them, and
though she would have liked to pass that night, she knew she wouldn't
be allowed to cancel without an explanation.  So she simply told them
about the weekend and shrugged when they asked about Doug.  Any slack
in the conversation was picked up by Celeste, who raved on ad infinitum
about Carter.

Kay looked uncomfortable with it all.

Emily felt uncomfortable with it all.  She tried to be happy for
Celeste's sake, but every Carter-miracle that Celeste cited reminded
Emily of Doug's treachery and her own very sad, very deep humiliation.
Thinking about the latter made her angry again, because, damn it, she
hadn't done anything to deserve what he'd done, certainly not the
extent of it, such deliberate betrayal over so long a time.  He should
have spoken up if he was so unhappy.  He should have asked for a
divorce himself if he was in love with another woman.

There was no message from him on the machine when she arrived home. But
he was in New Haven, just as he had claimed.  She called to check. The
hotel confirmed it, and not surprisingly.  She assumed that some of
what he said was the truth, but there was a pattern.  During each week
on the road, he went to one, maybe two cities, with plans to be back on
Thursday or Friday.  Increasingly, he called midweek to postpone his
homecoming a day.

Playing a hunch, she waited.  Sure enough, he called on Wednesday
night to say that he had been late getting to Bridgeport and wouldn't
be home until Saturday.  The tiny part of her that still held out hope
against her suspicions twisted and writhed, but the rest of her was
vaguely gratified.

She might have been blind for years, but she wasn't stupid, or as
small-town naive as Doug wanted to believe.

Nor was she dependent on Brian in any way, shape, or form.  To the
contrary, she was trying to keep her distance and make independent
decisions, but she needed feedback now, and he seemed the best one to
ask.

So, soon after Doug called, she knocked on Brian's door.  He opened it
wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a warm, sleepy look.  She nearly
backed away, not because she feared she had woken him, but because the
sight of him made her weak at a time when she had to be strong.

Halfway into the room she paused, listening to a jazz piano, something
by Jelly Roll Morton, but new.

"Marcus Roberts," Brian said.  "Know his work?"  She shook her head. 
"I heard him play in the city last year.  He's good.  Want coffee or
something?"

"No coffee.  Just a little of your time."  She took Jill's paper from
her pocket and passed it across, waiting until he read it before
explaining how she had found it.  "Jill must have meant me to.  She
kept telling me not to clean her room, but she knew I wouldn't be able
to resist straightening up, especially when she didn't do any cleaning
herself when she was home, and there it was, lying all crisp and
clean."

His eyes asked if she did believe that Doug was the man on the steps.

"Jill surely wants me to deny it," she said, "but it makes too much
sense.  The minute I read that paper, I knew.  It's so simple, and
explains so much--his short tempers, the kinds of clothes he buys, his
taking up new activities like golf.  It explains all the traveling, and
the last minute calls to say he won't be home for another day.  There
was the time he told me he'd be in Baltimore and he wasn't.  He was
furious when I asked him about it.  He was furious that I had tried to
reach him.  What kind of husband would react that way?"

She began to walk around the room, touching things for the comfort of
it but seeing little.  "There are other things that never made sense
until now.  He doesn't like my asking about work, doesn't like talking
about his life at all.  He won't hear of my traveling with him.  He
wasn't wild about Jill going to school in Boston, either.  He kept
trying to steer her to other places.  For all I know, when he was
running last weekend he went to her place."

Brian leaned against the back of the armchair.  "That's a heavy
accusation, a long-term affair."

"But it makes sense," Emily insisted.  "It explains his relationship
with me, or lack thereof."  She had passed the point where pride was an
issue.  Anger had eclipsed embarrassment.  "It also explains where the
money he earns goes.  He did well when he sold his share of the farm,
and he poured it back into the new business, but what did he need?  His
overhead is next to nothing!  He must have stashed the surplus away. 
He kept Jill and me thinking we were hard up, but he always spent on
himself.  I'll bet he has money we know nothing about!"

"Don't you sign tax returns?"

"Sure.  Do I read them?  No.  Stupid of me, I know, but I trusted Doug.
Even when I received royalties from the book, I just signed the checks
over to him to deposit in our account.  I don't pay the bills at the
end of the month, so I don't even know how much comes in and goes
out."

Something struck her then.  "Y'know, I offered to do it once, to pay
the bills and save him the time.  Without giving it two seconds'
thought, he said that I wouldn't know what was business and what
wasn't, and would only mess things up."  Something else struck her
then.  "He was always doing that--putting me down.  Instead of saying
that it would be easier for him to pay the bills himself, he'd say that
my doing it would mess things up.  Or that my getting a job would hike
our taxes.  Or that my traveling with him would be a burden."

"It's a form of abuse," Brian suggested quietly.

Emily was disgusted with herself.  "Well, I didn't think anything of
it.  I assumed Doug knew better than I did, on money matters,
certainly.  He was always telling me things were tight.  The economy
and all.  Jill's expenses and all."  Her anger was returning to Doug,
growing with each realization.  "So when he said I could get a few more
miles out of the tires on my car, I figured I could.  I figured the
bill would be better coming later, than now.  Only he's been buying all
along.  I chalked it up to the image he needed to be successful, but
looking at it, it's bizarre.  His clothes, his car, his whole lifestyle
is so far above my world--"

"Fancy clothes don't mean a good goddamn."

She stopped walking and took a breath.  "I know.  Still, you've met
him.  Would you have put the two of us together?"

"No.  I'd have put you with someone of greater substance."

"Oh, Doug has substance," she said sadly, "just not in the same sphere
I do.  He used to.  When we first moved here, we were of like minds
about everything.  Then Daniel was taken."  She thought of Jill's paper
again.

Quietly, Brian asked, "What about the little boy in Boston?"

Precisely.  She studied her thumb.  "I don't know.  It might be hers.
Or theirs.  That's the part that hurts most, I think."

"[ would think all of it would hurt."

It did.  But there was something else.  Going to him, she clasped his
hands.  "I've been confused for so long, not understanding why Doug was
growing more and more distant, thinking that maybe I was imagining it.
This would explain so many things, that there's a kind of relief.  And
more anger than hurt, actually, and even then, as much on Jill's behalf
as mine."  She felt it rising again.  "He missed a good deal of her
childhood, Brian.  Damn it, he couldn't even stick around to drive her
to college, and there he was, in the same city where she's headed.  Can
you imagine her seeing him on the street that way?"

"She may have convinced herself that it wasn't him."

"No.  She knows.  Otherwise she wouldn't have written what she did and
left it where she did.  She needed to tell me, and she didn't know how
else.  Can you imagine her having to grapple with a thing like that?"
Emily fought for control, "She always asked about him when she called.
She wanted to know where he was and when he was coming home and what we
were doing then.  She told me she thought Doug and I should take a
vacation, go somewhere together, like Bermuda.  No.  She knows.  And
she's afraid.  How can a father do that to his daughter?"

"Have you asked him?"

She took a shaky breath and shook her head.  "I won't do it on the
phone.  He called a little while ago to say that he wouldn't be home
Friday night after all, but Saturday.  I assume he's spending Friday
night with her."  Her eyes held Brian's.  "I want proof."

He looked wary.  "What do you mean, proof?"

"I want to see with my own two eyes, maybe even take pictures."

"Tail him?"

"If possible.  The problem is that since I don't want to tell Jill, I
can't ask her exactly where it was she saw him, so I don't know where
to look."  This was what she had come for.  No.  Maybe she had come to
tell Brian the story, too.  Maybe she had come to touch his hands and
feel his warmth.  But this was where he could help her the most.  "I
checked the Boston phone book, but Doug's name isn't listed.  I want
the address.  Is there a way to get it?  Local records that tell who
owns what, where?"

"The Registry of Deeds.  I could make a call."

She had known he would offer, but she was doing this herself.  "I want
to do it.  Are those records open to the public?"

"Yes."  His eyes moved over Jill's paper.  "Do you know the name of the
street?"

"I checked a map.  Given what Jill said, it's Marl borough Street. What
if the house isn't in his name?"

Brian was still searching the paper.  "This is pretty vague.  If you
don't get a specific address, you'll have to position yourself on the
most likely street and sit and wait and watch.  I'm not thrilled with
that idea, Emily.  You could be sitting forever on the wrong street.
After a while, it would be unsafe."

"Detectives do it."

"Yeah, with a gun handy.  You got a gun?"

She shivered.  "I hate guns."

"That's good, because someone who doesn't, who takes one look at a wisp
of a thing sitting in a car in the wee hours of the night, would have
it out of your hands and pointed at you before you could even think
about the mace in your bag.  Besides, detectives don't sit blindly in
cars.  At least, they don't do it often."

"So how do they find people?"

"They get an address."

"How?"

"Public records.  Tips from informers.  Phone bills."

"But if the phone isn't listed--" she stopped when what Brian had said
sank in.  "He may not have the house in his name, but he would be
paying the phone bill, wouldn't he.  Or the electric bill.  Or the gas
bill.  Or writing checks to her."  It was so simple, right in front of
her, really.  Doug's office was filled with records, all neatly filed,
all ready and waiting.  "And he didn't want me to work with the
checkbook," she muttered and made for the door.  Halfway there, she did
an about-face, returned to him, and gave him a hug.  "You are a
love."

"I could make calls.  I could get you your address."

But she shook her head, as sure about this as she was about anything.
"He kept me impotent, and I let him do it.  He belittled me.  He
humiliated me.  And I'm furious.  I need to do this now.  It's a matter
of my own self-respect."

Doug's office was a Pandora's box that, once opened, gushed with
condemning information.  Emily was nearly as stunned by the ease of her
access to it, as by its quantity.  He hadn't camouflaged anything.  It
was all there for the taking.  Apparently it hadn't occurred to the
bastard that she would look.

She pored through bank books, paid bills and canceled checks, and the
tax forms that she had so naively signed.  She booted up the computer,
turned to his calendar, and printed out his work schedule and lack
thereof on certain days when he had told her otherwise.  She studied
the airline's frequent flier statement, detailing dates and points of
departure and arrival far different from what she had been led to
believe.  She found certificates of deposit and money market
accounts.

For the most part, she was dispassionate, approaching the task as she
would research for a book.  The satisfaction of being proved right in
her suspicions, of having solid evidence and feeling clever for a
change, helped her through the inevitable moments of humiliation and
fury.  And there were both, in abundance.  For years, it seemed, she
had been blind to the extreme.

She thought of Celeste at one odd moment, and felt a glimmer of
understanding.  Celeste was taking control of her life.  She had
defined her goals and was steering herself their way.  Emily didn't
necessarily agree with her methods, but she could identify with the
motive.  Control was important, all the more so after such a long time
without.

By dawn, Emily had two folders containing duplicate copies of the
damning data, made on the machine that Doug had so cleverly bought for
the business.  She stood one of the folders in the kitchen between the
cookbooks that she had used over the years in her efforts to please
Doug.  She wanted it handy, should he opt for denial when she
confronted him.

She tucked the other away for safekeeping in Daniel's room.  That was
the one place in the house that Doug would never look.  nineteen

ON FRIDAY MORNING, EMILY GASSED UP THE CAR,

with its new tires, new fan belts, and new muffler, and drove to
Boston.  She was there by noon, earlier than necessary, if the
information on Doug's calendar was correct.  He had appointments in
Bridgeport at nine and eleven.  She figured he would be on the road by
noon and in Boston by three.  But she wasn't taking a chance on missing
him.

It took her half an hour of driving around the block before someone
pulled out of the kind of parking space she needed.  It was diagonally
across the street from the address she had, an easy view past her front
windshield.

But the view was where easy ended.  There was pain in looking at that
townhouse, a lovely brick three-storied thing, with tall windows and a
carved oak door flanked by whiskey barrels filled with flowers.  Even
from outside, the draperies looked elegant, certainly heavier and more
elaborate than anything Emily had ever sewn.  Not that the woman of the
house had sewn them.  One window to the next, all the way up, spoke of
a designer's touch.

She tried to keep her mind blank as she sat there with her stomach in
knots and her eyes on the front stoop of the townhouse, but all she
could think was that this was Doug's other home, the one in which he
invested the energy and emotion that should have been hers.  Maybe she
was wrong, she tried to remind herself.  Maybe there were explanations
for the phone bills and the gas bills and the furniture bills.  Maybe
the woman who lived there had paid for the draperies.  But Emily didn't
believe it, and as she sat, she began to simmer.

She had brought along sandwiches and a thermos filled with coffee, but
she didn't touch either.  She kept her eyes on the townhouse and Jill's
camera in her lap.  She was determined to get a picture.  If Doug dared
suggest that her allegations were crazy, she planned to whip out
something to wash out his tan.

That tan was another thing.  He hadn't gotten it spending time with
her, but playing golf at the nice little country club on the outskirts
of Boston, where, according to his records, he had been a member in
good standing for the past three years.

She wondered who the other members of the club thought was his wife.
She wondered what would happen if she showed up there looking for him.
She wondered what it would be like to cause a scene.

Not that she would.  She couldn't be ugly that way, didn't have it in
her.  Nor, though, would she be lied to again.

She took her eyes from the townhouse only to dart quick looks at the
clock or the occasional passerby.  As one-thirty inched its way toward
two, the leisurely lunch crowd merged with a more directed afternoon
one.  She saw students who might have been Jill, and businessmen who
might have been Doug, but no one climbed the steps of the townhouse
with the elegant drapes and the carved oak door.

By the time three o'clock arrived, the knots in her stomach were
twisting.  By four, she was thinking that Brian might have been right,
that maybe she had made a mistake coming here blindly, without proof
that Doug was on his way.  She wondered if she should have just asked
him, without coming at all.  The file she had was incriminating enough.
She didn't need a photograph.

What she needed was self-confidence, which was the real purpose of the
trip.  She needed to know that she had taken Jill's clue, found proof
of its claim, and backed that proof up.  She needed to know that she
could beat Doug at his own game.

That was one way to fight the anger.  As for the hurt, the humiliation,
the profound sadness, she needed time.

Then she saw him.  He rounded the corner on foot and approached the
townhouse, Doug, bold as brass, looking dazzling in casual clothes--not
even a business suit, the bastard--and totally oblivious to the
possibility that she was lying in wait.

Trembling, she rushed the camera to her eye, but it was a minute before
she could get her fingers to work right.  She took one picture, jerked
the film ahead, and took another.  She advanced, refocused, and kept
shooting, thinking, absurdly, that Doug would die if he knew what good
use she was making of the camera he had so nobly bought Jill for a
photography course junior year.

She wrenched the focus knob, too late realizing that her tears were
what blurred the picture.  Whimpering, she fought the devastation she
felt, struggling to shoot, advance, and shoot more quickly as Doug
climbed the steps of the townhouse.

She got shots of him standing at the door, reaching into his pocket,
unlocking the door, and stepping inside.  She took one picture of the
door after he was gone, then another and another until the camera
slipped on her tears.  That was when the absurdity of what she was
doing hit her.  Sitting here, witnessing firsthand the existence of
Doug's other life, was pure masochism.

She grabbed a tissue and tried to stop crying, but the tears kept
coming.  Her marriage was done, her life forever changed.  The finality
of it was heartbreaking.

Then she caught her breath.  Standing on the sidewalk staring at her,
barely two cars down from where she was parked, was Jill.

Emily made a sobbing sound when her heart hit her ribs.  She swiped at
her tears with both hands, praying that she had seen wrong, but Jill
remained.  For a split second, Emily was paralyzed by a fathomless
grief.  In the next instant, the mother in her was out of the car.

Jill's face was pale, that of a child whose bottom had fallen out of
her world.  Knowing just how she felt, Emily took her in her arms and
held on.  She wasn't crying now.  Motherhood demanded she be strong.

But when Jill whispered, "I love you, Mom," she lost it and burst into
a fresh bout of tears.  She held Jill for her own sake then, taking
every bit of the comfort her mature woman-daughter offered.

It was a minute before she had the wherewithal to ease back and say a
sniffly, "I love you, too, sweetheart."

"You read my paper."

"Mm."

"I didn't know what to do," Jill rushed out, "I wasn't sure if it was
him, but like, there were so many reasons why it could be, and then I
felt guilty for thinking he'd do that.  I wanted to tell you but I
didn't know how, so writing seemed the best way, since I knew you'd do
something with my closet."

Emily was wiping her eyes with her fingers.  "Only the sweater basket.
I haven't touched anything else.  And writing it down was fine." 
Though she would have done anything to spare Jill this, she was
relieved to have it out in the open.  Misery loved company.  She needed
to be with someone she loved.  "Have you come here before?"

"No.  I told myself you'd do whatever had to be done.  But I kept
wondering anyway."

"Why today?"

"Because the first time I saw him here was a Friday.  And because he
was strange last weekend.  Nice to everyone but you.  Who is she?"

Emily drew in a shaky breath.  She had a name.  But Jill was asking
about the nature of the relationship.  "I don't know."

"Maybe he had a business friend who died, and he's checking up on the
widow."

It was a romantic notion that Emily had herself entertained in one
delusive moment, but it didn't explain why he had a key to the place,
why he hadn't told Emily about her, and it certainly didn't explain
what she had found in his files.

"How long has he been coming here?"  Jill asked.

"I don't know."

"Who is the little boy?"

Emily's throat tightened.  She wasn't ready to think about the little
boy, and besides, she didn't know how much to tell Jill about any of
this.  She was so frightened of making a mistake.  She needed time to
regroup.  "Let's go someplace where we can talk."

They returned to the car and drove to a cafe close to Jill's dorm. Once
settled in a booth with warm drinks on order and their hands linked,
Jill started in with questions again.  "How did you know where to wait?
 I didn't know the address."

"I found it in your father's den."

"Just written down?"

"No.  There were bills."

"He's supporting her?"

"Maybe not.  I really don't know, Jill.  There could be a perfectly
good reason for everything he's done."

But Jill was shaking her head.  "When I saw them that first time, there
was something about them together.  They looked like a couple.  They
looked like a family.""

Emily felt the pain of that.  They were a family.  Emily and Jill were
alone.

If the little boy was Doug's, he was Jill's half brother.  She wondered
if Jill had thought about that.

"Will you ask him about it?"  Jill asked.

Would she ever.  She took a steadying breath.  "Yes.  I need to know
what we saw."

"When?"

"When he gets home."

"Tomorrow?"

"Most likely."

"Unless he calls to say he won't be home until Sunday," Jill grumbled,
and her composure slipped.  "I hate him for this.  He calls to say he's
working, but he's not, he's doing something with another family."

"Don't," Emily pleaded through new tears.  Her greatest fear had always
been having Jill hurt.  She had done everything in her power to prevent
it.  But it was happening, inevitably and irrevocably.  "If anyone
should feel those things, it's me, not you.  The problem is with your
father and me, not your father and you."

"When was the last time he spent a week at home?  He couldn't even stay
around the week before I left.  Do you think he was really in
Pittsburgh?"

"Yes."  His frequent flyer account had confirmed it.  "Most of the time
he tells us the truth."

"You're defending him," Jill charged.

Emily was trying hard to be fair.  More than anyone else, she had a
right to distrust Doug, but being spiteful wouldn't help Jill.  "He was
in Pittsburgh.  And earlier this week he was in New Haven, like he
said."

"And tonight?  Where did he say he'd be?"

Emily was caught.  She sighed.  "Bridgeport."

"Aren't you furious?"

"Of course, I am!"  she cried, letting go a little.  "I've been raging
all week.  I'm furious and hurt and confused and embarrassed--the list
is endless.  I go through periods of disbelief, then shock, then
out-and out nausea.  I've been married to your father for twenty-two
years.  Twenty-two years.  This isn't easy."

Jill quieted.  "I'm sorry."  She frowned.  "It's just that I don't
understand.  Is something wrong with us?  Why does he need to be with
them?"

Emily took a deep, shaky breath.  "That's one of the things I have to
ask him."

Their drinks arrived, espresso for Emily, mocha latte for Jill.  Emily
put her fingertips to the cup, but she couldn't take her eyes off Jill.
Her daughter was beautiful, but that was nothing new.  What was new was
an expression that spoke of illusions dashed.  It was the last thing
Emily had ever wanted to see.

"What?"  Jill asked.

"I'm sorry, so sorry for all this."

"It's not your fault."

"Maybe if I'd been a different kind of woman, or if I'd grown more
along with your father--"

"Don't say that.  There's nothing wrong with you.  He's the one with
the problem.  He cheated on his wife.  And on his daughter."

"We don't know that for sure," Emily cautioned, trying hard, so hard,
to be fair.  "He walked up a set of steps and into a townhouse.  That's
all we saw.  We don't know what goes on inside.  It might be
innocent."

"You're doing it again, Mom.  Don't defend him.  He lied to you.  And
keeps lying to you.  You're too good.  You let him get away with too
much.  I think you should divorce him."

"Shh."  Emily doubted Jill had considered the effect a divorce would
have on her life.  She had barely started to consider it, herself.

"Will you?"  Jill prodded.

"Not if there's an explanation for what we saw today."

"There isn't."

"How do you know?"

"Because," she said, looking at Emily with something so sad and sure
that Emily couldn't possibly doubt her, "this has been coming.  You and
I both know it.  We've been walking on eggshells around Daddy for
years.  We coax him into doing little things with us, and then rush to
smooth things over when he gets antsy.  We act like nothing's wrong and
that this is just the way things are when a man has to travel the way
Daddy does, but he never says, "Wow, am I glad to be home."  He doesn't
plan things for us to do.  He doesn't seem to care if we do anything.
You two won't take a vacation together.  We three won't take a vacation
together."

"We don't have the money," Emily said out of habit, but Jill was
knowing, even in that.

"We don't," she replied dryly and studied her drink.  She took a
breath, seeming ready to say more on that score.  Then she closed her
mouth and frowned.  "He calls me sometimes at school, really talkative.
He asks questions about my friends and my classes, and listens to the
answers and then asks more questions.  I can't get him off the phone
sometimes."

"He loves you."  Emily did believe that, at least.

"It's guilt.  Do you know how far that townhouse is from my dorm?
Fifteen minutes by foot, three by car.  How often do you think he's
been there since I started school?  Once a week?"

"No.  He was in London for two weeks."  When Jill shot her a skeptical
look, Emily insisted, "I saw the tags on his luggage."

"Was he with her?"

Emily suspected he was, though she didn't know for sure.

Jill wilted.  "What am I going to say to him, Mom?  I could play the
game before, because I wasn't sure that was him on those steps, but now
that I know it was, what am I going to say when he calls?  I don't want
to talk with him.  Not after what he's done."

Emily took her hand and squeezed it while she searched for an answer.
Tell him to go to hell, was what she wanted to say, because Doug didn't
deserve Jill.  But Doug wasn't the one who mattered.  Jill was, and
Emily wanted only what was best for her.  "He's still your father."

"He's treated us like shit."

"If he didn't love you, he wouldn't be calling."

"He feels guilty, that's all."

He's not feeling guilty about me, Emily thought.  He's not calling me.
He's not asking me dozens of questions about my life, and keeping me on
the phone for hours.

Wearied by the length of the day and the weight of her thoughts, Emily
sighed.  "I have to talk with him, Jill.  We have questions now, you
and I, that can't be answered until then.  We only have one side of the
story.  We need to hear his side."

"Do you think he'll tell the truth?"

Emily thought of the folder that stood between her cookbooks, and the
identical one safely stowed upstairs.  "He'll tell the truth," she said
with quiet confidence and an undercurrent of unspoken rage.

That unspoken rage had Emily planted in a corner of the living room
sofa when Doug pulled into the garage on Saturday night.  She didn't
move when she heard the rev of his car's engine--never understood why
that last rev was necessary before he turned off the engine, other than
to give him a sense of power--or the silence that followed, or the slam
of the car door, then the trunk, or his footfall on the back stairs.

The kitchen door opened.  "Emily?  I'm home!"

Her rage grew.  Calling out that way, he might have been the conquering
hero returning from war, fully assuming that she was waiting, just
dying to see him.

Oh, she was dying to see him, all right, but not, she warranted, for
the reasons he expected.

"Emily?"  he called again.

He crossed through the kitchen into the hall, and set his luggage by
the foot of the stairs.  He looked up them, then turned and caught
sight of her.

"Why in the world are you sitting in the dark?"

"I'm not in the dark."

"Practically."  He switched on the hall light to supplement the small
lamp lit by her side, and made a show of shrugging out of his blazer
with a tired shift of his shoulders, the weary businessman, home at
last from a week of nonstop work.

She wanted to gag.  But she didn't.  Nor did she speak or move.  She
sat and watched, seething--but sad, and in spite of everything, vaguely
intimidated by what she was about to do.  Once her words were out there
would be no taking them back.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, rubbing his back.  "I was hoping to be home
for dinner, but my last meeting didn't finish until six, and I-91 was a
nightmare.  You didn't cook, did you?"

"No.  I had a feeling you'd be late."  She spoke evenly, but since she
was usually upbeat, even that was out of character.

"You're angry," he charged.  "Like it was my fault."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to.  I can feel your censure.  Christ, Emily, do you
think I didn't want to get out of there at noon?  But the meeting
dragged on.  They kept asking me questions.  I couldn't just get up and
leave, not with what they're paying me."

Not with us desperate for every last penny, she added silently.  "What
company was this?"

"Eldridge Tire.  I'm their last resort, before they file for
bankruptcy."

"That explains their willingness to work on Saturday.  What made 1-91 a
nightmare?"

"Accidents, one in New Haven, one in Windsor Locks.  Traffic was down
to two lanes."

"I hope no one died.  I'll have to check the paper tomorrow."

"Actually," he backpedaled, "it looked more messy than tragic.  I
probably hit it at the worst time.  An hour before or after, and I
would have been fine.  How're things here?"

"Fine."

He slipped his hands in his pockets and looked around.  "What have you
been doing?  Listening to music?"

"No."

"Reading?"

She shook her head.

He stared, then sighed.  "Well, something's on your mind.  Come on,
Emily.  I've been gone all week, and I'm tired.  Do we have to play
twenty questions, or will you just blurt it out?"

"I spent yesterday in Boston."

He didn't blink.  "Visiting Jill?"

"Well, I did that, but it was accidental.  I didn't see her until after
I saw you.  Until after she saw you."

Emily felt a moment's satisfaction when he blanched, but as quickly he
reddened in anger.  "Were you following me?"

"No, I was just sitting on Marlborough Street."

"Checking up on me.  Waiting for me to appear.  Tripping me up just now
by talking about Bridgeport, when you knew damn well I wasn't in
Bridgeport at all."

