PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
EMILIE RICHARDS

“[A] heartfelt paean to love and loyalty…”

—Publishers Weekly on The Parting Glass

“An engrossing novel…Richards’s writing is unpretentious and effective…and her characters burst with vitality and authenticity.”

—Publishers Weekly on Prospect Street

“Well-written, intricately plotted novel…”

—Library Journal on Whiskey Island

“Emilie Richards presents us with a powerfully told story that will linger in the heart long after the final page.”

—BookPage on The Parting Glass

“A romance in the best sense, appealing to the reader’s craving for exotic landscapes, treacherous villains and family secrets.”

—Cleveland Plain Dealer on Beautiful Lies

“A multi-layered plot, vivid descriptions and a keen sense of place and time.”

—Library Journal on Rising Tides

“A fascinating tale of the tangled race relations and complex history of Louisiana…this is a page-turner.”

—New Orleans Times-Picayune on Iron Lace

EMILIE RICHARDS
FOXRIVER

Dear Reader,

I’ve been fortunate to live in wonderful places I can share in my novels. I started my writing career in New Orleans, the setting for Iron Lace and Rising Tides. I made two extended trips to Australia, the setting for Beautiful Lies, and I spent many years in bustling Cleveland, the home of Whiskey Island.

When it came time to move again, I was as interested in a unique and colorful setting for my next novel as I was in school systems and health care facilities. When northern Virginia appeared on my family’s horizon, I knew I’d found another home rich in history, culture and natural beauty.

From my front door I can easily drive to mountains and beaches. Or I can take a shorter drive to some of the most beautiful rural scenery imaginable: Virginia horse country, where farms and million-dollar estates rise from rolling hills and Thoroughbreds graze inside miles of winding stone fences.

It took only one visit to Loudoun County to know I’d found the setting for my next book.

So this time come with me to the world of foxhunting and steeplechasing, and a society that values the way a man sits a horse as much as it values his family name. I hope you’ll find it as fascinating as I have.

I always enjoy hearing from my readers. Please write me at P.O. Box 7052, Arlington, Virginia 22207.

From the unpublished novel Fox River, by Maisy Fletcher

Today, when I think of Fox River and all that happened here so many years ago, I am unwillingly wrapped in shades of green. The fresh, sweet green of pasture deepening toward the horizon, the evergreen of forest shading inevitably to the blue-green of Virginia hills until, at last, mountains merge with a misty sky.

It is the same sky, more or less, that others see. The sky that stretches over California and China and the farthest regions of Antarctica. It is the sky under which I was born, under which I lived the events told in this story. The same sky that sends sun and rain to make the grassy hills of Fox River as verdant, as lush, as any in the world.

But I, Louisa Sebastian, am the only person who sees the proud man silhouetted against this Fox River sky, the man erect on a stallion that no one else will mount, a man so wedded to the horse beneath him that I am reminded of the mythical centaur, and my breath, despite everything I know of him, catches in my chest.

Today, when I am forced to think of the events that happened at Fox River, I am swallowed by shades of green and by the blood that so long ago stained blades of grass a bright and terrible red. In the many years since, the grass has grown and the rain has washed away visible traces of blood, but I know the earth beneath has yet to recover, that if I were to dig in that very place, the dirt beneath my fingernails would be rusty and tainted still.

Had I only known what awaited me as I rode to Fox River that first afternoon, I would have galloped back to my cousin’s estate to seclude myself. I would have pleaded illness or injury and asked that my trunks be packed immediately for my return to New York.

But, of course, the future is never ours to know. Only the past is ours to contemplate and mourn forever.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

1

The citizens of Ridge’s Race, Virginia, claimed that Maisy Fletcher lived her life like a pack of foxhounds torn between two lines of scent. She had worn many disguises in her fifty years, each of them clearly revealing the flighty, distractible woman beneath. Jake Fletcher, her husband for twenty years, disagreed. Jake claimed that his wife had no trouble making up her mind.

Over and over and over again.

Today, those who knew Maisy would have been shocked to see the purpose in her stride and the lack of attention she paid to everything and everyone that stood between her and the front door of the Gandy Willson Clinic, just outside historic Leesburg. She ignored the horsehead mounting posts flanking the herringbone brick sidewalk, the magnolias flanking the portico. She paid little attention to the young couple sitting stiffly on a green bench under the magnolia to her left. More tellingly, she brushed right past the young security guard who asked for her identification.

“Ma’am, you can’t go in there without my seeing some ID,” the young man said, following close at her heels.

Maisy paused just long enough to survey him. He looked like an escapee from the Virginia Military Institute, hair shaved nearly to the scalp, acne scars still faintly visible. He had the same hostile stare she associated with new cadets, a product of exhaustion and harassment.

Normally she might have winked or stopped to question him about his upbringing, his opinion of the Washington Redskins’ chances this season, his take on the presidential election. Today she turned her back. “Don’t try to stop me, son. I’m as harmless as a butterfly in a hailstorm. Just go on about your business.”

“Ma’am, I have to—”

“My daughter’s a patient here.”

“I’m going to have to call—”

She reached for the door handle and let herself in.

She had never been inside the Gandy Willson Clinic. Through the years, acquaintances had disappeared into its confines for periods of “rest.” Some of them boasted of time spent here, adding “G.W.S.” after their names like an academic achievement. “G.W.S.” or Gandy Willson Survivor, was a local code, meaning “Don’t offer me a drink,” or “Give me the strongest drink in the house,” depending on the length of time out of treatment.

Maisy wasn’t surprised by what she saw. Gandy Willson catered to the wealthy elite. The chandelier gracing a cathedral ceiling was glittering crystal, the carpet stretching before her had probably robbed a dozen third world children of a normal adolescence.

The security guard hadn’t followed her inside, but another, older, man strode from his office to head her off as she stepped farther into the reception area. He was in his sixties, at least, bespectacled, perfectly tailored and attempting, without success, to smile like somebody’s grandfather.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” He extended his hand. “I’m Harmon Jeffers, director of Gandy Willson.”

She debated taking it, but gave in when she saw the hand wavering with age. She grasped it to steady him. “I’m Maisy Fletcher, and my daughter Julia Warwick is a patient here.”

“Julia’s mother. Of course.” His unconvincing smile was firmly in place.

There was no “of course” about it. Maisy and Julia were as different from one another as a rose and a hibiscus. For all practical purposes they were members of the same general family, but the resemblance ended there. This month Maisy’s hair was red and sadly overpermed. Julia’s was always sleek and black. Maisy had gained two unwanted pounds for every year she’d lived. Julia survived on air. Maisy was average height. Petite Julia barely topped her shoulder.

And those were the ways in which they were most alike.

Maisy drew herself up to her full five foot four, as the small of her back creaked in protest. “I’m here to see my daughter.”

“Shall we go into my office? I’ll have tea sent, and we can chat.”

“That’s very old Virginia of you, Dr. Jeffers, but I don’t think I have the time. I’d appreciate your help finding Julia’s room. I hate barging in on strangers.”

“We can’t let you do that.”

“Good. Then you’ll tell me where she is?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s imperative we talk. Your daughter’s recovery depends on it.”

Maisy lifted the first of several chins. The others followed sluggishly. “My daughter shouldn’t be here.”

“You disagree that your daughter needs treatment?”

“My daughter should be at home with the people who love her.”

The young couple who’d been sitting on the bench entered and shuffled lethargically across the carpet. He put his hand on Maisy’s shoulder to steer her away from the door. “Mrs. Warwick’s husband feels differently. He feels she needs to be here, where she can rest and receive therapy every day.”

Maisy cut straight to the point, as unusual for her as the anger simmering inside her. “Just exactly how many cases of hysterical blindness have you treated?”

“This is a psychiatric clinic. We—”

“Mostly treat substance abusers,” she finished for him. “Drug addicts. Alcoholics. My daughter is neither. But she might be by the time she gets out of here. You’ll drive her crazy.”

“There are people who will say your daughter is already well on her way.” He lifted a bushy white brow in punctuation. “There is nothing wrong with her eyes, yet she doesn’t see. For all practical purposes she’s totally blind. Surely you’re not trying to tell me this is a normal event?”

She drew a deep breath and spaced her words carefully, as much for order as for emphasis. “My son-in-law brought her here directly from the hospital because he didn’t want Julia to embarrass him. She came because he threatened her. She’s not here because she believes you can help her.”

“She’s not receiving phone calls just yet. How do you know this?”

“Because I know my daughter.”

“Do you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

That stopped her, as he probably knew it would. She supposed that with all the good doctor’s training, finding an Achilles’ heel was as elementary as prescribing the trendiest psychotropic drug.

She took a moment to regroup, to focus her considerable energy on what she had to do. “I will see my daughter.” She surprised herself and said it without blinking, without breaking eye contact. “Either you can help me, or you can help me make a scene.”

“We’ll sit and talk a few minutes. If you’re still inclined to see her, I’ll send a message. But if she doesn’t want you here, you’ll have to leave.”

She threw up her ring-cluttered hands.

He led her down the hallway to the door he’d come through. His office was much as she’d expected. Leather furniture, dark paneled walls covered with multiple framed diplomas, a desk as massive as a psychiatrist’s ego. She always wondered if professional men measured the size of their desks the way adolescent boys measured their penises.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She had two choices—to perch on the couch’s edge like a child in the principal’s office or settle back and appear completely defenseless. She was sure the stage had been set that way. She settled.

Dr. Jeffers sat forward, cupping his hands over his blotter, and nodded sagely. “So you don’t believe this is the right place for Mrs. Warwick?”

Maisy glanced at her watch. It was an insubstantial rhinestone-and-pearl encrusted bauble, and she wore it with everything. Now she wished the hands would move faster.

“This is my daughter we’re talking about. No one knows her better than I do, which is not the same as saying I know everything about her. But I do understand this. She’s a private person. Her strength comes from within. She will not want to share those strengths or any weaknesses with a stranger. You are a stranger.”

“And she’ll want to share them with you?”

“I do wish you’d stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Correct me, then, but I’m under the impression you think you can help her and I can’t.”

“Being with people who love her will help her. I know she’s desperate to see Callie—”

“You can’t possibly know these things, Mrs. Fletcher. Perhaps you’re projecting? Your daughter’s spoken to no one except her husband since she arrived.”

“I know she’s desperate to see Callie,” Maisy repeated a bit louder. “Are you listening or aren’t you? She’ll be frantic to see her little girl. If you think a frantic woman is a good candidate for therapy, then you need to go back to medical school.”

“There is only one frantic woman in this clinic, and she’s sitting across from me,” he said with his pseudo-grandfatherly smile.

With some difficulty Maisy hoisted herself to her feet, but before she could say anything the telephone on his desk rang. As he picked up the receiver, he held up a hand to stop her from leaving. When he’d finished, he glanced up and shrugged.

“It seems you’re not the only frantic woman in this clinic, after all. Your daughter knows you’re here.”

Maisy waited.

He rose. “She’s demanding to see you. Her room is upstairs. Follow the corridor to the end, turn left, and you’ll see the staircase. At the top, make your first left, then a right. Her room is at the end of the hall. But just so you know, it’s my responsibility to notify Mr. Warwick that you’ve visited Mrs. Warwick against medical advice.”

“Dr. Jeffers, are you a psychiatrist or a spy?”

“Dear lady, you have some mental health issues you need work on yourself.”

It was a testament to her mental health that she left without responding.

Julia knew her mother had come. Maisy and Jake’s pickup had a bone-jarring rattle as audibly distinct as the belching of its exhaust system. For years Bard had tried to convince Jake to buy a new truck, but Julia’s stepfather always refused. He was a man who would do without comfort rather than spend money foolishly, not a stingy man, simply one who believed in taking care of what he owned.

At the sound of the truck in the parking lot, Julia had found her way to the window to confirm her suspicion. She wasn’t sure what she expected, a sudden lifting of darkness, a sneak peek at a world she hadn’t seen in weeks. She felt the cool glass under her fingertips, traced the smooth-textured sill, the decorative grids. But she wasn’t allowed even the pleasure of an afternoon breeze. The window was locked tight.

She had realized then that she had to ask for help. Practical help, not the kind she had supposedly checked herself in to receive. After the first day she had realized that the Gandy Willson Clinic was the wrong place for her and that her sessions with Dr. Jeffers would be nothing more than a battle of wits. She would hide her feelings, and he would subtly berate her for her lack of cooperation.

Luckily there was at least one staff member who seemed genuinely interested in her. Karen, the nurse on duty, agreed to call Dr. Jeffers and relay Julia’s demand. If Maisy Fletcher had come to see her daughter, he was not to send her away. If he did, Julia would be the next to leave.

When Maisy turned into the hallway, Julia knew her mother was coming by the bustling of her footsteps. Maisy was always in a hurry, as if she had somewhere important to go, although, in truth, destination was never a priority.

“Julia?”

“In here, Maisy.”

The door swung open, a welcome whoosh of fresh air followed by a gentle bang.

“Sweetheart.”

Julia heard and smelled her mother’s approach, and in a moment felt Maisy’s soft hands against her cheeks. Then she was wrapped in the overpowering fragrance of violets and the soft give of her mother’s arms around her.

Julia slipped her arms around her mother’s waist as Maisy joined her on the bed.

“How did you know I was here?” Maisy said.

“I heard the pickup. I guess it’s a good thing Jake hasn’t gotten a new one.”

“That’s not what I was thinking on the way over. I almost left it by the side of the road. Darn thing has never liked me.”

“That’s because you push it too hard.” It was the story of Maisy’s life.

“How are you?”

Julia straightened and folded her hands in her lap. For once Maisy seemed to take the hint and moved away a little to give her daughter breathing room. “No better, no worse,” Julia said.

“Dr. Jeffers is an officious little bastard who probably couldn’t cure a hangnail.”

“Don’t be so easy on him.”

Usually at this point Julia would have gotten up to roam the room. Only now, that particular escape was fraught with danger. She had carefully memorized the layout, but she wasn’t sure she could navigate it with her mother watching. For a moment her heart beat faster and her breath seemed to come in short gasps. The world was a black hole sucking at her, threatening to pull her into its void forever.

“What are you doing here, sweetheart?” Maisy asked.

Julia willed herself to be calm. “One place is exactly like another when you can’t see.”

“That simply isn’t true. You need to be with people who love you, in a place you know well. Not with strangers.”

“Look around. It’s almost like home. I have my own fireplace, a room full of antiques—so I’m told. The view is undoubtedly priceless.”

“The only priceless thing in this room is my daughter, and she doesn’t belong here.”

Julia’s sightless eyes filled with tears. She rose. It was safer to risk butting up against the furniture than her mother’s love. “Bard thought it would be best for everyone.”

“And you agree?”

“He doesn’t always get his way, Maisy. I just thought that this time, he might be right.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s afraid for Callie.” Julia stretched a hand in front of her and was disconcerted to discover that she wasn’t as close to the wall as she’d expected. She inched forward until she could touch it before she spoke again.

“He says my…condition is confusing and upsetting her, that she feels somehow to blame—”

“Ridiculous.”

Julia faced her, or thought she probably did. “How would you know?”

“Because I’m her grandmother. I’ve called her every day since the accident, and we went out for ice cream after school yesterday. Callie knows it isn’t her fault that Duster balked at the jump and you took it headfirst without him. Those are the chances anybody takes when she’s training a new horse.”

“Right after the fall Callie told me she was sure Duster balked because she’d startled him with her pony.”

“But didn’t you explain that Duster had balked half a dozen times in the past and would again? That’s what she told me. I don’t think she feels guilty anymore, she just feels lonely and afraid you aren’t coming back.”

Julia swallowed tears. “Did you tell her I’m coming back as soon as I’m well?”

“She’s eight. At that age a grandmother’s word isn’t quite as good as a mother’s.”

“The fall had nothing to do with this…this condition. Did you tell her that, too?”

“I did, but that’s harder for her to understand.”

“How can she? I don’t understand it myself. One minute I can see, the next I can’t. Only there’s nothing wrong with my eyes. There’s nothing wrong with any part of me except my mind.”

Maisy was silent, waiting, Julia supposed, for her to bring herself back under control. One thing mother and daughter did have in common was a mutual distaste for emotional fireworks. Julia began to prowl the room, hands extended. She found a desk chair and held on to it. “I’m not crazy,” she said at last.

“Are you afraid I think so?”

“Bard says it’s all about mind over matter. He wants me to be a big girl, square my shoulders and go about my business. If I put my mind to it and work hard while I’m here, I’ll see again.” She thought she managed a wry smile. “That’s what he would do, of course.”

