I was in Greg’s office when the e-mail came that would change everything.

I clicked to open it, and a picture began to download. I swallowed, and put a hand to my chest, trying to calm the rapid beats of my heart. I closed my eyes—please, God—but when I opened them, the picture was still there.

“Lilly? You okay?” Greg said.

“Fine,” I said. My voice was whispery and it cracked. This is a dream. If I close my laptop, the picture will go away. I tried it. But the picture was still there.

“Something’s the matter, I can tell.” He came toward me, and in that instant I wanted to melt into his arms. I wanted him to make everything okay. He touched my face. “What is it? A bad e-mail? Something from school?”

I shook my head. “No.” At least that wasn’t a lie. It was definitely not something from school.

LINDA HALL

When people ask award-winning author Linda Hall when it was that she got the “bug” for writing, she answers that she was probably in fact born with a pencil in her hand. Linda has always loved reading and would read far into the night, way past when she was supposed to turn her lights out. She still enjoys reading and probably reads a novel a week.

She also loved to write, and drove her childhood friends crazy wanting to spend summer afternoons making up group stories. She’s carried that love into adulthood with twelve novels.

Linda has been married for thirty-five years to a wonderful and supportive husband who reads everything she writes and who is always her first editor. The Halls have two children and three grandchildren.

Growing up in New Jersey, her love of the ocean was nurtured during many trips to the shore. When she’s not writing, she and her husband enjoy sailing the St. John River system and the coast of Maine in their 28-foot sailboat, Gypsy Rover II.

Linda loves to hear from her readers and can be contacted at Linda@writerhall.com. She invites her readers to her Web site, which includes her blog and pictures of her sailboat: http://writerhall.com.

Shadows at the Window
Linda Hall

Published by Steeple Hill Books™

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!

—2 Corinthians 5:17

To Rik

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

I was in my boyfriend Greg’s office when the e-mail came that would change everything. Greg is the youth pastor at the church I’ve been attending for seven years. My apartment building is just two doors away, so it’s easy for me to pop over. Of course, that’s something I do a lot. Any excuse is a good excuse for a visit.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary that day. I traipsed into the church carrying my backpack, my classical guitar and a cardboard tray containing four coffees, plus a small bag of doughnut holes, which I had to hold in my teeth. There wasn’t a whole lot of time for a visit and a chat. I had a guitar student at the music store where I work part-time, plus a music class of my own at the college in the afternoon.

Even though I was visiting Greg, I knew better than to bring coffee for just the two of us. There would probably be at least two more bodies in the church this morning. Brenda, the church secretary, would be there, along with Dave, the senior pastor. Paige, the music director, works part-time so I wasn’t sure she’d be there but I was hoping she would. I had written a few of the worship songs that we sang in church and was having difficulty resolving the last verse of a new song—I was eager for her input. For the past seven years, Paige has been my music mentor. She’s also been my good friend. She and her husband Henry are those rare people who you could call at three in the morning when bad news comes. Their daughter Sara is taking classical guitar lessons from me. I like her a lot.

I managed to push open the church door with my shoulder without spilling the coffee and found a gaping hole in the floor. The entire place was strung with caution tape. I’d have to walk through the basement, get lost and try to find my way up through narrow hallways back to the office area. The old building was undergoing a massive facelift. It was either that or tear it down. Since it’s a heritage building, the church really had no option but to renovate.

This past summer the exterior was fully refurbished, complete with new copper turrets. And now that it was getting cooler, the inside was being torn out and rebuilt.

“I smell coffee,” Brenda said, poking her head out of her office and talking to me over the yellow tape and the hole in the floor.

I dropped the doughnuts on top of the coffees and answered her.

“Yeah, but can I get there from here? Can I jump over?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t even try it. They’re taking up the floorboards and we’ve been warned that it’s dangerous. I don’t want you falling down two floors. Do you know the way through the basement?”

“Barely,” I said. “I always get lost down there.” It’s full of bugs, too, I wanted to add, but didn’t. “You guys need to put up a detour sign,” I joked.

“Don’t laugh. Dave wants me to do just that. Wait there. I’ll come around and get you. Greg’s on the phone or he would.”

“Thanks.” I leaned against the wall, laid my guitar case on the floor, and rested the tray of coffees and the doughnuts on top of it. Paint-splattered workmen chatted among themselves as they hammered and sawed. I heard the far-off sound of drills, saws and other equipment. Dust was everywhere. With both hands I pulled my hair out of my eyes and shoved it behind my ears. It was frizzing more than usual in the wet weather we’d been having. As I waited, I hummed a new praise song we’d sung here a week ago.

It seemed like five minutes before Brenda reappeared and picked up the bag of doughnut holes and the tray of coffees, saying, “How nice.” I followed her down the main staircase to the basement, along an uneven cement corridor flanked on either side by tiny, dusty rooms which looked as though they were used for storage. I am seldom down in the bowels of the church—it’s not a particularly appetizing place. I brushed cobwebs out of my hair as we made our way through the narrow hallways.

She said, “Soon this’ll be torn up, too. They’re planning to open up this whole area, tear out every single wall you see and put in bigger classrooms.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“How’s school?”

“It’s great. I didn’t think I’d like it, but I’m settling in. It’s been more than ten years since I’ve been in school, but I’m right back in the routine.”

“You’ll do fine,” Brenda said.

We went up a set of skinny, creaky steps—the wood was shiny, worn down by a century of footsteps—and into yet another passage that led into the brightness of the wide church hallway, which housed the offices. I gave Brenda two coffees and some of the doughnut holes, and took the rest to Greg’s office.

He was still on the phone, leaning against his bookshelf. I set my offerings on his desk. He smiled when he saw me. His grin widened when he saw the doughnut holes.

I realized that he was standing because the two chairs in his office were entirely covered with books, papers, CDs, DVDs, leaflets and odd bits of things. His entire office was in disarray. I moved one pile from a chair onto the floor as Greg said, “That would be fine. Yes, that’s doable…”

I looked at his face, at the crinkles around the edges of his light blue eyes, the way he absently brushed his hands through his messy dark-blond hair. He was wearing faded jeans and a dark blue golf shirt with a little sailboat embossed on the pocket. To most people, Greg seemed like one of those big, affable teddy-bear kind of guys. Very few people know that a lot of pain is hidden behind that happy-go-lucky exterior. Sometimes it frightens me, the depth of pain both of us have come through to get to a point where we are almost ready to commit to each other. But we did, and we are, and sometimes I have to pinch myself for my good fortune and God’s blessings. Life is good.

“Hey, gorgeous,” was the first thing he said when he hung up the phone.

“Gorgeous? I like that!”

“You think I was talking about you?” He reached for me, gave me a quick kiss. “I was talking about the coffee.”

With both hands he managed to lift a three-foot pile of books from the other chair, balancing them under his chin before he placed them on the floor. A small, rectangular carpet covered with roads and villages lay on the floor beyond his desk. He’s had this since he was a boy and can’t part with it—he says that when the stresses of the ministry get to be too much for him, he can push his favorite Matchbox cars around the avenues and lanes on his carpet. I’ve never actually seen him do this, though.

He flipped up the plastic tab on a coffee and inhaled the aroma. “Nectar of the gods,” he said. “They’re going to have this in Heaven.”