"Oh, you were in Bridgeport.  I called the hotel.  You checked out
yesterday morning."

"You called the hotel," he echoed.  "What in the hell is this?  An
inquisition?  And who in the hell are you, judge, jury, and
executioner?  What is it, boredom?  You don't have anything to do, so
you've decided to stir up a little trouble?  Or revenge, getting back
at me for being away so much?"

She marveled at his self-righteousness.  "It's incredible how you do
that, turn things around so that I'm the bad guy.  But, why not?  It's
always worked for you before.  I've always accepted your argument and
run off with my tail between my legs.  Only I'm not doing it this
time, Doug.  I'm not the bad guy here, not by a long shot."

"And I am?  Me?  The one who's out there earning a living?"

Irate, she burst from the sofa.  "The one who's out there earning far
more than you ever let on and spending the excess on another woman,
another child, a three-story townhouse in the Back Bay, clothing that
has never seen the inside of this house, a country club membership,
plus a slew of other things that come from stores I sure don't shop
in."

Absurdly, he said, "I need clothes."

"Women's clothes?  Children's clothes?  Are you personally benefiting
from enrollment at the Back Bay Montessori School?  Or days of beauty
at Elizabeth Arden?  Or the interior decorating services of a firm
called Dayton and Webb?"

He put his hands on his hips.  "You've been through my files."

"Well, what did you expect?"  she cried.  "I'm not stupid, Doug.  I may
have given you the benefit of the doubt for far longer than I should
have, but I knew something was wrong--and I have asked you about it,
but you keep putting me off, telling me that this is the way things are
and that I'm selfish.  Not selfish, Doug.  Human.  How many times did
you think you could call and say you'd be delayed another day, without
my growing suspicious?  How long did you think I would sit here alone,
without wondering why you weren't lonely, too?"

"I have my work."

"Yeah, that's what you said last weekend, your stock answer, only the
truth is that you have far more than that.  You have for some time. How
long has it been going on, Doug?"

"How long has what been going on?"

"Oh, please.  The game's over."

"How long has what been going on?"

She sighed.  "Rebecca Mills.  Doug, I know.  I've seen canceled checks
and mortgage statements."

"You had no right to go through my den."

"Your den?"  She nearly laughed, because he was doing it again,
sidestepping an accusation by making one of his own, only she wasn't
having it.  "This is our house.  I didn't pick any locks.  I simply
looked through papers that were lying right there.  It's a miracle I
didn't stumble across them sooner."

He stared at her for a long minute, then said with a look of disgust,
"No miracle.  You're such an innocent."

"I was.  But I've lost my cherry, so to speak."  She played her hand.
"I have copies of everything I found, and copies of those copies, put
away for safekeeping.  I also have pictures of you letting yourself
into that townhouse with a key yesterday afternoon."

Lips thinning, he nodded.  "So you poisoned Jill's mind.  You told her
I was having an affair."

"I didn't tell Jill a thing."  It had more or less been the other way
around, though Emily wouldn't say that.  She didn't want to turn Doug
against Jill.  "She saw you let yourself into that townhouse.  She was
there on that street totally independent of me."

"You've turned my own child against me."

"No, no, no," Emily cried.  She didn't know who he was trying to kid.
Then again, she did.  But she was done taking the fall.  "If she's
turned against you, it's your own doing.  It's one thing to treat me
like a poor, pathetic half wit but when you do it to kids, they smell
it faster than a wife who's trying to hold things together.  Jill knew
things weren't right.  You're never here--and don't say it's your
work," she said before he could.  "People choose what they do.  If
they're unhappy, they change things.  But you aren't unhappy, are
you?"

For a minute, he didn't say anything.  Then his eyes grew hard. "What's
to be unhappy about?  I have the son I've been wanting for nineteen
years, ever since the day Daniel was taken from our car because you
left him there alone."

Emily felt she'd been hit.  Short of breath, she took one step back,
then another, hating herself for retreating but needing to sit.  She
had always known Doug blamed her, but hearing the words, hearing,
seeing, feeling his hatred was something else.

"Is the little boy yours?"  she asked brokenly.

"Damn right," came Doug's taunt.  "Four years old and smart as a
whip."

Emily thought of Daniel, who had never reached the age of four, and
felt her eyes brim.  "I didn't know you wanted a boy so badly.  I might
have had another one, if we had tried."

"Are you kidding?"  he shot back, stronger with her weakening.  "You
had your chance the first time around, but you blew it,"

"I didn't kidnap Daniel."

"You left him alone.  He was in your care, and you blew it.  Face it,
Emily.  You blew it."

That was what she had always thought, too, until someone recently had
said it wasn't so.  "I didn't do anything that other parents don't do
all the time," she argued as Brian had, then as Brian hadn't, "I didn't
do anything you didn't do yourself.  You left him alone in the car a
time or two.  I saw."

Doug jabbed a thumb at his chest.  "But I didn't lose the kid.  You
did.  You lost my child.  My Daniel.  God, I adored that little boy."
He pushed a hand through his hair and turned away.  "I had dreams of
our working the farm together--the father and son team that my father
and I could never have been because he was such a mean bastard--and
then when Daniel wasn't there anymore, I didn't feel the same way about
the farm.  It became no more than a moneymaking scheme, and a mediocre
one at that, so I built it up and got the hell out, and I've never
regretted it once.  That farm held memories.  I couldn't escape them. I
never go past the place now.  I think it'd be painful still."

"You never talked about the pain."

"Yeah, well, what good would it have done?"

"We might have shared it.  We might have grown closer, rather than
farther apart."

He snorted.  "I had my pain, you had yours.  Then you turned up
pregnant, and I thought there might be another chance.  But Jill wasn't
Daniel."

"Because she was a girl?"

"Because she was yours.  You two were inseparable, right from the
start.  You poured everything you had into her.  She became your clone.
So why would I want her working with me?  I'd only look at her and see
you and think of Daniel."

Emily shrank away, feeling unwanted, unloved, alone, and scared.  She
hugged her stomach.  "Do you do that anyway?"

"No.  Not as long as I separate Jill from the rest."

"From me."

He didn't deny it.  "It's easier now that she's at school.  I like
calling her."

Emily nodded, relieved for Jill, at least.  "But she thinks you call
her out of guilt.  We'll have to address that, Doug.  Children suffer
when a marriage ends.  Just because she's eighteen doesn't mean there
won't be pain."

Doug looked up the stairs, then down at his shoes.  "So you want a
divorce."

"Don't you?"  she bit out.  She couldn't imagine continuing on like
this.

He kept his eyes on his shoes.

"Doug, you have another woman, another child, another home!  You hate
me!  I'd think you'd be dying to get rid of me.  Frankly, I don't know
why you stayed around so long.  I don't know why you haven't asked for
a divorce yourself."

He was quiet for another minute.  Then he raised his eyes and said in a
petulant voice, "Oh, I want a divorce, but if you plan to soak me,
think again.  You didn't help me build my business.  I did it in spite
of you."

Emily was speechless.  She hadn't given a thought to money.  Besides,
his accusation was absurd!  If she had been a gold digger she would
have been at his throat long ago.  But no, she had been a prudent
little mouse, watching her pennies, accepting their financial straits
without complaint.

Taking her silence for a declaration of war, Doug vowed, "I'll fight
you, Emily.  You have a secure little life here.  You don't need much.
I'll give you only what you're used to.  God knows, you haven't even
earned that."

Indignance drew her spine ramrod straight and more, brought her to her
feet.  "Oh, I have," she told him.  "I've earned it through sweat and
tears, through every imaginable effort to please you, and years of
slights and put downs and doing without when there was no reason for it
at all.  Were you punishing me?  Did you make like we were broke just
to worry me?  Did you cancel out on me at the last minute just to annoy
me?  Did you tell me over and over and over again that I couldn't get a
decent job, just to make me feel stupid?  What about my book?  Was that
stupid?"

"That book was a one-time thing," he scoffed with the wave of his
hand.  "You had the right material in the right place at the right
time.  Most anyone half literate could have gotten it published."

Once upon a time Emily would have agreed.  But times had changed.  "Not
according to my editor.  She wants me to do another.  I always turned
her down, because you didn't want me to work, but that doesn't make any
more sense to me now than before.  The issue of having to pay taxes
doesn't hold water.  Last time, on one book, I earned enough to cover
those taxes and have a tidy sum left over--a tidy sum that you
squirreled away into our bank account, ostensibly to keep us solvent,
more probably to keep me in the dark as to just how much was
accumulating."  She remembered what Kay and Celeste had always said.
"But that's what you want, isn't it?  You want me in the dark.  You
want me unaware of my own potential.  You don't want me to earn money,
and become stronger and more independent of you.  If I become a person
in my own right, I won't be quite so naive.  I won't let you walk all
over me.  I may just tell you to go to hell."

She drew in a hard breath, egged on by the dislike she felt for her
husband just then.  "Well, I'm doing it now, Doug.  I'm telling you to
go to hell.  I want a divorce.  And don't tell me you won't give me a
cent, because I have paperwork to show a judge that I've been lied to
and cheated on for years.  I have proof of the existence of assets I
never knew about.  I'll come out of a divorce far better off than when
I went in."

"No, you won't.  Women never do."

"I will.  And if I don't, so what?  You aren't the same person I
married.  I don't want you anymore."  Her eyes went to his luggage.
"That means tonight, too.  I don't want you warm from another woman's
bed.  You can check into the Grannick Lodge.  Or drive back to Boston.
There shouldn't be any traffic tie-ups this time of night."

"You're kicking me out of my own home?  Try again, Emily.  You can't
make me leave."

"No?"  She was angry enough to bluff.  "One call to the police, and
you'll be spending the night in jail."

He made a disbelieving sound.  "On what charge?"

"Assault.  Battery.  Threat of bodily harm."

"I have never theatened you with bodily harm."

"Right," she said without a stitch of remorse, "but I'll claim that you
have until Monday morning, when I formally file for divorce, and when I
do that, I'll get a restraining order keeping you away from this
house."

"I own this house."

"And I live here, far more than you do.  Any member of the Grannick
Police Department will testify to that.  Besides, you own another
house.  Go stay there.  Be with the little boy you've wanted for
nineteen years.  Be with his mother.  Let her wash your socks for a
change.  I'm done."

She stormed to the front door and opened it wide, intent on pointing
him out, but once started, the words wouldn't stop.  "Our marriage has
been over for years, only neither of us could admit it.  But, God," she
put a hand to her chest, "there's a relief in saying it now.  Our
marriage has been a strain.  I never realized how much, until now. I've
been grasping at the remnants of what we had once, but they're so
tattered and torn that I barely recognize them, and they aren't even
what I want."

"What do you want?"

"What I want doesn't matter.  What I don't want is feeling small and
inadequate and guilty all the time.  I'm tired of making excuses for
your absences.  I'm tired of trying to please you, when you won't be
pleased."

"I'm not that hard to live with."

"You are very hard to live with!"  she cried, because he was doing it
again, making her feel wrong, and she was tired of it!  Then she
realized he was goading her.  So she leveled her voice and steadied her
gaze.  "Leave, Doug.  I'll be talking with Shep Hubbard on Monday. 
Have your lawyer call him.  If you want to stop by for some of your
things tomorrow, call first."

He stared at her for a long time.  When she refused to look away,
refused to blink, he said, "You're tough."

She sighed.  "No.  But I'm learning."  She gestured him into the night
and stood back while he passed.  twenty

EMILY SPENT SUNDAY MORNING EMPTYING

Doug's den.  She had a frenzied need to be active, and couldn't think
of anything more appropriate.  His den was symbolic of the life he had
made without her, and she wanted it transformed.

She crated up Doug's books and papers, emptied desk drawers and file
cabinets, and began carting boxes to the garage.  Brian drove up
halfway through, his tires crunching on the dusting of snow that had
fallen at dawn and frozen where it lay.  He scooped Julia from the Jeep
and tucked her inside his parka so that only her face showed.  "What
are you doing?"  he called, walking into the garage.

Emily wiped her hands on her jeans.  "Cleaning."

"Need any help?"

"Nope."  She wiggled her fingers at Julia.  Julia wiggled her nose
back.

Softly, Brian asked, "Are you okay?"

Emily nodded.

"Are these his?"

"Uh-huh."

He grinned.  "Please.  Let me help."

She gave him a nudge and left her shoulder against his arm.  "You're
bad."

"Just selfish.  I miss you."

She missed him, too.  But her hands, her mind, her needs just then were
focused on Doug.  So she simply leaned in closer for a minute, before
stepping away.

"Really," he said, serious now.  "I can carry boxes."

But she shook her head and sent him off.  She needed to do the work
herself, needed the exertion, the therapy of it.  She made trip after
trip to the garage, until the whole of his office, minus furniture, was
relocated there.

Back in the house, staring at bare shelves, a naked desk, and all the
machines that she would need for her work, she marveled at her nerve.
She had never dared defy Doug--had never before had conscious
cause--but it felt good.  This was her declaration of independence.  It
went a small way toward boosting her self-esteem.

Cleaning the room went another small way, as did gathering her own
possessions, previously stashed in random out-of-the-way places, and
neatly arranging them in drawers and on shelves.  She brought an
elegant old lamp from the basement, one that she had bought at an attic
sale years before but that Doug had hated on sight, and stood it on a
corner of the desk.  She nailed her diploma to the wall.  She filled
the shelves with her favorite books, and set up photographs of Jill
and, yes, Daniel.  She stood a copy of the book she had written face
out at eye-level.

By then it was four in the afternoon.  She had fully expected Doug to
have come by for clothes, papers, something.  Naturally, because she
expected it, he wouldn't do it.

So, wearing leggings, thick scrunchy socks, and a huge sweatshirt,
rolled several times at the wrists, she sat at the desk and made
chronological piles of the contents of her large accordion-pleated
folder.

There her discipline ended.  She couldn't concentrate the way she
needed to.  Her mind drifted.  She kept looking off toward the yard and
rehashing the week.

The back door slammed.  "What in the hell did you do with my things?"

Her stomach cramped.  For a split second she regretted what she'd done.
Then she thought of the woman, the child, the townhouse, the country
club, and the repeated lies and denials, and she tucked her legs under
her and tipped up her chin.

Angry Italian loafers slapped across the kitchen floor and into the
hall.  "Emily?"

She sat back in the chair and waited.  He knew where she was.

Within seconds, he was at the door, looking very Armani, in slacks, a
sweater, and a jacket with the collar pulled up just so, but fired up
and, to her satisfaction, a bit unsettled.  "I nearly drove into the
garage just now!  Do you have any idea what would have happened if I
had?  I'd have lost reams of files and damaged the car.  Don't you have
any brains?  Why in the hell did you put my things there?"

She'd had many a curious moment in the hours just past, wondering what
it would be like, seeing him for the first time after she'd asked for a
divorce.  If he had shown up all apologetic and sweet, shocked to his
senses, wanting to try to work things out for Jill's sake, she might
have had a qualm.  His outrage solved that problem.

Why had she put his things in the garage?  Because there was a poetic
justice to it.  The garage was where he kept his most prized
possessions, wasn't it?

She tucked her legs up.  "I thought it would be a help.  Now all you
have to do is load them in the car."

"All?  Christ, you messed everything up!  I'll have to re-sort every
goddamned thing.  Those were important papers you were tossing
around!"

She didn't know how important they could be, stashed in a room where he
hadn't spent any significant time in weeks.  "Relax, Doug.  I didn't
'toss' anything around.  I put things in boxes, exactly as they were
organized here.  Everything's labeled.  Nothing's been lost."

He put his hands on his hips and snorted, then shook his head and
snorted again.  "You are incredible."

Emily wasn't asking if that was good or bad.  She knew what he would
say, and didn't want to hear it.  She had sworn off masochism.  "If you
came back for clothes, help yourself.  I haven't touched them."

He stared at her for another minute, before letting his hands fall to
his sides.  "How did Jill come to see me on Friday?"  There was no
anger now.  Just concern.

Emily softened.  How could she not?  Jill had always been her own major
worry.  She wanted Doug to be sensitive to Jill, and for that, he
needed the truth.  "She saw you there once before."

"When?"

"Last spring.  Pre-frosh weekend.  She was walking down the street with
girls from the school and saw you on the front stoop.  With them.  She
kept telling herself it wasn't you, but it haunted her.  Then she saw
how we were together last weekend."

"How were we?"

"Distant.  She's a big girl, Doug.  She sees.  She understands."

"Did you talk with her about it, after last weekend?"

"Only Friday, after Marlborough Street.  She was upset.  I tried to
smooth things a little."

"How?"

"I told her there might be explanations for what we saw.  I said she
had to talk with you.  You're her father.  She won't have another one
in this life."

"Does she hate me?"

"Maybe a little.  But love, too.  She's confused."

"How will she react if I call her?"

"I don't know.  But the longer you wait, the harder it will be.  She's
wondering what place she has in your life.  She needs to know you love
her.  She needs to know you care about how she's taking this."

He scowled for a long minute, then grunted and looked away.  Wearing
his elegant clothes like a shield, he wandered around the den, glancing
from bookshelf to bookshelf to wall to lamp, taking stock of every
change she had made.  She wondered if he noticed the pictures of
Daniel.  She wondered if he noticed her book.  She wondered where he
had spent the night.

"You move fast," he finally said.

She hugged her knees.  "I always had to go looking for space when I
wanted to do something for myself.  You had your own space.  Jill had
her own space.  I never did.  Now I do."

"To do what?"  he asked, craning his neck toward the desk.

"Organize my thoughts."

"Thoughts on what?"

She looked him in the eye.  "Daniel.  These are the notes I made over
the years."

"About Daniel."

"And me.  My feelings about what happened.  What it's like to lose a
child that way."

"If you're writing a book, you'd better let me know.  My lawyer's going
to want to know if you're earning any money."

"I'm not."

"Will you be?"

"You'd be in a better position to tell me that," she said.  "You kept
better track of the money I made on the last book than I did.  To hear
you, it was next to nothing, more a hindrance than a help."

"Slander me in your book, and I'll sue."

Such an inflated ego.  Such a distrustful mind.  "I'm not interested in
writing about you."

"Won't it be inevitable?  Our marriage is falling apart because of
Daniel.  The two are closely related.  You can't go into any kind of
depth on one, without mentioning the other.  Why do you want to write
about Daniel, anyway?"

"Because he happened."

"But how can you relive it?"

"How can I not?  He was my son.  We never did put him to rest."

"Buried him, you mean."  He turned to the window, slipped his hands
into his trousers pockets, and stood there for a long time before,
quietly, reluctantly, selfconsciously saying, "I've been thinking about
Daniel, too.  I guess it's natural.  I've been driving around, all the
places I swore I wouldn't go.  I keep telling myself to get the hell
outta here, but it's hard."  He grew silent again, staring out the
window, his back stiff.  Finally, he took a breath.  "It's like I'm
being disloyal to Daniel if I leave.  Pretty stupid, huh?  The kid's
not here to see what I do."  He paused, then added in a low voice, "But
it's like he is."

Emily knew what he meant.  That knowing forged the first truly honest
connection between them in years.  "This is where we saw him last," she
offered, because it was the only explanation she had.  "It's our only
link to him--Grannick, this house, our marriage."

She focused on one of the pictures of Daniel.  "Is he why you didn't
ask me for a divorce yourself?"

Doug didn't answer.

"If you hated me so much," she added.  "If I was a constant reminder of
what you lost, I'm surprised you didn't leave me years ago."

He shifted a shoulder.  She took it for an admission.  There was some
solace in knowing that she wasn't the only one whose life's course had
been steered by a ghost.

Doug turned, his face tired, for once unadorned by pride, resentment,
or machismo.  "Where does it end?"

Seeing him then, vulnerable as she couldn't remember him being before,
Emily had every opportunity to regret what they were about to do.  And
she did regret it, but only in an intellectualized way.  She regretted
his suffering.  She regretted leaving Daniel in the car that day.  She
regretted the failure of her marriage.

But she didn't regret that she wouldn't be planning her life around
Doug's short stops home.  They had grown painful.  For nineteen years,
her life with Doug had been defined by Daniel's absence, every step
aimed at compensating for the loss, apologizing, doing penance in the
most subtle and subservient of ways.  Leaving that life was a first
step in putting Daniel, finally, to rest.

Where did it end?  She shrugged and shook her head, as anxious for that
ending, but befuddled, as he was.  Then a sound came from the direction
of the kitchen, and she looked sharply toward the door.

The footsteps were quieter this time around.  Sneakers hit wood far
differently than loafers did.  Within seconds, Brian had a hand on the
doorjamb.  "Am I interrupting anything?"

Emily's insides rocked.  She felt the familiar warmth that came with
Brian, along with an awful awkwardness.

Doug folded his arms over his chest and put a hip to the window
sill.

"We were just talking," she told Brian, then, frightened for Julia,
asked quickly, "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine.  I'm putting together an order for pizza.  Want
some?"  He extended the invitation to Doug with the arch of his
brows.

Doug didn't say a word.

"Maybe another time," Emily said.

Brian rapped his hand on the jamb.  "Okay.  But if you change your
mind, give a call.  Julia will probably sleep for another half hour.
I'll go when she wakes up."  With a hand up to Doug, he was gone.

The back door had barely made its distant slap when Doug turned curious
eyes on Emily and said, "It didn't take you long."

"What didn't?"  she asked, though she knew what he meant.  She knew
exactly what Brian's entrance looked like, thank you, Brian.  It looked
familiar and practiced.

"Hooking up with him.  Boy, you took me seriously when I said I liked
him."

Emily unfolded her legs.  She didn't know who to be more irked at,
Brian for setting the scene or Doug for playing it out.  "You have no
right to make accusations, Doug."

Looking smug--leering, even--he pushed off from the window.  "Tell me
you're not sleeping with him."

"What I'm doing, or not doing, is none of your business."

He approached the desk.  "That's why you're kicking me out, isn't it?
You're sleeping with him.  Funny, I was thinking about that last night,
too.  I couldn't understand why you did it so quick, with no
discussion, no forewarning, nothing.  I came home, and, boom, you
wanted me gone.  Now I know why."

Emily felt a flare of anger so hard and strong that she flew to her
feet.  "You--know--nothing," she seethed.  Forget Brian.  She would
deal with him next.  Right now, she was furious at Doug.  "I wanted you
gone when I learned that you have a whole other life, a whole other
family, a whole other set of possessions that you've been supporting
while you cry poor-mouth to me.  And there was nothing sudden about it!
You've been carrying on with her for at least four years and nine
months, and all the while our marriage has gotten weaker and weaker.
Sudden?"  she cried, caught up in the fury.  "Forget sudden!  I've been
asking you for months what's wrong, what you want, why we can't be
together, and you couldn't give me the truth.  I went so far as to
suggest counseling, because I did want to save the marriage.  Sudden?
There's nothing sudden about this.  I tried to make it work.  I tried
hard.  So what did you do?  You said you wouldn't waste the time or
money on counseling.  Far better to be a member in good standing at the
country club."

"You're jealous."

"Of a country club membership?"  She would have laughed, had she not
been so angry.  "Not quite.  What I want--wanted, past tense--was a
meaningful marriage.  I wanted a companion.  I wanted to spend time
with someone who cared, but you didn't.  You don't.  You've been lying
to me for years, so that you could spend time with your mistress and
her son."

"He's my son," Doug said.

"Yes, so you told me last night.  And I kicked you out.  You can call
that quick if you want.  I call it appropriate."

"Appropriate, my foot.  You wanted me out so you could shack up with
the cop.  Did he choose the colors for the bedroom?"

Emily bristled.  "I chose them.  Neither he, nor any other man but
you, has ever seen that room.  It's mine, and only mine, and I plan to
keep it that way for a while.  Know what I've discovered in the last
few weeks?"  She thumped her chest.  "There's a me in this world.
There's an individual inside this body who isn't anyone's slave.  That
individual is tasting freedom for the very first time in her adult
life."

He smirked.  "Now, that's devotion for you, the woman who equates
motherhood with slavery."

She held up a hand.  "Oh, no.  I wasn't referring to motherhood, and
you know it.  I was referring to marriage to you.  You held me down,
Doug.  It's as simple as that."

"And he doesn't?  Baby, the only man who gives a woman total freedom is
one who doesn't care where she goes or what she does.  So.  Is he
good?"

Damn good, she thought.  Much better than you ever were, you
self-centered oaf.

She strode toward the door.  "I think you should leave."

He followed her.  "Why?  Because I'm putting you on the hot seat?"

"Because you're way out of line."  She turned on him in the hall. "Once
upon a time you had the right to question me about my life.  You don't
any more.  Especially not with what you did to me.  Talk about the pot
calling the kettle black!"  She whirled back around and headed for the
kitchen.

"I have every right to question you.  It's my money you're asking
for."

"It's my money," she yelled.  "Hard-earned and long overdue."

"Keep your voice down."

She opened the door and hollered, "I'll raise my voice as high as I
want.  It's my life, my turf, my voice."  She stood back and in an
abruptly quieter way, one all the more emphatic for it, said, "I want
you to leave, Doug.  This discussion is done."

As he walked past, close enough to brush her with his arm, he murmured,
"Racing up there for a quick bang?"

"Get out," she said.  A quick bang?  Not quite.  The instant the shiny
black car disappeared from sight, she stormed from the kitchen, crossed
the driveway, and ran up the steps to the apartment.

Brian had papers spread on the coffee table, and while he didn't look
exactly guilty, he had the good grace to appear unsure.

"Why did you do that?"  she asked without preamble.  "You saw his car.
You knew he was here."

"I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"You could have called.  Or rung the bell."

"I was worried he was pulling something mean."

"Come on, Brian."

"I'm serious.  I've seen domestic violence.  Men don't take kindly to
being thrown out on the street."

"He's hardly on the street.  He has a perfectly good place to go."

"So what was he doing back here?"

"Talking with me.  He'll have to do that sometimes.  He's Jill's
father.  Any time he wants to talk with me about Jill, I'll listen."

"Was that what he wanted?"  Brian asked.

"Not once he saw you.  Once he saw you, walking in there like you do it
all the time, all he wanted to talk about was when we started sleeping
together."

"Did you tell him?"

"Certainly not.  I didn't confirm anything."

"Why not?"

"Because what I do with my nights is my business, not his."

"Are you embarrassed?"

"By what?"

"Our relationship."

"Of course not."  Secretive of it, perhaps, and rightly so, given that
it had preceded her separation from Doug.  Protective of it, certainly,
and excited by it, even now, when she was incensed.  Embarrassed?
Never.  "Why would you ask that, much less think it?"