“He might be surprised. There are some things in life that even Lombard Warwick has no say in.”

“I close my eyes, and every single time I open them again, I expect to see, but I can’t. I’ve fallen off horses plenty of times, but this was different. When I flew headfirst over that jump, I remember thinking about Christopher Reeve. His horse balked, and now he’s confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. When I hit the ground I was afraid to move, afraid I might not be able to sit up or walk again. I must have blacked out. When I woke up…”

She felt her way around the desk, then over to the window. She faced her mother again. “When I woke up I didn’t open my eyes. I raised a leg, then an arm. I was so relieved. I can’t tell you how relieved I was. I hadn’t even broken anything. Then I opened my eyes.”

“And you couldn’t see.”

Julia had told her mother all this in the hospital where she’d been taken after the accident, but she continued, needing, for some reason, to repeat it. “I thought, how strange. I must have been here for hours. Callie must have ridden back to get help and they can’t find me. I thought it was night, but such a black, black night. As it turns out I was unconscious for less than a minute.”

“Does it help to go over this again and again?”

“Nothing helps. The fog doesn’t lift. It doesn’t even waver. And you know what the worst moment was? Worse than waking up blind? When they told me there was nothing wrong with my eyesight. Conversion hysteria. I’m a hysteric.”

“You’re a wonderful, sensitive, intelligent woman. You’re not a psychiatric label.”

“I’m in a psychiatric clinic! Maybe it has fireplaces and antiques, but it’s still a clinic for the mentally ill.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Julia realized she had to tell Maisy the rest of it. “There are things you don’t know.”

“Well, you’re not the first to say so.”

Julia tried to smile but couldn’t. “Before this, before I even saddled Duster that day, things hadn’t…hadn’t been going well.”

Maisy was silent. Julia knew that if she could see her mother, Maisy would be twisting her hands in her lap. The hands would be covered with rings. Maisy loved anything that sparkled. She loved bright colors, odd textures, loose flowing clothing that made Julia think of harems or Polynesian luaus. She was a focal point in any crowd, the mother Julia’s childhood schoolmates had most often singled out for ridicule, a bright, exotic flame in a community of old tweeds and perfectly faded denim.

“You don’t want to hear this, do you?” Julia asked.

“Julia, I’m sitting here waiting.”

“You never want to know when things aren’t going well, Maisy. If you wore glasses, they’d be rose-colored.”

“No doubt,” Maisy agreed. “Cats’-eye glasses with rhinestone frames, and you would hate them. But trying to keep a positive attitude isn’t the same as refusing to see there’s another side of life.”

Julia felt ashamed. She loved her mother, but there was a gulf between them as wide as Julia’s twenty-nine years. She had never quite understood it and doubted that Maisy did, either. How two women could love each other and still be so different, so far apart in every way, was a mystery.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to criticize.” Julia started back toward the bed, or thought she did. “It’s just that I don’t want to make this worse for you….”

“Let’s make it better for you, instead. Tell me what’s been happening. And move a little to your left,” Maisy directed her.

Julia adjusted; her shin contacted the bed frame. “I’m going to need a white cane.” The last word caught.

Maisy took her hand and helped her sit. “Has Dr. Jeffers given you a prognosis?”

“No. He rarely speaks during our sessions, and when he does, he just asks questions. Why didn’t I seek help when the problems started? Why do I think I’m being so defensive? Why don’t I want my husband involved in my treatment?”

“Would Bard like to be involved?”

“I doubt it, but I’m sure he’s never told the doctor outright.”

“Tell me about the problems you mentioned before.”

“I was having blinding headaches.” She smiled grimly. “Pardon the pun.”

“The doctors know this?”

“Yes. They’ve scanned every inch of my brain, done every test a neurologist can dream up, called in every specialist. They can’t find anything physical.”

“What else?”

“I…” Julia tried to decide how to phrase the next part. “My work was suffering.”

“Your painting?”

Julia nodded. “I had a commission for a family portrait of the Trents. You remember them? They have that pretty little farm down toward Middleburg, just past the Gradys’ place? Two very blond children who show their ponies with Callie? A boy and a girl?”

“I think so.”

“We had three sittings. I never got things right.”

She wasn’t sure how to explain the next part. She’d had no success with Bard or Dr. Jeffers. Bard told her she was simply overwrought and making her problems worse. Dr. Jeffers scribbled notes, and the scratching of his pen had nearly driven her crazy.

She tried again. “It was worse than that, actually. I did preliminary sketches. The Trents wanted something informal, something with their horses and pets out in the countryside. The sketches were fine. I had some good ideas of what I wanted to do. But when I tried to paint…”

“Go on.”

“I couldn’t paint what I saw. I would begin to work, and the painting seemed to progress without me. Mr. Trent is a stiff, formal man who’s strict with the children. That’s all I was able to capture on canvas. He looked like a storm trooper after I’d roughed him out. At one point I even found myself painting a swastika on his sleeve.”

“Maybe you weren’t painting what you saw but what you felt. Isn’t that part of being an artist?”

“But I had no control over it.” Julia heard her voice rising and took a moment to breathe. “And it was true of everything I painted in the month before the accident. I would try hunting scenes, and they weren’t lovely autumn days among good friends anymore. We chase foxes for the fun of it, not to destroy them. But every painting I attempted seemed to center on the hounds tearing a fox to bits. They were…disturbing, and when I was finished with a session, I’d feel so shaken I was afraid to start another.”

“Maybe it was simply fatigue. Maybe you needed a break.”

“Well, I got one, didn’t I?”

Maisy was silent, and Julia didn’t blame her. What could she say? If Julia’s sight was not restored, she would never paint again.

“When you were a little girl,” Maisy said at last, “and something bothered you, you would go to your room and draw. It was the way you expressed yourself.”

“It still is. But what am I expressing? Or what was I? Because I won’t be able to do it again unless something changes radically.”

“Come home with me, Julia. If Bard doesn’t want you at Millcreek, come back to Ashbourne. You know there’s room for you and Callie. We can find a therapist you trust. Jake wants you to stay with us, too. You know he does.”

Julia loved her stepfather, who had brought balance to Maisy’s life and gentle affection to her own. He was a kind, quiet man who never ceased to marvel at his wife’s eccentricities, and Julia knew he would welcome her with open arms.

For a moment she was tempted to say yes, to return to her childhood home and bring her daughter to live there, too. Until her sight was restored or she’d learned to live with her impairment. Then reality got in the way.

She shook her head decisively. “I can’t do that. My God, Bard would be furious. He had to pull strings to get me admitted here. He’s convinced I need to be away from everything and everyone before I’ll get better.”

“And what do you think?”

“I hope he’s right. Because I don’t think I can stand being here very long. I feel like I’m in prison. I know how Christian—” She stopped, appalled at what she’d nearly said.

“You know how Christian feels,” Maisy finished for her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you speak his name.”

Julia stiffened. “I haven’t been thinking about Christian. I don’t know where that came from.”

“You’ve lost your sight, he lost his freedom. Both of you are living in places you didn’t choose. The connection is there.”

“I don’t want to talk about Christian.”

“You never have.”

There was a rustling noise at the doorway. With something close to gratitude, Julia turned her head in that direction.

“A nurse is here,” Maisy said.

“Mrs. Warwick?” Karen, the nurse who had made the telephone call for Julia, entered the room, making enough noise as she did to help Julia know where she was. “Dr. Jeffers thinks you need to rest now.”

For once Julia had to agree with her psychiatrist. She was suddenly weary to the bone. She felt the mattress lift as Maisy stood.

“You do look tired. I’ll be back tomorrow,” Maisy said. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Callie?”

“Tell her I love her and I’ll be home soon. Tell her I can see her in my dreams.”

“You’ll think about what I said?”

Julia nodded, then realized her mother might not be looking at her. It was just another of those small things the sighted took for granted.

“I’ll think about it.” Her throat was clogged with words she hadn’t said. A part of her wanted to beg Maisy to take her home to Ashbourne, to the quaint stone cottage where she had lived until her marriage. Another part insisted that she stay and suffer here at Gandy Willson, that if she suffered hard enough, she might find a cure.

Karen spoke. She had a soft, husky voice and warm hands. Odd observations, but the only ones Julia was equipped to make. “I guess you know Mrs. Warwick isn’t supposed to have any visitors except her husband, but unfortunately, Dr. Jeffers has a meeting tomorrow afternoon at three, so he’ll be away and unable to monitor things closely. Anyone could slip right in.”

“I see,” Maisy said.

“Thank you.” Julia understood what Karen was trying to do.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.” Julia felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, then Maisy’s lips against her cheek. When Karen and Maisy were gone, the room was as empty as Julia’s heart.

2

Like their counterparts in Great Britain, the great farms and estates of Virginia were often given names. Ashbourne was one such, a large, distinctive house and three hundred acres made up of serpentine hills and rock-strewn creeks. The Blue Ridge Mountains were more than shadows touching the land; they were a presence that anchored it and coaxed the hills into craggier peaks and wider hollows. Maisy never ceased to be amazed at Ashbourne’s natural beauty or the twist of fate that had brought her here as the young bride of Harry Ashbourne, master of the Mosby Hunt.

Harry was gone now, dead for nearly twenty-five years. Ashbourne lived on, holding its breath, she thought, for Harry’s daughter Julia to reclaim it and restore it to its former glory.

The main house at Ashbourne was a gracefully wrought Greek Revival dwelling of antique cherry-colored brick and Doric columns. Symmetrical wings—two-story where the main house was three—gently embraced the wide rear veranda and flagstone terrace. In Harry’s day the gardens of hollies and mountain laurels, Persian lilacs and wisteria, had been perfectly manicured, never elaborate, but as classic and tasteful as the house itself.

Over the years the gardens had weathered. Ancient maples, mimosas and hickories had fallen to lightning or drought; the boxwood maze that Harry had planted during Maisy’s pregnancy had grown into an impenetrable hedge obstructing movement and sight until a landscaper had removed it. Over the years the meticulous borders of bulbs and perennials had naturalized into a raucous meadow that ate away at grass and shrubs, spreading farther out of bounds each season.

Maisy preferred the garden that way. The house was empty now, and the black-eyed Susans, corn poppies and spikes of chicory and Virginia bluebells warmed and softened its aging exterior. Neither the house nor the gardens had fallen to rack and ruin. She made certain all the necessary maintenance was done. Jake did much of it, a man as handy as he was good-natured. But the property was simply biding its time until Harry’s daughter decided what should be done about it.

Maisy and Jake lived in the caretaker’s cottage, a blue stone fairy-tale dwelling that was the oldest building on the property. The cottage perched on the edge of deep woods where foxes and groundhogs snuggled into comfortable dens and owls kept vigil on the loneliest nights.

The cottage was two-story, with a wide center hallway and cozy rooms that huddled without rhyme or reason, one on top of the other. The furnace and the plumbing groaned and clattered, and the wind whistled through cracks between window frames and ledges. Maisy and Jake were in agreement that the house’s idiosyncrasies were as much a part of its charm as its slate roof or multitude of fireplaces.

The sky was already growing dark by the time Maisy returned from her visit to the Gandy Willson Clinic. Inky cloud layers lapped one over the other, shutting out what sunset there might have been and boding poorly for a starry night. She often darted outside two or three times each evening to glimpse the heavenly show. She made excuses, of course, although Jake was certainly on to her. She fed the barn cats, three aging tortoiseshells named Winken, Blinken and Nod. Sometimes she claimed to check gates for the farmer who rented Ashbourne’s prime pasture land to graze long-horned, shaggy Highland cattle. No excuse was too flimsy if it kept her on the run.

She traversed the wide driveway and pulled the pickup into its space beside the barn, taking a moment to stretch once she was on the ground. Every muscle was kinked, both from sitting still and the lack of functioning shock absorbers. She vowed, as she did every time she drove Jake’s truck, that she would have it hauled away the very next time he turned his back. She had her eye on a lipstick-red Ford Ranger sitting in a lot in Leesburg, and in her imagination, it beeped a siren song every time she passed.

As she’d expected, she found Jake in the barn. There were several on the property. The one that Harry had used to stable his world-renowned hunters was at the other side of the estate, empty of horses now and filled with artists and craftsmen to whom Maisy rented the space as a working gallery.

This barn was the original, smaller, built from hand-hewn chestnut logs and good honest sweat. Jake used it as his repair shop. There was nothing Jake couldn’t take apart and put back together so that it ran the way it was intended. People from all over Loudoun and Fauquier counties brought him toasters and lawnmowers, motor scooters and attic fans. Mostly they were people like Jake himself, who believed that everything deserved a shot at a miracle cure, people who were wealthy enough to buy new goods but maintained a love affair with the past.

When she arrived, Jake was bent over his workbench. Winken crouched at the end, lazily swatting Jake’s elbow every time it swung into range. The three felines were right at home in the barn. Like so much that Jake repaired here, they had been somebody else’s idea of trash. Maisy had found them one winter morning as they tried to claw their way out of a paper bag in the Middleburg Safeway parking lot, tiny mewling fluffballs that she’d fed religiously every two hours with a doll’s bottle, despite a serious allergy to cat dander and a craving for an uninterrupted night of sleep. Now, years later, they kept the barn free of mice and Jake company. Cats, she’d discovered, were serious advocates of quid pro quo.

“I’m back.”

Jake turned to greet her. When he was absorbed in his work he forgot his surroundings. He had the power of concentration she lacked, so much that she often teased that a burglar could steal everything in the barn, including the cobwebs, while he was working on a project.

He wiped his hands on a rag before he came over to kiss her cheek. “Did you see her?”

“Yes, I did. But not without a fight.” She knew he wouldn’t ask what she’d learned. He would wait for whatever information she wanted to reveal. She glanced over his shoulder. Blinken had joined her sister, and the two were investigating Jake’s latest project. “Work going well?”

“Liz Schaeffer brought me a mantel clock that’s been in her family for three generations. Ticking fifty beats to the minute.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I’ll have to see if I can find a new part, but most likely.” He swallowed her in his arms, as if he knew she needed his warmth. “I made chili for dinner. And corn bread’s ready to go in the oven.”

“You’re too good to me.” She relaxed against him, looking up at a face that was growing increasingly lined with age. Jake had never been a handsome man, but he had always been distinguished, well before the age the adjective usually applied. His hair was snow-white, but still as thick and curly as it had been the first time she saw him—and still, as then, a little too long. His eyes were the brown of chinquapins, eyes that promised patience but of late showed a certain fatigue, as well. Sometimes she was afraid that he was simply and finally growing tired of her.

“Let me put things away and I’ll be in to finish the meal.”

She moved away in a flurry of guilt. “Don’t be silly. I’ll put the corn bread in the oven and make a salad.” She paused. “Do we have lettuce?”

He smiled a little. “Uh-huh. I shopped yesterday.”

“Where was I?”

“Holed up in your study.”

“Oh…”

“I like to shop, Maisy. I always see somebody I know. I do more business between the carrots and eggplant than I do on the telephone. Go make a salad.”

She made it to the doorway before she turned. “Would you mind if Julia and Callie came to live with us?”

He looked up from his workbench. “Was that Julia’s idea?”

“I made the offer.” She paused. “I pushed a little.”

“Like a steamroller on autopilot.”

“She shouldn’t be there, Jake. You know that place. She’s miserable.”

“You know Julia and Callie are welcome here.”

“Was I wrong to push?”

“You’re a good mother. You always do what you think is best.”

She knew the dangers of acting on instinct, yet she was pleased at his support. “I’m going back tomorrow.”

“Bard won’t be happy if you interfere.”

She stepped outside and peered up at the sky, now a seamless stretch of polished pewter. The temperature was dropping, and she shivered. Autumn was exercising its muscle. Maisy decided that after dinner she would ask Jake to make a small fire in the living room, then she would tell him in detail everything that Julia had said.

She wondered, as she did too often now, if he would find the recounting of her day too tedious to warrant his full attention.

Julia knew Bard would visit after dinner, not because his schedule was predictable but because he needed to see for himself that everything at the clinic was under control. In the early days of their marriage, that quality had reassured her. She was married to a man who had answers for everything, and for a while, at least, she had been glad to let him have answers for her.

She felt a vague twinge of guilt, as she always did when she had disloyal thoughts about Bard, the man who had stood beside her at the worst moment of her life. Bard could be overbearing, but he could also be strong and reassuring.

In some ways Bard was the product of another era. He was older than she, almost twelve years older, but it was more outlook than age that separated them. Bard would have felt at home in King Arthur’s court, a knight happiest slaying dragons. But Bard would never be a Lancelot. He wasn’t motivated by religious fervor and rarely by romance. Dragons would fall simply because they stood in his path.