I extracted my laptop from my backpack, took a sip of my coffee and looked around. “So, when did the hurricane hit?”

“Organizing,” was his reply. Munching on a doughnut hole, he said, “They’ve told me they’re going to tear down this wall next week, so I really have no choice but to go through my books. Get rid of some stuff. Organize.”

“Tear out that wall? What’s on the other side?”

“A lounge that nobody uses. And then, supposedly, they’re going to enlarge this little cubby hole of an office for me—more space, new floors, the works.”

On top of one haphazard mound, his laptop perched precariously; his wastebasket overflowed with papers and other bits of trash. I looked down and saw a whole file folder full of Christmas cards he’d received. Christmas cards? It was September!

On the floor were more stacks of books and a variety of newspapers and magazines. I picked up one. It was from three years ago. “Hey,” I said. “I know a doctor’s office you could take these to.”

“Funny,” was his comment. “My bookshelves are overloaded.”

“Ya think?” My laptop had booted up. I was about to check my e-mail on the church’s Wi-Fi when he said, “Cinni called.”

I looked up. “Yeah?”

“She and Sara are doing up some sort of spreadsheet.”

“Wow. They’re really working hard.”

“They want to show it to us,” he said.

We were in the middle of the fall youth fund-raising clean up. As the youth pastor’s girlfriend, my arm had been twisted into heading the committee, which consisted of Paige and Henry’s daughter Sara, and Sara’s friend Cinni. The money we were raising was going to purchase books for an African school.

My e-mail began to download. So much spam. I looked up at Greg and smiled. He was looking at me intently, so intently. We didn’t say anything for a minute. Sometimes when I’m around Greg, I’m nervous that this whole wonderful new life of mine is going to come crashing down.

“What?” I asked, still smiling.

“I’m just thinking about tonight.”

Tonight. I hugged my knees. “I could never forget that.”

It was our six-month anniversary. We would be going to the same restaurant we went to on our first date, Primo’s Pizza. I know, I know, some would say it’s just a pizza joint, but the place—in all its laid-back splendor—holds special memories for us. Plus, they make the best pizza in all of Boston.

And then Greg started telling me about a youth conference he was going to go to in a couple of weeks and how he wanted to get his office cleaned up and ready before he left. My e-mails downloaded as I listened. Wading through spam these days is a full-time job. Delete. Delete. Delete. It seemed to be the only key I was pressing.

When it came—that e-mail that would changes everything—I almost deleted it, too. In retrospect, maybe I should have.

It was from a Hotmail account and the subject line read, “TO YOU, LCJ.”

My initials: L.C.J. Lilly Carolynne Johnson. Lilly spelled with two Ls instead of one. My mother’s doing—my mother who wanted me to be different than the flower, my mother whom I hadn’t seen in two years and hardly ever heard from. I shoved that thought away. I was too happy with Greg to let it interfere.

I clicked to open the e-mail and a picture began to download on my screen.

“…And so then I’m thinking, why can’t we clean the houses of anyone who asks? I mean, we’ve got people coming out of the woodwork these days. It doesn’t have to just be church people. That’s what I told Dave. And Cinni.”

Greg is a great talker. I think it’s because he’s a pastor and counsels youth, and also delivers sermons—he has to be a talker. He was pulling books from his bookshelf while he chatted on and on, as much to himself as to me.

I was watching the picture download onto my screen. I felt cemented to my chair. Occasionally, I managed a nod just to show that I was listening. “…And so I’ve got that to deal with on top of this whole church-building thing.” He picked up a thick book. “I should just get rid of this commentary. I’ll check with Dave. Maybe he could use the whole set. These belonged to my dad, actually. That’s how old they are.” Greg’s dad had been a minister before him.

I could barely make out the meaning of the words he was saying to me. The picture was now open on my screen. I swallowed, put a hand to my chest, trying to quell the rapid beats of my heart. All that I said before about pinching myself for God’s blessing? I take it all back. This picture could shatter that dream like a window besieged by baseballs.

I closed my eyes—please, God—but when I opened them, the picture was still there. The image was grainy and obviously had been uploaded from another source. The young woman on my screen was bone thin and her hair hung to her shoulders, straight and black. She looked tough, this girl, with her blue lipstick and dark-rimmed eyes. She wore a leather bustier, a skirt which ended midthigh, and boots. And chains. Lots of chains. She was the kind of girl you’d expect to have tattoos and multiple piercings, the kind you would not want your son to date.

Greg must’ve seen something in my eyes because he stopped what he was doing and said, “Lilly? You okay?”

“Fine.” My voice was whispery and it cracked. I coughed and took a few deep breaths. This is a dream. If I close my laptop, the picture will go away. I tried it. But when I opened it again, the picture was still there.

I quickly shut down my computer and stuffed it into my backpack, telling Greg I had to leave. Right now. I looked at my watch for effect. I’d forgotten how late it was getting, I told him. I stood and made for the door.

Greg looked surprised, “Lilly?”

“Yes?”

“Something’s the matter, I can tell.” He came toward me, and in that instant, I wanted to melt into his arms and never leave that safe and warm place. I wanted him to make everything okay. I wanted to forget that the girl on my computer screen had ever existed.

A tear winked at the corner of my eye. I blinked rapidly. Greg touched my face. “What is it? A bad e-mail? Something from school?”

I shook my head. “No.” That wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t from school. It was definitely not something from school.

He took my hand, led me back to his desk. “Come here, babe. Let me show you something that’ll cheer you up. I almost forgot. You have to look at this before you go.”

I followed him to the desk like a puppy dog. What else could I do? He opened his laptop, clicked through a few links and then said, “Ta da!” He turned the screen to face me.

For one horrid moment I thought he was going to show me the photo of the girl. He didn’t. It was our church’s brand-new Web site and there was a picture of me, front and center.

“The world’s most beautiful singer. In all her splendor,” he said.

I blinked. There I was, holding a microphone in one hand, raising my other hand toward the congregation. The lights had picked up the glints in my strawberry-blond hair. My skin was so pale, I looked like a ghost.

I said, “Is this new? I didn’t know I was on the Web.”

Greg nodded. “Stuart’s done an amazing job. You remember that sorry-looking old thing we called a Web site? It’s gone now. This is our new, professional Web site—it even has pictures of the youth group. You’ll get a kick out of this one.” For the next few minutes we clicked through the various links. “Stuart’s even arranged it so that there’s a blog. It’s mostly for the youth group, but anyone can post if they want to.”

“Stuart did this?”

“Yep.”

I always felt a bit unnerved around Stuart—the church’s projectionist-slash-soundman-slash-resident sci-fi expert, and now apparently, slash-webmaster. He works in the projectionist booth here in the church and is always in black: black T-shirts, black jeans, black boots.

A few years ago, before Greg moved here, Stuart and I went out. Once. We went to a movie, some classic sci-fi film that he kept raving over. The whole thing bored me to pieces with its continual chase scenes, and aliens oozing green and killing people by breathing on them.

Later over coffee, he had seemed almost angry when I said it wasn’t really my thing.

“But it’s a classic!”

Since then, our relationship has been cordial, but that’s it. There are times, though, when I find him gazing at me with those intense, dark eyes and I have to look away. So, he put me on the Web site, did he?