He shrugged.  "I'd have told him, if it were me."

"Obviously.  That's the real reason you barged in there just now.  You
wanted him to know.  You couldn't have made it clearer, if you'd hired
a skywriter."

"Damn right," Brian said, leaving the sofa.  "I'm not ashamed of what
we have.  It happens to be a very fine, very noble, very beautiful
thing.  I love you.  I'm not ashamed of that.  Are you?"

"That's not the point" she insisted, steeling herself against those
pale blue eyes that could swallow her brain.  He loved her.  Oh, God,
the words were sweet, so sweet.  But she had spent a lifetime being
lulled by words into hiding her thoughts.  She had to be more honest,
more assertive.  "The point is that it isn't your place to tell him
what I'm doing with my life.  It's my place, and no one else's."

"Why don't you want him to know?"

"I don't care if he knows," she cried, frustrated to the extreme.  "But
I had a right to tell him in my own way and time.  I didn't need you
rushing in there, so blatantly possessive that a blind man would have
seen it.  I don't belong to you, Brian."

He stood a foot from her and held the distance.  "I never said you
did."

"Maybe not, but that's the feeling that came across back there.  I
belonged to Doug, once.  I let myself belong to him.  I let myself play
second fiddle.  I let myself be subjugated.  So look where I am."

"Where are you?"

"I'm forty years old and starting from scratch."

"I wouldn't say that.  I'd say that you're forty years old and
blossoming in ways you couldn't have done before.  You didn't have the
roots when you were twenty or thirty.  Now you do.  Now you have a grip
on your life."

"Well, that does sound poetic, but it doesn't describe some of the
feelings I've had in the last few months, the last few days."  They
tumbled out then, so many things that had been germs, now coalescing
into thoughts.  "It doesn't describe fear or shock.  It doesn't
describe the awful upset of losing my underpinnings, of having the rug
pulled out from under my feet.  It doesn't describe the sting of being
betrayed, or the knowledge, deep down inside, that I let it happen, let
it happen, and it doesn't describe the stark realization that I have no
one to depend on in life but myself, and that I'm not terribly well
equipped to take on the responsibility.  That is scary stuff, and
what's most scary, is that I set myself up for it.  I let Doug keep me
in the dark about finances, and about his feelings toward me.  Want to
be poetic?  I can be poetic.  I let myself be crippled.  Now I'm
learning how to walk."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes, I love you!"  She never would have had an affair with him if she
didn't.  "But I won't use you as a crutch!  I won't just stumble from
one relationship into another.  I won't be dependent like I was before.
If we have a future, you and I, I want it to be different.  I want
there to be respect."

"I respect you.  I have from day one."

"I need to respect myself.  That's what I'm working on now."

"By writing.  I can buy that."

"There's more to it," she said and spoke with a confidence that felt
new and so, so good.  "I'm finding my voice.  I'm deciding what I want
for dinner, not what Doug wants, or Jill wants.  I'm sleeping in a
bedroom decorated to my tastes.  I'm using the bathroom when I want,
not when no one else wants it."

"I have no problem with that.  But what does it mean for us?"

"It means," she said with a sigh, feeling a great release, a catharsis
she had never known with Doug, "that I need my space.  It means," she
said with a smile and, reaching up, curled her hand around his neck,
"that as sweet as it is for you to run to my aid, I need to deal with
Doug on my own.  I need to sleep alone sometimes.  I need to get to
know me."

"But you do love me?"

"Yes."  She sighed in resignation this time.  How could she not love
him, when his eyes worshiped her that way.  "I do love you."

He slid his hands down her spine, and lifted her, fitting her thighs to
his hips as he backed her to the wall by the door.  "Will you sleep
with me those times when you don't need to sleep alone?"

She nodded.

"Will you eat what I decide to cook sometimes?"

She nodded again.

"Will you have sex with me right now?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's too soon.  I'm too newly separated."

"We made love before you were separated at all."

"Shhh."

"I need you, Em."  His breath was hot against her forehead, his arms
enfolding her with exquisite care and incredible strength.  "I've been
in agony, waiting for something to happen.  I was afraid you'd patch
things up with him."

"How could I, if I'm in love with you?"

"You'd have done it for Jill, and I love you for that, too, only I've
missed you something awful."  His voice broke into a gritty groan, with
the deepening of his embrace.  "Oh, babe, do I ever need you."

The feeling was mutual.  She didn't want it, indeed, had every
intention of working to make herself more self sufficient, but, Lord,
she had missed him.  Her body remembered the intimacy of his, the
love-every part-of me need, and cried for it now.  Did that mean she
was weakening?  Or just realizing what she wanted and taking it?  "I
came here to make a point about independence."

"So make it," he whispered.  "Take the lead all you want.  My body's
yours."

It was tempting.  His body was magnificent--long, hard, leanly
muscular, properly haired.  "What about Julia?"

"Sleeping."  He moved against her in hungry ways, then, with her back
to the wall, took her face in his hands.  "It's so swollen inside me,
all I want to give you, and it isn't only sex, it's all the other
stuff."

"I know," she said.  He had been giving her the other stuff since the
first day she'd met him, and while a part of her wondered if she should
refuse sex on principle-she wasn't being anyone's physical outlet, not
ever again--another part couldn't fathom why she would want to deny
herself the pleasure.  Wasn't the pleasure a product of that other,
more soulful stuff?

Deciding that being independent didn't have to mean living stoically or
chastely, she gave a wonderfully replete sigh and sought his mouth.
twenty-one

BRIAN WAS FEELING THWARTED.  HE GAVE EMILY

love, great sex, even space when she needed it.  But the one thing that
he wanted to give her, more than anything, continued to elude him.

The fingerprint that his contact had produced, the one that enhanced
the two-year-old Daniel's print, hadn't matched up to a thing.  So
Daniel Arkin didn't have a criminal record.  He hadn't been enrolled in
a military school, or any other school that fingerprinted its students.
He wasn't a Green Beret, a Navy Seal, or a government employee with
high-security clearance-the last understandably, since he would have
only been twenty-one, but Brian hadn't left anything to chance.

"Give it up," John said more than once.  "You're not gonna find
anything this late."

"What do you think happened to him?"

"A drifter.  A gypsy.  Christ, I don't know.  But he's gone."

Gone, but far from forgotten, which was why Brian persevered.  Not that
he wanted Emily to forget Daniel.  He would never, ever ask that of
her.  But he wanted a resolution, just as she would, if she knew there
was a chance.

Maybe there wasn't.  But he had worked on cases that had looked to be
dead in the water, when a single bubble broke the surface.  He couldn't
give up yet, particularly now that Emily's life was starting to change.
She had ended her marriage and begun to write, and she was giving
herself to Brian in ways that suggested forever and a day, but he
wanted more than a suggestion.

That was why he drove two hours to Lower Hadley, the small town to
which he had traced the woman who owned the candy store in Grannick at
the time of Daniel's disappearance.  The store had been down the street
from the post office, with a view of the place that was oblique at best
and, at worst, as had been the case that day, obscured by the truck
owned by one of two customers in the shop at the time.  Moreover, a
taffy-pulling machine had been on, creating a noise of its own that
would have drowned out most any sound from the street.

The woman hadn't seen a thing, hadn't heard a thing, didn't know a
thing.

He wasn't surprised.  But he was discouraged.  He had already talked
with four others--the owner of the bakery, a client in the real estate
office, and the two customers in the candy store that day.

Nothing.

Driving back to Grannick, he agonized over where to turn next.  He had
gone through the list of known sex offenders, had talked with those who
had been in town at the time of Daniel's disappearance, had
even--quietly, gently, and without John's knowledge--checked out Nestor
Berlo's story.

When he learned nothing there, he turned to the computer, using it as
cold case squads often did, generating a list of child-snatchers from
Daniel's time give or take five years.  Pulling strings with every
contact he had ever developed, he tracked down each one.

Several were dead.  Most were in jail.  He interviewed three of the
latter with no luck, and as for those who had been on the streets at
the time Daniel was taken, all had alibis placing them far from
Grannick, alibis corroborated by either law enforcement officers, or by
friends, relatives, or employees.  Brian knew how easily a friend or
relative could lie.  But he couldn't open an investigation without a
germ of suspicion, and he didn't even have that.  None of the
child-snatchers from Daniel's time had taken children that young, from
cars or homes, without asking a ransom.  None of the known
child-snatchers, at least.  Which left the ones who weren't known.
Which left Brian right back where he'd begun, way out in left field.

He stared at the computer, reading and rereading files so often that he
knew their contents by heart.  Names, profiles, rap sheets--he had been
hoping upon hope to find something, hoping that if he looked long
enough, he would see a clue or a pattern.

He wanted Daniel solved.  He wanted Emily to be able to close the book,
literally and figuratively, on that chapter of her life.  Mostly he
wanted her to know that he had done it for her, wanted her to look up
at him in the adoring way that made his chest swell and his throat grow
tight with thoughts of how much she mattered.

There had to be an answer.  Okay, so he was emotionally involved. Okay,
so he wasn't being as realistic as officers of the law were supposed to
be.  But his emotional, unrealistic, involved-with-Emily self insisted
that someone, somewhere had to know what happened to Daniel.

For lack of other direction--and because Emily was thinking about
Daniel more, because she had all those notes spread before her,
because Brian thought there might be a clue in them, in her, that she
had been too close to the case to see--but mostly because Doug was gone
and Brian felt freer to love her, he started stopping by in the middle
of the day to see how she was doing.

He brought sandwiches with him on Monday.  On Tuesday, because snow was
falling and the world was cold and crisp, she made soup.  On Wednesday,
because he felt she needed a break, he dragged her from her computer to
the Eatery.

They were on their way home when his radio crackled.  He picked it up
and conversed with the dispatcher.  Cursing the timing, he stepped on
the gas.

"What?"  Emily asked.

He should have left her home, where things were safe and Daniel's
disappearance was the only one she had to suffer through again and
again and again.

"Brian?"

"You don't want to know."

"It's another missing child, isn't it?"

He figured she had made out at least part of the dispatcher's message,
and careened around a corner, muttering, "Missing doesn't mean
kidnapped.  Christ, what is it about this town?"

"The dispatcher said the end of LaGrange.  That's a wealthy area.  Did
she say Hammelman?"

"Sounded like it.  Do you know them?"

"Not well.  They own movie theaters.  They're friends of the Berlos."

Brian grunted.  "Is that friends of his, friends of hers, or friends of
lovers somewhere along the way?"  The Berlos were definitely unusual.
He slowed when he approached their stone wall, not because it was
theirs, but because it marked the way to China Pond Road.  "Am I
dropping you home?"

"No."

He reaccelerated.  "Didn't think so."  He continued down LaGrange until
he reached the large brick house with a cruiser parked behind a small
Mercedes, which was parked behind a Jaguar, which was parked behind a
larger Mercedes on the circular drive.  "Wait here," he told Emily, but
she was already out of the car.

Munroe had his forearms on the roof of the cruiser.  He pulled them off
to fill Brian in.  "Three-year-old girl.  Mother left her with a
sitter.  They're both gone."

"No note left behind saying where they went?"  Brian asked.

"Nope.  The child has a bad cough.  The mother was real clear about
coming back at one to take her to the doctor."

"Maybe the sitter got scared and took the little girl to the hospital
herself."

"Himself.  The sitter was Richie Berlo."

"Richie Berlo?"  Brian asked in dismay.

"His mother and Mrs.  Hammelman are best friends.  They were going to
Hartford, and when the little girl couldn't be with her play group
because of the cold, he was filling in."

"Why wasn't he in school?"

Munroe shrugged.  "Gotta find him to ask him.  Half the department's
out looking.  No one's seen him."

"Did they put out an APB?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"  Brian demanded, foolishly.  No APB had been issued for the
same reason that Harold had looked the other way when Richie had tried
to shoplift from his store.  Money talked.  Nestor Berlo was to be
spared embarrassment at all costs.

To Emily, Brian muttered, "That kid is a disaster waiting to happen."

"They won't touch him," she confirmed.

"I will.  I know some of his hiding places.  Come on.  Let's join the
chase."  But before he could reach the Jeep, the dispatcher had told
Munroe that the chase was underway, high-speed, on the outskirts of
town.  Munroe passed the word to Brian.

Brian put a flasher on the roof and his foot to the floor.

"I've never been in on a chase before," Emily said.

"And you won't be now," he informed her, listening to the radio with
one ear as the others reported their positions.  "I'm going fast.
That's one step slower than speeding, which is three steps slower than
chasing."

"Go faster."

"Not with you in the car and slush on the road."

"Don't you want to catch Richie?"

"No.  All I want is to be there once he's caught.  I want my turn
questioning him.  I'm not intimidated by his father, the way most of
this town seems to be."  He turned up the radio.  Excited reports were
coming in, one after the other.

"How much do you know about Nestor?"  Emily asked with the tact of a
loyal Grannickite.

"I know that his lover is the same sex as his wife's lover, if that's
what you're getting at."  A quick look told him that it was.  He
frowned at something the dispatcher said.  "Ridge Road?"

But Emily was more familiar with the town.  "River Road.  It's a little
beyond."  She leaned closer, because the voices were coming fast and
furious.  "What?"

Brian started to speed.  "Accident," he said.

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"John."

"Let's wait and see."

"John's hurt."

"We don't know that."

"They just said so.  They're calling an ambulance."

"Stay cool," Brian said, feeling anything but.  He hated it when any
officer was hurt, hated it even more when he knew the officer, and when
he knew the perpetrator, when his gut told him the whole thing could
have been prevented, he hated it the most.

He whipped around corners as fast as the Jeep would take them,
fishtailing around a few on the remnants of yesterday's snow, hitting
his horn more than once when an unsuspecting driver threatened to
intrude on his path.  He was wired by the time he reached River Road.
His nerves sparked hotly when he saw John's cruiser wedged on its side
against a tree.

"My God," Emily cried, tugging at her door.

Brian wanted to make her stay in the Jeep, but short of tying her down,
he didn't know how, and then ambulance sounds came from behind, and it
seemed pointless.  He ran forward just as a crew of others righted
John's car.  Emily was among the first to get to John, but she, too,
had to stand aside when the EMTs came through.

"He's alive," she told Brian.  "He's talking."

But Brian could see John's facial expressions.  "Looks like he's
hurting.  His legs?"

"Yes."

He put his hands on her shoulders, and said, "Stay here until they get
him in the ambulance.  Want to go with him?"

"Yes."

He passed that word on, then turned to the side.  There, standing by
his slush-spattered sports car, looking for all the world like a
spectator, rather than the object of a manhunt, was Richie Berlo.  The
Hammelman child knelt like a forgotten bag of groceries on the front
seat of his car.

"What was this all about?"  Brian asked with a tired sigh.  Before
Richie could answer, he walked past him and lifted the child from the
car.  "Hey, you," he teased, "where you been?"

"We went riding," she said in the kind of sweet, little-girl voice he
imagined Julia would have at three.  "We went fast.  It was fun."

"Your Mommy's worried."

"But I didn't cough once."

With a look at Richie that forbade him to move, Brian carried the child
to Sam.  "You take her.  I'll take him."  He returned to Richie with a
pair of handcuffs.

"What're those for?"

"They're what we use when we don't trust that the people we're taking
in for questioning won't turn tail and run."

"Questioning?  For speeding?"

Brian snapped on the cuffs and set off, hauling Richie along.

"Where are you taking me?"

"For starters to get a good look at the guy they're laying out on that
stretcher over there.  In case you don't recognize him, he's the chief
of police in this town.  He's someone's husband and someone's father
and a friend to lots and lots of people around here.  He's the guy who
might have died just now, thanks to you."  He took Richie by the back
of the neck.  "Look good."

John was sickly pale.  Blood ran from a facial cut.  His features were
twisted with pain.

When Richie started to turn away, Brian tightened his hand.  "Watch,
goddammit," he muttered under his breath, though, in fact, his own eyes
had found Emily's.  She was frightened for John, but there was
something reassuring in the look she sent him.  It calmed his
nerves.

He waited until she climbed in behind the stretcher.  None too gently,
he ushered Richie to the Jeep and shoved him inside.

"I didn't make him hit the tree," the boy protested once they were on
the road.

Brian held the wheel with both hands.  "You knew he was behind you, you
knew he wanted you to stop, you led him on a merry chase.  He wouldn't
have hit the tree if you hadn't done that."

"He skidded on ice.  It wasn't my fault."

"What were you doing with the little girl?"

"Nothing.  She was bored, so we took a ride."

"With her mother coming back at one?"

"I forgot.  And anyway," he added, sounding petulant and wise, "they're
never back when they say they'll be.  Brunch takes hours.  It's the
most important thing they have to do with their lives."

"Yours is school.  Why weren't you there?"

"Because I had to babysit."

"You didn't have to.  You don't need the money."

"I was doing her a favor.  I was doing my mother a favor.  Besides, I'm
a senior.  School is irrelevant at this point."

"Not if you want to get into college."

Richie made a sputtering sound.

"Ahhh," Brian interpreted.  "Getting into college isn't a problem.  Not
with Daddy greasing the right palms.  So you were doing Mrs.  Hammelman
a favor.  Why would she think you'd kidnap the child?"

Richie looked appalled.  "Kidnap?  I didn't kidnap the kid.  Is that
what she says?"

"Yeah.  I want to know why."

The boy's expression soured.  "Go ask her."

"I'm asking you.  You're the son of her best friend.  Her first
instinct should be to trust, not accuse."

"She doesn't like my father."

"Why not?"

"Three guesses.  The first two don't count."

"Why not?"  When Richie didn't answer, he said, "I'm new to town.  Make
like I don't know a thing."

"She doesn't like my father," the boy enunciated slowly, "because she
doesn't turn him on."

"So what does that have to do with her not trusting you?"

"Come on, man.  I'm the guy's son.  Use your imagination."

"I'm law and order, black and white.  I got no imagination.  Tell me
what you being Nestor's son has to do with her not trusting you."

"Shit."  He looked away.

"Spit it out, Richie."

"She thinks I'm like him.  Duhhhh."

Brian wondered if he was, if his lashing out stemmed from the angst of
sexual confusion.  But he wasn't touching on that, not until he had
something more going with the boy.  "If Mrs.  Hammelman thinks that,
why did she leave you with her child?"

"She probably figured I was safe with a girl.  Where are we going? This
isn't the way into town."

"I feel like taking a drive."  He dropped one of his hands from the
wheel.  "Relax a little, y'know."

"You better take me back.  They'll be wondering where I am."

Brian pointed to the radio.  "They know where you are.  They can reach
us if they want.  This way we can talk.  We won't be able to, back at
the station."

"We won't have to," he grumbled.  "I'll be out in five minutes."

"Not if I can help it.  Kidnapping's a serious charge."

"I did not kidnap Sara."

"Then there's always driving to endanger, or flight with intent to
escape arrest.  There's my chief, probably getting to the hospital
right about now, with injuries that may be life threatening, and then
there's the matter of vandalism, just a little, enough to annoy, and I
wouldn't dismiss the kidnap business so fast.  Mrs.  Hammelman was
worried enough to call the cops, and your mother let her."

"My mother was scared.  She knew if she went home without me, my father
would be mad.  He likes to know where I am."

"Is he rigid about it?"

Richie snorted his confirmation.

"I suppose," Brian reasoned, "that that's a small price to pay for
living such an easy life.  You go to school when and if you want.  You
lift a little Vitamin C from the drugstore, tool around in Daddy's
Lotus, spray paint cars, toss eggs, take off with a three-year-old and
joyride at breakneck speeds, and you never get punished."

"Shows how much you know," Richie mumbled.

"You break laws, but you count on your name getting you off."

Richie turned on him.  "So punish me.  Lock me up.  Fuckin' do it
already."

"Nah.  I think I'll take you home."

"Charge me with something!  Put me away!  You said it yourself, you're
the new guy in town.  You don't owe my father jack shit.  Go ahead.
Charge me.  Get me the fuck outta here."

Brian eased the Jeep to the side of the road.  It was a quiet street,
beautiful, with the sun setting the snow on fire.  If there were
houses, they were hidden behind trees.  There wasn't another car in
sight.

Leaving one loose hand on the wheel, he turned quietly to Richie.
"That sounded like a plea."

Richie faced the windshield.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"What it's like, living at home?  Why your mother goes out all the
time, why your big brother never comes back?"

Richie shrank in his seat.

More gently, Brian said, "You don't have to confront him, y'know.  I
can understand why that would be tough."

"No, you can't," Richie spat, but there were tears in his eyes.  "You
can't understand what it's like having a father who does--who does--who
does things like that."  He looked away.

"To you?"  Brian asked quietly.

Richie didn't deny it.

Brian felt sick.  "I'll bet it's been going on since your brother
left."

"He knew it would, but he left anyway.  He didn't care about me.  He
was only thinking of himself."

"Does your mother know?"

He hesitated again.  Then, as though there was so much bitterness he
couldn't hold it in, he blurted, "She has to.  But she looks the other
way.  She has a good thing going, and she knows it.  She's not giving
it up for me."  He turned adamant eyes on Brian.  "I'm not like him.  I
hate it."

"So what will you do?  Go off to college like your brother did, and
never come back?"

"I wish I could," he cried with an hysterical edge, "but he wants to
keep me around.  He says he's sending me to college here!"

"And you'd rather go to jail."  It explained his attempts to get
arrested, or, at the very least, noticed by the police.

"I'd rather anything."

Brian knew enough not to touch the boy, though he wanted to, in
reassurance, in acceptance, in understanding of his pain.  The kid was
crying for help, loud and clear.  Granted, his voice was off-key.  "You
don't want jail, Richie.  That'd be worse than your father.  But those
don't have to be your choices.  I can give you others."

"No, you can't.  My father controls everyone in Grannick.  He does what
he wants and gets away with it."

"He won't get away with pedophilia."

"You don't understand.  They'll never charge him with that, sure won't
accuse him.  He'll kill me if I do."

"There are ways to handle it.  Quiet ways.  Private ways."

But Richie was shaking his head.  "He'll kill me."

"He'll never know you said anything."

"Yeah.  Sure."

Brian held out his arms.  "Do you see a wire?  I'm not recording
anything.  That's one of the reasons we're driving around.  What's said
here is between you and me.  If anything goes farther, it's because you
take it there.  You call the shots."

The boy still looked doubtful, but there was an element of
tentativeness that hadn't been there moments before.

Brian pressed his advantage.  "Look, Richie, your father's preferences
are no secret in town.  The police have known them for years.  If we
were to talk with him as your parent about our concern for you, about
the shoplifting and the vandalism and the joyriding-without saying
anything about what he does at home--if we were to recommend that you
stay with your brother, or another relative somewhere else for a while,
he'd buy it."

Richie was glum.  "He wants me here."

"He doesn't want a scandal."

"There won't be one.  His money keeps people quiet."

"Yeah, and that's what he wants.  He wants people to keep quiet about
his preferences.  His beneficence is hush money.  Think about it,
Richie.  Sure, Grannick wants the money, but your father wants his
privacy just as much.  He pays big bucks for it, which should tell you
how bad he wants it.  He can threaten us about what he'll do if you're
sent out of town, but we can threaten right back about what we'll do if
you aren't."

Richie was quiet.  He stared out the window.  He chewed on his cheek.
He looked at Brian.  "Would that work?"

"I'd put money on it.  He isn't invulnerable.  Few men in his situation
are."

"What if I went away and he followed me?"

"Did he follow your brother?"

"No."

"He isn't a fool.  He has a successful business to run and a reputation
to uphold.  Trust me.  He won't do anything to risk disclosure of what
he's been doing.  Being gay is one thing.  Being a child abuser is
something else entirely."

Richie was staring at the windshield again, again looking close to
tears.  "I didn't mean for anything to happen to Chief Davies."

"I know."

"I stopped as soon as I saw him flip.  Will he be all right?"

"I don't know.  Want to take a ride to the hospital with me?"

There was a pause, a darting look to see if Brian was serious, then an
appreciative, "Yeah."

Kay was midway through her last class of the day when the principal
appeared and sent her to the phone.  It was Emily, saying that John had
been in an accident and was hurt, which was a totally absurd concept.
He was the halest, hardiest man Kay knew, not to mention the safest
driver.

"Surgery?"  she repeated in echo of Emily.

"There's possible internal bleeding, and damage to his legs."

Kay couldn't picture it.  "What kind of damage?"

"Broken bones, whatever, I don't know the details, Kay, you'll be the
better one to ask the doctors."

"John?  But how did it happen?"

"He was in a high-speed chase.  The cruiser hit a tree."

Kay flinched, but the image she conjured came from Hollywood, not real
life.  "He's never been in an accident before.  How come you're
there?"

"I was with Brian when it happened.  We got to the scene just as the
ambulance arrived."

"They took him in an ambulance?"  It did follow that if he had been
hurt badly enough to require surgery, an ambulance would have been
involved, but she couldn't picture John on a stretcher, much less an
operating table.

"Want me to come for you, Kay?"

Something of Emily's urgency finally got through.  "No.  I'll drive
there myself.  I'm leaving right now."  And she did, thinking all the
while that injuries in the line of duty happened to cops in other
towns, bigger towns.  Many a time John had marched with police
contingents in funerals around the state, but the cops who died were
never from Grannick.  Grannick was a sleepy town.  It was a peaceful
town.  High-speed chases were little more than macho rushes of
adrenaline on deserted country roads.

She was still skeptical when she pulled up at the hospital, but the
atmosphere of the place couldn't be ignored.  Even then, it took the
concern on Emily's face--such real concern--to drive the message
home.

Emily guided her to a waiting room.  "They promised they'd come tell us
as soon as there's word."

Kay lowered herself to a pink vinyl sofa.  As if validating everything
she had been thinking about small, sleepy towns, she and Emily had the
room to themselves.

"Tell me the truth, Emily.  Are we talking life and death?"

"No.  No, no.  Not unless he reacts badly to the anesthesia."

"Why the rush to surgery then?  Was he shot?"

"There were no guns involved."

"Did he hit the other car?"

"No.  Only the tree.  There was ice on the shoulder of the road from
yesterday's snow.  He hit a bend and skidded making the turn."

Kay took that in with a chill.  "Was he conscious in the ambulance?"

"Yes.  He was talking to me."

"What was he saying?"

Emily smiled wryly.  "He was swearing mostly.  He couldn't believe he'd
wrecked the cruiser."

That was the first thing Kay had heard that sounded at all like the
man, which made things just that little bit more real.  "How bad are
his legs?"

"He has multiple fractures in both."