At seven o’clock Julia found her way to the dresser where her comb and brush were kept. Her black hair was shoulder-length and straight, easy enough to manage, even when she couldn’t see it. She brushed it now, smoothing it straight back from the widow’s peak that made it difficult to part.

She didn’t bother with cosmetics, afraid that lipstick poorly applied was worse than none at all. Earlier she had changed into wool slacks and a twin set because her room was cooler than she liked. Maisy always insisted she’d feel warmer if she gained weight, but Julia doubted she was destined to add pounds at this particular juncture of her life. The clinic food was exactly what she’d expected, low-fat and bland—garnishes of portobello mushrooms and arugula notwithstanding.

She was just buttoning her sweater when a gentle rap on the door was followed by Karen’s voice. “It’s chilly in here. Would you like a fire tonight? Dr. Jeffers has given permission.”

She supposed permission was necessary. After any time at Gandy Willson, even a patient in her right mind would want to throw herself into the flames.

“You’re smiling,” Karen said.

She realized it was true. “It’s the thought of a fire,” she lied. “What a nice idea.”

She fumbled her way across the room and sat on a chair by the bed, listening as Karen brought in logs. The sounds were all familiar, as was the burst of sulphur when the match was lit.

“Just a tiny one,” Karen said. “Nothing more than kindling. But it will warm you. We’re having trouble with the heat in this wing.”

Julia thanked her, then sat listening as the wood began to crackle.

In the hospital, immediately after the accident, she had found it impossible to measure time. Without visual clues, one moment still seemed much like the next. The sun or the moon could be sending rays through her window and she wouldn’t know. The overhead lights could be on or off, the news on her neighbor’s television set could be either the morning or evening edition.

Little by little she’d learned new cues to guide her. The buzzing of the fluorescent lamp in the corner when light was needed in the evening, or the scent of disinfectant when the hallway was mopped each morning. The cues were different here, but just as predictable.

She had also learned that time passed more slowly than she realized. Without the constant distractions of a normal life, each second seemed to merge in slow motion with the next. She had never understood Einstein’s theories of time and space, but she thought, perhaps, she was beginning to.

After she was sure she’d been sitting for at least a day, she heard Bard’s perfunctory knock. He always rapped twice, with jackhammer precision. Then he threw open the door and strode purposefully across the floor to kiss her cheek.

Tonight was no different. He was at her side before she could even tell him to come in. She smelled the Calvin Klein aftershave she had helped Callie pick out last Christmas, felt the rasp of his cheek against hers.

“You look tired.” He had already straightened and moved away. She could tell by his voice.

“Sitting still all day will do that to you,” she said.

“You need the rest. That’s why you’re here.”

She was here to keep from embarrassing him. She suspected that not one of their mutual friends knew exactly what had happened to her, and she wondered what story he was telling. “I would get more rest at home. I could find my way around. Get a little exercise. I’d feel more like sleeping.”

“We’ve been over and over this, Julia.”

The forced patience in his voice annoyed her. “You’ve been over and over this, Bard. I’ve had very little to say about it.”

“I understand your sessions with Dr. Jeffers aren’t going well.”

“If you mean that I haven’t miraculously regained my eyesight, then yes. They haven’t gone well.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

She could feel her frustration growing. “Bard, stop talking to me like I’m Callie’s age, please. I’m blind, not eight. Exactly what did you mean?”

“Dr. Jeffers says you’re not cooperating. That you’re resistant to treatment.”

“I am resistant to spilling my guts so he’ll have something to write on his notepad.”

“How do you know he writes anything?”

“I can hear the scratching of his pen. I have four senses left.”

“Why are you resisting his help?”

“He isn’t offering help. He’s a Peeping Tom in disguise. He wants to see into every corner of my life, and I don’t see any reason to let him.”

“You’d prefer a guide dog?”

She clamped her lips shut. As he barreled through his days, Bard had developed a theory that life was an endless set of simple decisions, for or against. Accordingly, he had boiled down Julia’s recovery. Either she let Dr. Jeffers cure her or she remained blind. He didn’t have the inclination to consider the matter further.

“I guess that means no.” He sounded farther away, as if he’d taken up her favorite spot at the window.

“What do you see?” she asked. “I’d like to know what’s out there, so I can imagine it when I’m standing there.”

For the first time he sounded annoyed. “That sounds like you’re making plans to live with this.”

“It’s a simple, nonthreatening question.”

“I see exactly what you’d expect. Trees, flower beds, lawn. A slice of the parking lot. Hills in the distance.”

“Thanks.”

“I hear Maisy came to visit today. Against orders.”

His voice was louder, so she imagined he was facing her now. She pictured him leaning against the windowsill, long legs crossed at the ankles, elbows resting comfortably, long fingers laced as he waited for her answer. She remembered the first time she had really noticed Lombard Warwick.

She had known Bard forever. The town of Ridge’s Race—nothing much more than a gas station, post office and scenic white frame grocery store—was named for an annual point-to-point race that extended between two soaring ridges on either side of town. It was also the address of dozens of million-dollar farms and estates, including Ashbourne and Millcreek Farm, which was Bard’s family home. Ridge’s Race had a mayor and town council, churches along three of the four roads that intersected at the western edge of town, and a community as tightly knit as a New England fishing village.

Because of the difference in their ages, she and Bard had never attended school together. Even if they’d been born in the same year, their educational paths wouldn’t have crossed. Bard was destined for the same residential military school his father had attended. Julia, the product of an egalitarian mother who believed class segregation was nearly as harmful as racial segregation, was destined for the local public schools.

They hadn’t attended church together, either. There was a plaque listing generations of Warwicks on the wall at St. Albans, the Episcopal church where the most powerful people in Ridge’s Race convened on Sunday morning. There were Ashbournes on the plaque, as well, and Julia had been christened there, a squalling infant held firmly in the strong arms of the father who had died when she was only four. But for as long as Julia could remember, on the rare occasions when Maisy took her to church, Maisy drove into Leesburg or Fairfax and chose congregations and religions at random.

Even without common churches or schools, Bard had been a presence in Julia’s life. Millcreek Farm was just down the road. As a little girl she had seen him pass by on sleek Thoroughbreds or in one of a series of expensive sports cars. She had seen him in town, discussed weather and local politics while waiting in line at the post office, watched him shop for bourbon and bridles in Middleburg. Until she was twenty he had been a local fixture, like miles of four-rail fencing and Sundowner horse trailers.

Then one day, when her whole world lay in pieces at her feet, she had finally taken a good look at Lombard Warwick, sought-after bachelor, son of Brady Warwick and Grace Lombard, heir to Millcreek Farm, graduate of Yale law school, owner of champion hunters in a region filled with exquisite Thoroughbreds.

She thought now that Bard had been at his peak that year. He’d been thirty-one and appallingly handsome. His dark hair hadn’t yet been touched by gray; his green eyes had been clear and untroubled. He had a long, elegant jaw shadowed by a jet-black beard, and hatchet-sharp cheekbones that defined a face as confident as it was aristocratic. He had a way of looking at a female that had taught more women about their sexuality than Mama’s muddled lectures or high school health class.

She hadn’t fallen in love with him, but she had been drawn to his strength and self-assurance, something nearly as powerful that had, in the end, changed her life.

Today Bard had much of the same physical appeal. He was heavier, following in the footsteps of his father, who had seriously taxed the county’s sturdiest quarter horses. So far the extra pounds merely made Bard more a man to be reckoned with. He was tall and big-boned, and he carried himself with military bearing. He was rarely challenged and even more rarely beaten in any endeavor.

The other changes were subtler. The eyes were still untroubled, but troubling. The silver at his temples was attractive, but misleading. Age hadn’t brought with it serenity. He was intelligent, but not necessarily insightful, able to bide his time but never, never patient.

Now was no exception. “Julia, I’m waiting to hear why Maisy was here. This new push to go home…that wouldn’t happen to have come from her, would it?”

“Is it suddenly necessary to report all conversations with my mother?”

“I don’t want her upsetting you.”

His voice had risen a tone. She could visualize him tugging at an earlobe, the one visible vice he allowed himself when he was angry.

“Bard, you’re upsetting me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re trying to run my life.”

“Dr. Jeffers thinks she’ll set back your recovery. This is Maisy we’re talking about. I’m surprised she was able to find her way here, that she didn’t end up on some side road sorting autumn leaves by size and color.”

She was torn between outrage and a vision of Maisy doing exactly that. “She loves me. And she’s worried.”

His voice softened. “We’re all worried, sugar. And that’s why I want you well as soon as possible.”

“I don’t want to stay here. I can see a therapist privately. We can hire someone to help me. It would be enormously less expensive than keeping me here.”

“But not as beneficial.”

She knew it was time to remove the kid gloves. She straightened a little, carefully turning her head until she was certain she was looking at him. “You don’t want me at home because you’re embarrassed. You don’t want anyone to know that a wife of yours has gone off the deep end and manufactured her own personal handicap.”

“You’re completely forgetting about Callie. Do you think it’s good for her to see her mother like this? She’s upset enough as it is. She doesn’t need a daily dose of you walking into walls and tripping over doorways.”

Her frustration blazed into full-blown anger. “What’s the sudden concern for Callie, Bard? Most of the time you don’t think twice about her.”

“I’ll assume that’s coming directly from your mother, too.”

“It’s coming directly from me.”

“I don’t fawn over Callie. That certainly doesn’t mean I don’t care about her.”

“I said you don’t think twice about her. Callie is my job. I make the decisions. I give the attention.”

“And because it’s been your job, Callie expects you to be well and able to take care of her.”

“She needs me with her, whether I can see or not. Children imagine the worst if the grown-ups in their lives aren’t honest.”

“I’ve reassured her.”

“Are you spending time with her? Have you taken her out to eat? Taken her to a movie? Helped with her homework?”

“I have a job. I’m doing what I can.”

Bard’s job had never been a source of tension before, because Julia had always been home to fill in the gaps. He was a real estate attorney for Virginia Vistas, one of the area’s largest development firms. When he wasn’t closing and negotiating deals, he worked with the developers both as an attorney and a private investor. He had a gift for knowing when to buy and sell God’s green earth that made the substantial holdings he’d inherited from his wealthy parents a mere line or two in his financial portfolio.

“Are you spending any time with her?” she asked. “She loves to ride with you. Have you taken her riding?”

“The last time she rode with one of her parents wasn’t exactly a roaring success.”

“More reason. She needs to see that my accident was a fluke.”

“I’m doing what I can.”

“She needs more.”

“Then you’ll need to get better quickly, won’t you? Callie’s welfare should be an incentive.”

“You can be a bastard, can’t you?”

He was silent. Without visual cues, she could only imagine the expression on his face. But the possible range wasn’t pretty.

“I’ll take her riding this weekend,” he said at last.

It was a concession, but not much of one, since today was only Monday. “Bard, nothing that’s happened to me is under my conscious control. And it may not go away quickly. If it doesn’t, I have no intention of staying at Gandy Willson just because you want me out of sight.”

“I’d like you to stop saying that. You need to stay here to get well.”

“You can catch Callie before she goes to bed. Please go home and read her a story for me.”

He was silent a moment. “All right. But I’ll let her read to me. She needs practice.”

It was an old argument. Callie had a form of dyslexia that made reading a struggle. Bard believed if the little girl just read out loud enough, her disabilities would disappear. No matter how much she hated it or how much it upset her.

“Will you read to her instead, please?” Julia asked. “She can practice reading when everything else is back to normal.”

“You want me to spend time with her, but you want to tell me exactly how to spend it.”

“If you spent more time with her, I wouldn’t have to tell you.”

When he spoke, he was standing directly in front of her. She hadn’t even heard him move. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll read to her. But will you stop fighting everything and everyone and concentrate on seeing again?”

She didn’t repeat that all the concentration in the world wasn’t going to bring back her eyesight. She recognized a compromise when she heard one. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” she promised.

“That’s my girl.” He bent and kissed her, not on the cheek but full on the lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“That would be wonderful.” His voice was husky. “I hope you will see me tomorrow.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m flying down to Richmond early in the morning, and I won’t be by until after dinner. Sleep well.”

That was a promise she couldn’t make. “You, too.”

He closed the door gently enough, but moments later it still resounded. She was left with an assortment of feelings.

She had never dealt well with her own emotions. Only rarely had she understood what fed the creative well inside her or sealed it completely. She had found it best not to tamper. Painting or drawing, even sculpting—something she’d only done infrequently—had become her outlet. Perhaps she didn’t understand anything better when she’d finished, but she felt better. And that was good enough.

Now a desire to sketch seized her with a force that almost took away her breath. She got to her feet and felt her way around the room until she came to the desk. She slid her fingers underneath, feeling for a drawer. She was rewarded with what felt like a wooden knob, and when she grasped it, she felt the drawer sliding toward her. When it was open, she poked her fingers inside and felt for paper or a pen, but the only thing residing there was what felt like a slender telephone book, despite the fact that her room had no telephone.

To prevent theft, Bard had taken her purse. At the time she hadn’t thought that he was also taking pens and memo pad, her only means of drawing. Why would she have? How odd to think that a blind woman would want to draw something she couldn’t see.

Yet she did. With such an intensity, such a hunger, that she felt, for a moment, that she might starve if she couldn’t.

Before she could think what to do, Karen knocked and entered. “I saw your husband leave. Will you need help getting ready for bed, Mrs. Warwick?”

She wanted to weep with relief. “Karen, this probably sounds ridiculous. But I’m an artist, and even though I can’t see, I need to draw. I don’t need anything fancy. Just a notepad, if you have one. A pencil or two, even a pen. Would that be too much trouble?”

Karen didn’t answer for a moment, just long enough to let Julia know she wasn’t thinking about where she might find supplies.

“Mrs. Warwick, the thing is, Dr. Jeffers has forbidden it. He ordered the nursing staff not to provide you with art supplies.”

Julia still didn’t understand. “What possible reason could he have for that? Is he afraid I’ll slit my throat with a pencil?”

“I think…I think he believes it’s an escape from reality. That he wants you to face your problems directly.”

Julia drew a startled breath.

Karen hurried on. “Do you want me to call him at home? I could tell him what you’ve asked and see if I can get permission. He might want to come and talk to you about it himself.”

Julia slashed her hand through the air to cut her off. She knew what Dr. Jeffers would say. He was locked firmly in the psychiatric past, when psychoanalysis was the only therapy worth mentioning.

“I’m so sorry,” Karen said. “I don’t agree with him. But if I helped you…”

“I’ll get myself ready for bed.”

“I really am sorry.”

Julia didn’t trust herself to answer.

“I’ll just scatter the wood. The fire’s almost out anyway.”

Julia stood stiffly and waited until Karen closed the door. Anger was now a boiling cauldron inside her. Rarely had she felt so unfairly treated. At this, the most frightening moment of her life, she was locked away among strangers she couldn’t see, the prisoner of outdated therapies and psychiatric whims.

She had never been a rebel. In all areas of her life, her choices were usually fueled by concern for others. Even as an artist, she had never rocked the boat. She painted traditional portraits and landscapes. At William and Mary she had been the despair of art professors who had praised her talent and urged her to break free of convention.

She wanted to break free now. She had followed all the rules, and look what had happened to her. Her own body had betrayed her.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, but it was like a gust of wind fueling glowing embers. From the other side of the room she heard a faint pop from the fireplace. She wondered what was left of the fire Karen had made. The nurse had scattered the logs. Nothing more than kindling, she’d called them. There might not be anything now except coals.

Or there might be a stick or two, partially burned and black as charcoal. She abandoned the idea immediately, but it formed again, a foolish, dangerous rebellion that could burn down the clinic. At the very least she would never have another fire in her room, no matter how cold the weather.

She made her way to the fireplace and placed her palms against the opening. It was glass, as she’d expected from the noises Karen had made opening and closing it. She found the handles to pull it apart and was rewarded with a screech as the panels parted. She knelt on the hearth and held her palms against the opening. The heat was minimal. The fire must have been small, just as Karen had said.

She knew she might get singed, but she didn’t care. She lowered her hands and felt along the seam between the tile hearth and brick lining. At first she was unsuccessful, but as she inched forward, she felt a piece of wood that was cool to the touch. She investigated it carefully with her fingertips. It seemed to be about two inches in diameter, more kindling than log. She gripped it in her right hand and inched her left along its length. It grew hotter as she progressed, until she drew scorched fingertips back in alarm.