“A blog. Cool,” I said, without enthusiasm, attempting a cheerfulness I didn’t feel. “Well,” I said, “time for me to get going.”

Greg walked me down the back stairs, through the basement with its cobwebby rooms and out the front door of the church, holding my hand the whole time. Even though we were in front of the church, and it was the middle of the day, and there were construction workers all around, he kissed me for a long time. Then he said quietly, “I know things have been hard for you, Lilly. I know the things you’ve gone through, but I just want you to know that everything is going to be different now. You’re with me. And with God. I love you, Lilly.”

When he left, I caught my reflection in the window of the front door of the church. My face looked pale and watery in the glass, like it would melt.

I knew that girl in the picture. I knew her all too well.

TWO

I somehow managed to get through my work at the music store and my guitar lesson with my student Irma who, like she did every week, arrived early with foil-wrapped treats from her kitchen. Today, almond brownies. When she handed them to me she said, “You’re not as happy as I’d thought you’d be. Isn’t tonight a special night for you?”

I blinked. Had I told positively everyone?

“I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s have a listen to that chord progression you’re working on.”

“I practiced every day,” she said.

I’m convinced Irma spends whole days practicing the guitar her late husband used to play in a country band. It’s a beat-up Martin with a fantastic sound.

After the lesson, I put my head inside a cheerful bubble and finished the day. I attended my afternoon music-history class and made myself smile a lot. But later in the practice room, I couldn’t get my fingers to obey my brain’s commands on the piano. And as the clock moved steadily toward evening, I was slowly coming undone. I gave up on Beethoven and pulled out the notebook where I’d jotted down the lyrics to my unfinished worship song. I took my classical guitar out of the case and began. But as I went through the now-familiar melody, I paused midphrase. What did I think I was doing? How could I possibly think I could write worship songs to God? I tried to resolve the chords, but my fingers refused to find the final notes in the sequence.

For several minutes, I forced myself to work on it. I hit wrong strings and played chords that sounded like my life today—jarring, off key and dissonant.

I jutted out my bottom lip, blew my bangs out of my eyes and tried again, but no matter how much I pursued that piece, I could not finish it. I looked down at my trembling hands as if they belonged to someone else.

Why was someone sending me a picture of that girl? Why, when everything was just beginning to get good again? I sighed loudly. I can’t go out with him tonight. I can’t see Greg.

I had the feeling that Greg was going to ask me to marry him tonight. All the signs were there. Even Bridget, my roommate and best friend, had heard things. A few weeks ago, he’d taken both my hands, looked me in the eyes and said, “Two weeks. The night of our anniversary, we’ll go out. I’ve got it all planned. Don’t let anything interfere.”

I had looked into the depths of his blue eyes and said, “I don’t intend to.”

And why would I? Greg and I been going out pretty much exclusively for six months. I was twenty-nine, he was thirty. We were madly in love. So what were we waiting for?

I had already started picking out wedding colors. If he asked me tonight, we could be married in the spring. I’d even bought a Brides magazine—one—which I’d shoved into my top dresser drawer. I brought it out every once in a while to flip through it and dream, but it always made me feel a little like an impostor. I just couldn’t believe that could be mine. And now I knew it wouldn’t be.

I placed my guitar back in the case and closed it. I couldn’t marry Greg Whitten. I couldn’t be with him. We would have to break up. I sat there. I listened. Through the muffled walls, I could hear the other students practicing. Somebody was playing something darkly discordant, another was working on a classic Beatles tune, and still another was playing a blues number. I smiled. That was probably my new classmate Neil Stoner. A pale complected, serious young man, he plays both piano and cello—he transferred this year from a school out west. Neil and I—plus two bright-eyed sophomores named Tiff and Lora—were working on a music-history project. Sometimes I felt like a big sister to all of them.

Since I’d seen that picture on my computer screen, I’d thought about it a million times. It occurred to me that I could ask Stuart—he might have an idea how to find out where the e-mail had come from. I knew there were ways to do that but I didn’t know how. If anyone would know, Stuart would.

I dismissed that idea as soon as it came to me. I didn’t need Stuart nosing around in my business. Earlier, I’d Googled the e-mail address, but came up with nothing. I knew enough to realize that anybody in the whole world, good guy or bad guy, could sign up for a Hotmail account. And then get rid of it just as quickly. It could be someone clear on the other side of the world—or it could be someone living right next door. That thought chilled me as I looked at the closed door of my practice room. Was I vulnerable in here? Was I vulnerable everywhere?

I thought about Greg. My love was probably making plans for tonight, maybe even getting flowers. Greg is very romantic. I shut my eyes, bent my head and leaned my cheek against the cool white piano keys. Suddenly I was remembering a man from a very long time ago who wasn’t so romantic.

“Stop it, please! You’re hurting me!”

“If you and Moira would listen to me for once instead of always trying to fight me on everything, I wouldn’t have to keep you in line like this.”

I closed my eyes, trying to quash those thoughts, but they simmered on the surface. Stop it, I told myself. Think about good things, about pleasant things. Doesn’t the Bible encourage this, after all? I’d been trying to live by its precepts since I’d become a Christian seven years ago.

So why should this happen now? It just wasn’t fair.

A tear fell onto the piano keys. I put my music books back into my bag, got out my cell phone and, before I could change my mind, called Greg at his home, a place I hoped he wouldn’t be. The phone rang once and I had a horrible feeling that he might answer it. What if he’d gone home early? I was counting on him not answering. It rang twice. I held my breath. Three times and I began to relax. On the fourth ring it went to the machine, and I said as pleasantly as I could, “Greg? It’s me. Sorry I missed you.” I coughed a bit for effect. “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel tonight. I know, I know, but I am just so totally sick. I don’t know what’s come over me, but you really do not want to be around me tonight. You might catch it. I’m surprised I can even talk this long on the phone without running to the bathroom. It came on me so suddenly. So, hey, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. We’ll reschedule.” I hung up and very carefully and deliberately turned off my cell phone. Then I bent my head into my hands. I’d just told another lie in a long string of lies to the person I wanted to spent the rest of my life with.

When I got home to my apartment, I went into my room, and closed the door. I pulled my two big suitcases out from under my bed and haphazardly began stuffing clothes and books inside. When one suitcase was filled with my music books and composition papers, it became obvious that I couldn’t take everything. But when I got to where I was going, wherever that was, I wouldn’t be able to send for my stuff. Because I would have disappeared. Like I had eight years ago. Except I hadn’t, had I?

My mistake, I thought, as I crammed in T-shirts and jeans and socks and sweaters, was in ever thinking that I could have a normal life—get married, have children, go to church and pick out china patterns—like a regular person.

If I got in my car right now, I could miss rush hour maybe. I looked out my window to the street three stories below. Bridget and I live on a semi-busy avenue lined with old brownstones like ours. It’s also a pedestrian street with lots of ancient trees and people who walk dogs or jog or push baby carriages along the cement sidewalk. The church spire towers on the left, and I confess to often sitting right here, just to catch a glimpse of my beloved. I sat at the window and cried for all that I was about to lose.

And this is the way Bridget found me an hour later, sitting on my bed, clutching a book of poems that Greg had bought me, crying. I quickly dried my eyes on the ends of my sleeves and said, “What are you doing home so early?”