"Both?  My God, how will he walk?"

"He won't, for a while."

"How will he get around?"

"He won't, for a while."

"I can't picture it."  Absolutely not.  "How long did they say he'd be
in surgery?"

"They didn't."

She tried to analyze the meaning of that, then, when she couldn't,
tried to organize her thoughts.  "Maybe I should call Marilee.  No.
That's silly.  She'll only worry.  I'll wait until I know more.  Until
he's awake.  Until I talk with the doctor.  Afterward."  She was
frightened.  John had never been disabled in any way, shape, or form.
"I feel like I'm talking about a stranger."

Emily took her hand.  "He'll be all right."

"I know.  It's just," she tried to articulate it, "John is
so--perfect--physically.  Everything works.  He doesn't have allergies,
doesn't have high blood pressure.  He's never sick."  She was feeling
shaky.  "I'm not prepared for this."

"I'll help all I can, you know that.  John is as close to a brother as
I've ever had."

But he was Kay's husband, and he was going to need her.  Prepared or
not, she had to be there for him.

It was nearly seven before he was wheeled into his room.  Kay was
already there.

She had sent Emily home, assuring her that she would be fine, insisting
that she had done enough for the Davies for one day.  The truth was
that, much as she loved Emily, much as she appreciated the concern of
members of the department who came by in a steady flow, she needed time
alone with her thoughts--to accept that John was hurt, to rejoice that
he would recover, to deal with the sour aftertaste a brush with
mortality had left.

Besides, she wanted to be the one John saw when he woke up.

She waited, heart pounding, eyes wide on poles, bottles, tubes, and
casts, while the attendants finished arranging him to their
satisfaction.  Then she approached the bed.  His eyes were shut, one
swollen, with stitches above it.  His gray hair was mussed, his skin
ashen, his lips pale and dry.

She touched his arm with the back of her hand.  He stirred.  One eye
came open, poorly focused.  She positioned herself in its range.  "Hi,"
she said softly.

His voice was scratchy.  "Kay?"

"Uh-huh.  How do you feel?"

"Lousy."

"That's about how you look," she said because humor seemed the best
approach.  "You've got a good shiner."

"Huh."  He closed his eyes.

Kay studied the casts on his legs.  They were suspended on slings, and
looked to weigh a ton.  The doctor had explained that the elevation was
temporary, but that John would be bedridden for a time.  One broken leg
was manageable; two complicated things.

"Kay?"

"Right here."  She leaned closer.

"What happened to the boy?"

She smiled, feeling oddly calmed.  She might have known that his mind
would be back at the scene of the accident, piecing together events.
There was normalcy in that.  "He's fine.  He feels awful about what
happened.  Brian brought him by before."

"Gotta get him out of that house."

"Brian's working on it."

He tried to raise his head and look at his legs, but with only one good
eye and a neck like rubber, he couldn't make it.  Kay caught his head
when it wobbled and eased it back to the pillow.  "You have to rest.
Lie still."

"What about my legs?"

"They're on the mend."

"How long?"

"Depending on how the healing goes, two or three months."

He groaned.

"Does it hurt?"

"Huh."  Neither question nor answer.  "Mouth is dry."

She hurriedly reached for a glass of water and held it while he drank
through the straw.  Then she pushed at the pillows to give his neck
better support.  "Can I do something?  Get you something?"

His eyes were closed, his mouth barely moving.  "Just stay here a
little."

She sat on the edge of the bed.  "I called Marilee.  She wanted to fly
right home.  I told her to wait until she talked with you.  She told me
to tell you she loves you."  Her throat grew tight.  She raised a hand
to her neck, but it quickly fell to his arm.  "So do I," she whispered.
"Do you hear me, John?  I don't like it when things like this happen to
you."  Tentatively she touched his hand.  Lightly, furtively, she
slipped her fingers through his as he slept.  twenty-two

ON A SERIOUSNESS SCALE OF ONE TO TEN, JOHN'S

accident had only been a four, but it affected Emily deeply.  It made
her think about the fragility of life, and its randomness.  Two feet to
the left, and John would have missed the patch of ice and been fine.
Two feet to the right, and he would have missed the tree, tumbled into
the gulley, and died.

Two paces, give or take, and Gayle Stasek would have made it safely
home from her run.

Three minutes, give or take, and Jill would never have seen Doug on the
stoop of that townhouse in Boston.

Four minutes, give or take, and whoever had taken Daniel from her car
that day, would never have seen him there.

"Scary," she whispered, lost in her thoughts as she stared at the
flames that licked the logs in the hearth.

"What is?"  Brian asked.

She sat against him with her elbows on his bent knees.  Turning her
cheek to his throat, she said, "Hmmm?"

"What's scary?"

"The suddenness of things.  The finality of things.  What if I hadn't
gone to the post office that day?  Or if I had gone earlier or later?
Daniel's abduction was an impulsive thing, I'm sure of it, someone
deranged just happening by.  If I hadn't left the car when I did, my
life would have been very different.  Same with Gayle.  If she hadn't
gone running that day, or had gone a little earlier or a little later,
you'd be back in New York with her now."

She faced the fire again.  "Do you miss New York?"

"Only when I talk with my old buddies.  From a distance their stories
are all excitement and success.  Then I hang up the phone and remember
the endless hours and the danger and the cases that fall apart.  I
don't miss that part."

"You aren't bored here?"

"Nah.  I missed the action, at first.  Missed the camaraderie.  But I
know people here now.  They accept me.  So there's camaraderie.  And
action, too, just of a different sort."

"What sort?"

"Personal.  I was involved in more cases there, but here I have a
greater impact on each one.  There's more follow-through.  Like Leila.
Ritchie.  I like that.  It's gratifying.  Why do you ask?"

She asked because she wanted him to stick around.  High-speed chases
notwithstanding, a policeman had a better chance of staying alive in
Grannick than in Manhattan.  Emily shuddered to think of Brian being
shot or stabbed.

"I was wondering if you're restless," she said.

He turned her until she was cradled between his arms and knees.  "Do I
feel like I'm restless?"

"Right now?  No."  His pale eyes held her, intrigued her.  "But I
don't know what you're feeling when you're heading down here for yet
another day in the good old Grannick Police Department."

"Not restless," he assured her with a glint in his eyes.  "Sleepy some
mornings.  Relaxed.  Looking forward to what's coming, in a laid-back
kind of way.  Work in the city is intense.  It eats you up.  I never
could understand why so many cops had marriage problems-well, I knew
the reason, but I never really felt it until I got away.  How can you
give to a marriage when you're consumed by high-tension stuff ten,
twelve, fourteen hours a day?  How can you be an attentive parent?"

He looked down at Julia, who slept on a blanket beside them.  Emily
watched him watching her, watched the play of emotion on his face,
gilded from the fire, the protectiveness, the love.

"I made the right decision leaving," he said.  "Julia is doing well
here.  She doesn't scream the way she used to when she hears a loud
noise or a cry or, God forbid, a siren.  She sleeps through the night
and wakes up glad to see me.  She's growing.  She's talking.  Okay,
unintelligibly.  But I know what she's saying."

Emily was content, just listening to his voice.  She liked what it
said.  She liked the rumble of it above and behind her.

"My mom is disappointed we're not coming for Thanksgiving.  I told her
I didn't want to wrench Julia up so soon.  She needs sameness for a
little while more.  When does Jill get home?"

"Wednesday afternoon.  The forecast is for snow."

"Snow for Thanksgiving?  Whoa!  That's great!"

"Not if I can't drive in for Jill."

"She can always take a bus."

"I know.  But I wanted to be there at her dorm.  She's feeling
unsettled about Doug."

"Angry still?"

"And sad.  She's torn.  She wants to hate him, but she can't.  She's
struggling with her loyalties.  I keep telling her she doesn't have to
choose, that she can have both of us, but the situation is still very
new."

He put the pad of his thumb to her lower lip.  "She'll do fine.  She
has you.  You're levelheaded."

"How else can I be?  I want what's best for Jill.  I don't want her
hurt."

"Is she nervous about the holiday?"

"A little.  How about you?  It's your first without Gayle."

"I think about her.  I wish she could see Julia.  Am I dreading
Thanksgiving?  No.  We always went to Gayle's parents' home in
Westchester for formal sit downs.  They lasted forever.  I was ready to
leave halfway through.  What did you and Doug do?"

"Had it here.  Friends came over.  This'll be the first time I haven't
cooked the turkey in twenty-two years."

"Will you miss it?"

Slowly, deliberately, she shook her head.  "I couldn't do the same
thing this year.  Not with all that's happened.  I need something
different, so I won't be making comparisons."  She smiled in
anticipation of what was in the works.  Everyone was descending on the
Davies--Brian and Julia, Emily and Jill, Celeste and Dawn and Celeste's
new heartthrob, several of Kay's colleagues, several of John's--all
bringing food.  It would definitely be different.  "I can guarantee you
nothing will be formal this year."

"That's good.  I'm not a formal person.  That part of New York didn't
fit me real well."

"Tell me you used to go to the opera."

"Nuh-uh.  I drew the line there.  But theater.  Symphony.  Fancy
parties thrown by Gayle's firm."

"I can't picture you in a tux."  The most dressed she had seen him was
in a shirt, tie, and jeans.  Usually at home he wore sweats.  At night
he wore nothing.

"I look dashing in a tux."

"No doubt.  But confined."

"That, too.  That a lot, which is why I gave the tux away before I
moved.  It was symbolic.  Giving up one life for another."

Emily wondered if he would ever come to miss it, if he would tire of
Grannick one day, and want to leave.  It could create a problem, if
they were together.  She couldn't leave.  She couldn't.

She shifted again, so that her cheek lay on his chest and her ear timed
his heart.  There was something about resting against Brian like this,
something soothing about his scent and reassuring about his bulk. 
There was something comforting, in the sense of not being alone.  The
fact of Julia being inches away only added to the moment.  Emily had
known moments like these for a short time with Daniel and Doug.  She
had hoped to live them again after Jill was born, but that hadn't
happened.

"I love you," Brian whispered.

She nestled closer.

"Did you hear me?"  he asked, whispering still.

"Yes," she whispered back.

"I want to marry you."

"Shhh.  I can't think about it now."

"Why not?"

"Too soon.  I just want to enjoy this."  She turned her face into him.
Her voice grew muffled in his warmth.  "I don't want to plan.  I just
want to be."

She felt a large, protective hand on her back, sliding around and up
under her hair.

"Okay," he said at last.  "I can live with letting you be for a little
while.  But can I say the words when I am so moved?"

She smiled.  "You can say the words."

"Good," he said.

Still smiling she waited, fully expecting that he would say them again
before long.  When he didn't, she let out a slow, soft breath.  She
didn't need to hear the words.  She could feel the caring coming from
him.  It was more than she'd had in so long.  It was more than enough
for now.

Doug called Emily that night.  She had just put a chocolate cake in the
oven.  "How're you doing?"  he asked with the kind of enthusiasm he
hadn't directed her way in years.

She was quickly wary.  "Not bad."

"What are your plans for Thanksgiving?"

She told him about the group heading for the Davieses'.  "Since John
can't go anywhere, it makes sense."

"Is Brian going?"

"Yes," she said without apology.

"Is it serious between you two?"

"Kay wouldn't hear of his doing anything else, since he's new in town
and alone with Julia."

"You didn't answer my question."

"No.  I didn't."  She had no intention of answering his question.

"Well?"

"What are you doing for the holiday?"

He persisted.  "Is it serious between you and Brian?"

"That's none of your business."

"Does Jill know you're involved with him?"

"Jill likes him.  She feels comfortable knowing he's here."

"She might not, if she knew you were sleeping with him."

Emily let out a breath.  "Doug.  Please.  You're beating a dead
horse."

"How so?  What you do affects her.  I'm concerned about her."

"Oh, my God!"  she exploded.  "You are incredible!  You're worried
about what I do?  Nothing I do could be half as hurtful as what you've
been doing for the past five years."

"Eight years."

"Excuse me.  Eight years."  Eight years.  She felt the blow of that
revelation in her gut, felt stung, dirty, cheapened.  "You didn't think
much of me at all, did you?"

"I blamed you for Daniel," he said, as though to excuse it.

"You didn't have the guts, Doug.  You were fooling around behind my
back for eight years, you knew we had no future together, but you
didn't have the guts to make the break yourself."

"I kept thinking of Daniel," he repeated, but without pride.

"You hated me because of Daniel, but couldn't divorce me because of
Daniel."

"Something like that."  There was a pause, then a tentative, "Do you
think he's alive somewhere?"

Oh, God.  "No."

"Why not?"

"Because if he were, he'd have tried to contact us.  He would be
twenty-one."

"What if he was told that the people who raised him were his biological
parents?  He wouldn't have known there was anyone to contact."

Emily had considered that possibility.  "I still think he'd have known,
somehow."

"What if we'd gotten him back?"

"When?"

"Anytime.  Say after four or five years."

She wasn't sure what he was asking.  "Yes?"

"Would things have gone back to how they were?"

"Between us?"

"Yes."

"I don't know.  It would depend on how he had lived during those four
or five years.  Anything negative, and you'd have blamed me still."

She held the receiver through another long stretch during which the
only sounds coming from Doug were those of breathing and the occasional
false start.  He sounded to be struggling with the issue of Daniel in
ways she hadn't thought him capable, and while it didn't excuse what
he'd done, or the fact that he continued to blame her, she was relieved
to know that at least he remembered his son.

His first son.

"I wonder if they could find him now," Doug said.

"No.  Too much time has passed."

"Lots of cases are solved later."

"Not ones like this."

"Don't you want to know what happened to him?"

"Yes!  My God," she cried, "I was the one who fought to keep the
investigation open.  I was the one whose emotions seesawed for years,
while you just put it all aside.  When they closed the investigation
because there wasn't anything to investigate, even then I tried, but
there was nothing.  I can't get my hopes up again.  I just can't.  He's
dead, Doug.  One way or another, he's dead."

"Is that what you'll write in your book?"

"If I do a book, it'll be about my feelings about Daniel, before,
during, and after.  It'll be about years of torment and the struggle
to find an ending.  Our divorce may help.  The other thing that will
help is accepting, finally, that I'm not getting Daniel back."

"You're a lousy mother if you do that."

"But I have to survive!"  she cried.  He was at it again, making her
out to be the bad guy, when she wasn't.  "I can't go looking for him
again.  Don't ask me to do that."

"What if I ask your good friend, Brian?"

"No!  Don't!"

"Why not?"

Because Brian is-pure, where Daniel is concerned.  He's my present and
future.  I don't want him tainted.  "He won't be able to find anything.
John couldn't, and God knows, he tried."

"John isn't very bright."

"He is."

"Couldn't solve this case."

"And you resented him all these years for it."  She had known it, of
course, had seen it in Doug's slow but steady distancing of himself
from John.  "He's a cop, not a miracle worker."  She took a fast
breath.  "I have to go now, Doug.  I'm baking for Thursday."

"So you're eating at the Davieses'.  I might drop in and say hello."

Her heart rose to her throat.  "That's not a good idea."

"Why not?  Jill's my daughter.  I have a right to see her on
Thanksgiving."

"Before or after.  Not at."  At was a terrible idea.  It would upset
everyone!

"I want to talk with Brian," Doug insisted, prodding where he had found
her weak.

"If you do, it's without my consent.  Before or after," she repeated,
"not at."

"I want the mystery solved once and for all."  "Before or after.  Not
at.  Goodbye, Doug."  She hung up the phone with an uneasy shiver.

Emily kept waiting for Doug to show up.  He was obsessed with Brian,
obsessed with Daniel, neither of whom he had had much interest in until
after she had learned about his indiscretions.  But she didn't want him
touching Brian in any way, shape, or form that might have to do with
Daniel.  She had lived and breathed false hopes for years.  She just
couldn't do it again.

She didn't fully relax until Thanksgiving dinner was done and Jill,
Marilee, and Dawn had taken off to visit friends.  In the kitchen,
drying platters and pans as Kay washed, she said, "I thought he'd show
up here, just because I told him not to.  He's trying to keep me
off-balance."

"What does he know about Brian?"

"Nothing.  He guesses."  She met Kay's gaze with a sheepish shrug.  "He
doesn't see us together like you do."

"Lucky for that.  Brian's eyes give it away.  Yours, too, sweetie."

"How can I help it?  He's so different from Doug.  Doug and I were
totally swept up in being young and in love.  But everything with Brian
is deeper."

"More mature."

"Positively speaking," Emily agreed, but she was looking at Kay,
thinking of subtle changes there, too.  "How're things here?"

Kay blushed.  "Interesting.  It's been different with John around.
Nice.  Maybe we all need a shock once in a while.  Yours was learning
about Doug's other family.  Mine was John's accident."

The kitchen door swung open.  Celeste breezed in.  "Okay, guys.  What
do you think?  Is he great, or is he great?"

Emily said, "He's definitely handsome."

"And charming," Kay added.

"Not that we saw any of the others you met."

"He's different from what I thought you'd get with an ad."

Celeste waited.  After a minute's silence, she asked, "Why do I hear
'buts'?  Tell me what's wrong with him.  I can't find a thing."

"Neither can I," Emily said.  That was what bothered her.  Carter was
smooth, almost too much so.  She didn't want to breathe the word slick,
though it was the one that came to mind.  He had been the perfect
guest, bringing flowers to Kay and a book to John, talking law
enforcement with those in law enforcement and college with those in
college.  He had smiled and teased and drawn people in.  He hadn't gone
near Julia, but then, neither had Celeste.  Maybe that was what
bothered Emily, though she knew it shouldn't.  Just because she found
Julia irresistible didn't mean everyone did.

"Where did he grow up?"  Kay asked.

"AH over.  He was an army brat."

"Where do his parents live now?"

"They're dead."

"Does he have siblings?"

Celeste shook her head.  "He's all by his lonesome."

"No wife at any point?"

"No.  J read you his letter.  His work kept him on the move too much to
allow for a wife."

"Statements like that aren't definitive.  He could have had a wife, but
abandoned her."

Emily cleared her throat.  "Yes, we do know that happens."

"He is not like Doug," Celeste declared.  "Since we met, he's been
here in Grannick more than he's been away."

"What about his work?"  Kay asked.

"He's the idea man, the concept guy.  He creates the initial drawings
and leaves the drudgery to his assistants."

"Is he working, while he's here?"

"Of course not.  Good God, he's earned a vacation.  He's been working
nonstop for years."

He didn't looked overworked.  He was tanned.  He seemed rested.  Emily
would have pegged him as a playboy, not a workaholic.

"Come on, guys," Celeste was plaintive now, "don't rain on my parade.
He treats me like a princess.  He even treats Dawn like a princess.
Would you believe, he showed up yesterday morning with flowers and
gifts for both of us?  He's incredible."

Emily thought about the yesterday morning part, which implied a last
night and this morning part.  "Is he staying at your house?"

"Of course."

"Dawn knows you're sleeping with him?"  Emily hadn't told Jill about
Brian and her.  She wanted to.  She had thought to broach it a dozen
times during the drive from Boston to Grannick, but had lost her nerve
each time.

Celeste's situation was different.  She had been divorced for years.

"Dawn adores him," Celeste was saying.  "She actually behaves when he's
around.  I don't think she and I have fought once.  He's a good
influence on her.  Would you believe, the two of them made me breakfast
this morning?  Dawn, cooking?  Dawn, waiting on me?  Dawn, smiling in
my presence?  I didn't know what that smile was the first time I saw
it, she's usually so sullen."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Kay said.

Emily was pleased for Celeste, far more with regard to Dawn than
Carter.  "Moments like those are special.  They're the ones we keep
forever.  Jill and I were out in the snow yesterday afternoon after she
got home."  There hadn't been enough to mess up the drive, just enough
for fun.  "We took Julia out.  She had never played in snow before.  It
was priceless watching her.  We made angels, and teeny snowmen, used up
just about all the snow there was."

Brian had been there, too, and the four of them had had a ball.  Jill
had been caught up enough in Julia's excitement not to be looking for
things between Emily and Brian.  That was how Emily wanted it, a
gradual getting to know one another, that would make something deeper
perfectly natural, when and if it came.

Playing there in the yard, Emily wasn't thinking of Doug.  She wasn't
thinking of Daniel.  She was thinking of Jill, Brian, and Julia,
thinking how much all three meant to her.  They were laughter-filled,
lighthearted moments when the problems of the world seemed eons away.

It was late before the last of Kay's guests left, and a while after
that before she had the house in order, but as she worked, she, too,
was thinking about special moments.  The past few days had been full of
them.

First came Marilee, out of the blue, home for vacation early to help
with John, insisting Kay shouldn't be alone.

Kay hadn't had the heart to tell her that she wasn't alone, that
between Emily and Celeste and half the police force and their wives,
John had more babysitters than he wanted.  The fact was that with
Marilee there, Kay felt less stressed.  In a few short months away from
home, Marilee had grown up.  She had become an individual in her own
right.  She didn't shy from responsibility, as she once had.  Kay found
that decidedly rewarding.

Then there was her own work, which suddenly seemed of less
significance.  She took sick days until John was discharged from the
hospital, and once he was installed in a hospital bed in the living
room, she rushed home during free periods and lunches.  Yes, others
were there.  But she wanted to be there, too.  After years of being the
last of the teachers to leave, now as soon as classes ended, she was
gone from school.

John had always needed her on some level, but it was largely a
custodial one--cook, keep house, wash clothes--and there was that now
and more, what with his physical limitations.

But there were emotional needs now, too.  He was a terrible patient. If
his being laid up was a shocker for her, it was all the more so for
him.  He grumbled and fussed.  He complained.  He didn't like what he
was wearing, how he was lying, what was on television.  His ribs hurt.
His legs ached.  He was in a constant state of irritation that only
eased when Kay was home.  She was the only one who could make him
smile.

She was surprised at how much that meant to her.  For years, they had
shared a house and a child and the activities tied to each.  But John
had his work, and Kay had hers.  There hadn't been much sharing of
that.

Now Kay was present when Brian or Sam or one of the others came by at
the end of the day with a rundown of activity at the station.  John
insisted she be there, seeming calmer when she was.  Likewise,
claiming boredom, he made her tell him about her day at school.

They grew closer, and not only in matters of the mind.  There were
physical chores, intimate chores, that he allowed only Kay to perform.
As a result, she touched him more in the course of a day than she had
touched him in months before.  Initially awkward, she grew increasingly
at ease, and it wasn't only that John was wounded and, hence, less
intimidating.  It was that he wanted her to touch him, wanted her to
help him, wanted her to sit on the edge of the bed, within reach of his
hand when whoever it was from the department was there.

He was being possessive, acting proud of her, and she liked that--which
appalled the professional person in her, until she realized that she
didn't need his approval, simply enjoyed it.  She felt more complete,
more confident, even thinner.  She didn't know whether it was nervous
energy burning off calories, or the walking she did early each morning,
and she hadn't lost much more than a few pounds, but she felt better
about herself.

Encouraged by John's need, she grew bolder.  She bathed him more
slowly.  She gave him back rubs.  Safely clothed while he was bare and
vulnerable, she looked at his body in ways she had never dared do, and
he loved it.  They joked about his arousal, until joking gave way to
sweetness.  Kay pleasured him, alternately watching the pulsing in her
hand, the bunching muscles of his arms in the grip of sexual tension,
the pained etch of ecstasy on his face at the moment of climax, and
after such times, it seemed only natural to fall asleep beside him in
the big hospital bed downstairs.

On Thanksgiving night, he asked her to take off her nightgown.

"Here?"

"I can't go upstairs."

"John, this is the living room."

"Huh."

"Marilee might walk in."

"She's at Jill's for the night."

"People can see in."

"The lights are out.  The shades are drawn.  I'm stark naked.  Why not
you?"

"Because ... because it's different."

"How's it different?"

"You're a man."

"What's different about that?"

"Everything."  He was firm all over.  Men were that way.  They were
also more sure about their bodies than women were.

"I haven't touched you since the accident," he said.

"Yes, you have."

"Not that way."

She was sitting beside him in the dark, thinking that things were so
lovely this way.  Then his hand moved.  It touched her chin and slipped
lower.  She tried to stop it, but his fingers worked under the shoulder
of her gown.

"You shouldn't," she whispered.

"Why not?  I love you."

"I'm fat."

"Who says?"

"Me."

"Not me."  He pushed the gown off one shoulder.

"John."

He freed the other shoulder, then her breasts.  The darkness didn't
hide a thing--not her fullness, not the way his eyes held her, not the
self-consciousness that had her hands clutching at her nightgown and
cover.

He pushed the nightgown lower and touched her.  Self-consciousness
didn't keep her from feeling a tug inside, still she wanted to slip
under him.  That was the way it usually happened.  When he covered her,
she felt less exposed.

But he couldn't cover her, what with his casts.  "Take it off all the
way," he said thickly.

She shook her head.  "Another time."

"I want to see you now."

"John."  It was enough that his fingers were stroking her breasts,
drawing helpless sounds from her throat.  "This is embarrassing."

"Why?"

"Because ... because--"

"Why is it embarrassing?"

They were in the living room.  He was lying there, watching her.  She
felt on display.  "I told you.  I'm fat."

"You're not fat.  Take the nightgown off."

"You'll see everything, if I do."

"I want to."

"I don't."

"You see me.  I want to see you."

"But you're good to look at.  I'm not."

His fingers lifted.  "Are you kidding?"

"No."

"You think I don't like the way you look?"

"Women don't age as gracefully as men.  We get hippy and lumpy and
crepey."  She tugged the nightgown up.

"But I like the way you look."

"Well, you have to, in a way.  I'm your wife."

"I don't have to.  I just do."

"I'm like that soft old cardigan that you love slipping into.  It's
shabby and stretched, but it's familiar, and it's warm."

"I like the way you look."

"You don't have to say that, John."

"But I mean it.  And I like the way you feel.  So I want you naked.  I
want to see you and feel you."

She wanted to believe, wanted it badly.  "You do?"

"How many times do I have to say it?"

"Lots, I guess.  You don't usually."

"Can't you tell, from how I touch you?"

"No.  Men are physical.  They touch.  It doesn't say anything about me.
Only words do that."

"Huh."

For all the times she had let that ride, she asked now, "What does that
mean, 'huh'?"

"You just jerked me off, and I want it again.  Look at me."

She did.  He was hard.

He slipped the nightgown to her waist.  "That's from being close to
you.  It's from touching this, and remembering the way the rest of you
feels.  I like the way you feel, Kay.  I like looking at you."

"I'm getting older."