She guessed that the tip was still glowing. She lifted the stick higher and gently ground the tip against the floor of the fireplace for a moment. Then she inched her hand along its length again. She repeated the ritual several times until she was finally satisfied. She lifted it higher and waved it in front of her face. The kindling was barely smoking now, not actively alight, and most likely well on its way to becoming ash.

What did it matter if she was imagining what this makeshift charcoal pencil could do? She couldn’t see the result. It was the motion that mattered, the translation of the visions in her mind.

She stood and realized she was trembling with excitement. How much of it was the thrill of the mutineer and how much the thrill of the artist? She didn’t know or care. She was about to transform an unthinkable situation.

She chose the widest stretch of wall, one without pictures or shelves to block her movements. She stood an arm’s length away and wondered what color the wall was painted. She wished that she had asked Karen or Bard. She imagined it as white and realized it didn’t matter, since she would never see what she was about to draw, except in her own mind.

And she doubted that Dr. Jeffers would hold showings.

She spoke out loud. “I’m just glad it’s not wallpaper.”

She took another deep breath, and the glowing embers of her imagination burst into flame.

3

On the morning after her visit to Julia, Maisy was awakened by pounding on her front door. She was at her most energetic and creative late at night. Unless she was forced to, she rarely rose before ten. The bedside clock said seven.

She rolled over and felt for Jake’s warm body, but the other side of the bed was empty. For a moment she thought she might ignore the summons, then it sounded again, louder and more insistent.

She sat up and tried to remember what day it was. When that proved an impossible task she swung her legs over the bedside and felt for her slippers. She grabbed a royal-purple satin bathrobe on her way out the door and fluffed her perm with stiff fingertips as she navigated the stairs. When she peered out the stairwell window and saw who was standing at the front door, she sighed. But it was nine years too late to crawl back under the covers.

The door wasn’t locked. She swung it open and peered at her son-in-law through heavy-lidded eyes. Bard Warwick was convinced that if Maisy simply adjusted her time clock, the rest of her life would fall into place.

“Has something happened to Julia or Callie?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

She stepped back and he entered. He was dressed for business in a dark suit and patterned tie topped with a navy London Fog. She noticed for the first time that it was drizzling and his dark hair was beaded with moisture.

In Maisy’s mind Bard was the best and worst Virginia had to offer. He was athletic and intelligent, self-disciplined and stuffed with both Southern manners and charm. What he wasn’t was particularly straightforward or altruistic.

Bard’s view of himself was like a humorous tourist map. The city in question was the center of the universe, towering above other inconsequential dots like Los Angeles, Hong Kong or London. From birth he had been given everything a boy could ask for, and while those advantages might humble another man, to Bard they were simply tools that had been provided for his convenience.

She was afraid Julia was yet another blessing placed in his path. A man to whom everything came too easily was often a man without a frame of reference.

“Since I’m up now, we might as well have coffee.” She trudged toward the kitchen, aware that her son-in-law had already judged her early-morning attire and found it wanting.

“I don’t want coffee. I’m on my way to the airport. I just want a quick chat, Maisy.”

“I can’t talk without coffee in my hand. Not before noon.”

She supposed he was following her as she wound her way through a hallway cluttered with odds and ends she’d picked up along life’s amazing journey. She turned right and heard him behind her. In the kitchen she gestured toward a seat at the table, then opened the freezer to remove the coffee.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

He sat gingerly, as if he wasn’t sure what he would find if he swung his legs under the table. The house was never dirty, but the hallway wasn’t the only part that was cluttered. Maisy was a collector. Not a pack rat with bundles of newspapers or old cardboard boxes, but a collector of ceramic figurines, scraps of lace, buttons, gloves and quilt squares, lithographs and discarded books. She saw stories in everything, felt vibrations of lives lived and emotions experienced when she held someone’s beloved treasure in her hands. Bard saw it as one step from mania.

“I’m told you visited Julia yesterday.”

She carried the coffee can to the pot and fished in the drawer below it for a filter. She scooped away birthday candles, coasters, balls of string and pizza coupons before she realized she was looking in the wrong drawer. “I did. You’ve filed her away like yesterday’s mail, Bard.”

“That’s a colorful way to put it, but not one bit true. She needs help, and I don’t know what else to do.”

For a moment she was taken aback. He sounded genuinely overwhelmed, something she hadn’t expected. “She needs to be with people who love her, not with strangers.”

“Maisy, in the years I’ve known you, you’ve been a musician, a Mary Kay spokeswoman, a publicist for some Eastern guru with bad breath and dirty feet, a vegetarian and a holy roller. When were you ever a psychologist?”

“It doesn’t take a psychologist, Bard. It takes good common sense.”

To his credit he did not point out that no one thought common sense was Maisy’s strong suit. “Do you know what your daughter did last night?”

“I feel sure you’re about to tell me.”

“She scratched pictures on her wall. She took a piece of firewood out of the fireplace—the God damned fireplace I’m paying a fortune for her to enjoy—and she scratched pictures. Like some sort of cavewoman.”

This was so unlike Julia that Maisy had to rearrange everything she knew about her daughter to fit it in.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Well, I guess I took you by surprise.”

“Why didn’t she just ask for paper and pencils?”

“Hostility? Do you think?”

She had to admit it sounded like the act of a pissed-off woman. “Did she have access to art supplies? If she’d asked for them?”

“Dr. Jeffers feels she needs rest and quiet.”

She was beginning to understand. “And not art supplies.”

“Julia doesn’t need to draw. She needs to talk. Besides, damn it, she can’t see! She’s blind, or at least pretending to be!”

She was stunned. “You don’t believe her? You think she’s making this up? My daughter isn’t perfect, but she doesn’t lie.”

“No? There are a few things in her past she sure doesn’t bandy about.”

“Bard, Julia can’t see. If you think she can—”

“I know she thinks she can’t. I believe her. But there’s nothing wrong with her eyes! Nothing!”

“Except that she can’t see through them.”

He pounded his fist on the table, another highly uncharacteristic show of emotion. “You wouldn’t know it after the way she acted last night, would you?”

“This is just another example of why she shouldn’t be there.”

“Enough.” Bard rested his head in his hands. “I don’t want you to see her again while she’s in the clinic, Maisy. Dr. Jeffers thinks you brought this on, and so do I. He called me about an hour ago, and he was very upset.” He lifted his head. “I want you to understand, this isn’t personal. I just can’t have you interfering with her treatment. She’s my wife.”

“She’s my daughter.”

He pushed back his chair and rose from the table. “You need to listen to me. Closely. Most of the time you’re harmless, but not in this instance. I don’t want you near her until her sight’s been restored. Julia has a lot of thinking to do, and you’re going to get in the way.” His voice dropped. “I won’t have it.”

A man spoke from the doorway. “What won’t you have?”

Maisy turned and saw a bareheaded Jake dressed in a canvas raincoat. No matter the weather, Jake started each day with a long walk. She supposed after living with her all these years it was a way of pumping some predictability into his life.

“I want Maisy to stay away from Julia.” Bard started toward Jake. “Will you make her listen to reason?”

Jake didn’t smile. “Maisy doesn’t take orders well. It’s one of her finer qualities. If she needs to see her daughter, she will.”

Bard’s face was a mixture of emotions. Maisy was too fascinated to be angry he was trying to rally her husband against her. She made another plea. “Look, I offered to have her come here if you don’t want her at Millcreek. I’m home all day. I can help her get her bearings—”

“She doesn’t need to get her bearings! For God’s sake, Maisy, she needs to see again! And with you fawning all over her and waiting on her hand and foot, why should she?”

Jake stepped forward to meet him. “You think your wife lost her eyesight because she wants to be taken care of?”

When Bard answered at last, his face was expressionless. “You have ties to her. I understand that, but right now, I’m in charge of her recovery. Stay away from her. Please. Until she’s ready to come home. Then we can talk about what’s best for her.”

“Julia is in charge of her own recovery,” Maisy said, spacing the words carefully.

Bard shook his head. “If you won’t agree, I’m going to have to make my feelings clear to Dr. Jeffers.”

“I suspect you’ve already done that,” Jake said. “Is there anything else you need this morning?” He stepped aside to make his point.

Bard started past him. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Maisy didn’t respond, and Jake didn’t speak again until their front door closed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m trying to remind myself that for the sake of my daughter and granddaughter I have to be nice to Lombard Warwick, even when he’s in a snit.”

“This has been hard on him, Maisy. He’s trying to cope as best he can.”

“By giving orders and making decisions.”

“He’s not so bad. He thinks he has Julia’s best interests in mind.”

Maisy filled the pot with fresh water before she flipped on the coffeemaker. “Well, he did say that usually I’m harmless.”

Jake chuckled. “He doesn’t know you as well as he thinks.”

She smiled, but it died quickly. She told Jake what Bard had said about Julia sketching on the wall. “I’m going to see her again today.”

“Do you want me to come along?”

Maisy considered before she shook her head. “No. One of us needs to stay in Bard’s good graces. If you don’t come, we can preserve the illusion that you don’t completely agree with me.”

“And that’s an illusion?”

“Do you agree?”

He came over and took cups out of the cupboard, setting them on the counter in front of her. Then he went to the refrigerator for the cream. “If you’re going because you want to be sure she has choices, you have my full support.”

“I just want the best for Julia.”

He set the cream in front of her. “You sound remarkably like Bard.”

The warm glow of Julia’s rebellion only lasted until the early hours of the next morning. She awoke when the morning nurse came in to check on her. She heard the woman’s soft gasp and hasty exit.

The jig was up.

By the time she had showered and finished breakfast, she knew she was overdue for a visit from her psychiatrist. She had to commend his self-control.

When Dr. Jeffers finally arrived, she was sitting by the window, listening to the rain falling on a wet landscape. She could picture the autumn leaves, heavy-laden and resistant. But they couldn’t resist for long.

“So, Julia, we have here a little protest.”

She had been contrite until she heard Jeffers’ tone. Had he not sounded as if he were talking to someone with the IQ of an earthworm, she might have apologized.

Now she was angry again. “I will not be kept from doing the things I need to in order to get better.”

“And you think defacing our walls will make you better?”

She was teaching herself not to play his game. “When I checked myself in, I expected rules. This particular whim of yours was simply cruel. You’re unhappy with my so-called lack of cooperation, so you’re taking away the things that mean the most to me.”

“You sound suspicious of my motives.”

She considered that. “You may well think you’re doing this for my benefit, but the result is the same.”

“And the result would be?”

“Let’s stop dancing around. I’m not going to improve if I spend my whole time butting heads with you. I’m willing to stay, but I want to be able to have visitors and art supplies.”

“Supplies you can’t see.”

“I see pictures in my head as clearly as I ever did.”

“Tell me about them.”

She considered that, too. “Not until I can trust you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Oh, so it’s a bargain, is it? Is that how your life works, Julia? You withhold favors until you get what you want?”

“A healthy person doesn’t give too much without the confidence she’ll get something in return. I’m asking for simple things anyone else would take for granted.”

“It’s difficult to tell exactly what you had in mind when you were drawing. I’m sure it would be clearer if you could see, or if you’d had better tools. But I think I’m looking at a landscape of some sort. Hills? Perhaps a stream?”

“I don’t think we’ve reached a decision.”

She thought he sighed. “I’ll have to give this some thought.”

She heard the scrape of a chair, as if he was standing up. She ventured one parting shot. “Dr. Jeffers, let’s face the fact that this might not be the best place for me. If we can’t come to an understanding, then I’ll check myself out. No hard feelings.”

“I’m not sure I can let you do that.”

She was taken aback. “I admitted myself voluntarily. You’d have trouble painting a blind woman as a threat to anyone.”

“You might well be dangerous to yourself, as that stunt last night proved. I’m surprised you didn’t burn down my clinic.”

A touch of panic gripped her, an old friend by now. “The fire was out and I was careful.”

“But what comes next? I think you’re seriously depressed and capable of acting out. A bad combination.”

Oddly, instead of anger she experienced a surge of relief, which pruned the panic at its roots. Now she knew what she had to do. “I think we’re done here.”

He was silent, and she wished she could see his expression. When he did speak, he was farther away, at the door, she guessed. “You have an appointment this morning with our internist.”

“I had a physical at the hospital.”

“Will you argue about this, too? We like to be thorough. Then you and I have an appointment at four-thirty. I’ll see you, then.”

She wouldn’t see him. She would be gone by then. Any ambivalence she’d had about leaving had disappeared in the wake of his threats.

At three o’clock Julia heard Jake’s pickup. By three-fifteen she knew Maisy had run into trouble, because she still hadn’t arrived at Julia’s door. Julia rang for Karen and waited impatiently until the young nurse came to her room.

“Karen, my mother’s here again to visit. Would you find out what’s keeping her?”

Karen sounded unhappy. “They aren’t going to let her up here to see you, Mrs. Warwick. Dr. Jeffers says it runs counter to your treatment plan. Security has orders. I’m sorry.”

“Is she still here?”

Karen hesitated, then she lowered her voice. “I’ll find out. Do you want me to give her a message?”

“Yes, tell her to wait for me.”

“Wait?”

Julia was on her feet. “I’m coming down. I’m going home. This is outrageous.”

“But you can’t do that. You signed yourself in.”

“I’ll sign myself out. And I’m going to do it right this minute, so don’t ask me to wait.”

“Dr. Jeffers isn’t here to—”

“Good.”

“But we can’t take you down there. We have orders—”

“Damn it, I’ll find my own way, then. And if I break my neck while I’m at it, my mother can sue Gandy Willson.” Julia started toward the door. She felt her way past the desk and dresser before she bumped into Karen.

Now Karen was pleading. “You’re going to get us in real trouble.”

Julia hesitated a moment; then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. Just tell Jeffers the truth. You tried to reason with me. I refused to listen. I am refusing, that’s no lie.”

“Let me call him.”

“Do whatever you want. But he can’t get back before I leave.”

“Let me talk to your husband.”

“Good luck. He doesn’t listen very well.”

Karen’s voice caught. “Please, don’t do this. Wait until—”

Julia was a small woman, but she drew herself up to her full height. “Please get out of my way.”

“But you’re going to get hurt,” Karen wailed.

“I hope you’ve moved.” Julia started forward, feeling for the doorway. She brushed Karen as she wiggled through.

In the hallway now, she realized how disoriented she was. There was an elevator by the nurses’ station, but she remembered being told that operation depended on a key. Dr. Jeffers had apologized for not having any vacant rooms on the first floor, which were state-of-the-art and handicapped accessible. He had promised her the first one that became available. At the time it hadn’t mattered. Now she realized how convenient this was for him. She was a prisoner of her own sightlessness. She was going to have to navigate the stairs alone.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me which way to go?”

“I can’t,” Karen said clearly. In a much lower voice she said, “Are you absolutely determined?”

“I’m leaving.”

She lowered her voice still more. “Go right. At the end, go left. The stairs are on your right, at the very end of that corridor. I’ll meet you there.”

Julia understood. No one would fault Karen for giving in at that point and helping her patient to the first floor. She would be negligent to do anything else. But first Julia had to make it to the stairs alone.

Julia took a deep breath, buoyed by the knowledge that at the very least she wasn’t going to tumble headfirst down a full flight of steps. She turned and took a step, then another. The hall was eerily silent. She wondered where the other patients were. Making pot holders or brownies in occupational therapy? She’d met no one since she arrived. No one had attempted to make her socialize. As she adjusted, Dr. Jeffers had wanted her to be alone with her thoughts.

She slid her hand along the wall beside her, taking another shuffling step. Each time she put her foot down, she expected anything but solid floor. She was falling into darkest space, disoriented and more frightened with each step. But the alternative frightened her more. If she was forced to stay, the depression Dr. Jeffers had cited would grow to be as real as the blindness that held her in its sway.

The wall dropped away, and startled, she jerked her hand back. Her feet were still planted firmly. She stood still for a moment, trying to picture her predicament. She realized that she must have encountered an open doorway, that there would probably be more than one on the hall. She lifted her left foot and replanted it in front of the right, feeling first with her toe to be certain the floor hadn’t suddenly dropped away, as well. Satisfied she kept moving. After what seemed like several yards she felt the wall again, but closer than it had been, as if she’d veered off course.

She straightened and continued on. She had no idea how far she would have to travel. The hall could be a few more yards or many. She had driven by the clinic a thousand times, and now she tried to picture the building. Were the wings long? They were additions to an antebellum mansion, which was now the central reception area, but the additions were old, as well.