“Oh, Lilly!” She dropped the high heels she’d been holding and raced to my side. “You look so sick! Greg called me and told me you guys aren’t going out tonight. Do you want me to stay home with you? Was it something you ate? Why don’t I make some of my chicken soup?” She sat beside me, placed her perfectly manicured fingers on my forehead and looked at me sadly. Then she noticed the mess on my bed. “What’s all this?”

If there is another person I didn’t want to lie to, it’s Bridget, but again, I didn’t think I had a choice. We’ve shared this apartment for four years, and I value her wisdom and her friendship more than I can say. I could never lie to her and yet—and yet—I had and I would continue to do so.

I said, “I thought maybe of going home…I don’t know.”

“Are you that sick, Lilly?” Her eyes were wide as she sat beside me in her mauve designer suit. She pulled her stockinged feet up underneath her. Bridget works in a downtown Boston office. The first thing she does when she walks in the door from work is pull off her heels and groan about sore feet. She does this absolutely every day, even before she removes her coat.

Four years ago, when the rent on this place went up, it became apparent that with my music-store salary, I wasn’t going to be able to afford a somewhat pricey, top-floor walkup on my own. It has basically three rooms: two bedrooms and a large living space which is a combination living and dining room with a kitchen nook in the back. It’s a cute place, and even though it’s as expensive as the sky, I didn’t want to give it up. Plus, I love the location.

I let it be known around the church that I needed a roommate, and Bridget came and saw me. We’ve been best friends ever since. She seems so very sleek and sophisticated, but she bakes tollhouse cookies on the weekend, knits socks for her nieces and nephews and knows the names of all our neighbors.

She was sitting beside me, a worried look on her face as she raised her flawlessly waxed eyebrows. Even at the end of the day, her auburn hair shimmered and fell into place like in a TV commercial.

“And you’re going to need your music books there? A whole suitcase full of them?” She looked at me and then something seemed to register. “Oh Lilly, you really are sick, aren’t you? Does Greg know? When did you find out?”

I put up my hand. I had to stop her. “No, no. I’m not dying. I’m okay. Well, sick, but okay. I’m just organizing. I was feeling a speck better, so I decided to organize.”

“And you’re going home?”

“I don’t know. I’m just not thinking. I…” And then I began to cry deep, heaving sobs. I just couldn’t stop myself.

Bridget hugged me. “I’ll stay with you. I don’t have to go to that stupid company dinner tonight. I’ll call right now and cancel so I can be with you here. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“No, Bridget, you don’t have to. Really. Don’t miss your dinner on account of me.”

“My dinner is nothing compared to the welfare of my best friend.”

I looked down at my hands. Quietly, I said, “I lied to Greg. I’m not really sick, Bridget. I’m just afraid.” I looked at her. “I can’t go into it. It’s complicated and has to do with a whole lot of stuff that happened to me before I came here, before I met Greg.”

“But honey, everybody gets afraid. Everything is different for you now. You’re a Christian. The past is in the past and you and Greg love each other.”

I shook my head. Oh, if it were that simple. And as I looked up into the pretty face of my best friend, I thought about the pretty face of another best friend from a long time ago. Her name was Moira Peterson. At a time in my life when no one was my friend, we two clung to each other as if drowning.

THREE

I finally persuaded Bridget to go to her dinner when I told her I needed a bit of alone time to work through my thoughts and that I hoped she would understand. She left, but not without me promising that I’d call her on her cell if I needed her to come home. She’d come immediately, she said. Even if she were in the middle of a conversation with the owner of the company—even about a six-figure raise—she’d drop everything and skedaddle home. Bridget, who grew up in the country, freely uses words like skedaddle.

I couldn’t wait for her to leave so I could cry in private, but when she did, I felt lonely, afraid and desperate. I was actually getting a stomachache. At this rate, I really would be throwing up. That thought gave me a peculiar sort of comfort. At least then I wouldn’t be lying any more. I closed my eyes and snuggled down deep into the blankets on my bed.

I’d told Bridget I wanted to go home, when actually that was about the last place I wanted to go. Maybe I should go see Moira. I closed my eyes and it was ten years ago again—I was under a sheet in another house. It was muggy and hot, and mosquitoes whined at the broken screen. He had just left the room.

Mudd.

His name was Michael Binderson, but everybody called him Mudd.

My arm burned where he’d twisted it, and the back of my neck hurt from where he’d hit me. When I’d put my hand to that spot, there was blood. It had happened when I asked for my rightful share of the money. He told me I was no good, I’d messed up again, I was never good enough—Never. And then he raped me.

It happened all the time. When he was gone, I would lie under the hot sheets in the humid air and sob. Moira would hear me and come from the kitchen to hug me until my gasping tears settled.

“Mudd,” I whispered his name in the darkness of my room in Boston. Mudd was the only person who would send me that picture. But he was dead. He’d been murdered eight years ago in a drug deal gone bad. Or so I thought.

I needed to leave. But where would I go? I couldn’t go home. Once upon a time, a dozen years ago, I had a promising future but I walked out of my family’s house and away from a college music scholarship. I thought I knew better than everybody; my parents, my guidance counselors, my music teachers. Five years ago, I reconnected with my parents, but we’re not close. My mother still thinks I’m wasting my talents. She feels I should be studying classical guitar at a prestigious music school rather than at a local community college. And singing in a church? She really can’t understand that one.

I couldn’t go to Moira, either. Eight years was too long to wait to ask forgiveness.

My mouth felt dry. I reached over and checked that my cell phone was turned off. Bridget and I don’t have a landline in our apartment so if my cell was turned off, no one could reach me. I sat up in bed.

Heaped around me were the clothes that I’d ripped out of my closet when I’d gotten home. On the floor, my music books and composition papers spilled out of one suitcase, and some of my clothes were piled in the other. My guitar was in its opened case. I got out of bed, picked it up and cautiously began to pluck out a melody and sing. I put it back. I couldn’t get anything to sound right.

I glanced at my clock: 8:16. If I hadn’t gotten that e-mail this morning I quite likely would be engaged by now. Maybe I’d be wearing a sparkly diamond and we’d be walking hand in hand on the sea wall, our favorite place. Or perhaps we’d be wandering through the mall picking out dishes and kitchen furniture.

I lay back down and buried my face in my damp pillow. I tried to pray, but I felt as if my prayers reached no higher than my ceiling. In the middle of this most horrible night of my life, I heard the lobby buzzer sound to our apartment and then Greg’s voice over the intercom. “Lilly? Are you okay? I left you messages. I’m really worried.” And then more mumbling that I couldn’t hear.

I actually considered running out and letting him in, saying, “Greg! Come up and I’ll tell you everything.” But I couldn’t. I knew he would never be able to handle the entire truth about me. I barely could.

I kept my head under the covers and stayed perfectly still until I heard his car drive away. There is no mistaking the pattering engine of his old VW.

I dried my tears and started hanging up the clothes I couldn’t fit in my suitcase. How could this happen? I thought I’d worked all this through. When I’d come to Boston, I’d seen a counselor for a long time. I’d gone to that support group in the church. I thought I was over all of this. Obviously I wasn’t. It’s easy to get over something when nothing from the old life threatens. But when it does, all of the hard work—all of the working through everything and the long hours of journaling—are for nothing.