"Well, hell, so'm I, but I don't want someone who's younger or
skinnier.  I want you."

He smiled then, a cocky-crooked smile in the night.  That smile hadn't
changed over the years.  It still snowed her.

"Come on, baby," he said with the hoarseness hard-ons gave him.  "Lie
naked with me.  Give me a thrill."

Kay left the bed only long enough to slip out of her clothes, then she
crowded in beside him to hide.  But he said the words.  He said them
over and over, while he touched her, and between the two, she finally
found the courage to rise above him and take him in.

Ahhh, yes, she gave him a thrill, but the thrill was hers, too.  She
needed words.  He needed deeds.  It seemed an even exchange, for
passion.

Myra pushed herself out of bed with a great effort.  She made her slow
way to the bathroom, wearily performed her ablutions, then, with the
hem of Frank's old flannel robe dragging behind her, turned toward the
stairs.  She had barely put a shaky hand to the newel cap when she felt
a wave of dizziness.  Clasping the worn wood, she slid down to the top
step and leaned heavily against the post.

Thanksgiving had drained her.  Oh, she had loved seeing children and
grandchildren, but the strain of being on her best behavior had taken
its toll.

It had been necessary, though, because they were watching her.  There
were little looks when they thought she wouldn't notice, and closer
scrutiny when she was talking with others.  They were looking for signs
of madness.  They were looking for excuses to put her away.

She hadn't given them any.  She had been sweet and lucid and perfectly
agreeable.  Except when they raised the matter of moving.  Then she had
put her foot down.

She wasn't moving.  She didn't care what manner of housing they
suggested.  She wasn't leaving this house.

She opened her eyes, then closed them again when the world continued to
spin.  It was pure exhaustion.  She wasn't young.  Tension took its
toll.

So did frustration, and she felt plenty of that.  People didn't hear
her.  They didn't see her.  She had tried and tried, but they didn't
get her message.

And now there was snow.  Well, not very much, it was nearly gone, but
the next snowfall would be greater, and the air was brittle.  Worse,
the grass in the backyard was dead, the ground beneath it hard and un
giving Months were lost now.  She didn't know if she could hang on for
the thaw.

Discouraged, she opened her eyes.  She wanted tea, perhaps, with a
biscuit and jam.  That would make her feel better, give her a bit of
strength.  Painstakingly she drew herself up, and holding tightly, went
down one stair at a time.  At the bottom, exhausted, she let herself
sit again.  She put her head to the post again, closed her eyes
again.

Slumped there like a pathetic pile of bones, she felt closer to the end
than ever before.  Never mind all that she still had to do, her
strength was dwindling fast.  She might well die before ... What, then,
was her choice?  If death was the inevitable outcome, what did any of
it matter?  If she defied Frank, she would die.  If she kept her
silence, she would die.

She was going to the grave for sure.  The question was what awaited her
there.  If it was Frank--angry and betrayed--she knew what sort of hell
she would meet.  But if Frank was in hell himself--and she was headed
for heaven--but no, she wasn't headed for heaven.

Silence.

Just a little longer.  twenty-three

CELESTE WAS ON TOP OF THE WORLD.  SHE HAD

had the best weekend ever with Carter, the best weekend ever with Dawn.
Now they were both gone, Carter off to Cambridge, then on to Paris for
a week's work, Dawn back at school.  Carter had sent flowers, delivered
an hour after he'd left.  Dawn hadn't sent anything.  But that was all
right.  Her pleasantness over the weekend had been a gift in and of
itself.

On impulse, because his happy face seemed the perfect companion to her
mood, and because even though she was sold on Carter, Carter wasn't
there, she called the widower.  "Hi, Michael.  It's Celeste.  I was
wondering how your Thanksgiving went.  Do you celebrate
Thanksgiving?"

He chuckled in the comfortable way she remembered his being, like a
fuzzy old slipper.  "Yes.  I'm the only Britisher in my clan.  The
children are entirely Americanized.  We had a lovely Thanksgiving,
thank you.  And you?"

"Me, too.  My daughter and I actually got along.  I'm too hard on her,
I think.  But we had such a nice time."

"What did you do?"

"We had dinner with friends, not many of us related, but still like a
big happy family.  That's how I imagine yours must have been."

"Yes and no.  My daughter's husband just lost his job, so that put
something of a damper on things."

"Oh dear."

"I would be happy to give him work, but his field is very different. He
does medical research.  Unfortunately the company he was with is
folding.  It seems there have been irregularities in some of the
studies done there, and though my son-in-law wasn't involved in any of
those, the company lost one too many contracts.  It puts rather a cloud
over his immediate future."

"I'm sorry."

"Well," he said, up again, "he'll find something.  It may entail a
move, which none of us wants, but if that happens, we will cope.
Haven't much choice, have we?  But I am happy about you and your
daughter.  Dawn, is it?"

Such a nice man, to remember.  "That's right."

"Is she liking school?"

"Very much."

"Then she feels good about herself.  That makes all the difference."

The words stayed in Celeste's thoughts long after she hung up the
phone.  She knew what feeling good about oneself meant.  Thanks to a
nose job by her surgeon and a snow job by Carter, she felt better about
her own self than she had in years.  It did make a difference in one's
outlook on life.

Carter called from Cambridge Monday night.  Celeste had just returned
from dinner with Emily and Kay, abbreviated, what with John hurt, and
was tickled to hear his voice.  They didn't talk long.  He was leaving
for Paris the next day and had hours of work to do before that.  His
apologies and sweet words of missing her more than made up for a
lengthy talk.

She lay in bed thinking about him that night and the next.  He had said
that he wouldn't be calling her, what with the time change and the
attention he owed his client, still, whenever the phone rang, her eyes
flew toward it and her pulse sped.

That was what happened late Wednesday afternoon.  She had just returned
from driving the church van and was feeling satisfied thinking of that,
when the peal of the phone set her little heart to racing.  By the time
she dropped her purse on the table and reached for it, she had
calculated that it would be approaching midnight in Paris.  Carter
would have finished his work and be lying in bed, thinking of her.

But it wasn't Carter.  It was Dawn's roommate, Allison.  "Is Dawn
there?"  she asked, sounding hesitant.

Celeste's disappointment at not hearing Carter's voice was offset by
amusement at the thought that Dawn might have stopped by.  She had
religiously avoided drop-in visits, part of the precondition of her
attending college in town.  It was interesting to think that a pleasant
holiday had softened her up on that score--unless, of course, she
wanted something.

"I don't see her, Allison.  Was she planning on coming over?"

"I thought she was there."

There was no sign that Dawn had been by.  The kitchen was exactly as
Celeste had left it.  "Hold on."  She covered the phone.  "Dawn? 
Dawn?" She heard nothing.  To Allison, she said, "Sorry."

"Is everything all right?"

"With Dawn?  You'd know that better than me.  I haven't talked with
her since she went back."

There was a silence on the other end of the line.  Celeste felt a
twinge of something eerie.  It took form when, nervously, Allison said,
"She hasn't been back, Mrs.  Prince.  Not here, at least."

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't seen her since before the holiday."

"Since last week?  But she went back Sunday night.  I dropped her there
myself."  But Celeste had a thought.  Dawn hadn't been wild about
rooming with Allison.  She claimed Allison was too neat, too studious,
too prim.  "Might she be staying in another room?"

"No.  No one's seen her.  I've been asking.  Besides, her stuff is all
here.  If she moved out, she'd have taken something, wouldn't she
have?"

Celeste would have thought so.  "This is strange," she said aloud.
"What about a guy?"  Dawn hadn't mentioned anyone over the weekend, but
it would have been typical of her to keep a secret like that from
Celeste.  It certainly would have explained her good mood.  "Is there
someone special she was seeing there, someone she may be staying
with?"

"No.  I asked guys, too.  No one's seen her since before
Thanksgiving."

Very strange, Celeste decided.  Maybe even alarming.

Allison said, "I thought for sure she was at home sick or something,
but when she didn't come yesterday or today, and didn't call, I figured
I'd call there."

Celeste curbed her alarm.  Dawn was known for her antics.  "Have you
spoken with anyone--a dorm head or anything?"

"No.  I didn't want to get her in trouble."

Celeste barked out a laugh.  "Oh, she does that on her own, thank you.
Listen, Allison, I'll make some calls.  Do me a favor, and keep asking
around.  If you hear anything, call me back?"

Remembering fall break, when Dawn hadn't shown up, Celeste quickly
called Jill, but Jill hadn't seen her.  Nor, a second call revealed,
had Marilee.

Still, Celeste wasn't panicking the way she had done then.  Dawn pulled
stunts all the time.  This one, no doubt, was in compensation for
having behaved over the holiday.

Telling herself that, Celeste downplayed the concern of the dean of
students, even the campus police.  Jackson was another matter.  The
instant his voice came on the phone, she felt the full weight of
responsibility for Dawn.

"You have no idea where she is?"  he asked.

"I thought she might be with you."  It was possible.  Dawn did see him
every few months.  "We had a great time over Thanksgiving.  I thought
maybe if she felt guilty about it, she might have wanted to give you
equal time."

"Dawn doesn't feel guilty about much," Jackson said with what Celeste
found to be surprising perception for a man obsessed with the innards
of computers.  He ruined it by asking, "If you dropped her back at
school, where did she go?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be calling!"

"No one's seen her there?"

"No."

"Has there been any recent trouble on campus?"

"You mean, like a serial rapist?  Come on, Jackson.  We're talking Dawn
here.  She's up to something."

"She hasn't ever done anything like this before."

"Yes, she has."  Celeste told him about fall break.

"Well, you've already called Jill, and you've already called Marilee,
and those are her two best friends, and since neither of them has
heard from her, I repeat she hasn't ever done anything like this
before."

Around her thumbnail, Celeste said, "I suppose."  She was annoyed as
hell with Dawn, and, against her better judgment, just that little bit
worried.

"Shouldn't you call the police?"  Jackson asked.

"Not yet.  She's over eighteen.  There's no sign of foul play.  I can't
call them in until I've done some looking myself."

"Like where?"

"More friends, I guess."

"Call me back later, Celeste?"

"Sure."

Celeste spent the next hour calling others of Dawn's friends besides
Marilee and Jill.  It took some doing, since many were away at school,
and even then the effort proved futile.  Celeste herself had apparently
been the last one to see Dawn.

She ran out of calls to make at nine o'clock.  Not knowing whether to
sit back and wait until morning, or panic then and there, she drove to
Emily's.

Emily felt a churning at the pit of her stomach when she heard
Celeste's tale.  She immediately thought of Jill, of the years and
years she had fought down panic at the prospect of something happening
to her.  And she thought of Daniel.  She was thinking about him more
and more.

Daniel touched every part of her life--Doug, Jill, the house, the town,
her friends, even potentially Brian, and now Dawn.  Dawn was different,
of course.  She was eighteen--and, granted, striking enough to attract
attention, but she was tough.

Still, tough people got hurt sometimes, too.

Anxiously, Emily led Celeste across the driveway and up the far side
stairs to the apartment over the garage.  Brian was watching the
Celtics, and looked as wonderfully disheveled to Emily as anyone could
look, given her own distraction.

He sensed that distraction instantly, drew them in, and made them sit
down.  Emily found solace in watching him as he listened to Celeste. He
would know what to do.  She was glad he was there.

"Do I panic now?"  Celeste asked when she finished telling Brian
everything she had told Emily moments before.

Emily saw through her dry little quips.  It didn't matter how many
times Celeste insisted that Dawn was playing games, or how many times
she insisted that Dawn was an adult and on her own, Celeste was
worried.

Brian sensed that and spoke calmly--though Emily suspected some of the
soothing was directed at her.  He knew why she had dragged Celeste over
to see him, rather than waiting for morning.  She tried to tell him she
was all right, but her insides wouldn't help her out.  They insisted on
quivering, just faintly, enough to betray themselves to Brian, whose
leg touched hers.

"Don't panic yet," he told Celeste.  "There's still more to consider."
They were grouped at his coffee table, Emily and Brian on one side,
Celeste across.  He had jotted names on a yellow legal pad as Celeste
had tossed them out.  Beneath those was a list of possible motives for
Dawn's running off.  At his elbow, Emily could easily read that list.
It assumed Dawn's willing flight.

The alarmist in her wanted to argue, but the realist couldn't.  There
was no sign of mayhem.  And Dawn had a history of getting into
trouble.

He put the tip of his pen to the list and looked at Celeste.  "You've
called friends from school and friends from home.  None of them claim
to have seen her.  Do you think any are lying?"

"I don't know why they would."

"To protect Dawn."

"From me?  My disapproval is nothing new.  She's used to it."

"What if she's done something unforgivable this time?"  Emily asked.
She couldn't begin to count the number of times Celeste had sworn she
would kill Dawn if she ever did such and such.

Celeste's memory faltered.  "Like what?"

Brian picked up.  "Like commit a crime--or, forget that for now, like
flunking out.  Do you think she is?"

Celeste guffawed.  "Not quite."

"Dawn is brilliant," Emily explained.  "She understands things with the
first run-through.  She remembers everything.  She speee/reads and
remembers everything.  She studies very little for very good grades."

"If she studied that little bit more," Celeste injected tartly, "she'd
be at the top of her class.  She has her father's brains."

"Okay."  He put a line through flunking out.  "Is she pregnant?"

"God, no."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure, unless her stealing my tampons when she got home last
week was for show."

He crossed off knocked up.  "How's she set for money?"

"Fine."

"She wouldn't be trying to scrounge up more--selling something illegal,
prostituting herself?"

Emily saw Celeste pale.  But the question was necessary.  It had come
up in the earliest stages of the Demery case, before the ransom note
had arrived.  While Susan hadn't wanted for money, some coeds did.
Hooking offered fast cash.

"Dawn's father is paying for college," Celeste said.  "He gives her a
generous expense account."

"Maybe she's gone through it."

"The bank statements come to the house.  I read them.  She has a
healthy balance, at least she did as of last week."

Emily watched him put a line through sex.

"Has she ever done drugs?"

"No."

He put a line through habit.  "Does she drink?"

"Not much," Celeste said.  To her credit, she slid a look toward Emily,
then sighed.  "Well, maybe much, but only at parties.  I've never known
her to have anything during the day or alone.  Aside from the wine she
had with Carter and me last week, I don't think she had another thing
to drink, and she wasn't suffering withdrawal."

"Has she ever had a run-in with the law?  Disturbing the peace?
Disorderly conduct?  Drunk driving?"

"No."

"So if I boot up my computer at the station, I won't find her name?"

"No."

"Nothing formal.  What about informal?  Was she ever picked up by
anyone in the department, given a good talking to, and sent home?"

"No."

He crossed off record and moved on to boys.  "What about the guy she
was with when she didn't show up for fall break?"

"As of last week, a total loser.  That's a quote."

"Have you called him?"

"I called Jill, who called the friend whose brother he is, and he
hasn't seen her in five weeks."

"What about other guys?  Someone else's brother?"

"She didn't mention anything to either Jill or Marilee when they were
home, and they're her best friends."

Emily watched his pen move to cross off boys, but it stuttered and came
to a rest somewhere beyond the word, and, guilty as she felt, Emily
agreed.  Dawn had boys high up on her own list.  Brian was right to put
boys on hold now.

"Does she get along with her father?"  he asked.

Celeste waggled a hand.  "They aren't best of friends, but they're not
enemies either.  He lives in southern New Hampshire."

"Would she be trying to get his attention?"

"If she is, she's wasting her time.  He doesn't see beyond his own
desk, his own work, his own daily schedule."

"Does she resent him for that, or for not being around more?"

Celeste certainly did, even after all these years.  Emily could hear it
in her voice.  It would have been a miracle if Dawn hadn't picked up on
it.

But Celeste said, defensively, Emily thought, "Not terribly.  We've
done fine without him--well, as fine as two people can do who don't get
along, but last weekend was so nice, really it was."  She included
Emily in her bewilderment.  "We did get along.  I actually liked it.
And I honestly think that if she were bothered by something, I'd have
detected it.  We spent more time together than we have in the last
three years combined."

"You, Dawn, and Carter," Brian said, which, in the wake of
Thanksgiving, was how Emily saw them, too.  They had been a tight
threesome at the Davieses'.

Celeste smiled.  "Dawn liked him a lot.  He knew just how to handle
her.  He treated her like a person, like a grown-up.  I have to take a
lesson from that."

Emily wasn't sure she wanted Celeste taking lessons from Carter.  There
was something about him.  Emily couldn't put her finger on it.  He was
too good, too smooth, too perfect.

"Where's Carter now?"  Brian asked.

"Paris, until Sunday."

"When did he leave?"

"Yesterday."

"Would he have any idea where Dawn is?"

"I don't see how, if I don't know."

"She might have talked with him."

Celeste shook her head.  "If it was about anything sneaky, he'd have
told me.  And he'd have given her hell."

"They were on close enough terms for that?"

"We were together for the better part of five days."

"The three of you?"

"Yes."

Surprising, Emily thought.  Interesting, actually, coming from a woman
who professed to be thrilled to have her daughter grown up and out, who
professed to want nothing more than to have fun in the second half of
her life.

"Did that get on your nerves?"  Brian asked.

"No.  She was reasonable for a change.  We didn't argue.  It's the
first time in my adult life that I've been part of a family unit."

Emily hadn't thought Celeste wanted that.  Interesting, indeed.

"Only Carter isn't family," Brian reminded her.

"You know what I mean.  It was the closeness.  He was a father figure
for her.  She's never had that around here.  She ate it up."

"Did she have trouble saying goodbye to him on-what was it--Sunday?"

"Sunday.  No.  No trouble.  She was fine."

"Smiling?  Hugging?"

"Yes.  What are you getting at?"

"Does she have a crush on him?"

"She wouldn't dare."

"Daring has nothing to do with crushes."

"He's mine.  It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Try to explain 'appropriate' to impressionable young women," Brian
remarked.

Emily agreed.  "If Dawn went ga-ga over Carter's looks and his manner
and the attention he paid her," which, to her eye, Dawn had done,
"that's halfway to a crush.  There's nothing wrong with it."

But Celeste was insistent.  "She didn't.  She just liked him."

"Can you reach him?"  Brian asked.

"Now?  No.  I told you.  He's in Paris."

"You don't have a phone number there?"

"No."

"Can you get one?"

"I could call his office here.  They must have a number.  But I don't
want to do that.  I might embarrass him, chasing him down that way, and
besides, he doesn't know anything about Dawn.  Believe me.  If he knew
anything, he'd have told me."

To listen to her, Emily might have thought she was talking about her
sweetheart of umpty-jump years.

"How long have you known Carter?"  Brian asked.

Celeste hesitated.  "Four weeks."

"Not very long to be so sure about what someone would do."

"We're very close."  To Emily, she said, "Why's he attacking me?"

"He's not," Emily said as gently as she could.  "He's trying to narrow
the field down to those people who may either be with Dawn or know
something about her.  Your relationship with Carter has been a
whirlwind affair.  Realistically, Celeste, there's a lot you don't know
about him."

"You're jealous."

Emily choked on a breath, shot a quick look at Brian, and said, "No.
No, I'm not."  But she wasn't arguing that point.  "You haven't known
him long, Celeste.  You haven't lived through enough with him.  You
haven't seen him in different situations."

"I trust him."

"Yes, trust him, but realize that since he didn't raise Dawn, and since
he's spent even less time with her than he's spent with you, he may not
know the rules.  He may not know that if she shares certain kinds of
plans, he's supposed to tell you."

"He may not want to betray her."

"Exactly.  So, with the best of intentions, he may know something about
Dawn right now that would explain where she is."

A full minute passed before, begrudgingly, Celeste said, "I suppose."
She faced Brian a bit more humbly.  "Even if his office has the Paris
number, no one will be there to give it out until morning.  Maybe I
should be waiting at home in case he calls me there.  He said he
wouldn't.  He said he'd be running around so that he can get back in a
week, instead of the ten days he originally planned for the trip.  But
there's always a chance.  Same with Dawn calling.  Not likely.  But
possible."

"Wait at home.  That's best."

"She's off somewhere doing her own thing.  Isn't she?"

"Probably."

"You don't really think she's in trouble."

"Nah."

But Emily's mind was off in a heartbeat, imagining all sorts of trouble
at the mere mention of the word.

"Em?"  Brian asked softly.

Her eyes flew to his.  She wrapped her arms around her middle and
propped her upper body on them.  "I'm okay."

"Sure?"

She nodded.  When Brian asked Celeste for a recent picture of Dawn, she
said, "I have one on the cork board in my kitchen."

Brian looked at his pad, frowned, then, diplomatically, asked Celeste,
"If her roommate is right and the closet at the dorm is intact, and if
she's been running around somewhere for three days now, what might she
be wearing?"

"When I dropped her back on Sunday night, she had on jeans and two
sweaters, layered, with flats, but she had a duffle bag full of clean
things.  She could have put any of them on--the short skirt she was
wearing at the Davies's, the shirts and vests, the black stirrups, the
Doc Martens."

Brian made the appropriate notations, then dropped his pen on the pad
and rose.  "Let's assume she's gone of her own volition.  If we
continue to strike out tomorrow, we'll rethink things."

Emily walked Celeste to her car.  "Dawn will be fine," she said in an
attempt to be encouraging.

But Celeste was past encouragement, into fury.  "No, she won't.  She's
in deep shit.  She'll catch hell for this one, Emily.  That's a
promise."

Emily supposed that anger was easier to bear than the awful thoughts
that kept flitting through her mind, fragmented images of bits of
clothing, of Susan Demery's finger, of Daniel's empty car seat.

Brian was just hanging up the phone when she returned.

"Who was that?"  she asked.

"The campus police.  I want them to know I'm on the case."

"You asked them to search the campus, didn't you?"

He folded her in his arms.  With her head pressed to his chest, things
didn't look quite so bleak.  "It doesn't hurt to cover the bases," his
voice said.  "Not that I'm expecting a problem.  I'm really not, Emily.
This isn't the case of a two-year-old who can't talk or fight or
recognize danger when he confronts it, and it isn't the case of an
eighteen-year-old heiress.  There are lots of credible reasons why Dawn
isn't where she's supposed to be."  He turned his wrist to see his
watch.  "It's after ten.  Think Myra's asleep?"

"Her light's still on."  Emily had made a point of noticing, because
therein lay another immediate source of worry.  "Why?"

"Think she'd come over and sit with Julia while we run down to the
station?"

"I'll stay with Julia."  It was a safer idea.

"But I want you with me," he said.  Beautifully intense silver eyes
drove home his earnestness.  "You know Dawn.  You know how
investigations work.  I want you helping."

"Helping, as opposed to sitting here, growing depressed."

"That, too, and I won't apologize for it.  Will Myra stay?  Julia is
sound asleep.  She'll sleep through 'til morning, not that we'll be
nearly that long.  An hour, maybe two.  Can she handle it?"

"Yes.  I think.  She's been subdued lately.  Listless.  Her family is
thinking of force ably moving her, if she won't move to a nursing home
herself."

"They'd actually go to court?"

"No.  They'll just sell the house, pack everything up, and move her.
They won't win in court.  When she wants to be, she's fully lucid."

Brian released her with a squeeze.  "I'll go get her."

It was a full ten minutes before he returned, and Emily could see why.
Myra was moving slowly, seeming to lack the strength that she'd had
several weeks before.

"Are you sure you don't mind doing this?"  Emily asked.

"I don't sleep lately anyway," Myra said and allowed her coat to be
slipped from her arms.  "The detective says your friend can't find her
daughter."

"Dawn.  That's right.  But she's probably off with friends."

"I've written the number of the station over there by the phone," Brian
told Myra.  "If there's any problem, call us.  Better still, I'll call
you.  I'll let you know what's happening."  He moved toward the door.

Emily moved with him.  "If Julia wakes up, check for the rabbit.  It
falls out of the crib sometimes."

"Help yourself to food and drink."

"If you can't find Brian's number, dial nine-one one."

"The furnace clangs twice when it fires up.  Don't be alarmed."

Myra followed them to the top of the stairs.  Glancing back every few
steps, Emily felt a twinge of uneasiness.  Then the door closed, and
they were on their way.

Brian put out Dawn's description over the Boston area network, putting
sixty different departments in Massachusetts, plus the state police, on
the lookout.  He faxed her photograph to the same departments.  The
reproduction wouldn't be great.  But five-five, one twenty
eighteen-year-old blonds weren't unique.  Something was better than
nothing.  He could improve on it if she remained at large for long.

On his way to the computer, he called Myra.  It took five rings and
several weeks off his life before she answered.  "How's my Julia?"  he
asked on a deliberately light note.

"Did you find the girl?"

"No.  We won't find her tonight.  I'm just establishing the basis for a
search.  Is Julia all right?"

"She's fine.  I keep peeking in.  She hasn't woken up."

There was a lift to her voice that hadn't been there earlier.  Brian
found it a comfort.  "Ahhh," he said.  "Good."

"Where are you looking?"

"Locally.  We don't think she's gone far."

"You have to look under the willow."

He might have known it would come, and while he was uncomfortable with
Myra talking nonsense at the same time that she baby sat Julia, he did
believe she was harmless.  So, appeasingly, he said, "Well, that's an
idea for tomorrow.  Can't see much in the dark.  Call me, now, if Julia
gives you trouble."

"She won't," Myra said.

"How is she?"  Emily asked when he hung up the phone.

"Julia?  Sleeping.  Myra?  Awake and aware."  Actually, quite jaunty,
in that last parting note.

His confidence in Julia's safety restored for the time being, he
plugged carter dem ming into the computer.

Emily was at his shoulder.  "You didn't like him, huh?"

"I liked him okay.  But she doesn't know him real well, and he and Dawn
were nearly as chummy as he and Celeste at the Davies's that day.  I
keep asking myself if it's pure coincidence that they left Celeste's
one after the other last Sunday."

"But Celeste dropped Dawn at school herself.  She watched her walk into
that dorm."

His eyes were busy on the screen while he talked.  "Then she came back
home, spent less than an hour with Carter, and kissed him goodbye.  He
drove off.  She didn't see where he went."

"You're thinking he may have circled back and picked up Dawn."

"Can't rule it out."

"Would he have harmed her?"

He couldn't rule that out, either.  He had known some Dr.  Jekyll and
Mr, Hydes in his day.  But he didn't want to alarm Emily unnecessarily,
and he really didn't think Carter was manic.  "I just think the two of
them may have decided to play around a little."

"But if he's in Paris now, wouldn't she be back at school?"