She didn’t know how long she took to find her way to the end. She counted six doorways before she sensed something in front of her. She was sweating, even though the hallway was chilly. She was also trembling, afraid that each step would pitch her into space. Too well she remembered the terror of flying through the air, the sudden vision of total paralysis, the knowledge that she was about to hit the ground.

The realization that she could no longer see.

She stretched out her hands, but she touched nothing. She inched forward, arms extended, until her palms contacted glass. She was at the end of the hall, at a window, she guessed, and now it was time to turn left.

She turned, right hand still touching the window to help orient her. Relief was seeping through the fear. She was going to make this terrible journey in time to reach her mother. Maisy wouldn’t leave without a drawn-out fight. But she had to hurry.

Julia took a step, then quickly, another. Her toe caught on something just in front of her, and before she could steady herself, she pitched forward to her knees.

Her cheek rested against the branches of a tree. She stifled a cry, then felt for her bearings. She had stumbled over a plant of some sort, a small tree in a pot. An interior decorator’s vision.

She didn’t linger. She used the pot to steady herself and got to her feet. She had fallen and lived through it. She had gotten back up. She was moving. She might trip again. She would keep moving.

Nearly at the end of the second hallway, she heard a warning just before she stumbled over what felt like the edge of a carpet and sprawled chest down on the floor. This time it took her a moment to catch her breath. Pain shot through her right knee, but before she could find her way to her feet, she felt strong arms helping her up.

“Damn it!” Karen sounded as if she wanted to weep. “I don’t care if I lose my job. There have to be better places to work. If your mother’s gone, I’ll drive you home myself. I have a little boy at home. I just didn’t want—”

Julia felt for Karen’s hands. “I’m going to need help. Come with me. At least until you can find a job you like better.”

“I’d like flipping hamburgers better than this.”

“Let’s go find my mother.”

“Can you make the stairs?”

Julia managed a smile. “I’ll do anything to get out of here.”

“Don’t forget I’ll have my arm around you. Just put one foot in front of the other.”

Julia found that was a lot easier with Karen walking beside her.

4

The inmates at Ludwell State Prison left Christian Carver alone. That hadn’t always been true. When he had arrived as a frightened twenty-three-year-old, he had snagged more than his share of attention. Athletic and strong, he was also lean-hipped and slim. And at twenty-three Christian hadn’t yet learned the importance of feeling nothing, so that he truly had nothing to hide.

In a matter of months he had learned—the hard way—everything he needed to survive a life sentence. Who to befriend and who not to let out of his sight. How to tolerate the noise and the smell. How to find some common denominator with men who had broken into houses or set them ablaze, maniacs who had murdered old women and raped small children. The right balance between anger and hate, so that he could endure but not be consumed by the fire within him.

He had made a peace of sorts with his life. One of the guards had taken an interest in young Christian’s welfare and moved him into a cell with an old man convicted of murdering his wife. Alf Johnson had smothered his beloved Doris at her own request when the cancer eating away her lungs made every breath a torment. In the pre-Kevorkian days of Alf’s trial, Doris’s death had simply been premeditated murder.

Alf had used his years in prison to pursue the education his life on the outside had never allowed, and he had taken the young man under his wing. Before his death a year later, he’d taught Christian how to have a life behind bars, as well as one important motto to live by.

Only one man can imprison your spirit.

Now, as always, Christian was employing everything he’d learned.

“I don’t give advice.” Christian examined the golden retriever puppy at his feet. Seesaw had a coat as shiny as polished nuggets and liquid brown eyes that noticed absolutely everything. “Seesaw, sit.”

The dog sat obediently, her plump puppy body wiggling with pent-up energy. But Seesaw stayed where she was, despite instincts that told her otherwise.

Christian reached down to pet and praise her.

The man beside him spoke. “I don’t need advice, man. I just need to know how to get Tyrell off my back.”

“Same thing.” Christian snapped the leash on Seesaw’s collar. “Heel, Seesaw.”

“Hey, you been here a long time—”

Christian straightened. “And I’m going to be here a lot longer. So I know better than to say anything that might get me in trouble.”

“How’d telling me what to do get you in trouble?” The young man walked beside Christian as he and Seesaw slowly paced the indoor track that the prison dog trainers used for walking their canine charges. Timbo Baines was new to Ludwell, young, black and terrified. He had chosen Christian as his mentor, a job Christian didn’t want but wasn’t quite embittered enough to refuse.

“Look, Timbo. Tyrell has friends here. Friends talk to friends. You’ll talk to some of them. You’ll mention me.”

“So what if I just stay out of his way?”

“Make it a priority.” Christian stopped to gently scold the puppy, who was beginning to strain at the leash. “He has a short attention span.”

“He? I thought Seesaw was a girl.”

“Not Seesaw. Tyrell.”

“Yeah? Oh, yeah. I get it. Okay.”

“Think you can take over? Don’t raise your voice. Praise her if she does what you want her to. Don’t jerk on the leash.”

“Don’t know how I got stuck training dogs.”

“Guess you were just lucky.” As well as convicted for selling cocaine to middle-class teenagers who’d been sight-seeing in Richmond’s inner city.

Christian started back toward the kennel.

“Christian?”

He hadn’t noticed the Reverend Bertha Petersen at the end of the first run. An overweight woman in her fifties, she wore jeans and a sweatshirt with a bandanna covering her closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. A barrel-chested guard stood stiffly nearby, watching every move Christian made.

Christian approached her, stopping several yards away so as not to worry him. “Hello, Pastor. We weren’t expecting you.”

“It’s good to see you. How are the new puppies?”

“It’s too early to tell. But no real problems so far. The Lab’s a little excitable. She may calm down, but we’ll watch her.”

Bertha Petersen was the director of Pets and Prisoners Together and an ordained minister in a small fundamentalist sect with a long name. While many of her cohorts were busily converting the heathen, Bertha had turned her own considerable energy to good works.

The purpose of Pets and Prisoners was to raise and train helping dogs for the physically or mentally challenged. Ludwell was the first prison in the program to train dogs for the blind, turning over two dozen a year to organizations that did the final portion of the training and placed them. Christian had been in charge of the Ludwell program for two years.

“So, did you just drop by to check on us?”

“I like to keep up with everybody if I can.” Bertha’s gaze traveled to the guard, then back to Christian. “Why don’t you show me the dogs in training? How many do you have right now?”

Ludwell had two separate programs in progress. A new program, of which Seesaw was a part, evaluated puppies who had been bred to become guide dogs. The second and more established, brought in young dogs who had already been socialized by a host family and trained in good manners and family routine. They received intensive training from the prison staff for three months before they were passed on to one of several programs.

Christian would have liked to finish the training of each animal, but the final month involved working with the dog’s new master, often on city streets. And no one felt safe sending the blind to a prison or prisoners to the blind.

But what did that matter compared to everything else the men were denied?

“We have four dogs left,” Christian told the pastor. “We started this session with ten.”

She turned to the guard. “Officer, we’re going over to the other kennel. Will that be all right?”

He didn’t answer directly. Instead he picked up his two-way radio and spoke into it, then he gave a brief nod.

The second kennel was on the other side of solid steel doors. Christian and Bertha waited as the doors opened, then closed behind them. They walked down a short corridor flanked by video cameras. The second kennel looked much like the first, but the track was considerably larger, and a yard fenced in mesh and topped with razor wire was visible through a window.

The guard on duty here was used to Christian and hardly gave him a glance. He was busy watching one of the other inmates walk blindfolded through an obstacle course. A chocolate Lab wearing a leather harness led him through the maze. Javier Garcia, a huge man in blue jeans, walked confidently behind him.

Christian and Bertha strolled over to the guardrail overlooking the course and watched.

Christian explained what they were viewing. “That’s Cocoa. She’s had a little trouble with overhead obstacles.” The dogs had to be trained not to lead their new masters into low-hanging obstacles like tree branches and awnings, even if their masters urged them forward. Guide dogs were trained to practice “intelligent disobedience.” Their own good instincts had to supplant their blind master’s commands.

“She’s catching on?”

“Cocoa’s a winner. Very bright. She’ll make it. But we had one of her litter mates who flunked out the first week. He jumped at loud noises. Very distractible for a Lab. Hopefully by checking out the puppies earlier, we’ll avoid these problems.”

The pastor was silent for a moment as she watched Javier and Cocoa move flawlessly along the track. Then she turned so she could see Christian’s face. “Christian, I’ve been considering this conversation carefully.”

He waited stoically, another survival skill he’d learned.

“I’ve heard something.”

He supposed Bertha heard lots of gossip as she moved from prison to prison. Ludwell wasn’t the only penal institution that trained helping dogs.

She continued. “I suspect I could be accused of interfering with proper procedure for telling you this. Certainly for jumping the gun.”

“I’m listening.”

“Have you heard of a man named Karl Zandoff?”

Christian devoured the newspaper whenever he could. Anyone who could read had heard of Karl Zandoff. He gave a short nod. “He’s on death row in Florida. His appeals are almost up.”

“His execution date’s been set for December.”

“Yeah, and it looks like a date he’ll be keeping.”

“He’s been talking to the authorities.”

“So?”

“Apparently he’s confessed to another murder, one they didn’t suspect him of.”

“Nothing like a rendezvous with Old Sparky to get the juices flowing.”

“I’m told he might confess to more before this is over.”

Despite himself, Christian was growing curious. “Maybe confession’s good for the soul. You’d believe that, wouldn’t you?”

“How about you?”

“I haven’t seen much God in here, Pastor. If we were ever on speaking terms, we haven’t been for a long time. If I had anything to confess myself, I’d do it to my lawyer.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Zandoff told them where to look for the body, and they found it. A case solved. The girl’s parents can finally put her to rest.”

“Girl?”

“A college student in Tennessee. She disappeared ten years ago.”

“I thought all his crimes had been committed in Florida.”

“Now they’re looking at other unsolved murders in the South. Turns out he drifted for a while. Worked construction, followed the jobs. Then he settled in with a wife and couple of kids in the Sunshine State. But he didn’t stop preying on young women.”

Christian knew Zandoff had been caught with a young woman’s monogrammed barrette and a brand-new shovel covered with Tallahassee’s sandy clay loam. That was the crime he’d been arrested for. And when the body was finally located, the two in shallow graves beside it had earned him the death penalty.

Christian searched the pastor’s face impassively. On the track beyond them he could hear Javier praising Cocoa for a job well-done. They only had another minute at most to finish the conversation before Javier joined them.

“I’m unclear as to why you’re telling me this. I’m not Karl Zandoff. I didn’t kill one woman, much less an interstate sorority. If you think his example is going to stir my conscience, forget it.”

“Christian.” She shook her head, as if she really was disappointed in him. “I know you as well as anybody does. You didn’t kill Fidelity Sutherland.”

He studied her. “There were people who knew me as well as they knew themselves, and they questioned it.” One woman in particular, whose face he still hadn’t been able to erase from his memory.

She glanced at the track. “I’m telling you because there’s a rumor Zandoff spent time in northern Virginia between nine and ten years ago. He’s hinting that he murdered a woman here, as well.”

For a moment Christian didn’t make the connection. Then he shrugged. “Lots of people disappear or die mysteriously every year.”

“He worked construction. They’re looking at records.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Somebody working the case told me. I want to call your attorney. Your interests should be represented.”

Javier reached the railing with Cocoa in tow. He had black hair that fell straight to his shoulders and an incongruously narrow face that didn’t fit his broad body. “Did you see that? She’s catching on, and she goes with a real light touch. She’ll be perfect for a woman.”

“Hello, Javier.” Bertha greeted him warmly. “I spoke to your wife last week.”

The big man beamed. “She doing okay, Pastor?”

“She says you have a good chance with the parole board. Should I start scouting out a job for you?”

“You’d do that?”

“I sure would.”

There wasn’t much Bertha Petersen wouldn’t do for her inmates. She believed in every one of them, despite all evidence to the contrary. She was as comfortable with murderers as she was with Bible-thumping evangelists. She wasn’t foolish, she simply believed that God held her life in his hands.

“About that phone call?” She turned to Christian.

He shrugged. He was dismayed to find that for a moment he had almost been suckered by hope. But unlike the good pastor, he had no illusions that God cared one way or the other what happened to Christian Carver. The prison walls were too thick for lightning to strike here.

“I’ll take it that’s a yes,” she said with a smile. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your work.”

“She don’t know what bad asses we really are, does she?” Javier said, once the minister was out of earshot.

“Oh, she knows. She just doesn’t care.” Christian grimaced. “God doesn’t deserve a woman like that one.”

“Hey, man, you could go to hell for saying that.”

“Been there, doing that.” Christian walked away.

5

Julia longed to pace, but that was a recipe for disaster. She’d been raised in this house, but nothing had ever stayed the same. As a child she might return home from school to find that Maisy had rearranged bedrooms or turned the dining room into an exercise studio. Furniture mysteriously traveled from room to room, and carpets soared to new locations like props from the Arabian Nights.

With her eyesight intact, the changes had been mere annoyances. Now they were lethal. She didn’t know where to step or sit. Even with Karen’s help, she hadn’t yet mastered the small first-floor bedroom where Jake had made her welcome.

“I’m facing the window that looks over the front driveway.” Julia lifted her arm cautiously, but if she was indeed facing the window, it was still more than a length away.

“Good.” Karen’s voice sounded calmer than it had since their escape from the clinic.

Julia felt sympathy for the nurse, but right now she was too worried about Callie to offer much support. Maisy had gone to Millcreek to fetch her, and Julia was afraid there might be trouble. “I’ve got it right?”

“You’re right on target. We’ll get this room memorized, then I’ll talk to your parents about setting up the rest of the house so you can move around easily.” Karen paused. “This really isn’t my area of expertise, Mrs. Warwick. You’d do better to hire someone who has experience with the blind.”

“Call me Julia. And you have a job with me as long as you want one.”

“Your eyesight could return tomorrow. I hope it does.”

“Me, too. And if it does, then you automatically become my personal assistant. And don’t think I don’t need one. I’ve been threatening to hire somebody, and now I have.”

“Just remember I warned you.”

“Didn’t you tell me you have a son at home? Do you need to get back to him?”

“Brandon. My mother takes care of him.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and leave for the day? You’ve done more than enough. But we’ll see—” She stopped and wondered how long she’d continue to use that expression. “We can expect you in the morning?”

“Eight? Nine?”

“Nine will be terrific.” Julia managed a smile. “I’m turning now and facing the bed.” She started forward, stopping after several steps. She put out her hands but didn’t touch anything. Karen wisely kept silent.

She took two more steps before feeling for the bed again. This time she felt the spread under her fingertips. “I can make myself comfortable. Go on, now.”

“Nine, then. I’ll come right after I get Brandon off to school. Sleep well.”

“Better than I have in weeks.”

“If you have trouble, try herbal tea or warm milk.”

Julia liked that prescription better than the ones the doctor had issued. “A shot of whiskey in the milk might work wonders.”

Karen squeezed her shoulder. In a moment Julia heard the door close behind her.

She was home. But not in the upstairs room where she had danced to Depeche Mode and Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” where she had sketched a thousand portraits of her schoolmates and landscapes of her beloved hills, suffered over trigonometry defeats, talked on the telephone for hours to Fidelity…and Christian.

Her hands rested in her lap, but she felt them ball into fists. She hadn’t slept under this roof since her marriage. Even though she’d only been twenty when she married Bard, she had packed away her childhood and stored it in the attic of her unconscious.

She remembered it, of course. If she had the need she could pull pieces of it from mental suitcases and trunks. When Callie asked, Julia told stories of growing up at Ashbourne, of the winter when she’d had the chicken pox and to cheer her Maisy had dressed up like Santa Claus to deliver Valentine candy nestled in a lavender-and-yellow Easter basket.

She thought now that she had been a pensive child in a happy home. A quiet child in a home where nothing ever went unsaid. A secretive child in a home with no mysteries. No one here had belittled her or tried to change her. She had been accepted and loved, and though at times she had yearned for the more traditional households and parents of her friends, she had also realized just how lucky she was.

Until the day her world turned upside down.

Her reverie was broken by a knock at her door. “Come in,” she called too loudly, grateful to be interrupted.

“I brought you some tea. I remember the way you liked it as a little girl.”

She smiled in the direction of Jake’s voice. “You’re too good to me.” She heard his footsteps.

“No one could ever be too good to you, Julia.” He set something, probably her cup, on the table beside her bed. “It’s our largest mug, about half full. I baked cookies last weekend, and there are two on the saucer beside it. Shall I put the mug in your hand?”