I needed to run, but how could I leave all this? Over in the corner was the dresser I’d bought at a garage sale and had stripped and refinished. Next to it, a beautiful antique wooden music stand. Hanging on the wall was a huge paper star light, a gift from Paige’s daughter, Sara. On the bed, the handwoven bedspread that I bought at the outdoor market. And on my mirror, photos of me with Greg, and with Bridget.

My thoughts were all over the place on that long and terrible night. Lord, I prayed at one point, let whoever it is lose my e-mail address. I prayed that the e-mail had been a mistake. I prayed that their hard drive would crash and they’d lose everything. Or they would leave their computer in Starbucks while they went to the restroom, and then when they came back, someone would have run off with it. I was coming up with all sorts of scenarios that God could use. It could happen, couldn’t it? God performed all sorts of miracles and I needed a miracle. Now.

At first, I thought the faint knocking was on the door of a neighboring apartment. I ignored it and stayed under my covers. But it persisted. Then I thought I heard someone calling. It wasn’t Greg—I had heard him drive away.

More calling. A high-pitched voice. Had Bridget come back without her keys? I roused myself and went toward the door.

More knocking, more calling.

“Yoo-hoo? Bridget? Are you there?” The soft voice sounded like it came from an older woman. Bridget’s mother? I put my eye against the peephole. The diminutive, round, ashen-haired woman was not Bridget’s mother. The woman outside my door wore an oversized, baggy gray cardigan that I was willing to bet belonged to her husband. Underneath that sweater was a smudgy, food-stained apron tied over crimson track pants. Her sturdy, square hands held out a silver metal cake tin that looked familiar. Curious, I opened the door.

“Yes?”

She looked past me, craned her neck, then looked back at me. “Am I at the wrong apartment?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Bridget.” Then she stopped and smiled widely. She was missing several top teeth along the side. “Oh, you must be the roommate.”

I was curious about something else. “How did you get in here, may I ask? How did you get in the main door without buzzing?”

“Oh, that,” she said, walking around me and into the apartment. “It’s the same with my place. People are always leaving the front doors of these places unlocked, or they’re propping the doors open. People just don’t want to be bothered with keys anymore so they leave a brick in the doorway. Around here it’s so safe anyway.” She placed the cake tin on the counter like she’d been here before. “You just tell Bridget, dear, that I loved the cookies, and that I do want her recipe.”

“Okay, then.” I just stood and watched her. She peered up at me with tiny, close-spaced eyes.

“You don’t look so well, dear. Is it the flu?”

“No, uh…” I put a hand to my face. Did I look that bad?

She pointed at me. “You know what you need? Some of Bridget’s chicken soup. She actually got the recipe from me, you know,” she said, aiming a finger at her heart. She shambled through the door, “Now dear, don’t forget to tell Bridget that I was here.”

I nodded and she was down the steps before I even had a chance to ask who she was. I have to admit that meeting the strange little woman with the square hands and the cake tin had cheered me up for a few minutes.

Bridget came in around ten-thirty. She kicked off her shoes and came over to where I was nestled into a blanket, watching Law and Order.

“There’s some decaf on,” I said.

“Great. Thanks. Oh, these shoes. If I had to wear them one more minute, I swear I would be throwing them against the wall.”

“How was the dinner?”

She ran her slender fingers through her hair. “Oh, you know. Company dinners. They go on and on, speech after speech until not only do you want to start throwing shoes, but also pieces of the rubber chicken they serve.”

“Now there’s a sight I’d like to see.”

She went to pour herself a cup of coffee. “Oh, sweet. My recipe exchanger brought my cake tin by.”

“Cute little woman,” I said. “She told me I needed some of your chicken soup.”

“On Saturday, I’ll make you some. I surely will. It’s good for what ails you.”

“How about a broken heart?”

She came back over to me, all concern.

“I’ve been praying for you all evening. It’s what got me through the speeches. And it came to me that this thing with you and Greg, I think it’s just a temporary obstacle, like a speed bump in the road.” She sat on the couch beside me. “You two belong together. You’ll figure it out, Lilly. I just know it. He loves you, you love him.”

“I don’t know if that’s enough now.” I shook my head. “I’m this close to a commitment, and I find I just can’t do it. I can’t explain it.”

Bridget took off her suit jacket and pulled her legs up underneath her. “Honey, I know you and Greg belong together. You’ll find a way.”

I didn’t sleep well that night. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, when it was still dark, I felt hungry. I got up, went into the kitchen nook and poured myself a bowl of Rice Krispies. I stood for a long time at the back window and looked out into the dark yard between the apartments. I could just make out the very old and mostly rusted chain-link fence dividing the so-called backyards. It had a number of ripped-out places, where small animals could easily get through. We’d never gotten around to putting up curtains, but being so far up, we didn’t worry too much.

As I gazed into the night sky, the thought came to me that things might be better if I was totally honest with everyone. People only knew half my story. Greg needed to know everything about me, and Bridget needed to know much more than the little bits and pieces I’d chosen to share. Because my story is so much more than living with an abusive boyfriend. My story involves murder, drugs and betrayal—and that’s just the beginning.

I looked toward Bridget’s door. If she were to come out right now, I’d tell her. I’d make her sit down on the couch and I’d tell her all about Moira and how I’d betrayed the one true friend I’d had in all the world.

And I’d tell Greg, too. I’d call him first thing in the morning and we’d meet for lunch and by the end of it he would know everything as well. And then he would leave me. I knew the particular heartache that Greg carried, and if Greg knew what I had done, what I was, he would run—not walk—away from me.

Greg had been married before. For two years, he was happily married to his high-school sweetheart. From all accounts, she was a dear, sweet girl—a pastor’s daughter. She’d been killed by a young woman who was driving while high on drugs. It had taken a long time for Greg to work through his grief and forgiveness. And I wasn’t sure he had, not completely. We’d talked about that. He’d told me how difficult it was for him to find any love in his heart for the person who had killed his wife, and how he carried these feelings of rage over to any drug user who got behind the wheel. I have told him a lot of things, but never that I had regularly used drugs. How could I? How could I tell him that I could have been the young woman who killed his wife?

I was about to pour myself another bowl of cereal when it hit me. If what I was beginning to suspect was true—that Mudd was alive and had tracked me down and sent the e-mail—then no one was safe. Mudd was vicious beyond all viciousness. I put the cereal back without eating any more. Had I actually seen Mudd die? Not really. I’d seen Mark, the owner of the bar holding the gun on Mudd. And that’s when I turned and ran. I heard the shot when I got to the van.

I couldn’t tell Greg I had been found. That would put him in as much danger as I was in. And I couldn’t tell Bridget—dear, sweet, innocent Bridget.

I put away the milk and went back to the rocking chair where I rocked quietly for a while in the dark, thinking, thinking. Because if Mudd had been alive all this time, then my betrayal of Moira was all the more acute.

I went to bed and practiced the sentences I would say to Greg…until I fell asleep.

In the morning, Greg called me at eight, just like I figured he would.

“You okay? I came by last night but you must’ve been asleep. I’ve been thinking about you all night. In the time I’ve known you, you’ve never so much as had a cold.”

“Greg?” I said. “Can we meet for lunch?”

“Sure, babe, are you up to it?”