"Do we know for sure he's in Paris?"  He hit escape with a twack.  "He
doesn't have a criminal record, at least, not in Massachusetts."  He
hooked into the federal system, but found no sign of Carter there,
either.  Nor when he plugged into individual state police files for the
entire New England and Midatlantic regions.

He had a thought, but it was a while and several phone calls before he
had what he needed to gain computer access to the files he wanted.

"Taxpayers?"  Emily asked when the list came up.

"Real Estate.  Celeste said he lived in Cambridge."  He scrolled
through the alphabetical listing until he reached the ds, then the des,
then the dem ms  "If he does, he doesn't own the place, at least not
under his own name."

"I don't like this, Brian."

He reached for the phone and called information.  "For Cambridge.  I'd
like a listing for Demming, that's D as in David, first name Carter."
He waited.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have no such listing."

"Is there an unlisted number under that name?"

"No."

He hung up.  "Something stinks."

"We warned her when she placed that ad," Emily cried, "but she was
determined.  She said she could sort out the good ones from the bad."

Brian sensed her growing upset.  "Don't assume the worst.  He may be
more shady than bad.  Dawn may be perfectly fine."

"Should we call Celeste now?"

"Nah.  Won't do any good.  Come morning, she'll try to track Carter
down.  We'll see if she has any luck."  He reached for the phone and
called home.  "Hey, Myra.  How's it going?"

"Did you find her?"

"No.  Really, we won't have a chance of that until morning."

"Well, that's good.  Then you'll look under the willow."

"I told you I would.  How's my little girl?"

"She's such a sweet little thing, sleeping so soundly.  I was just
standing there looking at her, and she turned over and made the cutest
little sucking sounds, like she was drinking from a bottle.  She still
drinks from one, doesn't she?  I could give her milk, if she wakes up.
I did it before, do you remember, the time she was sleeping in the car
when you got home, and you didn't want to wake her up, so you left her
there, and I sat with her.  She's just a darling little girl.  I almost
wish she would wake up so that I could play with her.  But I won't wake
her.  No, I won't do that.  You will look under the willow tomorrow,
won't you?"  "Sure will, Myra.  Give us another twenty minutes?"  "Take
your time.  Take as long as you want.  I don't think I could sleep
anyway if I had to go home now.  This is too exciting.  No, I couldn't
sleep.  You do everything you have to do there.  And keep Emily with
you.  If I know her, she's thinking she has to run back here so that I
can go to bed, but you tell her what I just told you.  I'm not tired at
all.  I'll stay here all night and into tomorrow, if you need.  Take
your time, detective.  Please.  You're a good man.  Take your time."

Emily sat cross-legged on top of the covers.  Beneath them, from the
waist down, was Brian.  His head was propped on the pillows, his body,
like hers, shower damp Their fingers touched, quiet, soft.

He gave hers a squeeze.

She smiled.

"We'll find her," he whispered.

She nodded.  She brought his hand to her lap, measured her fingers
against his, stroked his palm.

He said, "I hate it that you have to relive this again."

Her smiled was crooked.  "It's my fate in life, I think."  The smile
faded, because none of those other cases--no, not even Dawn--meant to
her what Daniel did, and Daniel's case was the one that wouldn't be
solved.  "Has Doug called you?"

"Me?  No."

"He threatened to.  He said he wanted to ask you about Daniel.  After
all this time, he wants to know what happened to him."

"It's hard, not knowing."

Emily knew that.  Oh, she did.  "That's why I tell myself that he's
gone."  She studied Brian's arm, tawny hair on a roping of flesh.  She
brushed the hair one way, then the other.  "What if Doug calls you?
What would you do?"

"About Daniel?"

"Would you reactivate the case?"

He was so quiet that she raised her eyes to his face.  The angst there
made her heart pound.  "I did it," he said without pride.  "I took the
case apart and studied everything that wasn't studied the first time
around.  I haven't come up with a clue, Em."

Her breath came out in a shaky wisp.

"I'm sorry.  I wanted to do it for you."

She nodded.  She should have known he would try.

His fingers circled hers, then carried her hand to his chest and
anchored it there.  "If I could do anything I wanted, anything at all,
I'd take you someplace where you wouldn't have to stare that pain in
the face all the time."

"Pain is part of life," she said.  "So is loss.  The better the life,
the greater the pain of the loss.  Daniel was special."  She looked up
at the window over the bed.  The moon was there, in the woods, rimming
leafless trees with silver tracings, as delicate as they were eerie,
almost surreal.  "He's out there," she whispered with a sudden fierce
yearning.  "Dead or alive, he's out there, and maybe I want to know,
too.  Maybe then there wouldn't be the pain."

Brian kissed her fingers and returned them to his chest.

"I thought I had come to terms with him, really I had, but he's
suddenly coming back.  Why now?"  But she knew.  Jill's leaving home
had set off a chain reaction of emotional happenings that had led Emily
to a fork in the road.  Daniel was there, unfinished business from the
road behind her, standing in the way of the road she wanted to take.
"I'm locked in here, Brian.  I want to grow, but I can't, because
things that happened nineteen years ago are holding me back.  Nineteen
years.  I should be past it.  Something's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you.  You just love long and hard."

"It's a curse."

"No, a strength."

"I don't feel strong."

"You are.  You're one of the strongest women I know."

"So, why does it hurt so much?"

It didn't take more than a tiny tug to bring her forward.  Lying across
him, she put her cheek to his shoulder.  Her hands found a needed
warmth between their bodies.

He didn't speak, didn't try to explain things for which there weren't
good explanations.  He didn't offer platitudes or pollute the night
with diversionary talk.  He simply held her, allowing her to feel the
pain that she had suppressed too often, and she let it go, let it go in
great gasps and keening wails that were the soul deep expression of a
mother's worst fears and most dreaded grief.

Drained then, finally, she slept.  twenty-four

BRIAN WAS PUTTING JULIA INTO HER CAR SEAT

the next morning when Myra scurried across the cul de-sac.  Her eyes
were bright, her voice a breathless flutter carrying easily into the
car.  "I've been counting the minutes since dawn.  Will you come
now?"

It was barely seven, earlier than Brian usually left, but he wanted to
get Julia settled in at Janice's, pick up coffee at Nell's, and hit the
station in time to work with the computer before he went to
Celeste's.

"This isn't the best time," he said and fastened Julia in.

"But you promised," Myra said.

"I haven't forgotten."

"You haven't found the girl, have you?"

"Not yet."

"Then you have to come look in my yard!"

He backed out of the car and closed the door.  "First things first.
Now, the station.  Later, the yard."  He took Myra gently by the arm
and walked her down the driveway.  "Besides, it's freezing.  There's no
need to look under the willow until it warms up a bit."

"Good Lord, you can't wait until spring, if she's missing now!"

"Not until spring," he guided her toward her house, "just until later
this morning, maybe noonish.  It'll be warmer once the sun breaks
through."

"What if it doesn't break through?"

"Then I'll look anyway.  Give me a few hours.  I promise, I'll be
back."

"But what if you find her first?"  Myra asked with such horror that
Brian had to wonder if her obsession hadn't gone bad.

He opened her door and saw her inside.  Then he gave her his strongest,
most reassuring look.  "I'll be back.  I'll go out to the willow with
you, whether we find Dawn or not.  But I can't do it unless you stay
warm.  Will you stay inside here until I get back?"

Myra looked up at him without blinking.  Slowly, obediently, she
nodded.

It struck Brian that his own mother wasn't much younger than Myra, that
she could deteriorate in the future, that he might have to grapple, as
Myra's children were doing, with painful decisions.

Saddened, he put a gentle kiss on Myra's brow, before closing her door
and heading back across the street.

Celeste started calling Carter's office at eight the next morning.
Carter often called her that early from there, and he wasn't working
alone.  More than once he had put her on hold while he gave
instructions to one of his people.

Today no one answered the phone.  She tried every five minutes, pacing
between calls, impatient beyond belief, wanting things cleared up.  It
was bad enough that she didn't know where her daughter was, but the
shadow that Brian and Emily cast over Carter made things worse.  She
couldn't believe that he was anything but wonderful, she just
couldn't.

Shortly before eight-thirty, Kay breezed through her door.  "I just
heard about Dawn!  Why didn't you call me last night?"

"There didn't seem any point.  I had already talked with Marilee, and
she didn't know anything.  I'm very confused, Kay.  Is Dawn off
somewhere, pulling a Dawn?  Or am I supposed to worry?"

"Have you reached Carter?"

Celeste grew wary.  "How did you know I was trying?"

"Brian stopped by.  He'll be over in a little while.  He had to do a
few things at the station.  Did you reach him?"

Celeste knew what Brian was thinking, but he was dead wrong.  She
intended to prove it.  "No one's at his office yet.  Someone should be
in by nine."

"Carter told you he was going to Paris?"

"He is in Paris."  She dialed the office number again, let it ring
eight times, hung up.

"You'd think they'd have an answering machine," Kay mused.  "Ahh,
there's Emily.  With coffee, bless her."

Celeste was more concerned with Kay's suggestion than with coffee. "Why
would you think they'd have an answering machine?  It's not a
prerequisite for success."

"I would think they wouldn't want to miss any calls."

"Clothes shops don't have answering machines.  Neither do restaurants,
supermarkets, or schools-speaking of which, don't you have to be
running along?"  If Kay was going to be negative, the sooner she left,
the better.

"I'm not teaching today, not with Dawn missing."  She opened the door
for Emily.  "You are a lifesaver."

"How is she?"  Emily asked softly.

"I'm fine," Celeste said, "or I would be, if everyone around here
weren't so suspicious.  I'm worried about Dawn.  You all are worried
about Carter."

Emily handed her a cup of coffee.  "Have you reached him?"

"I'm waiting for his office to open.  This is going to be so
embarrassing.  What am I supposed to say," she sugared her voice, "
"Hi, sweetie, just wanted to make sure you are where you said you'd
be."" She pulled the top off the coffee, spilled some in the process,
and swore.  Her scowl encompassed both of her friends.  "It's sour
grapes.  That's all.  You guys didn't want me putting an ad in the
personals.  If Carter turns out to be great, you'll be proved wrong."

That said, she stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

Emily uncapped her coffee.  She sipped it for a minute, then said, "The
good news is that he doesn't have a criminal record."

Celeste bristled.  "You checked?"

"The bad news is that he doesn't have a house or a phone in
Cambridge."

"Emily, I've been to his house.  I've used his phone."

"Are you sure they're his?"

"Whose else would they be?"

"A friend's, maybe?"

"To what end?"

"To impress you."

Celeste felt betrayed, not by Carter but by Emily, Kay, Brian, John,
and every other ugly skeptic in the world.  "And his career is a hoax,
too?  His designs are a hoax?  Sorry, but I've seen samples of those
designs.

I've been inside them.  No, his career is real.  I've met his friends.
I've met his clients.  I've met his partner."

Emily focused on her coffee.

Celeste found that to be as much an expression of doubt as the spoken
word might be.  "So now you're thinking that the word 'partner' can be
used loosely, that maybe the man he introduced me to is his golf
partner, or his poker partner, or his partner in crime.  How can you be
so negative?  What's the line about a person being innocent until
proven guilty?"  She turned to the phone, dialed Carter's office,
picked at her thumbnail while the ringing went on and on.

She slammed the phone back onto its hook in time to see a tall shape
materialize at the kitchen door.  The shape knocked.  It turned the
knob and let itself in.

Celeste wondered what else could go wrong.  "You didn't have to come,"
she said.  "Kay, Emily, you remember Jackson."

She studied him while they said the kinds of brief hellos that Jackson
could handle.  She hadn't seen him in several years, since Dawn had
started driving to meet him herself.  He looked well--tired and
overworked, perhaps, but that was nothing new for workaholic old
Jack.

His gaze fell on her and stayed.

She folded her arms on her chest and refused to look away.  If he had
come to berate her for Dawn's misbehavior, she would walk out of the
room.  Ditto, if he was joining the campaign against Carter.

He surprised her by simply asking, "Has she called?"

Celeste shook her head.  "She'll show up.  I know she will.  You really
didn't have to drive all the way down."

"You were worried enough to call me."

"I only called because I thought you might know where she was.  I
didn't mean for you to drop everything and rush over."

"Didn't you think I'd worry, too?"

"Actually," Celeste said, remembering all the lonely years when she had
been overwhelmed by single parenthood, "no.  There's no history of
that."

"Maybe because you never shared much about her.  If there were
problems, I never knew.  I only heard about the good stuff, the stuff
that said what a great mother you were."

"Uh, we'll be in the other room," Kay murmured and, dragging Emily
along, was gone.

"I was a great mother," Celeste told Jackson, "or a good one, at least.
I'm not saying I didn't make mistakes, but I tried, and it was hard.  I
didn't have anyone to consult.  I didn't have anyone to share the blame
when things went wrong."

Jackson was backed to the counter.  His hands curved around the edge
flanking his hips, and while his long, lanky frame wasn't exactly
slouched, it wasn't straight either.  Nor was he arguing with what
Celeste said.

So she went on, venting the resentment that she didn't have room for
inside, what with concern over Dawn and nervousness--yes, there was
that despite her protests--over Carter.  "I was alone with Dawn from
the time she was one.  I had every single responsibility for her right
smack dab on my shoulders, and she wasn't an easy child, even back
then.  She was as headstrong and contentious as she is now."

"Like her mother," Jackson said with a strange smile.

"I newer challenged my parents the way she did me."

"Maybe not, but you were a wild child when we met."  Still, that
strange smile.  It spoke of memories, fond ones, and softened Celeste,
making her feel, oddly, more exposed.  For all their years apart, Jack
had seen shades of her that others hadn't.

"Okay," she admitted.  "I let loose for a time.  But I never rubbed my
parents' noses in it.  And Dawn knows nothing about those days, so she
couldn't have been following my example, and even then she bucked me at
every turn.  She tested every limit I ever set."

"She did well in school."

"Well, she had the brains.  She's your daughter.  But she wouldn't have
done well, if I hadn't been on her back to study.  So say I'm a nag of
a mother, but someone had to do it, and you weren't around.  You had
the easy part.  It didn't take any effort to send that check each
month, because you earned it doing what you were good at, but I wasn't
good at being a mother.  I didn't have the natural aptitude for it that
some mothers have.  I wasn't good at playing little games and
decorating cookies and shopping for clothes.  I didn't have the
patience.  But I stuck with it, because once she was born, she was
mine, and there was no one else to take care of her.  So if I made
mistakes, tough.  I tried.  That's more than some in this room can
claim."

She turned her back on him and dialed Carter's office.  It was five
minutes before nine.  Surely someone would be there.  But the phone
rang and rang.

"Who are you calling?"  Jackson asked.

"I'm trying to reach the fellow I've been seeing.  He may have an idea
of where Dawn might be."

Jackson crossed his ankles.  "Who is he?"

"His name's Carter.  He's an architect."

"Is it serious?"

"We see each other a lot, if that's what you're asking."

"Does Dawn like him?"

"Of course, she does.  Why wouldn't she like him?"

"You haven't had any serious relationships before.  Maybe she's jealous
of your time."

"I doubt that.  When she went to college, she left specific
instructions.  Don't call me, I'll call you.  Does that sound like a
girl who covets my time?"

He shrugged, and in the next beat looked at the door.  Brian was
there.

"Well, why not," Celeste exclaimed, crossing the room to let him in.
"Join the crowd.  Kay and Emily are in the other room, cowering from
domestic violence.  This is Jackson, Dawn's father."

She resumed her place by the phone while the men shook hands.  Brian
came to her side.  In a voice that offered as much privacy as it could
in a room as small as her kitchen, he said, "I'm having trouble finding
anything on the man."

"Surprise, surprise.  He's clean."

"No.  I mean, I can't find any record of a Carter Demming existing. Not
as a federal taxpayer.  Not as a credit card holder.  Not as an
architect."

Celeste swallowed hard.  "You must be spelling his name wrong."

"I tried different spellings."

She held up a hand.  "Just wait.  I'll locate him."  It was after nine.
She pressed in the office number and waited, praying silently, fighting
panic.  She breathed a mammoth sigh of relief, actually did it aloud,
when a man's voice answered.

"Hello."

"Hi," she said with a smile.  "This is Celeste Prince.  I'm Carter's
friend.  Is this Mark?"  He was the partner she had been introduced to
that very first day in Cambridge.

"No.  Jared."

"Ah."  Her smile held.  "Jared.  I'm trying to reach Carter.  Do you
have his number?"

There was the sound of rustling papers, then a graceless, "Hold on,"
and a clunk when the phone hit the desk.

"He's looking for the number," she told Brian on a triumphant note.
She imagined Brian had been doubting that Carter's firm existed, yet
here she was, talking with one of his colleagues.

Jared returned with little fanfare and reeled off a number.

Celeste wrote it on a pad by the phone.  There were seven digits, just
like in the States.  "Is there an area code?  Country code?
International something?"

"International?  This is in Cambridge."

"No, no.  I need to reach him in Paris."

"Paris?  He's not in Paris.  Who did you say this was?"

Celeste swallowed down an awful fear.  She was acutely aware of Brian
at her elbow, of Jackson across the room.  "It's important that I reach
him.  Will he be calling in later?"

"I doubt it.  We talked with him last week.  He doesn't call more than
once a month."

She chewed on her lower lip.  "I see.  Well, if he does call, would you
ask him to call Celeste?  It's urgent."  She hung up the phone before
Jared could ask for her last name or phone number, either of which
would humiliate her.

"Well?"  Brian asked.

She continued to face the phone.  "He's not there."  She didn't know
what to do, didn't know who to call.  Something wasn't right.  Carter
was supposed to be there a lot, and if he wasn't there, where was he,
and if he wasn't there, who was he, and why had he lied, and what was
he doing with Dawn?  She felt sick to her stomach.

Brian came close and spoke softly.  "He's not in Paris?"

She shook her head.

"Where's this number?"

"Cambridge."  She met his eyes, pleading.  "He told me he was going to
Paris.  Maybe this guy--this Jared--just didn't know.  He said he
hasn't talked with Carter since last week."  But Carter had told her on
Monday that he was calling from the office.  So if he hadn't been
there, where had he called from.  And where was Dawn?

"Want me to try this number?"  Brian asked.

She nodded and moved aside.  She wrapped one arm around her waist,
propped an elbow on it, and chewed her thumbnail.

After a minute, Brian hung up the phone.  "No answer."

She felt a wave of relief, but it was shortlived.  Little things were
nudging her, little details she didn't know, details that hadn't
mattered because Carter had made her feel so good.  "This doesn't make
sense," she said to Brian.  "You met him.  Okay, you weren't wild about
him, but did he strike you as a phony?"

"No, but that's the skill of a con man."

"Why would he do it?  Not that I believe he did, mind you.  Mix-ups
happen.  Just because I can't reach him doesn't mean anything.  But for
the sake of the argument, if he isn't what he said he was, why would he
have said it?  I don't have money.  It's not like he could bilk me out
of much."

"How often does he stay here?"

"Several days a week.  More over the holiday."

"Who bought groceries?"

She hesitated for just a minute.  "Me."

"Did you ever eat out?"

"Here?  No.  He said he loved having me all to himself."  She had loved
hearing that.  Now the words were dirtied.

Brian touched her arm in a way that was meant to be reassuring.  "It
could have been a game, nothing more."

She wasn't feeling reassured.  "For sex."

"Possibly."

She wrapped a second arm around her middle.  "I don't want to think
this, really I don't.  He was so much better than the others."  She
thought of Michael, the widower with the smiley face, who was so sweet
and even-keeled and unromantic.  Carter was made to order.

"What about Dawn?"  Jackson asked.

Her head swung around.  She had forgotten he was there.  Her hackles
went up.  "Dawn is fine.  Carter wouldn't hurt her."  She had to
believe that.  The alternatives were unthinkable.  "Say what else you
want about him, but he isn't cruel.  I'm not stupid, or unobservant. 
In all the time I spent with him, I never once saw him lift a hand in
anger or raise his voice.  I never saw him grit his teeth.  I never saw
his muscles clench, or his knuckles go white, or the little vein throb
at his temple the way yours does when something ticks you off."  She
pointed.  "There it is."

"I'm worried about Dawn."

"Carter is kind and considerate.  He was wonderful with Dawn.  She had
the best time with him.  He wouldn't hurt her.  Just the opposite.  He
bent over backwards to include her in things.  He gave her nearly as
much attention as he gave me.  He adored her."

A thought intruded, taking those words that had been offered in praise
and casting them, too, in a different light.  Her gaze flew to Brian's.
Her head moved from side to side in denial.  "He wouldn't touch her,"
she whispered.  "He wouldn't.  She's my daughter, for God's sake."

"I think," he said, "that we have to find her before we jump to any
other conclusions.  Do you have the address of the place in Cambridge
that you thought was his?"

Celeste gave it to him.

"The car he was driving on Thanksgiving Day--his, too?"

"I thought so."

"White BMW.  License plate?"

"I have no idea."

Brian picked up the phone.  "Let me get this out on the wire."

"She's over eighteen," Jackson said.  "What can you charge him with?"

"Nothing at all, assuming she's with him willingly."

"We don't know she is with him," Celeste felt called upon to insist.
She didn't want Dawn to be with Carter.  Not that way.  But now that
the bug had been put in her ear, more than mere words were taking on a
new light.  Looking back over the holiday weekend, she saw things
differently.  She saw Dawn flirting and Carter encouraging it.  She saw
casual touches that possibly weren't so casual.  She saw hugs.  She saw
a playfulness between them that might have been either innocent or
naughty.  "I trusted him," she said to no one in particular.  "I
trusted her."

At the same time that Brian spoke into the phone, he held up a hand
that told her not to assume the worst, but, once planted, she couldn't
shake the idea that her lover might have become her daughter's lover.
It made her feel old, blinded by desperation, and very foolish.

It was Jackson who took her hand, led her to the kitchen table, and
gently pushed her into a seat.

It didn't take long to find them.  They were thirty miles south, in an
even smaller town than Grannick, in a motel that rarely saw BMWs, much
less looked at the same one for three straight days.  The local police,
who had eyed the car with longing for as many days, called Grannick the
instant the APB came over the line.

The descriptions fit.  No question about that, either.  The manager of
the motel confirmed Dawn's stats.  His wife confirmed Carter's.

Jackson drove Celeste, following Brian and Emily in the Jeep.  Once
they had parked beside the BMW, Celeste jumped right out.  Clutching
her parka closed, she went to the designated door and knocked.

It was an agonizingly long minute before Carter opened it.  She barely
had time to note that he was wearing nothing but old jeans and a
shocked expression, when Brian pushed past her, badge aloft, hauled him
outside and pinned him to the wall.

Celeste stepped into the room.  Dawn was kneeling on the bed, clutching
the blankets to her chest.  She looked tousled but intact.

"Mom!"

Celeste was furious, hurt, and sickened, all at the same time.  She
opened her mouth to yell at Dawn, but her eyes filled with tears
instead.  So she closed her mouth, pressed her fingers to it, and stood
there, unable to say a word.

"We were worried," Jackson said, coming up behind Celeste.

"Daddy!"  This cried in horror.

It struck Celeste that Jackson's presence carried a weighty message to
Dawn, and while that infuriated Celeste, given that she had been the
one who had sweated and trembled and fought her way through Dawn's
upbringing, she was grateful enough to have him finally bear some of
the weight, to overlook the injustice of Dawn's response.

"No one knew where you were," he said.  "You could have left a message
with someone.  They've been looking all over campus for you.  They've
been looking all over the state.  Why didn't you let anyone know where
you were?"

Dawn was glancing nervously from him, to Celeste, to the door, looking
as though she badly wanted Carter to do the talking.  But Brian was
keeping Carter outside.  Celeste blessed him for that.  She had plenty
to say to her daughter, but not a word to waste on Carter.

Funny, Carter hadn't looked half as attractive just now.  He hadn't
looked sexy in the least.

"Why didn't you?"  Jackson repeated.

"I didn't know where I was going."

"You've been here for three days.  Why didn't you call?"

"I was busy."

"It didn't occur to you to call."

"I didn't have to," she said with a defiant tip of her chin.  "I'm
eighteen.  I'm a consenting adult."

"Didn't you think your mother would worry?"

Celeste still had her hand pressed to her mouth.  She was feeling ill,
succeeding more in stemming tears than settling the tipping of her
stomach.

"Didn't you?"  Jackson prodded.

"No.  I didn't.  She's been waiting, just waiting to have me gone.  She
never calls me at school."

"You told me not to!"  Celeste cried.

"Only because I knew you wouldn't, and I didn't want to be sitting
around expecting it, but you could have, if you missed me."

"I was following your instructions."

"Which suited you just fine.  You were pleasing yourself, like you
always do.  You couldn't wait for me to leave, so that you could start
living it up.  I was a burden, all those years.  I held you down."

Celeste was stricken.  "I never said that."

"You didn't have to.  I felt it.  It's true, isn't it?"

"Not the way you think."

"Then what way?"

Celeste swallowed.  "I was trying to set a good example."

"Well, that must have been a strain, because what came across was you
wanting your freedom."

"Not freedom from you.  Freedom from the responsibility.  It frightened
me."

"Frightened?"  Dawn mocked.

"Yes, frightened.  The older you got, the less frightening it was in
some respects, because you could do things for yourself.  But then
there were the other problems, parties and drinking and dating, and
that's terrifying for a parent.  So I argued with you about things,
maybe yelled and nagged, because I was afraid that you'd make major
mistakes and it would be all my fault."

"Isn't it?"  Dawn had the gall to ask.

"No," Jackson answered.  "Your mother didn't tell you to run off with
her boyfriend.  You did that all on your own."

Celeste was struck by the enormity of it.  "How could you?  My own
daughter!  How could you sleep with him?"

"He protected me.  He wore a condom."

"That's not the point, but since you've raised it, who was he
protecting you from?  Me?  All the other women who came before?  Don't
kid yourself.  He wasn't protecting you.  He was protecting himself."

"He loves me," Dawn insisted.

"He loves women--you, me, someone else next month."

"You sure liked him enough."

"Yes, I did, stupid me.  I thought he was the answer to my prayers, and
you knew I thought that, still you came here with him."  She pressed a
hand to her chest.  "Dawn, didn't I teach you any values?  How could
you do this?"

"You were the one who took me for birth control."

"That's not the point!"  she cried, and when tears started again, she
let them flow.  "Okay.  You didn't do this alone.  Carter is ten times
more wrong than you are, because he knew what he was doing, but
you-you--you're my daughter, flesh of my flesh.  How could you hurt me
this way?  You knew I was crazy about him.  Whether it was stupid of me
or not, I was."  She sobbed out a sigh.  "Damn it, I really was good
while you were growing up.  Did I subject you to a string of 'uncles'?
Did I force any male friends on you?  No.  I always put you first.  So
how could you do this to me now?  Was I that awful to you that I
deserve this kind of betrayal?"