“Please.” She extended her hand and closed it around warm pottery, probably one of Maisy’s projects. Maisy had gone through an unfortunate ceramics era, and the cupboards were still filled with lopsided mugs and plates that couldn’t survive the microwave.

Jake waited until she was secure before he released it. “Two lumps of sugar and plenty of milk.”

“I haven’t had it that way in years. What a treat.”

The bed sagged. She could tell he was sitting at the foot now. “You’ve had quite a day.”

She hadn’t thought of it for years, but now she remembered the many times Jake had come to her room as a teenager, making himself available if she wanted to talk, departing without comment if she didn’t. He never probed, never criticized. Jake had always simply been there. No real father could have been kinder.

“Dr. Jeffers was threatening to have me committed if I didn’t agree to stay there on my own.”

“Could he do that?”

“I don’t know the law, something I’m sure he was counting on. I guess he thought that was his ace in the hole.”

“Well, about now he’s playing fifty-two pickup, isn’t he?”

“I couldn’t get better there. But maybe I won’t get better here, either.”

“What would be the worst thing that could happen?”

“I might never see again.”

“Highly unlikely, but let’s say it’s possible. Then what?”

“I learn to live with being blind.”

“Could you?”

“Would I have a choice?”

“Only a very extreme one.”

She realized he was talking about suicide. “This is terrible. Unthinkable. But I still have my life, my family. I’m not going to do anything foolish.” Tears filled her eyes. “Jake, what is Callie going to think of me?”

He was quiet a moment. “I believe we’re about to find out.”

She heard the pickup, too. “I don’t want her to see me crying.”

“Drink some tea and wipe your eyes.”

The tea tasted like childhood, like rainy afternoons and Black Stallion novels and the wind whistling through evergreen hedges. She had regained her composure, at least outwardly, by the time she heard the old heart of pine floors creaking with excitement.

Then her door burst open. She felt Jake remove the cup from her hands, and she opened her arms wide just in time to catch her daughter’s soft body in a fierce bear hug. She pictured her as she held her.

Callie Warwick had pigtails the color of butterscotch and brown eyes rimmed with thick black lashes. Like her mother she was small-boned and petite. Unlike Julia, she was spontaneous, open and unafraid to show her feelings.

“Mommy!”

Julia wondered if she would ever see her daughter’s sweet face again. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Maisy came and got me. And she got Feather Foot, too. I mean she told Ramon to get her and bring her here so I can ride at Ashbourne. Isn’t that neat?”

Feather Foot was Callie’s pony. At eight, like most local children, Callie was an accomplished rider. “Maisy is the world’s best grandma,” Julia said.

Callie giggled. “We played hide-and-seek with Mrs. Taylor.”

Julia imagined it was more like hide, then hide some more. She was sure that once Callie’s suitcases were packed, Maisy hadn’t wanted to run into Millcreek’s housekeeper.

“Everything go okay, Maisy?” Julia lifted her face from Callie’s hair. She knew her mother was standing there by the scent of violets.

“No problems at all. And we stopped by the stables to make arrangements to have Feather Foot loaded and delivered within the hour.”

“Are we really going to stay here, Mommy?”

Julia brushed Callie’s bangs back from her forehead. “Yes, we are. Maisy and Jake say they want to take care of us until my eyesight returns, but I think they just want more time with you.”

“Is that true?” Callie said.

“Your mommy’s too smart for words,” Maisy said. “She always was. I could tell you stories.”

“And will if there’s even one moment of silence to give you a foothold,” Jake said.

“Maisy said I can pick out any room I want upstairs. Do you want to help?” Callie was silent as Julia tried to think how to gently remind her that picking things out right now was a difficult task. “Oh, you can’t,” Callie said matter-of-factly. “I forgot.”

Julia felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. She had nearly bought Bard’s warnings that her blindness would be an insurmountable hurdle for Callie.

She hugged Callie again, then released her. “I could go along anyway and tell you what I remember. Like the time I hid under the bed in the room beside the bathroom because I didn’t want to go to school.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. And Maisy pretended nothing was wrong all day. Nobody even looked for me.”

“Is that true?” Callie asked.

Maisy answered. “Absolutely. I figured if she needed a day under the bed, I’d let her have one.”

“Is the bed still there?”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Julia said. “You’ll be going to school every day. Besides, it was dusty and boring.”

“I’m going to see if it’s still dusty.” The clatter of feet disappearing down the hall announced her departure.

“Well,” Maisy said, “piece of cake.”

“She didn’t find it odd that you were practically kidnapping her?” Julia said.

“Not at all. She did wonder what Bard would say. Then she said maybe he wouldn’t notice.”

“He’ll notice,” Julia said. “The telephone will be ringing shortly.”

“How would you like us to handle it?”

“There’s a phone on my table, right?”

“I moved the cordless in here. It will be easier for you to use,” Jake said.

“Then I can handle Bard.”

“He’s always welcome here, Julia.” Maisy’s tone sounded sincere enough.

“When Bard is under stress the worst parts of him come to the surface. He gets more rigid and more assertive. But he’ll come around once he sees I mean business.”

“Will you go home, then?”

She was home. As strange as it felt, it also felt right. She wondered what that said about her. She was a grown woman with a husband and child of her own, but she needed the parents she had left behind. She had crawled back into the womb.

“Let her take it one step at a time,” Jake said, when Julia didn’t answer.

“Maisy, will you help Callie get settled upstairs?” Julia said.

“With pleasure. If she wants your old room?”

“It’s a room, not a shrine.”

“Maisy!” Callie’s voice drifted down the stairwell.

“Would you like your tea again?” Jake said.

Julia wanted her life again. She did not want to be a tormented, hysterical, sightless woman who was forced to depend on her stepfather to put a mug of tea in her hand.

She shook her head. “No, I’m going to find it on my own, thanks.”

She waited for someone to argue. No one did.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Jake said. “And just so you know, if you happen to knock that particular mug to the floor, that would be fine with me.”

“Not one of my better efforts,” Maisy agreed.

“Definitely not.”

Julia could picture Jake, his arm slung over Maisy’s shoulder, leading his wife from the room. Tears filled her eyes again.

She took a moment to mourn all she had lost. Then she swallowed her tears and began her search.

6

Fidelity Sutherland, her long blond hair woven in a flawless French braid, came to Christian that night. Her smile was as sassy as ever, her throat a gaping caricature, a hideously grinning half-moon that spouted a river of blood down the front of a tailored white shirt.

He awoke without a sound and sat up quickly, but Fidelity would not be purged. In death, as in life, she was tenacious. As a young woman she had found ways to have everything she wanted. Dead almost ten years, she hadn’t lost her touch.

By the faint lightening of the sky Christian saw that dawn was perched on the horizon. There was a small barred window in his cell, too high for any purpose other than to let in slivers of light. He’d often wondered why windows had been included in the prison’s design. To remind the refuse of society that the sun rose and set without them?

Christian pillowed his head on his arms and stared up at the window. One year a red-winged blackbird had taken a liking to the narrow ledge and landed there intermittently all summer, vocalizing his own version of “nevermore,” which had seemed all too appropriate to Christian. He’d found himself looking for the blackbird whenever he was in his cell, but the moment Christian had begun to count on finding it there, the bird disappeared.

Blackbirds had darkened the skies at Claymore Park. Christian had grown up with them. Telephone lines crowded with glistening feathered bodies like endless ropes of Tahitian pearls. Once he had told Julia Ashbourne that her hair reminded him of a blackbird’s wing.

Once he had been a foolishly romantic young man with no idea of how quickly everything in his life could change.

“You awake?”

Christian didn’t take his eyes from the window. His cell mate, a man named Landis, always woke early. Landis, not yet twenty-one, was getting a head start on a lifetime of mornings like this one. Like Christian, his chances of encountering dawn any place else were almost nonexistent.

“Go back to sleep,” Christian said. “You have time.”

“Shit, I don’t sleep. You don’t know what can happen to you when you’re sleeping.”

“Nothing’s going to happen in here. You’re not my type.”

“You got a type?”

Christian’s type had been female and deceptively fragile, black-haired, blue-eyed and much too serious. In the company of the more flamboyant Fidelity Sutherland she had been easy for some people to overlook. He hadn’t been one of them.

He thought the sky was growing lighter quickly, which was too bad. “My type is female. Which means you’re safe.”

“Shit, most people got that idea when they come in here. But look what goes on.”

“Don’t look. You’ll be better off.”

“How you get to be so bored with all this? You don’t care about bein’ here?”

“What good would it do to care?”

“I never met nobody as alone as you.” Landis continued, buoyed by Christian’s silence. “You got no family?”

“All gone.”

“No woman waiting?”

“That would be a long wait, wouldn’t it?”

“You get mail, but you don’t even read it.”

Christian shifted, easing the pressure on his forearms. “You’re paying attention to things that aren’t your business, Landis.”

Landis bristled. “So? You gonna make something out of it?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you notice, but other people might.”

“So?”

“I’ve seen men stabbed for less.”

“I just said you don’t read your mail. That’s all I said. How come you don’t?”

“No reason to.”

“It makes you homesick, don’t it? Mine makes me homesick.”

On a night when he’d been high on drugs and sure he was invincible, the young veteran of the streets of Southeast D.C. had killed a cop in a car chase, just within the Virginia border. Unfortunately he was also the proud owner of a rap sheet as long as the list of foster homes he’d paraded through from the time he was three. This wasn’t Landis’s first time in jail, but it would almost certainly be his last.

“I got me a girl back home,” Landis said. “I’m gonna get out of here someday. She’ll be waiting.”

Christian was silent.

“Your mail from a woman?”

Maisy Fletcher was certainly that. A warm earth mother who had taken Christian under her wing the first time she laid eyes on him. Now, all these years later, she hadn’t given up on him, even though her daughter had tossed him away like so much spoiled paté.

Maisy wrote Christian faithfully, averaging a letter a month. The letters appeared as regularly as beans and corn bread on Wednesday nights. There was nothing else Maisy could do for him.

He had gotten one yesterday, hence Landis’s question. He never read the letters anymore. In the first years of his sentence, he had read them all until he realized that the letters were like acid burning holes through his thickening defenses. She talked about people he’d grown up with, talked around Julia’s marriage to Lombard Warwick, told funny stories about life in Ridge’s Race. As a letter writer Maisy, who in everyday life was often inarticulate and unfocused, came into her own. She captured the life he’d left behind too perfectly.

“Chris, you awake?”

“What chance do I have to sleep with you talking?”

“I’ll stop reading letters, too, won’t I? One day, I’ll stop reading them. Just like you.”

Christian closed his eyes.

“Heel, Seesaw.” Seesaw obediently took up her place beside Christian and started down the track.

She was a particularly pretty puppy, clever and bursting with energy. But Christian knew better than to get attached to any of the dogs who came through the Pets and Prisoners program. He had grown up with dogs and horses. He’d seen both at their best and worst, trained them, nursed them, even put them down when required.

He kept his distance here. The dogs he trained went on to new masters. He knew from reports how well they were cared for and how invaluable they were. Sometimes he found himself wishing he could watch a puppy like Seesaw grow up, but he knew how lucky he was to have this chance to work with her at all. Training guide dogs was as close to his past as he was liable to come.

Timbo signaled from the side of the track, and Christian stopped and turned. Seesaw waited beside him as he unsnapped her leash. Timbo called her name, and she trotted toward him. Christian followed.

“Okay, Timbo. If you had to rate her chances of getting through the advanced training, what would you say?”

Timbo studied the puppy as he petted her. “Good. No, better than good. I’d say nine out of ten.” He looked up. “What do you say?”

“Eight out of ten. She’s a party girl. We may have some trouble teaching her to ignore other dogs. But it’s a small problem at this point, and I expect it will go away as she matures. I’ll mention it to her new family.”

“They’re taking her tomorrow?”

“In the morning. We’ll get another batch of puppies next week. I’ll finish the paperwork tonight.”

“She’ll have a good home?”

Christian raised a brow. For a man who couldn’t imagine how he’d been assigned to train dogs, Timbo was evolving fast. “All the homes are good. Most have children and other pets to play with. She’ll be fine. And we’ll see her back here in a year.”

“Just wondering.”

“You’ve done your job with her.”

“Never had me no dog. But I fed some, you know? Dogs in the neighborhood nobody took care of. Used to buy sacks of dog food and leave ‘em in the alley at night.”

“You’re all heart, Timbo.”

Timbo grinned. “That’s me.”

“Do a good job here, and when you get out Bertha will help find you a job on the outside.”

“What, shoveling dog shit at some kennel?”

“You might aim a little higher than that.”

“I got big plans.”

Christian squatted beside the little retriever, scratching behind her ears. “A man’s plans have a way of changing.”

“Yeah? Looks like yours are about to.”

Christian glanced up and saw the guard on duty motioning for him. He stood. “Take her back to the kennel, would you? Then go on over and help Javier. I’ll see what he wants.”

“What he wants is to make you feel like you nuthin’.”

Silently Christian handed Timbo Seesaw’s leash.

Mel Powers was a skinny man who perspired like a heavy one. He wore an extravagant hairpiece, expensive suits that always looked cheap and gold-rimmed glasses with lenses that were as thick as his New Jersey accent. The effect was more ambulance chaser than high-powered attorney, but Mel Powers was the revered Great White of shark-infested waters. Mel, considered the best criminal attorney in Virginia, had been hired by Peter Claymore to represent Christian. He still took Christian’s conviction as a personal affront.

Peter Claymore, of Claymore Park, was a study in contrasts. At sixty, he was twenty years older than Mel, and if he sweated at all, it was only after hours of riding to hounds. His silver hair was thick and his eyesight so perfect he could detect movement in the forest when everyone else believed a fox had gone to ground. When he wore a suit, it was tailored to highlight the breadth of his shoulders and the good taste of his ancestors. Claymore Park, the largest and most successful horse property in Ridge’s Race, had been home to Claymores long before the War of Northern Aggression.

Christian hadn’t expected to find either man waiting for him in the tiny visitors’ room. Neither the guard who had summoned him to the warden’s office nor the warden who had brought him here had given him any indication. After shaking hands, he seated himself on the other side of the small rectangular table and waited for them to speak.

“You’re looking well, Christian.” Peter sat with one arm on the table, the other thrown over the back of his chair. He looked at home in this unlikely place, but in all the years Christian had known him, Peter had never seemed ill at ease.

“I’m doing as well as you could expect, sir.” Christian’s gaze flicked to Mel, who was patting his forehead with a folded handkerchief.

“I get the heebie-jeebies every time I come.” Mel wiped his hands. “I feel like I’m being smothered in cotton. Can’t breathe at all. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Breathing comes naturally to me.”

“I hear good reports about the Pets and Prisoners program,” Peter said.

“I doubt they’ll cut it any time soon.”

“You might not be here long enough to worry.” Mel shoved his handkerchief in his pocket, then thought better of it. He took it out, folded it and shoved it in again.

“Christian, we’ve had some encouraging news.” Peter put both hands on the table and leaned forward. “Very encouraging.”

Christian, who had been wending his way through the appeals process for too long to be hopeful, waited. But even though he struggled not to feel anything, something inside him tightened, a spring coiling in anticipation.

“Bertha Petersen says she talked to you?”

“About Karl Zandoff? She did.”

“It must have been on your mind ever since.”

In truth, Christian had refused to let himself dwell on his conversation with Bertha. False hope was more dangerous than none, and “long shot” had been coined for coincidences like this one. “It hasn’t been on my mind. Why should it be? Zandoff’s about to fry, and the only thing we ever had in common was his brief residence in Virginia. If he ever lived here at all.”

Mel waved his hand, directing the conversation like a hyperactive symphony conductor. “He seems to think you have more in common than that. You were convicted of Fidelity Sutherland’s murder, but Zandoff was the one who calmly slit her throat.”

For a moment Christian couldn’t breathe. Then he shook his head. “You’re telling me this is what you believe? What you hope for?”

“He’s telling you what Zandoff told the authorities in Florida this morning. He confessed to killing Fidelity. He was there, at South Land, the afternoon Fidelity was killed. He caught her alone in the house. He killed her—”

“How does he say he got my knife?” The knife that had killed Fidelity, a specially designed horseman’s knife with several blades and tools, had belonged to Christian.

“Found it in the Sutherlands’ barn on a window ledge. You’d been there that week to ride, hadn’t you? You probably used it to pick a hoof or trim a strap, then left it.”

“What about the jewelry? I’ve read Zandoff’s history. He only killed for pleasure.”

“He always took trophies.” Mel fanned himself with his hand. “And this time he says he needed money to get back to Florida. Nobody was at home, so afterward he took his time looking for something he could sell. She didn’t keep her jewelry under lock and key. We knew that. He found it, pocketed it and went outside.”