I love it when he calls me “babe.” I clutched my cell phone and coughed to cover up a sob. “I need to see you, to talk to you,” I said. “It’s important.”

“Lil? You don’t sound good. You sure you’re okay?”

“Please! Please don’t call me ‘Lil.’ It’s a nickname I hate. Please.”

There was silence for a moment. “But I always call you ‘Lil.’”

“I know. I know. And I hate it.”

“Okay, then, uh, I won’t call you ‘Lil.’ Where should we meet, Primo’s?”

“No!” I said, maybe a bit too loudly. “Not Primo’s. How about—” I cast about for a place “—how about Griffi’s Café?”

“Griffi’s Café it is then,” he said.

Neil, Tiff, Lora and I had a study-group meeting that morning to work on our joint project. We were studying the composer Bela Bartok to show how his early life in Hungary and the music which surrounded him evidenced itself in his compositions. The whole thing seemed a little pointless now. Isn’t that what was causing all my problems? The stuff I’d surrounded myself with in my youth? Rock music, selling my soul to the devil for a chance to be a rock star. Someone could do a project on me.

I was usually the first to arrive at the table in the student-union building that we’d claimed as our own. While I waited for the others to saunter in late, I would work on music or homework, or check my e-mail. But today the three of them were already there, engaged in a spirited discussion. Tiff, who reminds me of a pixie with her spiky black hair and tiny body, was moving her hands exaggeratedly as she talked. Neil sat next to her, his expressive fingers aligning the edges of his books precisely as he listened.

I shoved in beside Lora. Neil’s eyes were bright. “So, you engaged now?”

I groaned. Why couldn’t I have kept my effusiveness to myself? “Do I look like I’m engaged?” I waved my empty ring finger in front of their faces.

“What happened?” Tiff asked, concern on her face.

“I was sick last night. We had to cancel.” In the future, I vowed, I would be more circumspect with my life. “We’re going to reschedule.”

Lora raked her dark fingernails through her long, heavy hair. “I personally don’t see the big deal with the institution of marriage anyway.”

I really didn’t feel like getting into this particular discussion with anyone, so I shrugged and opened my notebook.

Neil grinned, ran his hands with their perfectly clean nails down the perfectly aligned edges of his books and said, “Well, if he doesn’t want to marry you, you could always marry me.”

“Thanks, Neil,” I said as Tiff and Lora laughed.

I got to Griffi’s at ten to noon and found a booth by the window. I ordered a coffee and waited. The organic coffee and panini shop was getting crowded. Lots of students came here, but it was located among several office buildings, so the place filled up at lunch hour. It was a good thing I’d arrived before the rush.

I used the time before Greg came to read over the lyric sheet, looking for the final, elusive verse of the worship song. I may as well have been trying to read Greek.

Greg arrived on the dot of noon and scooted in across from me. I looked up at him, at the shock of sun-colored hair that fell onto his forehead, at those expressive eyebrows of his. Today he wore a red shirt emblazoned with Creation Music Festival.

I saw the look on his face, the tentativeness in his eyes. His movements were erratic and uncertain. It was as if he didn’t know how to be here with me. How could I do this to him? To us? How could I hurt him? Yet what choice did I have?

“Is…” he asked cautiously “…is everything all right with your health? Is that what this is about, Lilly? I was talking with Bridget. Um…” He licked his lips, swallowed.

My health. That would be the easy way out. I could tell him I was dying and that I had to say goodbye and go live with my parents. And then I could pack my suitcases and disappear. For a quick second, I thought about that. But it wouldn’t work. Bridget already knew I wasn’t really sick.

More than anything, I wanted to reach across and touch his cheek, tell him how much I loved him. At that precise moment, our perky, smiley waitress came and poured us coffee, chattering happily about the daily specials. We ordered. And then Greg and I were left alone again. I looked down at my coffee cup and couldn’t think of what to say.

“Lilly?” He looked at me.

I was shredding the paper napkin in my lap. I said, “I’m not sick. I lied to you about that. I’m just so unsure of things, Greg. I mean about us. I’m just—I don’t know where to begin. I had a pretty rough life before I came to Boston. There are so many things I hid from you, so many things about my past. I’m just thinking that, maybe, I don’t know…” I ran my finger down the length of my spoon. Then I placed it beside my coffee. At a big square table beside us, a business meeting was forming. I heard cheerful hellos, saw hearty handshakes. People in suits. People with computers. People drinking coffee. I looked at the short, stocky man who seemed to be leading it. He reminded me of an actor whose name I couldn’t place.

“I know there’s more to your story, Lilly. And I wait and wait for you to feel comfortable enough to share it with me, but that time never comes. I know you’re dealing with a lot of issues, but are these issues insurmountable?”

“I don’t know, Greg.” They’re bigger than you could ever imagine, I thought, looking past him. “With what I’ve been through, it’s going to take time.”

Our bouncy waitress plunked sandwiches down in front of us. I looked at my chicken panini. The sight of it made me feel slightly nauseated. She left after assuring us that she’d be back, and saying if there was anything we wanted, just give her a holler. How about a new life? I thought.

“I was just wondering,” I said, playing with my spoon again, “if we could just be friends for a while.”

“Friends?” Greg pushed his own plate away, reached forward, put my spoon on the table and took my hand. “Lilly, what are you saying?”

“I guess—” I swallowed “—I don’t want to break up. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“But you want us to be just friends,” he said.

I nodded. I kept my gaze on my chicken sandwich, memorizing the way it looked on the plate, with the edges curled. It didn’t look like food to me.

“There’s so much about me you don’t know,” I said.

“I know.” He kept his gaze steady. “Lilly, we’ve shared a lot with each other these past few months. I know all about the relationship you were in with an incredibly abusive boyfriend, and then how you escaped, how you managed to find your way up here, how you came to faith and how faith in God changed you. I know you’ve come from a hard place. I probably know more about you than you do, in some ways.”

I doubted that, but I let it slide.

“And whatever it is,” he continued, “you can trust me. You need to trust me. I love you. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

I looked across the table and saw the pain in his eyes. I looked down into my coffee. The silence between us lengthened. Someone at the meeting table laughed out loud. I still didn’t say anything.

“So,” he said. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

I shook my head. How do I tell him that knowing more about me could put him in danger?

“I can’t,” I said. “I thought I could but I can’t. I’m not ready. Could we just—um, be friends?”

Now it was his turn to shake his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I really don’t think so.”

We ate the rest of the meal in silence.

I didn’t want it to be like this. I wanted us to be engaged and meeting for lunch to plan our spring wedding. I’d told him a lot, yes, but never once had I mentioned the name Mudd to him. Nor had I told him anything about Moira.

FOUR

Days went by. First one. Then the next. When after the third day, I hadn’t received a follow-up e-mail, I dared myself to believe that God had answered my prayer. Maybe whoever sent the e-mail did get their laptop stolen at Starbucks. Maybe their hard drive crashed. And maybe, just maybe, Mudd was really dead, like I’d always believed. And then I had another thought. Could the e-mail have come from Moira herself? Was Moira simply wanting to reconnect?

Maybe there had been an accompanying cheery e-mail and Moira, who was never very computer savvy, had lost it, or it just hadn’t come through. I was working up all sorts of scenarios in my mind, but the fact was, after four days with no follow up, I was beginning to allow myself to relax. Just a bit. Maybe.