To her credit, Dawn didn't answer.

Celeste fished a Kleenex from her pocket and pressed it to one eye,
then the other.  She was feeling battered, suddenly tired, without
energy, still nauseous.  To Jackson, in a faint voice, she said, "I'm
going to the car.  I don't feel very well."

Without another look at Dawn, crouched there with the bedclothes
crushed to her throat and Carter's scent permeating the room, Celeste
left.  She walked across the motel porch, went down the steps, keeping
her back to Brian and the filth he was with, and leaned against the
trunk of Jackson's car.

Emily joined her there.  "Is she all right?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Contrite?"

"Fat chance."

"She's probably feeling ashamed, but she's been pushed in a corner, so
she'll stand by what she did for a little longer."

"And then what?"  Celeste asked, looking blindly off.  For the life of
her, she didn't know what to do.  "She thinks he loves her."

"He may tell her differently once Brian's done."

"What can Brian say?  Dawn was a willing accomplice."

"To whom?  Who is Carter?  He sure isn't who he told you.  Think of all
the things that didn't add up.  When people hide their identities that
way, they're usually hiding something more.  If Carter is, Brian will
find it."

That was small solace to Celeste.  Pressing the balled Kleenex to her
nose, she started crying again.  "Oh, Emily, I'm so embarrassed.  I
believed everything he said.  He fed me a line of bull, and I ate it
right up, because I wanted to believe, so badly."

Emily slipped an arm around her.  "I know."

"I may have acted like it didn't matter all those years, like I was
doing just fine, like I didn't want to have to bother with any man, but
the act was as much for me as it was for everyone else.  It's not like
I need a man--"

"Celeste," Emily interrupted, "anyone who knows you knows that. Whether
or not it was an act, you did it.  You raised Dawn on your own. You
made a life for yourself, on your own."

"But I missed having more.  I missed the fun.  I missed the company.
There were times when I was so lonely I nearly died of it."

"You could have called me," Jackson said.

Celeste put the Kleenex to her eye.  She took a minute to compose
herself before drawing away from Emily.  "We're divorced, Jackson.  We
didn't get along.  I couldn't call you."

"We could have been friends.  Hell, I could have fixed you up."

She laughed in spite of herself.  When she looked at him, she saw an
endearingly self-conscious smile.  She draped her wrist over his
shoulder.  "Now, would I have been able to communicate with your
friends, any more than I could with you?"

"Maybe," he said with a shrug.  "Some of them aren't too bad."

"So why aren't they married?"

"Probably for the same reason I'm not.  Because we're not social
beings.  It takes a saint to stay married to the likes of us."

"Either a saint or nerd."  Her smile waned.  "What's Dawn doing?"

"I don't know.  There wasn't much more I could say."

"Is Brian still with that scum?"

"He's talking with him."

"I feel like an imbecile."

Jackson settled beside her against the trunk.  "Tell me one thing," he
said in an indulgent tone.  "Was it fun, at least, while it lasted?"

Celeste sighed.  "Yes.  It was fun."

"Then it was worth it."

"Was it?  It destroyed my relationship with my daughter."

"Destroyed?"

"Well, maybe not destroyed.  Eroded, certainly."

"For good?"

Celeste wasn't sure she could see beyond the hurt and fury she felt. "I
don't know."

"Maybe you have to look at her differently from now on."

She wasn't sure she liked Jackson giving her advice, not after he had
opted out for so long.  But there was the matter of sharing the
responsibility, and, besides, she was curious.  "Like how?"

"Like an adult.  Tell her what it was like raising her.  Tell her about
the fears.  She should know."

Celeste pictured Dawn, back in that bed, with the covers to her chin.
"When?  Do you think she'll come home after this?"

"Where else would she go?  You're her mother.  You made a mistake.  So
did she.  You can learn from it.  Maybe together."

Celeste felt a flash of the old fear and insecurity that she had lived
with during those years of raising Dawn.  "God," she murmured, "I'm not
good at this."

"You're better than me," Jackson said.  "And you're better than lots of
other mothers.  Look at it this way.  You didn't have to bail her out
of jail.  You didn't have to pick her up off the sidewalk.  You didn't
have to sleep with the president of the college to get her accepted
there."

"For God's sake, Jackson."

"See?  You're not all bad."

Celeste grunted again, but the truth was that her stomach had begun to
relax for the first time in a very long twenty-four hours.  That
Jackson was instrumental in it was remarkable.  Then again, not so.  As
Dawn's father, he was the only one who could have helped quite that
way.

She sighed.  "You're as good for me now as you were in my wild child
days.  What happened to us, Jack?"

"We're good in a crisis.  That's about it."

"Too bad."

"Yeah."

"So.  What do we do about Dawn?"

His voice thinned.  "Let the cop drive her wherever she's going--home,
school, she'll decide.  Or she can take a cab.  She has money.  If she
hasn't, it's because she spent it on the motel room, because Cassanova
there forgot his wallet.  It won't hurt her to sweat it a little."

"I have to talk with her, don't I?"  Celeste asked, but she wasn't
eager for it just then.  She was too angry.  Besides, she refused to go
running after Dawn.  Dawn was, by her own declaration, an adult.  She
could come to Celeste.

"You'll talk with her at some point," Jackson assured her.

"So what happens now?"

He checked his watch.  It was the oversized kind that offered all sorts
of information above and beyond hour, minute, and second.  "It's past
lunchtime.  We'll stop for something.  Maybe the answers will come
while we eat."  twenty-five

THANK HEAVENS SHE'S ALL RIGHT," EMILY TOLD

Brian after they had dropped Dawn at her dorm and set out for China
Pond Road.  She shifted under her seat belt to face him.  "I wish she
would have let us drop her home.  Do you think Carter will go back for
her?"

"Not if he has any brains.  He knows we're on to him.  I'll write up a
formal report to have on file in case he shows up again, but he isn't
the type to take risks.  He'll just go find another woman to latch on
to."

"Think he's married?"

"I plan to check."

"Think he's an architect?"

"Possibly.  But if so, he isn't as successful as he lets on.  He
doesn't have any fancy office in Cambridge, or, I'd wager, half the
clients he told Celeste about, and if he travels around, like he said
when he answered her ad, it's to skip out when women catch on to his
game.  He carries a Minnesota driver's license.  The BMW belongs to a
friend."

Much as Emily had been against Celeste's ad, much as she wanted to say,
"I told you so," she couldn't.

"Poor Celeste.  Her heart's in the right place.  I often wonder what
she would have done with her life if she hadn't gotten pregnant so
soon.  Maybe had a career.  Maybe divorced Jackson and married someone
she was more compatible with and had a child by him, who knows."

"Who knows about life, period.  What ifs can drive you crazy."

If they had to do with the past, they could.  How well Emily knew that.
On the other hand, if they had to do with the future, they would offer
up interesting possibilities.

What if she were to write her book and it was published?  What if she
were to establish a name for herself as an author?  What if she were to
become self-supporting?

But what if Daniel kept haunting her?

No.  What if Brian kept wanting her?  What if she moved in with Julia
and him, or they moved in with her?  What if she became a wife and
mother for a second time?  What if Brian wanted more kids?

Would she write, too?  Would she have the time and energy for it, after
giving of herself to a husband and child?  Did she want to be a
full-time wife and mother again?

She had been looking at nothing in particular.  Then the Jeep went far
enough down China Pond Road for the house to come into view, and she
straightened.  "Oh, dear."  Myra was standing all bundled up at the
white picket fence, waving an eager hand as they approached.  She was
crowding in on Brian even before he opened his door.

"Getting later," Emily heard, "and you said we would do it around
midday, so I decided to wait right here until you got back.  Now?  Can
we now?"

Brian had climbed from the Jeep.  Holding her shoulders to keep her
still, he said, gently, "We found her, Myra.  Dawn is safely back
home."

Myra looked stricken.

Emily tried to soothe her.  "She's with Celeste, and she's fine.  It
was something of a false alarm."

"No false alarm," Myra cried.  "I saw."

"Dawn thought she was in love," Emily explained.  "Eighteen-year-olds
do that.  After Celeste dropped her at the dorm last Sunday, she turned
around and left again."

Myra wasn't listening to her.  She was clutching Brian's hand, trying
to draw him down the driveway.  "You have to look under the willow. 
You promised."

Emily felt a rush of sorrow.  Poor Myra.

"But we found her," Brian repeated.  "The case is solved."

"It isn't solved, no, it isn't!"  Myra's voice rose.  "You have to look
in my yard!"

Emily moved to free Brian by un clamping Myra's hand and found
startling strength in her hold.  "It's all right," she said softly,
steering Myra home.  "It's all right."

"No, it isn't, and I can't wait much longer, I can't, and no one
listens.  You have to look under the tree.  Under the tree!"

Emily shot a worried look at Brian.  She had never understood Myra's
obsession with the willow.  It might have been understandable if Frank
had adored the tree.  But he hadn't.  He had cursed it like he cursed
everything else, cursed it for the mess it made in the yard and the
work it caused.

Brian was looking puzzled.  "Myra, what, exactly, is under the tree?"

Myra shook her head.  "I never said anything was under it."

"But you want us to take a look."

"You think I'm crazy," she cried.  "I know.  My children think it, too,
but I'm not.  They want to stash me away like old clothes, but there's
nothing wrong with me, I swear, there is not."

Emily wanted to believe that.  She couldn't see Myra in a nursing home,
not when she so desperately wanted to stay here at the house--not that
Emily understood why she did.  The place was bigger than she needed,
and more work to keep up, and she was alone here, with nothing for
company but Frank's ghost.

Then again, Emily wasn't one to talk.  She couldn't leave China Pond
Road, either.  But Daniel was unfinished business.  Frank was not.

She had one odd thought, then several more in quick succession.  All
involved Daniel and Frank.  Frank and Daniel.  In the post office
parking lot at the very same time.  Under the willow.

She choked on a stray breath, coughed, put a shaky hand to her chest.
She didn't like what she was thinking at all.

"Uh, I think I need to go inside for a minute," she said when the
thoughts kept coming.  Dropping her hold of Myra, she turned and
half-walked, half-ran back across the cul-de-sac, but not to her house.
She didn't want to see the backyard, didn't want to see where it
bordered on Myra's, didn't want to see anything of the stringy winter
willow.  She ran to the far side of the garage, past the door to
Brian's place, and slid down the clapboards to the ground.

Brian was there in seconds, squatting before her.  "What, Em?"

She locked her arms around her knees.  Her voice came out high and
wavery.  "Weird thoughts.  Weird thoughts."

"About Frank Balch."

She nodded.  Frank Balch and Daniel.  It couldn't be.  Not right next
door.  Not all these years.  "He was questioned.  His story checked
out.  But Myra.  Myra."

"Stick to Frank.  What do you know about him?"

"He was the kind of man one avoided at all costs."

"Mean."

"What do you know about him?"  she shot back.

"Only that people keep mentioning his name when we ask them about
Daniel.  I've been trying to get more, but I can't."

She put her chin to her knees.  Her stomach had started to roll.  She
rocked to counter that movement, welcoming the bang of her back on the
wood.

"Myra's obsession with the willow," Brian asked, "how long has it been
going on?"

"As long as I can remember.  It got worse after Frank died.  That was
when she started picking the lint up by hand and planting flowers
nearby.  That was when she put the bench there.  Oh God.  I always just
assumed that she was a little nuts when it came to the yard, but the
persistence of it, the way she said, so clearly just now, that she
wasn't crazy--" her voice was rising, rising on a wave of hysteria, "I
believe her, so I ask myself why she keeps trying to drag us over to
see what's under that tree."

Emily rocked harder against the wood.  She wanted to think she was the
crazy one entertaining mad thoughts, only they didn't sound mad but
like the answer to the puzzle, making horrible sense in the same way as
Doug's other life had.

Brian took her face in his hands.  He wasn't talking to her, as much as
speaking his thoughts aloud.  "A method to madness.  People do things
that seem crazy, only they aren't.  Like Richie, needing to get away
from his father.  Like Leila, needing help in caring for her kids. Even
like Dawn, needing to let Celeste know that she wants love or attention
or recognition or whatever.  Cries for help."

Emily's chest felt ready to explode.  She straightened her back against
the clapboards and took several deep breaths, but they didn't help.

Brian's hands were a link of warmth when all else was cold.  They
balanced the urgency in his voice.  "Frank and Myra were interviewed at
the time.  Frank said he didn't see a thing.  John grilled the guy.  He
had his story down pat.  So did Myra."

"What if ..."  She couldn't put the thought into words.  It was too
hideous.

"Frank was finishing up in the post office when you arrived.  He went
to his car and drove home.  Witnesses corroborated that."

"What if..."

"They heard his car leave the parking lot.  Big car, lousy muffler,
lots of noise.  But no one actually saw him get into the car.  The
noise was the thing that made them look, and he was driving off by
then."

She forced her eyes to Brian's.  "It can't be.  He wouldn't have been
able to live across the street from me all those years if he'd been
lying.  Neither would Myra."  She swallowed down a fast-rising bile.
"Tell me we're wrong, Brian, it's too awful, there isn't any why to
it."

Quietly, he said, "I need to look there."

"Dig, you mean."  She started to cry.  They were going to dig for her
baby.  "Don't you need--need-warrants--or something?"

"I'll get one just in case.  I should have weeks ago."

"You had--no cause."

"I still don't, not really."  But he was as convinced of it as she
was.  The gravity of his voice told her so.  "I have to alert John. And
Sam.  He'll help.  Want to go to Kay's for a while?"

But Emily wasn't budging.  She was Daniel's mother.  She was the one
who had left him alone in the car, rather than unbuckling him and
carrying him into the post office that day.  She wasn't making the same
mistake twice, wasn't walking away from him now.

Sam and several others from the department came with shovels.  Kay was
already there, holding Emily, who shook in spite of a parka, gloves,
and a hat.  Myra was huddled on the back steps, her eyes riveted on the
widening hole.

They started digging directly in front of the scrolled wrought iron
bench.  Once past the brittle top layers, the earth was more pliable.
They dug down two feet, but found nothing.

Brian had expected something shallow.  He couldn't imagine Frank
digging six feet down without arousing suspicion.  There had been cops
all over the place in the hours and days immediately after the
disappearance.

Granted, the backyard couldn't be seen from the street.  Granted, the
Balch sons had all left home by that time.  Granted, Frank would have
dug at night.

Brian went to Myra.  His breath wisped white in the cold.  "Is this the
right place?"

She looked as frigid as those top layers of soil, but she had resisted
Brian's suggestions that she wait inside.  Now she said, "I didn't say
anything was here."

"Should we be digging closer to the pond?"

Her eyes glanced over the water.  "You don't know Frank, or you
wouldn't be asking.  He can dig a hole four, five feet deep without
breaking a sweat.  He chops wood.  It's the same kind of work."

They dug until the hole was three by three, then four by four.  The
light of day was beginning to fade, the temperature to drop, when they
headed for five by five.

Then they hit it, a small disk covered with dirt and rust, that turned
like a stone but made a more shallow sound against the tip of the
shovel.  Brian picked it up, removed the dirt with his thumb.  It was a
pin, like the kind affixed to a lapel, or a child's hat.

daddy's boy, he read and felt a thickening in his throat.  His chin
fell to his chest, dragged down by dismay and an overwhelming sense of
grief.  Only with the greatest effort, knowing that he wore that sorrow
on his face but unable to hide it, did he raise his eyes to Emily.

She shook her head, backing away as he approached.  She didn't want to
see what he held, didn't want to believe Daniel was there ... there ...
under ... dead all this time.

"Emily," he said, reaching for her.

"No-o."

He drew her close and held her as if he could protect her from
something, but the something was within.  All the cushioning in the
world couldn't keep her safe.  Nineteen years--months of fruitless
investigation-dozens of possible scenarios packed into innumerable
nightmares and daydreams--all wrong and the truth too cruel to bear.
Her baby.

"Right next door!"  she wailed against his chest.

"Kay's taking you home."

"No!  I'm staying!"

"Em, Em."  He held her tightly, moved his hands on her back in an
attempt at comfort, but comfort wasn't possible, not then, not yet.  In
a voice by her ear, he said, "This could go on for a while."

"I know."  They would be looking for bones, bits of clothing, Oh God,
the remains of her baby.  "I'm staying."

She watched from the side, again with Kay, waiting for the cold to numb
her, in vain.  The pain was as raw as it had ever been, grated now by
the horror of the truth.

Right next door.  It was unthinkable.

The digging went on for another hour.  Between dusk and the ten long
feet between her and the hole, Emily couldn't see what they were
placing in their bags, but her mind saw.  She was there with Daniel,
remembering the last time she had held him as though it were hours
before, smelling the Sugar Smacks he'd had for breakfast, feeling the
silk of his hair, the baby butter of his skin.

"We've done as much as we can now," Brian said, coming up.  "We'll take
another look in the morning, but I think we're finished."

Finished.  Daniel was found.  Emily pictured a tiny coffin, pictured a
tiny grave with a marker on top, and felt the tiniest inkling of
comfort in a world of lies.

Brian took her in his arms and turned her away.  "Will you go home
now?"

"Where are you going?"

"I have to talk with Myra."

To ask why.  To ask how.  Questions she had been agonizing over for
nineteen long years.  Her baby, dead and buried in her neighbor's
backyard.  "I'm coming."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"I'm coming."

His eyes said he feared for her emotional state.  Her eyes said she
wasn't leaving his side.

He sighed and looked at Kay.  "We've been through this before, Em and
me.  She always wins."

It was a light touch, a little reference to their everyday lives, so
much kinder than Daniel's fate that, absurdly, Emily started to cry
again.

"Don't punish yourself, Em," Brian moaned, putting his face close to
hers.

"I have to hear."

"I can tell you later."

But she clung to him, even as she wiped her eyes and told Kay, "Julia's
at Janice Stolski's.  Will you pick her up?"

"Don't worry about Julia now," Brian protested.  "She can stay late."

But there was another inkling of comfort in the relationships and
responsibilities that gave meaning to her life.  "I want to see her.
And Jill.  Doug can pick her up in Boston before he drives out."  Her
eyes asked the added favor of Kay.

"Done," Kay said.  "I'll call him.  Where do I find his number?"

Emily told her.  "And Celeste.  Tell her what's happened."

"I will."  Kay hugged her around Brian's arms for a final minute.  "Do
what you have to.  We'll be waiting."

Emily had been in Myra's house countless times over the years, but it
had never been as difficult as it was now.  Her imagination was running
circles around itself, defying her attempts to stop it by flashing
visions of mayhem in each room they passed through.  Myra.  Myra and
Frank.  And Daniel.

Emily felt sick.  She willed herself not to vomit.  She wanted to
hear, needed to hear.

Absurdly, once they were settled in the living room--Brian and Emily,
with two patrolmen in the background--Myra offered them tea.  They
refused.

Quietly, Brian began.  "What happened, Myra?"

"What happened, when?"  she asked.

"The day Daniel Arkin disappeared."

She frowned.  "Well, we were here and the police came, and we said we
hadn't seen him.  There was a question, because Frank was in town at
the same time as Emily, but he left without seeing a thing."  She
nodded.  "We told the police that."

"Yes.  That's what the file says.  But we know now that's not the
truth."

"Who said?  I certainly didn't."

"No.  But we found evidence outside which suggests that your husband,
and possibly you, too, were involved in Daniel's death."

"I never said that.  Frank would be furious if he thought I did."  She
dared a look over her shoulder toward the rest of the house, and
whispered, "Please.  He has a temper."

"Is that what happened that day?"  Brian asked.  "Did he lose it?"

Emily remembered the yelling she had often heard and wondered how much
of it had had to do, over the years, with Daniel.  "This is important,
Myra," she cried when Myra didn't answer Brian, and though Myra looked
startled by her tone, she didn't soften it.  She felt betrayed.  Daniel
had been murdered by people she trusted.  She had no sympathy for Myra.
"Frank was hard on you, but he's dead."  Like Daniel.  Oh God.  "He
can't hurt you now.  You have to tell us what happened."

Myra told the floor, "They think it's only the mothers who have
trouble when their children grow up and move out, but it isn't.
Sometimes men have the problem.  Sometimes they have it worse."

"Did Frank?"  Brian asked.

"Some men are angry when their children leave," Myra advised, as though
telling a story about someone other than Frank.  "They feel like the
children are deserting them.  They feel like the children aren't
grateful at all for the things they did."

"Men like that," Brian prodded, "what do they do?"

"Oh, they get cranky.  They get mad at their wives for little things
that aren't bad at all.  They yell.  They even hit, sometimes.  Now,
Frank never hits me.  He never raises a hand.  But men like that do.
They see people who still have their children at home, and they get
mad."

"Mad?"

"They don't understand why others still have their children, if they
don't.  So they kick things, and they curse.  Sometimes they see
children left alone in cars, and that makes them really mad, so they
borrow those children.  Just for a little while.  Just to have a child
around again.  Can you imagine?  My Frank would never do that.  He's a
decent, law-abiding man."

Borrow them?  Borrow them?  Emily was appalled.

"Borrow?"  Brian asked.

"Just for a little while."

"But why?"  Emily cried.  "Frank hated children."

"My Frank?"  Myra shook her head.  "Not my Frank."

"I heard yelling all the time!"

"Well, when children misbehave, a parent yells, but that doesn't mean
he doesn't love them.  My Frank loves his sons.  He is a wonderful
father."

"He was strict, and demanding, and abusive!"

"He counted on them to do chores.  He was upset when they left home.
To this day, he wants them here with him."

"Did he think my son could do those chores?  He was only two.  What in
the world was Frank thinking?  What possessed him to take my child?"

"Who?  Frank?  Frank never took anyone's child."

Emily let out a shuddering breath.

Brian took her hand.  "These men who borrow children," he said to Myra,
"what do they do with them?"

"Oh, they drive them home, and carry them in the house, and their wives
are furious.  Their wives tell them that they can't just wander off
with other people's children.  They argue until they're blue in the
face, but all it does is get everyone upset."  Her eyes met her
fingers, which were snaking around each other.  "They don't mean to
make things worse.  They're trying to fix things, only they can't."

"Where are they?"  Emily asked in a high voice.

Myra seemed detached.  "In the kitchen."

"And the boy?"  Brian asked.  "Where was he?"

"With them."  She grew silent.

Emily saw Daniel there, saw him frightened by Frank's booming voice,
rushing to the door, pressing his face to the screen, crying for her.
She saw his cheeks growing red with his screams, saw the streaming
tears, heard the hiccuping howls, coming harder and louder.

Her heart broke.  She flew to her feet, unable to sit still.

Shrilly, Myra wailed, "He wouldn't be quiet!  I tried to get him to be
quiet!  He was making things worse!  But he wouldn't stop crying
because he was scared, and the more he cried the madder Frank got--"

She stopped abruptly.  Her eyes flew from Brian to Emily to the floor,
but if there was upset in them, Emily was beyond caring.  Brian reached
for her, only it wasn't his arms she felt, but smaller ones that had
clung to her in the wake of a scraped knee, a measles shot, a Halloween
mask.  She felt those smaller arms clawing at the Balchs' back door,
groping frantically for a knob, for Emily, for air, for help.  Caught
up in the terror, she gasped aloud, then said, "I'm okay, I'm okay,"
when Brian tried to take her from the room.  She held up a hand to
reinforce her words.

For another minute, his eyes expressed concern.  Then he ran his hands
up and down her arms, sat her on the sofa again, and, after a last look
to make sure she was all right, turned to Myra again.  "What happened
then?"

She seemed confused.  "When?"

He paused, rephrased the question.  "What happens, in situations like
that, when the child is crying and making the man madder and madder?"

"Why," she began as though it were obvious, "he keeps telling the child
to be still, but the child is so frightened that he doesn't hear, so
the man slaps him to get his attention."

Emily made a sound.  Again she held up her hand to assure Brian that
she was all right.  The hand curled into a fist and settled against her
mouth.  She didn't want to cry out, didn't want to interrupt.  She had
to hear the story, had to know, finally.

Myra turned to her.  "The wife tries to get him to stop hitting, but he
throws her off to the side with one more big sweep of his hand, and by
the time she has herself back on her feet the child is quiet."

Emily began a convulsive rocking.  "Dead?  Dead then?"

"Well, yes, most likely, because his head has hit the table, and he
isn't moving.  The wife tries to wake him up, but he isn't
breathing."

Emily bolted up and staggered toward the door.  One of the patrolmen
caught her, then Brian.

"If that was the end," she whispered, "if he didn't know anything after
that, I don't need to either, it isn't important."  She thought of her
baby's terror, cut with a knife-sharp pain into nothingness.  Only that
wasn't the end.  There were years of agony that had followed, a
marriage destroyed, the subconscious searching of faces for a familiar
one that might have been misplaced, the guilt, the anger, the energy
spent in trying to find answers that were under her nose all the time,
and she whirled on Myra, hating the woman, crying, "Why didn't you tell
me?  All those years, you knew, and I was going through hell.  You saw
me all the time, you saw my husband all the time, you saw my daughter
all the time.  You let that--that barbarian near her.  How could you?
How could you not tell me what he'd done?"

But she knew--maybe not the details of the threats, but she could guess
them.  I'll kill you, he might have said, or, I'll kill your sons, or,
Say one word, and I'll get you in hell, you old bat--and, whatever,
Myra had been so terrified that not even Frank's death had freed her.
So she had carried the secret with her, haunted by it, obsessed with
it, trying in her pathetically evasive way to get anyone and everyone
to sit with her under the willow, as though whoever sat there would
know, and she would be relieved of telling them, and thus safe from
Frank.

"I have to go," Emily whispered seconds before her legs gave out.  She
was distantly aware of being carried, then deposited on something soft,
then held, but it was a long time before she felt any warmth, and an
even longer time before she slept.

The next morning Celeste was in her kitchen dropping batter by the
spoonfuls onto baking sheets.  She was making butter cookies for Emily.
It was a small gesture, but she needed to do it.  Emily had been a
loyal friend, sticking with her through many an ordeal with Dawn.  This
latest with Carter had been the worst, but it was petty compared to
Emily's own.

Celeste had to keep reminding herself of that, lest she wallow in
self-pity.  Okay, so she had lost Carter.  The man was less of a loss
than the fantasy.