“That’s when he saw you,” Peter said. “You were calling Fidelity’s name. He said you were on the way inside and you looked furious. He knew you would find her, and he started to worry that someone might catch and search him before he got far enough away to avoid suspicion. So he dug a hole and buried the jewelry.”

Mel took over. “But not everything. After he heard your voice, he was in such a hurry that he dropped a necklace.”

Christian stared at him.

“That’s the necklace you found on the stairs,” Peter said. “The one that put you in this prison.”

“They’re looking for the jewelry now.” Mel took out his handkerchief again. “He’s told the police where to look. When they find it, it will corroborate his story.”

Christian sat forward. “And if they don’t?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because it’s been nine years. Where does he say he hid it?”

Peter answered. “Along the fence line between South Land and Claymore Park.”

“Do you know how many people come and go at South Land? Do you think there’s really a chance that if any of the drifters who’ve worked for the Sutherlands found that jewelry they would have turned it in?”

“Zandoff says he was planning to go back for it,” Peter said. “Only he never had the chance. He got scared and took off for Florida without it. But he claims he hid it well. We’ve got a good chance, Christian. A very good chance.”

“And if they do find it?”

“Then we’ll be back in court to have you released while the matter’s investigated further.”

Christian sat absolutely still, but his heart was speeding. He could school his appearance, even his thoughts, but his body remembered what it was like to be free.

Peter reached across the table and rested his hand on Christian’s. “I know how you must feel. Believe me, I know, and so does Mel.”

“How do I feel?” Christian wasn’t even certain.

“Angry so much of your life has been wasted. Hopeful that the worst is almost over. Afraid that it isn’t.”

“Why would Zandoff confess?”

“He doesn’t have anything to lose.”

“He’s got a wife, children….”

“Maybe he wants to do the right thing for once, to show his kids that he had some kind of morals.”

“Maybe he just feels sorry for you,” Mel said. “He knows another man is serving time for something he did.”

Christian knew other men who had killed simply for the pleasure of it. Not a one of them would care if someone else took the rap.

“Maybe he’s bragging.” Peter removed his hand. “Maybe he just wants the world to know how good he was at what he did and how many times he did it.”

“Or maybe he’s hoping if he confesses to a few more murders, he can string the authorities along for a while and hold off his execution date.” Mel put his arms on the table. “Who the hell cares, Christian? That’s not your problem. In fact, as far as I can see, you don’t have a problem right now. You just got to sit tight and wait. They’re bringing metal detectors, and they’re going to start digging holes along the fence line today. Zandoff’s outlined the general area, but this may take a while. Nobody’s exactly sure where or how deep he buried it. We don’t want to miss it by inches.”

Christian said nothing, but his mind was whirling.

“We wanted you to know,” Peter said. “We didn’t want to spring it on you. There’s a chance this won’t come to anything, but it’s a small one. Even without the jewelry to back up Zandoff’s story, we can still get back into court with this. It will take longer, and the outcome won’t be as certain, but the odds are still in your favor.”

“If we have to, we’ll try to find somebody, anybody, who remembers Zandoff being in the area when Miss Sutherland was killed.” Mel took out his handkerchief once more, this time to clean his glasses. “We’ll search the records of local contractors, cheap hotels, ask at bars….”

Everything they described cost money, and lots of it. Every breath Mel took cost money. He had reduced his fees since the beginning, believing he would free Christian, and the resulting publicity would be worth the fees he lost. And to his credit, even after a devastating defeat, he had continued to reduce his fees during the appeals process. But even reduced, Christian’s legal fees could put quadruplets through Ivy League colleges and send them to Europe after graduation.

The money had been paid by Peter Claymore.

Christian switched his gaze to Peter. “If something does happen, and they let me out of here, I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

“You were my son’s best friend. You’re like a son to me, Christian. Robby would have expected me to help you. You don’t owe me a thing.”

But Christian knew he owed Peter everything. Were it not for Peter, his life would be entirely without hope. And despite his better instincts, Christian could feel hope stirring. Despite a past that railed against it. Despite the friends who had deserted him and the detractors who had silently nodded their heads. Hope was light pouring through the broken pieces of his heart.

7

Maisy was a good cook, but Jake was a better one. Together they fixed a dinner that tempted Julia out of her self-imposed fast. She had Callie to think about, a vulnerable daughter who did not need another anorexic role model. Television already supplied too many.

She decided to address her own embarrassment upfront. “This is delicious. But I bet I’m making a mess.”

Callie giggled. “You have gravy on your chin.”

Julia felt a napkin dabbing around her mouth. She let her daughter take care of her, grateful that Callie seemed more interested in than frightened by her predicament.

“I’m going to try eating with my eyes closed,” Callie said.

“One messy eater at a table, please.” Julia smiled in her daughter’s direction. “Poor Maisy will have enough to clean up as it is.”

“Another biscuit?” Maisy spoke from across the table. “Julia?”

Julia shook her head. “This is more than I’ve eaten in a week. It’s wonderful.” And it really was. Maisy had always been an eclectic cook, quickly tiring of one cuisine and moving on to another. Thai lemon grass soup or Salvadoran pupusas had been as commonly served as country ham. Tonight she and Jake had prepared Southern classic. Fried chicken, biscuits and cream gravy, green beans cooked with salt pork and Jake’s famous sweet potato pie for dessert. A heart attack on a plate.

“Pie after I clean up?” Maisy asked.

“I’ll help,” Julia said. “I can dry dishes.”

Maisy didn’t argue or fuss. “I’ll help you find your way.”

“I want to see Feather Foot.” Callie’s chair scraped the floor beside Julia. “He might be lonely.”

“I’ll take you.” Jake’s chair scraped, too. “Then we can close up for the night. I could use your help.”

“Can I, Mommy?”

“You bet.” Julia got to her feet and slid her hands along the table until it ended. Maisy took her arm, and, shuffling her feet so as not to trip, Julia followed her mother’s lead.

The kitchen was large enough for a table of its own, enameled metal and cool to the touch. Julia rested her fingers on its edge. Whenever she had needed help she had done her homework here as a young girl, letting Maisy drill her on spelling words or Jake untangle math problems, step by step. She had abandoned this warm family center as she grew older, preferring her own company to theirs. Her room had become a haven, the telephone her lifeline.

Again she thought of Fidelity, and, inevitably, of Christian.

“You have the expression on your face you used to get as a little girl.” Maisy released Julia’s arm. “You’re a million miles away. I used to wonder how to travel that far.”

Julia was surprised. Maisy, for all her love, her sneak attacks into intimacy, rarely expressed what she was feeling. She decided to be honest. “I was just thinking about Fidelity.”

“What brought her to mind?”

“Being here, I guess. I feel like a girl again.”

“She was a big part of your childhood. Christian, too.”

Julia couldn’t touch that. “And Robby. So much sadness.”

“You saw too much sadness.”

“I’ve wondered if that’s what this is about. If I’m blind because of that. If everything finally caught up with me. Fidelity’s murder, Christian’s conviction, Robby’s accident.”

“Did you ask the doctor?”

“Would you share the time of day with that man?”

“Julia, do you want me to see if I can find you a good therapist, somebody you’d feel comfortable talking to?”

Julia could imagine the sort of therapist her mother might choose. An escapee from Esalen, a guru who started each session with ancient Hindu chants or a fully orchestrated psychodrama.

Maisy laughed a little, low and somehow sad. “This is interesting, but I really can almost see your thoughts now. You’ve always been so good at hiding them, but that’s changed.”

“Maisy, I—”

“There’s a woman in Warrenton who is supposed to be excellent. No fireworks or instant revelations. Just good listening skills and sound advice.”

Julia wondered what choice she had. Did she want to call her own friends for recommendations and open her life to more gossip? Could she trust Bard to find someone more suitable?

“Why don’t you give her a try? If you don’t like her, we’ll look for someone else.” Maisy took her arm. “I’ll wash in the dishpan, and I’ll put the clean dishes in the other side of the sink to rinse. You can dry them and stack them on the counter.”

Julia joined her mother at the sink, but the first dish she picked up slipped and fell back into the sink.

“Don’t even say it.” Maisy adjusted the water to a lighter flow. “I won’t put you to drying the good china just yet.”

Julia picked up the plate again and started to rub it with the towel Maisy had provided. “We did this when I was little. Remember? Of course, then I could see what I was doing.”

“From the time we moved in here. When it was just you and me.”

For Julia, those early days seemed like centuries ago. She remembered little before Jake joined their lives and almost nothing of living in the big house with her father. “Why did you move here, Maisy?” She had asked the question before, of course, but she hoped now she would get a more detailed answer.

“Truthfully? Ashbourne’s too large to manage without help, and I thought we needed the time alone to heal after your daddy died.”

“How about later?”

“By then I’d grown to love this place. I couldn’t imagine the two of us rattling around the big house. Then Jake came along…”

Julia couldn’t imagine Jake at the big house, either. Ashbourne had been built by and for people who assumed that they, too, were somehow larger than life. Jake had no such illusions.

Since the conversation was going well, Julia ventured further. “Ashbourne almost seems like a museum. A record of life on the day my father died.”

“Ashbourne belongs to you. I never saw the point of changing things or selling the antiques. I like living here. It will be up to you to decide what to do with Ashbourne once you’re ready.”

“Bard would like to live there.” Ashbourne was grander than Millcreek, although Millcreek had been in his family since the Revolutionary War.

“I always thought as much.”

“But not until you open the property to the Mosby Hunt. It would be too embarrassing for him to live there if you didn’t.”

“And I won’t.” Maisy plunked more dishes on Julia’s side of the sink. “Not as long as the land’s in my name.”

Maisy’s objection to foxhunting at Ashbourne was legendary. Her determination to keep foxhunters off her land had made her the butt of many a local joke and the occasional prank. Julia, by default, had suffered, too.

“Speaking of Bard…” Maisy turned off the water. “I think that’s his car.”

Julia had been waiting all evening for the low purr of the BMW’s engine. Now she heard it, too. “This should be a laugh a minute.”

“Where would you like to talk to him?”

“Somewhere Callie can’t overhear. How about the garden?”

“It’s a little cool tonight.”

“I have a sweater in the dining room.”

“I’ll get the door and the sweater.”

Julia listened as Maisy’s footsteps disappeared. She had steeled herself for this confrontation. Her marriage to Bard had always seemed simple and forthright. It had also been untested, and it was failing this one, as if the added weight of her blindness had tipped a precariously balanced scale.

Moments passed. She heard murmurs from the front of the house, a door close, then footsteps. She dried her hands and turned, leaning against the counter with her arms folded. When he crossed the threshold, she was ready.

“Hello, Bard.”

“Julia.” His voice was tight, as if his throat was closing around it.

“We expected you earlier. Maisy saved a place for you at the dinner table.”

“I’d like to talk to you alone. If I’m allowed?”

She was annoyed by his tone. “You don’t need to be rude. Maisy?”

“Right here. I brought the sweater.”

Julia held out a hand, and Maisy placed the sweater in it. “Need help getting it on?”

“No, I’ll manage.”

Maisy must have turned, because her voice came from a different place. “Julia would like to have this conversation in the garden. Can you help her get there?”

“I can still escort my wife any place she needs to go.”

Julia spoke without thinking. “And any place I don’t need to go, as well.”

“Now who’s being rude?” Bard stepped forward to help her with her sweater.

She didn’t apologize, although it had been a cheap shot. “Let’s go out through this door. Callie’s in the barn with Jake.”

“I understand you sent for Feather Foot, too. Just how long do you intend to stay?”

“As long as I need to.”

She heard the kitchen door open, then felt Bard’s big hand on her upper arm. “Let’s finish this outside.”

He was a large man with a long stride. He did little to modify it as he propelled her to the garden. She stumbled once, and he slowed down, but she could tell he was annoyed by the way he continued to grip her arm.

“You should try this sometime.” Julia came to a halt when he did. “Being dragged along by someone bigger than you. It’s not a reassuring feeling.”

“I didn’t drag you.” He hesitated. “Damn it, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m just so angry.”

“Is this what happens when you don’t get your way? Or hasn’t that happened often enough for you to recognize the signs?”

“You’re determined to be stupid about this, aren’t you?”

“Stupid?”

“It was stupid for you to escape from the clinic. Do you have any idea how that made me look?”

“Let me guess. Like the husband of a stupid woman?”

“Damn it, Julia!”

She was silent, waiting for him to gain control. Although a large part of her wanted to have a screaming match, a larger part knew better. Not only would Callie hear, nothing would be accomplished.

He took a while to get hold of his temper. She imagined steam rising from a boiling kettle, then an unseen hand turning off the heat. The steam billowed, then puffed, and at last died away altogether. But the water was still hot enough to scald.

“Let’s sit down,” he said at last.

“Where are we?”

“There’s a bench under a tree.” He led her there. She could hear him brushing leaves from the wooden slats; then he repositioned her. She could feel the bench against the backs of her knees. She sat gingerly.

Julia knew enough of her mother’s gardening style to visualize how this garden looked in moonlight. With fall in the air, Maisy would have planted gold and orange chrysanthemums. Purple asters bloomed here when the weather began to turn, perhaps there was flowering kale this year. Maisy’s gardens were chaotically haphazard and more beautiful because of it, as if God Himself had randomly sprinkled all the colors of the world with a generous hand.

“I came here a lot as a teenager.” Julia explored the bench with her fingertips. “You can see the road through those trees.” She inclined her head. “Sometimes I’d see you riding by. Did you ever notice me?”

If he understood her attempt to take the conversation to a more conciliatory level, he gave no sign. “What were you thinking, Julia? Dr. Jeffers says you found your way downstairs by yourself. You could have been killed.”

“I had help. Did he also tell you he threatened to have me committed?”

“He was trying to keep you there for your own good.”

“Bard, I’m an amateur psychologist. I’ll admit it. But doesn’t it make sense that I won’t get better unless I’m part of the cure?”

“Maybe you don’t want to get better.”

“Then there’s no point to being at the clinic, is there? Think of all the money we’re saving. I can wallow in my blindness for free.”

He took her hand, swallowing it in his. “I don’t mean consciously, Julia. I know you think you want to get better.”

“Now who’s playing amateur psychologist?”

“Well, if you wanted it badly enough, wouldn’t you just see again?”

“Back to that.”

“I don’t know what to think.” He squeezed her hand.

She let him, even though she really wanted him to disappear.

She wanted him to disappear. The thought surprised her, and for a moment it choked off conversation.

“We won’t talk about the clinic anymore,” he said at last. “Maybe I was being too heavy-handed.”

Concessions came with a price. She waited.

“I want you to come home.”

She removed her hand from his. “I’m sorry, but for now I’m right where I need to be.”

“I’m not going to work on you to go back to the clinic, if that’s what you’re afraid of. That chapter’s over. We’ll—”

“You’re not listening again. Even if the clinic’s never mentioned, I want to be here. I need to be here. It feels right.”

“What are you really saying? That you need to be here—or you need to be away from me?”

Since she wasn’t sure, she couldn’t answer directly. “I need people I love around me. You work hard. You won’t be home much, and Mrs. Taylor will end up taking care of me.”

“I can take time off.”

She tried to imagine Bard preparing meals and making certain utensils were in reach. Bard mopping up spills. Bard leading her to the bathroom, or picking her up if she stumbled.

“You would hate it,” she said, and he didn’t deny it.

“How long do you plan to stay?”

She had no plans. Her loss of sight was so mysterious, so precipitous, that it defied logic. She might wake up tomorrow, her vision as clear as crystal. She might spend the rest of her life in a world as dark as a starless winter night.

“I don’t know how long I’ll stay. As long as I need to.”

“And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I need my wife.”

She waited for him to mention Callie. He didn’t. “For what, exactly? I can’t be much of a hostess right now. And the foxhunting season will have to start without me.” Bard often acted as honorary whipper-in for the Mosby Hunt, and the thrill of the chase was one of the primary joys they shared.

“You make me sound shallow.”

“Then tell me why you want me there.”

His angry tone intensified. “What’s the point? You’ve obviously made up your mind. I’m the bad guy here. I tried to get help for you, and you rejected it. I asked you to come home, and now you want me to grovel.”

She lowered her voice to counteract his. “I don’t want you to grovel. I just want you to realize there’s no point to my going back to Millcreek except to keep people from talking. You can visit me here anytime you want. You can visit Callie.”

“That’s not a marriage.”