“I think I’m ready to commit to Greg,” I told Bridget on the evening of the fifth day. “I think I’m ready to say yes now.”

“Well, it’s about time, hon! I think that’s great.”

I put two individual pizzas into the microwave, plugged in the kettle and cut up an apple. “You want a pizza? I’ve got two here.”

Bridget looked up from her knitting. “Lilly, you should eat better. I could make you something nutritious.”

“Chicken soup?”

“Don’t knock it.”

I grinned at her. “Oh, Bridget, you are such a mother.”

“Well, I worry about you is all.” She went back to her knitting.

I stood at the window and looked down into the darkened backyards and said, “I don’t think I’m afraid anymore. It was just all the stuff from before I came here. When I thought of commitment, it all started coming down on me like a landslide. Plus, I had this scare. I thought someone from my former life was trying to contact me.”

“What happened?” She talked without missing a stitch. “You thought you saw someone?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t see anyone. I got a weird e-mail. But it was nothing.”

As I looked out the window, I noticed that someone had been gardening at the ground-level apartment directly behind ours. The flowers that had been there all summer had been dug up and laid to the side. I knew that whoever lived there was a fastidious gardener. I often looked down at the flowers neatly arranged around the small bricked-in area. Perhaps they were putting in a new deck.

The microwave dinged. Despite the fact that Bridget didn’t think microwave pizza was very nutritious, I put one on a plate for her. She ate it quite happily while we watched the news.

On the morning of the sixth day with no more strange e-mails, I decided to let Greg back in. I came up with a plan. I called Neil for help.

“Can you do this for me?”

“For you, Lilly, of course. I may even get Tiff to help. She’d be good at that.”

I said, “I’ve got all the songs on my flash drive. I can drive that over to you.”

“No need,” he said. “They’re on my hard drive.”

I phoned Primo’s and made reservations for Greg and me for the following evening. I told them it was special.

“We were so sorry when you had to cancel last week.” I recognized Maria’s voice. She and her husband, Peter, ran Primo’s.

“Consider this the official reschedule,” I said.

“But,” she paused, “I don’t know.” She seemed hesitant and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why—unless they were booked solid, but that seemed unlikely. She went on, “This was going to be a surprise for you, no?”

Ah, so my theory was right. Greg had been planning on proposing. “Not anymore. Now the very same surprise is for him.”

That was my second mistake. My first was thinking that nothing had changed since last week.

I went to the church with coffees for everyone. I was nervous. I hadn’t seen Greg since Griffi’s. I’d walked out ahead of him and when I’d turned to say goodbye, he was gone.

I had to walk through yet another detour, down another dingy hallway, and through the basement which was, I saw, piled high with all kinds of workmen’s tools and boards and Sheetrock. And then it was back up the stairs and into the office, but at least I knew my way now. Several workmen greeted me with hellos as I went past.

When I finally got to Greg’s office, after dropping off coffees for Brenda and Dave, I saw that it was even in more disarray than a week ago. The wall that used to contain his bookshelves had been entirely removed, and through the gaping hole, I could see a couple of guys hammering. Despite the fact that we were on display, I put the coffees on the desk, kissed him quickly on the cheek and said, “Keep tomorrow open.”

“Tomorrow?” he said.

I playfully put my fingers to my lips and said, “Shh, it’s a surprise.”

Here was my plan: I was going to let Greg propose to me. I had a feeling he would bring the ring. And if he didn’t get around to proposing to me? I’d propose to him. I’m a perfectly modern woman and pefectly modern women are well within their rights to make the marriage proposal these days. I could picture us twenty-five years from now, Greg telling people, “And when she asked me to marry her? How could I say no?” And then I’d laugh and say, “I only asked him because I knew he was going to ask me the week before.”

“Any hints as to where we’re going?” he asked, looking doubtful.

I grinned and batted my eyelashes theatrically at him. “It’s a total, one-hundred-percent surprise.”

Greg frowned slightly, and rubbed his cheek where I’d kissed him. “Lilly?” The expression on his face was part hurt, part confusion and part hope. “What’s this all about?”

I grinned. “Can’t I come up with a surprise for you? A secret?”

“Your eyes,” he said.

“What?” I put my hand to my face, wondering if my mascara was running.

“You don’t seem like yourself.” He frowned and looked over to where two workmen were mixing paint and chatting. They couldn’t hear us.

“What about my eyes?”

“Right now—I don’t know—your eyes seem too bright or something.”

“Too bright?” This wasn’t going entirely as planned. Why wasn’t he more enthusiastic? Maybe because the last time we’d seen each other we had a fight? “Okay, here’s the deal, Greg. Just erase this past week. It never existed. Rewind the video. Tomorrow night, everything will be changed. You’ll see. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. Be ready, okay?”

“It’s really not so easy to erase an entire week from a person’s mind.”

“I made a mistake, Greg. I was scared. I shouldn’t have cancelled our original night out. But now I want to make amends. I have seen the error of my ways…” I batted my eyelashes at him again. And then I quickly stopped, remembering what he’d just said about my eyes. “Greg, what I’m trying to say is this. I want to make it up to you. I’ve changed my mind about our relationship. I want to pick up where we left off a week ago.”

“If you say so.”

Greg said nothing.

“Well then, I’ll see you,” I said. I was standing close enough for him to kiss me. If he wanted to.

He reached down and picked up a piece of paper from his desk and studied it. “Yeah,” he said, without looking at me.

My next stop was the college cafeteria where I was meeting Neil. I couldn’t dwell on Greg’s less than enthusiastic response. It would all be fixed soon. Tomorrow night, we would be engaged and then this whole dreadful week would be history.

I should have realized, however, that Greg’s lack of enthusiasm was merely a shadow of things to come.

My equivalent of an engagement ring for him was going to be a CD of my own compositions. Over the past six months, I’d written three love songs for Greg, songs he’d never heard; I’d been saving them for the precisely right moment. And this was it. I had recorded them with the help of Neil and Tiff and converted them to MP3s on my computer. When I’d recorded the first one, Neil’s eyes had widened behind his thick glasses and his mouth formed itself into an O making him look like an owl.

“That one—” he’d raised his hands excitedly “—that one would be good with some cello behind it.”

“Yeah,” Tiff had said. “As subtle undertones, like a drone, almost.”

Neil was a perfectionist and an expert at mastering. When I asked him yesterday if there was any way he could possibly find the time to take these three songs, remaster them, maybe add some strings, cello or piano perhaps, he said, “No problem.” It would be an honor, he told me. And he was sure that Tiff could help. Tiff has a good ear, he added. I agreed.

I was sitting in the cafeteria, waiting for him to show up with my brand-new engagement CD and planning my night—what to wear, what to say, how to act, how to do my hair, how to erase the past week from the universe. I was browsing through a wedding planning Web site when I looked up.

Neil stood there, his hair perfectly combed, wearing a brown jacket that looked like it belonged to someone’s father. He was holding out the CD and smiling broadly.

“Hey, hello,” I said, closing the lid of my computer.

He placed the CD down on the table in front of me. “I was up until two in the morning,” he said, “but I got it done. And I think you’re going to like it. I even recorded a bit of me on cello. Tiff had some good suggestions. We both worked on it.”