Dawn was something else.  She was back at the dorm.  Celeste didn't
know much more than that.

Dropping the spoons in the empty mixing bowl, she wiped her hands on
her jeans and dragged open the oven door.  One cookie sheet went in,
then the second.  She closed the door and set the timer.

"Hi."

She whirled around.

Dawn stood just inside the kitchen door wearing a guarded look.
Celeste's heart was pounding, but only in part from being startled. She
hadn't known when Dawn would show up, hadn't expected her this soon,
didn't know what to say or think or feel.

"I heard about Daniel Arkin," Dawn said.  "I thought I'd stop over at
Emily's."

This isn't Emily's, Celeste thought.  Why are you here?

"How is she?"

"Okay."

Dawn nodded.  She looked at the mixing bowl.  "Are the cookies for
her?"

They sure aren't for you, sweetie, not after what you did.  "Yes,
they're for Emily.  She's been a good friend to me."

"Does that mean she hates me, too?"

"I don't know.  You'd have to ask her."

"Do you hate me?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"But you're disappointed."

"Very."

Dawn grappled with that for a minute.  "After Jill called me last
night, I was thinking about what happened to Daniel and thinking that
something like that could have happened to me with Carter.  But how
could I know he was a louse?"

"He went from mother to daughter.  That should have tipped you off."

"It didn't tip you off."

"It sure did.  The minute I learned he was with you, it did.  You
should have vetoed his little escapade the minute he suggested it.  You
should have known right then he was no good.  Good men don't do things
like that."

She shrugged.  "I was angry."

"Because I had my nose done?  Because I was having a good time while
you were at school?  Because I was happy?"

She shrugged again, looking guilty now.

"Ever hear the expression, bite your nose off to spite your face?"
Celeste asked.  "That's what you did, Dawn.  Boy, you may be book
smart, but when it comes to common sense, you get an F."

"I'm sorry!"  Dawn cried.

"Why?  Because you're worried that I won't let you use my car?  Or that
your father might cut down your allowance, or, worse, renege on his
promise to pay your tuition?  He doesn't have to pay it, Dawn.  As you
love pointing out, you are an adult."

"I know."

"Adults have to take responsibility for their actions."

"I know."  She sank into a chair by the table and said in a quiet
voice, "I was wrong.  I shouldn't have done what I did."  She raised
sad eyes.  "But he was unreal.  Handsome.  Sexy.  He made me feel like
I was special.  It's nice to feel that way sometimes."

Pointedly, Celeste said, "Isn't it."

"I was wrong, Mom.  Are you going to hold it against me forever?"  She
sounded so young that Celeste remembered the child she had once
been--yes, stubborn and willful, but so full of spirit, so like Celeste
once, that Celeste had been green with envy.

"Remember the awful fights we had over curfews?"  she asked.

Dawn nodded.

"You thought I was trying to control you.  Maybe I was.  And maybe not
for the best of reasons," if jealousy had been the case.  "But there
were valid reasons, too.  I've been your age.  I got into more than my
share of mischief, so I know what teenagers can do.  Only things were
different in my day, more innocent, less random.  I wanted you home
safe and off the streets before the roads filled with crazies.  I
really did worry, Dawn.  Would I have done that if all I'd wanted was
to get rid of you?"

"I didn't say that was all you wanted."

"You said I was dying for you to leave so I could have my freedom, but
if that was so, why wouldn't I ever let you stay out all night? Imagine
the freedom I'd have had then.  If freedom was all I wanted, I wouldn't
have cared where you went.  But I did.  Because you are my daughter,
and I do love you, even if right now that's just a word.  I don't feel
love right now.  Just disappointment."

"I'm not seeing Carter again."

"You can have him.  I don't want him."

"I don't either.  He's not a nice person."

"That's not the point."

Dawn looked at her lap.  "I know."

Celeste remained silent.

"Nice or not," Dawn admitted, "he was seeing my mother.  I was wrong to
have gone off with him.  I'm sorry."

The buzzer rang.  Slipping her hands into mitts, Celeste took the
cookie sheets from the oven.  When they were set safely on the burner
grates, she tossed the mitts aside and turned off the oven.

"What now?"  Dawn asked.

"Now they cool."

"What now with us?"

"I don't know.  Don't call me, I'll call you, you said."

"I wanted you to call."

"That wasn't what you said."

"It was what I wanted."

"You have to tell me then."

"I am.  I want you to call."

"Okay.  I can."

Dawn nodded.  She moistened her lips.  "I keep thinking of Emily not
knowing Daniel was dead all those years.  I keep thinking that
something might happen to you and I wouldn't know about it."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Celeste said, but she was touched.

"Carter told me how you two met.  What if the next guy is a real
crazy?"

"Carter told you?"  Celeste was embarrassed, until she had a thought.
"How did he explain his placing an ad?"

"A friend placed it for him."

"Do you believe that?"

"Not anymore."

"Thank you."

"You didn't have to place an ad.  There are men in Grannick who'd love
to take you out."

"I wanted to meet new people."

"Do you still?"

Celeste considered that for the first time since the fiasco of Carter.
"Yes.  But I've been burned.  I'll be more careful."  She would see the
widower again.  And even the vet, whose shyness might be hiding awesome
things.  And there were two new, interesting responses that had come
from her ad while she was seeing Carter, so she hadn't done anything
about them.  She would.  She might even put in a new ad, using
"intelligent" instead of "sexy," as Kay had wanted her to do the first
time.  It might be interesting to see what that would yield.

She was tempted to tell Dawn about the twenty five-year-old, but
decided against it.  Sharing was sick.  Besides, Dawn needed to be with
college guys.  Twenty-five was too old for eighteen--and, ahhhh yes,
too young for forty-three.

Fishing a spatula from a drawer, she began freeing cookies from the
baking sheet and slipping them into a dish.  She felt better--not
exactly exuberant, but not depressed over Carter.  Life went on.  There
was hope for her yet.

The cookie on the tip of the spatula was warm and soft, lightly toasted
and tempting.  Turning, she offered it to Dawn.  twenty-six

THE FUNERAL WAS HELD TWO DAYS LATER, ON A

frail yellow December morning, at the cemetery on the outskirts of
Grannick.

Emily had been dreading it.  She had spent those two days steeling
herself, crying softly with Jill, even with Doug, clinging to Brian
during those other hours when she simply couldn't be without.  She
hadn't slept much.  Though her tears exhausted her, she kept waking to
terror and lies and bloody thoughts.  She had thought that the funeral
would be the worst.

She was wrong.  Everything that came before was heart-wrenching, but
the inkling of comfort she had felt that horrible night by the willow,
when she imagined Daniel finally being buried, took root.  The lowering
of the little coffin into the ground was more a benediction, Daniel's
long-overdue send-off to a kinder place.  Just as Myra had finally
relinquished the load she carried, so Emily buried Daniel, with love.

What was to have been a private rite brought out better than half the
town.  Emily saw friends and acquaintances.  Their presence delivered
the kind of comfort that the living needed, along with food to the
house later, and gentle words, expressing their sorrow in an endless
stream of goodwill.

It wasn't until the next morning that Emily was able to take her first
deep, relatively steady breath and sit alone over breakfast with
Jill.

"It's strange for me," Jill said.  "I never knew him."

"Me, neither, in a way.  He was only two, barely formed as a person."

"I still don't understand how Frank could have taken him.  You can bet
I'll look twice at my neighbors when I buy a home someday."

"Look twice," Emily begged, "but don't agonize.  You can't live like
that, Jill.  If I had second-guessed everything after Daniel, you'd
have grown up neurotic.  There's the quality of life to consider.  Be
positive."

"Like you.  You always are."

"I've always tried."

"For my sake?"

"Yes.  And your father's.  I think now I'm going to try for me."  She
watched Jill eat, savoring all the little familiar motions, the things
she loved and would miss.  "It's been nice having you home."

"I'm sorry it was for this."

"Me too.  But it's good.  We needed to know.  Try to get your father to
talk about it during the drive."  Doug was returning her to Boston
later that morning.  "He's having a hard time."

"More than you.  How come?"

"For a long time he refused to think about Daniel.  I've been mourning
for years.  He's just starting."

"When is it done?"

"I don't know that it's ever completely done, but the wound heals in
time.  I thought mine had.  I was wrong.  I guess I got so used to
living with the mystery of Daniel's death that I didn't see it, only
it was there, affecting everything.  I didn't realize how much I needed
closure on this."  She thought of how she had clung to her marriage,
clung to the house, clung to Grannick, even clung to being a homemaker,
so that she would be mothering when Daniel returned.  She hadn't
realized she was doing any of it, until Daniel was found.

"I'm thinking of selling the house."

Jill's eyes grew large.  "Selling it?"

"How would you feel if I did?"

"Uh, strange."

"Is that a veto of the idea?"

"No, it's just so sudden."  The words were barely out when a look of
understanding crossed her face.

Emily smiled a sad confirmation.  "I'm having trouble looking at the
Balchs' house.  I see it every time I drive down the street.  Then I
look in our backyard and see the pond, and my eyes go to their part of
the pond, and their backyard, and the willow.  I'm not sure I can stay
here.  What's done is done.  I can't change it.  Daniel is buried
somewhere else now."  She pictured the grassy spot where he was.  It
was a minute before she could speak again.  "I don't think I want to be
forever reminded of what happened here.  I don't see what good it would
do."

"Where would you move?"

"Not far.  I like Grannick."  The support she had received in the past
few days had been convincing.  She couldn't see turning her back on
friendships that had been two decades in growing.  She did like
Grannick.  She just didn't want to see the Balchs' backyard.

"What about Brian?"

Emily kept her voice slow and easy.  "What about him?"

"If you sell, he'll be without an apartment.  You want to stay with
him, don't you?"

"Yes."

"He loves you."

"Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't have to."

"How do you feel about it?"

"You and Daddy aren't getting back together?"

"No.  There's too much hurt."

"You have a right to be happy.  I want you to be."

Emily slipped from her chair, wrapped an arm around Jill's neck, and
held on tight.  "I love you," she cried, tears, emotions so close to
the surface.

"But you love him, too," Jill said.

Emily had to pull back to see her grin.  "I do."

"Are you sure you want to take on a baby?"

"No.  I'm not sure I want to take on a man.  I think I need time to
find me."

"So what about him?"

Emily blotted her eyes, sighed, and smiled.  "I'll let you know when I
find out, okay?"

Brian took the day off from work.  He wanted to spend time with Julia.
Well, what he wanted, actually, was to spend time with Julia and Emily,
but he knew that Emily would be with Jill for most of the morning, and
he respected that need.

So he addressed his own need, the one driven by the raw feelings that
the past few days had left.  He played with Julia while she was still
in her crib, ducking under where she couldn't see him, then popping out
and making her laugh.  He let her paint his face, then hers, then the
bathtub with shaving cream.  He let her help him rinse everything
off.

Normally of a morning he was distracted, thinking of the day ahead.
This morning he was thinking of Julia and took his time.

"Which outfit?"  he asked, crouching beside her, examining the pile of
clothes that were clean, folded, and waiting.

"Dis."  A little finger dabbed at the one she wanted, then retreated
into a fist by her bare belly.

"The red shirt?"

She nodded.

"What about pants?  Or a skirt?  Wanna wear a skirt?  Give the guys at
the station a thrill?"

The little finger dabbed again, retreated again.

"Green jeans.  Red and green.  That's rushing the season a little.  Why
don't we wait on green.  Try again."

"Dis," Julia said, pointing to red jeans, looking expectantly at
Brian.

"Good choice, Julia.  Hooray for Julia!"  He clapped her hands
together, whipped out the pants and dressed her up.

They had breakfast at Nell's, Julia sitting on his lap, while he sat on
a stool at the counter.  She loved the donuts; everyone loved her.
Brian left with a warm feeling that had to do with fresh brewed coffee
and new friends, with small-town comforts and the sense that something
was right in his life, and the feelings stayed warm through a stop at
the police station.  Everyone who knew Brian knew Julia.  She was the
center of attention, and she ate it up, going off with the animal
officer to see a lost dog, racing back across the room and into Brian's
arms with a high giggle when they were done.

Back in the Jeep, she fell asleep, which was fine.  Brian wanted to
drive around some.  She was still sleeping when he pulled up at
John's.  He climbed out and started up the front walk, intent on
letting her sleep longer.  Then he stopped and thought of Daniel, and
it wasn't that he worried she would be kidnapped, not from the driveway
of the chief of police, just that he wanted to hold her.  Returning to
the car, he eased her out so smoothly that she didn't even wake.

John was in the living room, talking on the phone, his casts the only
remaining sign of his mishap.

He hung up and grinned.  "Huh.  What tired her out?"

"Me.  We've been playing.  This is our day together."

"She'll remember it when she's grown."

"I'm doin' it for me as much as for her," Brian cracked.  "It may be
what I remember when I'm in that old rocking chair at the nursing home.
How're the legs?"

John batted at one of the casts.  "Dead weight.  I need these off.  I
need to be walking again."  He glanced at his watch.  "I need to be
back at work.  Reading reports isn't the same as being there when
things happen.  Did you hear about Hooks?"

"Yeah.  I just came from the station."

"So he's going back to school?"

"That's what he says.  He says he wants to be a lawyer."

"Think he'll make a good one?"

Brian considered that with his chin against Julia's warm curls.  "I
don't know.  He's a by-the-book cop.  I suppose he could be a
by-the-book lawyer.  That's good for us, I guess.  By-the-book lawyers
are easier to handle.  It's the creative ones who stump us.  I don't
think Hooks will be one of those."

"Well put," John said.  He shot another look at his watch.  "Can I talk
to you about something?"

Brian was swaying from side to side, enjoying Julia's warmth, feeling
content.  "Sure."

"What do you think of Grannick?"

"I like it a lot."

"Are you planning to stay?"

"I was."  His swaying slowed.  He wondered if John was trying to let
him down easy.  "Is there a problem?"

"No problem.  You're good for the department.  You have skills some of
the others don't have.  I'm going to be awhile longer getting these
legs working.  It's nice knowing you're around with two good ones."  He
paused, pushed his lower lip out, finally said, "What I was worried
about is that you might leave if Emily does.  How's she doing?"

"Not bad.  As painful as the truth is, it's good to know it after all
this time."

"I should've seen something," John muttered.

It wasn't the first time he had told Brian that.  He had been agonizing
since the body had been found.  As always, Brian tried to ease his
guilt.  "You questioned Frank.  You questioned him more than once.  He
didn't budge.  There wasn't anything to see."

"You saw something."

"Only after Myra nearly hit me over the head with it.  Emily's like
you.  She keeps saying she should have guessed it.  But that's crazy.
Frank might have been mean, but who would have thought he would take a
child."

"Borrowing was the word Myra used.  I hear she's leaving town."

"Now that Frank's secret is out, she can."

"I wouldn't blame Emily if she did, too.  Think she will?"

"No."

"Have you talked with her about it?"

"Not yet.  It's on my list of things to do today."

"Huh."  John seemed to relax some.  "Well, I don't want her leaving,
any more'n I want you leaving.  You can tell her that."  He slid a
third look at his watch.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

"My wife.  We have a date."

"Yeah?"

"For lunch.  She'll be along."

"Want me to wait here 'til she comes?"

"Nah.  I have more calls to make.  Go enjoy Julia."

Brian wasn't sure he would, given what he had to do next, but there was
no avoiding it.  It was cold.  Winter was here.  He figured it was now
or never.

He drove to the mall, parked outside Lord & Taylor, and found the
children's department without any fuss, but that was the easy part. The
hard part lay ahead.

He was feeling slightly daunted confronted with a thousand pieces of
clothing, not knowing where to start, when a grandmotherly type
approached.

"Julia needs a snowsuit," he blurted out.  "I have no idea what size,
style, color, nothing."

Esther Nelson took him in hand.  She asked him how old Julia was, had
him stand her up, showed him the options, gave him the pros and cons of
each.  It turned out that the hardest part of the purchase was deciding
between two that were equally adorable, one pink, one lime green.  In
the end, he simply set Julia in front of the two.

"Which one do you want, toots?"

"Dis," Julia said, going for the green one without a moment's pause.

Esther set them up with a hat, mittens, and mitten clips, and then,
because Brian was riding high on the fact that it had been painless, he
let Julia pick out some new winter clothes, again from a pre narrowed
selection.  Pushover that he was, he even bought the teddy bear that
she couldn't keep her little hands away from.

Best of all, he left with Esther's card, a list of the hours she
worked, and the assurance that he could call her and she would be there
the next time Julia needed clothes.

Grandly buoyed, he took his daughter to the Eatery for lunch.  They
knew everyone there.  Julia babbled to the waitress, proudly waving her
bear.  She chomped on pieces of chicken, tomato, and olive from Brian's
cobb salad.  As far as he could detect, she was in as fine a mood as he
was.

So they strolled down the street from the Eatery to the flower shop,
where he found 'a small basket lined with a blue and white fabric that
reminded him of the bedroom Emily kept to herself.  To the florist's
horror, he made him cut down a beautiful white lily and arrange the
blooms with water picks in the basket.  Then he set off for the
drugstore.

He held Julia while he browsed through the greeting cards.  When she
began to squirm, he set her down.  He picked the card he wanted, one
with a barn and-meadow scene that was as serene as the way Emily made
him feel, and paid for it plus half a dozen Butterfingers, at the
register.  Then he looked around.

"Julia?"  he called out.  He crossed the front of the store, looking
down each aisle.  He hurried past the toys and paced the back of the
store, searching the aisles from that end.  "Julia?"

"Daddy daddy daddy."

It was a minute before he saw a pint-sized person with red pants, a
denim jacket, and soft brown curls below the curtain of the photo
booth.

"Who's in here?"  he asked, parting the curtains.

Julia had her arms on the seat.  She grinned up at him.

"What are you doing?"

She slapped the seat with both hands.  "Daddydaddy nagoo."

"Yeah.  Remember we sat there?  Remember all the times we sat there?
Julia didn't want to sit.  Julia didn't want to smile.  All Julia
wanted to do was cry."

She brought her pointer around, touched the black patch of the camera's
eye, and looked questioningly up at him.

"Right on.  There's the flash.  You don't like that flash."

Her eyes held his.

"Yeah?"

She tried to climb up on the seat but had neither the height nor
dexterity for it.  Her eyes returned to his, iridescently insistent.

"You want to try?"  He sat her on the seat and waited for her to cry.

She looked at the black patch.  When it didn't do anything, she
pointed.  "Daddy dis."

He pulled change from his pocket and showed it to her.  "I have to put
quarters in the slot.  It isn't easy.  I don't want to do it, unless
you're gonna smile.  Are you?"

"Daddy dis."

He hoisted her up, folded himself into the booth, onto the bench, and
stood her on his lap.  He waited for her to pucker up.

She wrapped an arm around his neck, pointed at the camera, and said
something that he chose to believe meant, "Put in the damn quarters and
get this show on the road."

He put in the quarters.  He tapped the patch.  The first flash went
off.  "Boom!  There's one!  Smile, pretty Julia--boom!  There's two! My
God, we're actually getting this right--boom!  There's three!  Whoa, is
Grammie going to be psyched--boom!  There we go!"

Emily was in the den, listening to the strains of a mellow trombone,
feeling a little lonely, a little pensive, a little unsure, when Brian
opened the back door and called, "Hello?"

"In here," she called back, but she didn't move.  She sat in the chair
behind the desk, with her arms cinching her knees, waiting with a lift
in her heart.  When she saw them, father and daughter, the loneliness
eased.  "Hey."

Brian set Julia down.  She ran to Emily.  "Emememem."

"Hi, sweetie."  Emily unfolded herself, scooped Julia up, and settled
her on her lap.  "Whatcha been doin'?"

"This and that," said Julia's father.

A beautiful basket materialized on Emily's desk.  It was lined with a
fabric not unlike the comforter on her bed, and filled with white
lilies and Butterfingers.  An envelope followed the basket down.  She
reached around Julia, drew out the card, and after immersing herself in
the picture on the front, read what Brian had written inside.  His
handwriting was atrocious.  Mercifully, there wasn't much to
decipher.

Two words.  "We'll wait."  That was it.

It was enough.

"You are," she said, deeply touched, "an incredible man."

He came to sit on the edge of the desk, his legs angled to the floor by
her chair.  "You know what I want."

She did.  He wanted to marry her.  "Part of me wants it, too, but
there's the other part that needs to recover from all this, that needs
to breathe a little, needs to think about who I am.  Sound selfish?"

"No."

"I love you."  She drew Julia back against her, strapping her in with
her arms.  "I love this one, too."

"I saw a barn this morning."

"Like the one on my card?"

"A little.  Yeah, actually, a lot.  It's over on the hill, off
Creighton Path."

Emily knew the one.  There was a farmhouse, too, a sprawling structure
of wood and stone.  Farmhouse, barn, meadows, and woods had belonged to
the Fosseys of Grannick for generations.  It had been years since the
barn had housed anything but cars, years since Fossey children had
returned as adults.

The senior Fosseys were packing it in.  Farmhouse, barn, meadows, and
woods were for sale.

Emily knew that, indeed.  The property was one of the prettiest in
town.  The look in Brian's eyes said that he agreed.  It also said
something else.

"Well, you can't stay here," he protested as though they had discussed
it dozens of times, when in fact she hadn't mentioned it to him once.
"You can't punish yourself for the rest of your life having to see the
Balch house every day."

"I know."

"You do?"

Nodding, she reached for his hand.  When he gave it to her, she brought
it to her throat.  "Think we can afford the farm?"

"If we do it together.  Will you live with me?"

"Not yet."  Not until she was sure enough of herself.  Not until they
were married.  But there were other choices.  "I'll take the barn."

"I'm taking the barn."

"Brian, it's little more than a shell!"

"Exactly."

"So, you can't have Julia living in a shell."

"I can't have you living in one, either."

"How long would it take to insulate it and put in utilities?"

"Could be livable in a month."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She imagined a large sky lit space with separate areas for sleeping,
eating, and writing.  She imagined a loft space for Jill that could one
day be used as a playroom for Julia, if things worked out.  She
imagined trysts in the woods and love in the meadow, and all sorts of
other fun things that were as different from her past as night from
day.  She imagined going to the cemetery on the outskirts of town and
telling Daniel about the place where she lived.

That thought choked her up.  She figured it would, for a while.

"What do you think?"  he asked, beyond the house versus the barn.  The
question went deep.

Emily took a breath and swallowed.  She could handle deep.  She had
come to an abyss, crossed it, and survived.  A different world was open
to her now, with many of the same joys as before and then some.

She kissed his hand and returned it to her neck.  "I think, I think,"
when she couldn't find the words, when her throat tightened again, for
love of Brian this time, she simply sighed, smiled, and said, "Yeah."

Postscript

L-MILY SAT ALONE ON THE LOW STONE WALL.  HER

elbows were on her knees, her hands linked loosely between them.  She
wore linen pants and a blazer from the same New York designer, a silk
blouse open at the throat, and wonderfully bright gold earrings.  She
still looked about sixteen years old.  Her hair did it to her every
time.  But she felt older.  Better.  More savvy.  Successful.

Behind her were the trees that God had artfully arranged, before her
the camera, reflectors, and light that the photographer had artfully
arranged.

Beyond the photographer were Brian and Julia.

Julia giggled a five-year-old's giggle.  "Smile, Emmy."

Brian didn't have to say it.  All he had to do was to look at Emily
with those satisfied silver-blue eyes of his and she couldn't have kept
a smile from her face if she tried.  Not that she would have.  As
though compensating for the sorrow she had known, life was treating her
well.

Another book was about to be published, hence the need for a
photograph.  It wasn't the book on Daniel; that one had hit the stands
eighteen months before.  This one dealt with cries for help of the kind
she had seen in Grannick, though she had gone far beyond those.  She
had taken cases from all over the country, gleaned from weeks of travel
and interviews.

The book on Daniel had been a private necessity, a summing up of the
great anguish of her life, a final gift to her son.  She still picked
it up and read random parts when she wanted to be near him, but the
need for that was diminishing.  She could think and talk more freely
about him now.  Emancipated, she carried him with her wherever she
went, a little bump on her heart that, like a beauty mark, neither
disappeared nor hemmed her in.

The new book had been far more of an independent intellectual exercise.
It was being touted as a must-read for those in law enforcement, social
service, even education, and while no one pretended it would be a
commercial bestseller, it would establish Emily's name in the field,
not to mention add to her nest egg.

Its actual publication would be anticlimactic.  Far more momentous to
Emily was the day she had put a period to its final sentence, printed
out the manuscript, and turned off her computer.  That was the day she
felt whole.  That was the day she had gone to Brian and, with a glowing
smile, offered a softer, more confident, "Yeah."

They had been married the weekend after that in what was to have been a
small ceremony, but Grannick style, had swelled to include not only
Jill and Julia, Brian's family, and Emily and Brian's closest friends,
but all those others whose lives theirs touched daily.

It was rich life.  Emily had her career.  She had Brian.  She had Jill.
She had Julia.  She had Kay and John, who grew closer with each passing
year.  She had Celeste, who dated widely but more wisely.  504 Barbara
Delinsky

Jill had graduated from college, was working for an advertising firm in
Boston, and visited Emily and Brian often.  The farm was a breather
from the busy pace of her life.  In turn, always, she brought Emily
joy.

"That's good," the photographer invited.  "Give me another like
that."

Emily wasn't sure what the first one had been like, but she continued
to think happy thoughts, and before long, after several shifts of pose
and scene, the photographer was putting his light meter away.

"One of my family?"  she asked in a rush.

Brian answered before the photographer could.  "No way.  This is your
day, your picture.  Besides, we have more than enough."

She pictured the living room of the farmhouse with its field stone
hearth, flanked by pine shelves that were covered with photo after
framed photo.  There were ones of Julia, ones of Jill, ones of Jill and
Emily, Emily and Brian, and Emily, Brian, Julia, and Jill.  There were
ones of Jill's college graduation, next to ones of her high school
graduation.  There were Halloween ones, Christmas ones, birthday ones.
There were ones taken by professionals, by amateurs, and ones taken by
the photo booth in town.  There were, older but no less treasured, ones
of Daniel.

As far as Emily was concerned, there could never be too many photos
when it came to documenting the meaning of life.  But she didn't argue
with Brian.  This was her day.  A small reprint of this picture would
join the others flanking the field stone hearth.  It would be the very
first of her alone.

Alone, but not lonely.  Never lonely again.  barbara delinsky was a
sociologist and a photographer before she began to write.  A lifelong
New Englander, she and her husband are the parents of three sons.