I picked it up. I was on the cover, sitting on a piano stool and holding my guitar. “Where’d the picture come from?” I asked.

“It was on your church Web site.”

“Really?” I hadn’t realized there were so many pictures of me on the Web site. I felt a fuzzy unease, a touch of chill in my spine, but quickly dismissed it. The e-mail meant nothing. It was a week ago. Everything was fine now.

I opened the case and examined the CD. He’d printed a label for it with “All My Love” and a place for me to sign. “This is cool, Neil. You are such a great person to do this for me.”

“We want you to be happy.”

There were even liner notes. I pulled them out and flattened them on the table. He’d spent a lot of time on this. He pointed at the words of the three songs surrounded by flowers and hearts. “That was Tiff’s idea. She did the artwork. She’s good at that.”

I turned the notes over. “It’s beautiful. You guys did a great job. Thank you!”

“I knew you wanted it to be special.”

I looked up at him, at the innocent earnestness in those brown eyes. “You’re a romantic, Neil,” I said. Neil wasn’t every girl’s cup of tea. He was a little too studious looking, his hair was usually a bit too precisely combed and he wasn’t much of a dresser. “What you need,” I found myself saying, “is a nice young woman of your own who you can regale with flowers and music on a regular basis.”

“I do have a nice young woman that I’m in love with, but she doesn’t know I exist, at least not in that way,” he said.

Tiff, I bet it’s Tiff, I thought, as she waved at us from across the cafeteria. His eyes brightened as he said goodbye and took off toward her. They left the cafeteria together.

It started to rain and big dollops hit the large plate-glass windows. I watched some students scurrying for cover. Others were oblivious, it seemed. I saw Tiff and Neil scamper into the nearest building.

In my mind, I went back to a place where a lost girl sat in the backseat of a Greyhound bus in the middle of a downpour. She held a dirty backpack tightly.

She ignored the people coming and going to the cubicle washroom behind her: mothers with small children, old people, teens. And when anyone tried to make casual conversation with her, she turned her face away toward the rain-smeared windows, the backpack clutched even more fiercely to her.

She was heading north. She didn’t know where. But the one thing she did know was that she could never go back. Not now. Not ever. She realized this while streaks of rain ran like rivers on the window beside her…

I opened up my computer again. I don’t know why, but I clicked on the picture of the girl. I guess I needed to see her one more time before I deleted her. She was singing. I knew the song, I knew every song she sang, because I’d written all of them.

FIVE

I’m a jeans and boots and sweater sort of person. For my big date with Greg, I decided to wear a brand-new pair of jeans with my nicest black boots. Instead of my usual sweater, I chose a long-sleeved, black cashmere top with glittery bits scattered across the front. My mother had given it to me for Christmas. It was beautiful, but I seldom wore it—it was too sparkly for church, and I would never wear something so New Year’s Eve-y to school or work. But it seemed just about perfect for tonight. And it would look quite nice set off with a glinting diamond ring on my left hand.

Bridget wasn’t home and wouldn’t be until later, so she didn’t get to listen to the CD with me. I was impressed with what Neil had done. He’d made my three songs sound beautiful—and professional—with the perfect arrangement of strings, cello and percussion.

It was cool and windy as I drove through the Boston traffic to Greg’s apartment. The CD was wrapped up with a big red bow and tucked in my bag. As soon as Greg asked me to marry him—as I was sure he would—as soon as he brought out the ring—as I was sure he would—I would put up my hand as if to say “wait,” whereupon I would reach into my bag, grab the CD and while I said a huge “yes,” I would lay it down in front of him. It would be one of those romantic and touching moments, and I planned to try very hard to record it in my head, so when I got home, I could write it all down.

And if perchance he didn’t ask me, I would ask him.

It didn’t work out that way.

As I drove to Greg’s house, it occurred to me again that maybe I should tell him my entire story—Moira, the money I took and the murder. Maybe I should be completely honest with the man I intended to spend the rest of my life with. Or maybe not. Maybe I’d tell him after we married. But that didn’t seem right either.

I saw Greg before he saw me. He was standing in front of his house leaning against a lamppost, hands stuffed into his pockets. He wore khakis, a blue windbreaker and a pensive look on his face, something I could see even from this distance. He seemed nervous as he stood there, eyes darting this way and that. He hadn’t seen me yet.

I slowed in front of him, and he gave me an uncertain smile. I’d seen that smile before, when he was unsure about something or had heard a joke that he didn’t think was funny. I stopped the car and he slid into the passenger seat, bringing the cold in with him.

“Hi,” he said.

I greeted him with a wide smile and pulled away from the curb. “Hey,” he said. His voice was quiet, gentle. I looked briefly at his amazing blue eyes, at the crinkles around them. He saw me looking at him and quickly moved his gaze away from me. Why wouldn’t he look at me?

“Greg?” I said.

“Yeah?” he answered, looking out the window.

“You want to know where we’re going?” I grinned mischievously at him.

Silence. A moment passed.

He shrugged. “If you want to tell me.”

“So, you want it to be a surprise, then?” I asked.

“Whatever you want.”

“How come you’re not being more cooperative?” I said, trying to tease him. I glanced over and he still wasn’t smiling.

“Cooperative about what?”

“You’re just not your usual self.” And he wasn’t. He was usually so chatty that I never had to carry the conversation.

I thought he said, “Maybe I’m a bit confused,” but I couldn’t be sure, he spoke so quietly.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Maybe I’m a bit tired.’”

I nodded. More silence. Maybe the renovation of his office was getting to him. And having to reorganize everything. That would do it to anyone, wouldn’t it? That’s what it was. And as soon as that was all over with, things would all be right again.

And we’d be engaged.

We were in Primo’s parking lot before I knew it, and I pulled into a space right in front.

“Oh, wow,” I said, forcing myself to be cheerful. “Look, a perfect parking spot. That must be a good omen.”

“Primo’s,” he said. “We were going to come here last week.”

“Yep, Primo’s,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “We’re a week late, but I don’t think they’ll mind!”

Greg said nothing as he got out of the car.

We didn’t hold hands when we walked together into the restaurant. Things were not going as planned, and I didn’t quite know why.

The staff at Primo’s was awaiting our arrival. The owner’s daughter Lucia, who worked as a waitress, greeted us. In a floor-length dress of lavender satin, with her dark hair piled on top of her head in an array of big brown curls, I wondered if she was on her way to the prom. I was about to ask her when I realized that all the waiters, waitresses and kitchen staff were formally clad. The guys wore tuxes and the girls were in gowns. And they were grinning at us.

I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed his arm and said, “Greg! Is this what you planned for last week?”

He stood for several seconds and ran his hand over his face. He looked like he would rather be anywhere but at Primo’s. I tried again, “This is so nice, Greg! You are so romantic! I had no idea.”

Lucia led us to the table in the corner by the window. It was not our regular Primo’s table with gouges in the wood and a flimsy metal napkin dispenser. It had been covered with a dazzling white tablecloth and a tall white candle sat in the center. I kept watching Greg’s face. Why wasn’t he smiling?

He took off his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. Underneath, he wore a crisp blue shirt which made his eyes even bluer than usual. Someone had moved a couple of floor plants close to the table, giving us more privacy. Lucia sat us down and, with great flourish, unfolded cloth napkins, placing them in our laps.

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