She wondered what exactly he would miss. Sex? She couldn’t imagine Bard making love to a woman who was less than perfect. But even if she was wrong, sex was only a small part of their marriage. For all his masculinity, he was a man who seemed to need little, and she had never insisted on more.

“What is a marriage?” She was genuinely curious to know his answer.

“What’s the point of this?”

“You have very little time for your family. If anything, this will give you an excuse to work longer hours.”

“You never complained before. Is that what this is about? You’re getting back at me for making money to support you?”

“Bard, you could support a harem. Already. Let’s be honest. You work because you love it. You have to work. You have too much energy to sit still for more than a minute.”

“And you never asked me to slow down. Maybe you liked it that way. You didn’t have to put up with me as often. You didn’t have to give up your dreams of another man!”

She was stunned as much by his words as his vehemence. “That’s not true!”

“No? You think I haven’t noticed how cold you are? You think I don’t know why? And you think I don’t know how much you hate it when I try to be a father to Callie? My name’s on her birth certificate, but as far as you’re concerned, I don’t have any real right to put my stamp on her. She’s your kid. Yours and a murderer’s.”

“Keep your voice down!”

“Oh, that’s right. Nobody’s supposed to know.”

“I have never tried to keep you from spending time with Callie.”

“As long as I spend it the way you want me to. You direct every facet of our lives, Julia. You have, right from the beginning. And you call me controlling!”

For a moment she felt dizzied by regrets. They had been married nearly nine years, and he had never expressed any of this. She had tried to be a good wife. She had not allowed herself to mourn for Christian Carver. She had believed her profound gratitude to Bard had quietly turned to affection. She knew his faults and limitations, but she knew her own, as well. She had believed that their marriage, even though it was built on a secret, was solid.

“She has never been my child.” His tone was bitter. “You’ve never let her be my child. I’m as much your prisoner as Christian is the state’s.”

She was suffused with guilt, even though she didn’t know if it was deserved. Her head was ringing with his words. “If you’re trying to make me come back to Millcreek, you’re your own worst enemy. We shouldn’t be living together. Not with all this between us.”

“We aren’t going to fix anything with you living here. It’s the next step toward a divorce. Is that what you want?”

She was saved from having to answer by Callie’s voice floating up from the barn. She lowered hers again. “If you want to see Callie tonight, this is your chance. And we’ve said enough, don’t you think?”

“Not nearly.”

“She’ll know you’re here. She’ll see your car. You can’t ignore her.”

“Fine, Julia. I’ll go see her. But you stay here until Maisy comes to rescue you. For once, let me be her father without your help.”

“Bard…”

“Save it.”

A cool breeze fanned her side where he had been sitting, and leaves crackled under his feet. “Tell you what, if you can think of any reason to see me again, you know where to reach me. I’ll wait for instructions.”

She heard his footsteps on the cobblestone path. She lowered her chin and stared sightlessly at the ground.

Maisy watched her granddaughter run to her father, then stop several feet away, as if she was aware he might not want to see her.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Callie.” He nodded his head. He didn’t reach for her, but he didn’t move away, either. “Your mother said you were checking on Feather Foot. She’s doing all right in there?”

“It’s so neat. Jake works there every day, and he can keep her company while I’m in school. She has everything she needs.”

Bard looked at Maisy. “Sounds like you have my family all tucked in here.”

Maisy didn’t take the bait. “We’re glad to lend a hand.”

“I made a B on my history report.” Callie moved a little closer. “The one about Mosby’s Rangers.”

“That’s good.” He sounded neither critical nor enthused. Clearly his mind wasn’t on the conversation.

Callie tried again. “A B is good. It’s better than last time, right?”

“That’s not the way to look at it, Callie. A B is okay. An A would be better.”

Callie didn’t seem surprised. She made a face. “You mean I’m not supposed to be happy?”

“You can be happy.” He seemed to focus on her. “A B is good enough to be happy about.”

“Did you always get As?”

“Pretty nearly all the time.”

Her face fell. “Maybe I’m not that smart.”

Maisy was angry enough at this exchange to intervene, but his next words stopped her. “You’re smart enough to make me happy.”

Callie giggled. He stepped forward and smoothed her hair. “Walk me to my car.”

“Where’s Mommy?”

Maisy frowned. Where was Julia?

Bard turned to her. “Julia’s sitting in the garden. It’s getting colder. She’ll need some help getting back inside.” He started toward the black BMW, which was parked near the barn, and Callie tagged along beside him.

“He looks like he ran into a hornet’s nest,” Maisy said when Jake joined her. “He left Julia in my garden.”

“He’s a man with a number of strengths. Dealing with feelings isn’t one of them.”

“I want to slap him when he makes Callie ashamed of herself.”

“Maisy, he struggles. Anyone can see that.”

She felt reprimanded, and it wasn’t the first time. Lately she had felt the subtle sting of Jake’s disapproval more and more. “She’s just a little girl.”

“She’s a lot stronger than you give her credit for. They have to work out their own relationship.”

“I know that.” She sounded hurt, although she had hoped not to.

“Do you? You protect everyone you love. Some people would say you smother them.”

“Do I smother you, Jake?” The hurt was still there.

“Only when I let you.”

She knew there was nothing else she could say. He squeezed her arm, as if to comfort her. “I’ll get Julia. I know you’ll want to help Callie get ready for bed.”

Maisy watched him walk away. Finally she drew a deep breath and realized it was the first she had taken since his answer.

8

“Mommy, when I shut my eyes, I can still see light. Can you see light?”

“I don’t think so. Turn me toward the lamp.”

From the noise she made, Callie thought that was funny. She stood on the bed and put her small hands on Julia’s shoulders; then she guided her. “Can you see it?”

“When you close your eyes, you’re still getting light through your eyelids. Whatever is wrong with my eyes, the light doesn’t penetrate.”

“Daddy says something’s wrong with your head. But not because you hit it.”

Julia was glad Bard had reassured Callie of that much, at least. “It’s hard to understand.”

“If you just try real hard, maybe you can see.”

Julia heard Bard in her daughter’s words. She positioned herself to sit on the bed. “Remember when you were learning to read, and no matter how hard you tried, you still couldn’t make any sense out of all those letters? Remember how you had to have a special teacher who knew what your problem was and how to help you with it?”

“I’m not even nine yet, Mommy,” Callie said with exaggerated patience. “I remember.”

Julia put her arms around her daughter, or rather, she put her arms around empty space until Callie snuggled against her. “Well, it’s the same way for me. No matter how hard I struggle to see, I can’t. I’m going to need a special teacher to help me see again, somebody who knows what my problem is.”

“A seeing teacher?”

Julia wished it were that easy. “A psychologist. A counselor.”

“I’m learning to read. Maybe you’ll learn to see, too.”

“You’re doing very well with your reading. And because it’s harder for you, it’ll mean more.”

“I had to read out loud in class yesterday.”

Julia had an agreement with Callie’s teacher that this would never happen. “Why?”

“We had a substitute. Mrs. Quinn was at a meeting. I just told her it was hard for me, so she let me stop. But the other kids laughed.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t have time to do much. Leroy Spader got up to read and fell over somebody’s foot. Then they laughed at him, instead.” Callie paused. “But I didn’t laugh. I helped him get back up.”

“That was nice.” Julia remembered Leroy. Usually when the class laughed at Callie, cocky little Leroy was the leader.

“Then I pushed him.”

“You didn’t!”

“Just back into his seat. That’s all. So he wouldn’t fall again.”

Julia hugged her daughter harder. “No more pushing, Callie. I know Leroy provokes you, but that’s not going to help anything.”

“Why, because I’m supposed to be a lady?”

Bard’s words again. “Not at all. Because it’s the right thing to do. Girl or boy.”

“Pickles!”

“Pickles?”

“That’s what Tiffany says when she’s mad.”

“You’d better get under the covers now, sweetums.”

“Can’t. You have to stand up first. You’re on my blanket.”

Julia got to her feet. “I’m going to tuck you in. Just let me know if I succeed.”

“I like your room. I’m glad I’m sleeping here.”

Julia had always liked this room, too, and it hadn’t surprised her that Callie chose it. The bedroom was large and airy, with windows on two sides and climbing trees just out of reach. At Callie’s age, she had asked Maisy to paint it a sunny yellow, and it had remained that way until she was a teenager. Then Julia couldn’t darken the walls enough to suit herself. In an uncharacteristic moment of parental defiance, Maisy had refused to let her paint them black, so she and her mother had compromised on navy blue.

Now the room was a soft lavender, or had been last time she’d been able to see it. “What color are the walls in here, Callie?”

“Purple.”

“Light purple?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I painted it this color my first year in college.”

Christian had helped, and so had Fidelity. Julia felt a fresh stab of pain. Callie would never know her biological father had painted the ceiling just above her head. Or that her mother’s best friend had painted the trim, carelessly slopping more on the walls than the window frames until they’d made her sit and supervise.

Callie wouldn’t know that she had been conceived inside these very walls, just days before Christian was convicted of Fidelity’s murder and sentenced to a life away from the daughter he didn’t know he had.

“Purple makes me sleepy,” Callie said. She sounded like a child drifting to the land of Nod.

“I can’t read to you, but I could tell you a story.”

“I don’t think I can…stay awake.”

Julia sat on the side of the bed again and felt for Callie’s face. Then she landed a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “I’ll tell you a longer one tomorrow to make up for it.”

“You two ready for lights out?”

Julia hadn’t heard her mother’s approach. “This is one tired little girl.”

Maisy’s footsteps ringed the bed. “Good night, princess. We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night…Leave the door open.”

“We will.” Julia felt Maisy take her hand.

In the hallway, Maisy put her arm around her daughter. “You’re ready for bed, too, aren’t you?”

“I am tired.”

At the bottom of the stairs, after a long, slow descent, Maisy spoke again. “How did things go with Bard?”

Julia realized her mother needed to know at least part of what had occurred. “Bard’s taking this personally. And I guess I antagonized him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t want your life to be any harder than it already is.”

“He pulled out all the stops.” And inside she was still trembling from the dissonant roar.

“Julia, whatever you decide, you know it’ll be all right with me, don’t you? I’m not trying to make you do anything.”

Julia thought about that. Maisy had always been a permissive parent. Sometimes Julia thought the absence of rules had been a sneaky but useful form of control. With few parental limits, Julia had been forced to choose her own so carefully that when she’d erred, it had usually been on the side of caution.

“You’re not forcing me to do anything I don’t want to do, but you want me here, Maisy. You’ve made it clear.”

“I won’t lie. I love it.”

“Am I imagining it, or have you been clearing out the hallway?”

“I’ve just been making paths. Lord knows, we’ve needed them for years.”

Julia allowed herself to be steered slowly toward the downstairs bedroom. Since finding her way through the halls of Gandy Willson, she had grown more confident. She still shuffled, but no step was an anxiety attack.

“I’ve laid out a nightgown for you. All your bathroom things are in a row on the shelf above the radiator. Will you need help?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Then how about if I leave you in the bathroom first, then come back for you in a few minutes? Unless you’re planning to take a bath?”

“I’ll shower in the morning.”

Julia found everything she needed and got ready for bed. Back in her room, she felt along the foot rail of the bed for her nightgown.

“I can leave you alone to undress and come back later,” Maisy said.

“Thanks, but I think I’m going right to sleep.”

“Actually, I need your help with something.”

“Then stay while I change.”

Julia heard the bedsprings creak. The bed, like nearly everything else in the house, was an antique, which Maisy had always called “preloved.”

Maisy was silent while Julia undressed, until she got down to her bra and panties. “Honey, you’re so thin.”

“I’m at a disadvantage here. I can’t see you, remember?”

“Trust me, thin is not what you’d see.”

“I haven’t been hungry since the accident. But I’ll gain it back.”

“It’s very Audrey Hepburn.”

Julia managed a smile. “Do you remember all the times we watched My Fair Lady when I was growing up?”

“It was one of the few things we agreed on.”

Julia would have liked to be able to argue, but Maisy was right. They had shared so little, not just during the normal turbulence of adolescence, but throughout Julia’s childhood. She had never quite understood it. They were very different people, but they loved each other. They loved Ashbourne, too, and, in their individual ways, the culture of Ridge’s Race. But for all that, Julia had never felt they stood on common ground, or even that they could reach each other across the divide.

At Callie’s birth, her first prayer had been that her own daughter wouldn’t drift from her as she had drifted from Maisy.

“I’ve thought about this a lot.” Maisy must have shifted, because the springs creaked once more. “Your hand slipped out of mine when you were little, and I never found it again.”

Julia slid the nightgown over her head and felt its familiar swish against her hips. But the whisper of silk was the only familiar thing about the last moments.

“I love you, Maisy,” she said tentatively. “You know I do.”

“That’s never been an issue.”

“I don’t know what else to say. We’re very different. Maybe I’m more like my father?”

“In little ways, maybe. He wasn’t a man to talk about his feelings.”

“Neither are you,” Julia said gently. “Although you will talk about any other subject under the sun.”

“Harry had a way of drawing people to him that neither of us has mastered. He walked into a room and the light went on. Not because he worked at being charming, because he was so confident.” She paused. “Powerful. He was powerful, and anyone who met him wanted to live in his sphere.”

Julia found her way around the bed and sat on the edge. “I don’t remember anything about him.”

“I know. Jake was all the father you ever really knew.”

“Enough father for anyone. The best.”

Julia suspected that the window into her mother’s feelings was closing. But it had been a beginning and something to ponder. “You said you needed my help?”

Maisy didn’t answer immediately. When she did, she almost sounded embarrassed. “Julia, I’m writing a novel.”

Julia supposed if any of the mothers of her friends had admitted such a thing, their daughters would have been stunned. The mothers of Ridge’s Race gave charity teas and served on committees, they shepherded children and grandchildren to horse and pony shows and steeplechase events, entertained friends, oversaw the baking of ham and the assembly of salads for tailgate parties. They did not, for the most part, pursue their muse.

Maisy had always pursued hers with a vengeance.

Julia thought back to her mother’s last creative attempts. “You got tired of sculpture?”

“I was a failure.”

“Not so. I thought some of the things you did were interesting.”

“Julia, we both know what interesting means in the art world. Spare me false praise.”

“I liked the bust of Callie. I really did.”

“You were the only person who knew it was Callie, and that’s only because you let her pose for me.”

“So you’ve moved to writing. Didn’t you try your hand at poetry when I was in college?”

“No matter what I wrote, I rhymed. I shamed myself.”

“Well, if you’re telling me this because you want my approval, you know you have it. I think it’s great.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I want to read what I’ve written to you.”

Julia sobered. “I’m not going to be much of an audience, Maisy.”

“I know you have a lot on your mind.”

Maisy had tried to be honest with her. Now Julia tried to be honest with her mother. “I feel like I’m putting my life back together, or taking it apart, I’m not sure which. I feel like I’m curled up in a hard little ball, the way a porcupine does when it’s under attack. Everything that’s happening inside me right now is centered around me and my life. I feel selfish, but there it is. I don’t know if I even have the ability to think about anybody else.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad.”

“I still would appreciate it if you listened to my story. I’ll tell you why,” Maisy continued before Julia could object. “I think you need something outside yourself to think about. Just for a small part of each day. I understand what you’re going through. I do, as well as anyone could. But I also know you need a break from the crisis, and it’s going to be hard to get one. You can’t read. You can’t paint. You can’t ride. You can listen to music or television, but I think while you do, you’ll be worrying and digging away at the things inside you.”

“That’s all I’m good for right now.”

“Your heart and soul need a resting place. You need to heal a little before you move on to the next thought. You need time to heal. Is this making any sense?”

To Julia, what made sense was that her mother, in her own confusing way, was trying to help her. Right at the beginning Maisy had offered her a home, solace, the use of Maisy’s own eyes and hands as she cared for her. Now she was offering two things more. Respite and a piece of Maisy’s own heart. Julia, as an artist, understood that every creative endeavor, even the most amateur, was a gift of self.

How could she refuse to listen?

“I don’t think you’ll find it that painful, Julia,” Maisy said dryly. “You should see the look on your face. I swear.”

“Okay, maybe you’re right. I’d like to do something for you if I can, in return for everything you’ve done. But do you want me to give my opinion? Because that might be tough on both of us.”

“Not really. Mostly I need a captive audience. Come here and get under the covers. It’s cold, and you’re not wearing enough.” Maisy stood, and the mattress lifted.

“When did you want to start?” Julia pulled the covers back and got under them. She felt the way she had as a little girl, waiting for her mother to tuck her in. Only she was a mother now and her own daughter was sleeping upstairs.

“Right now suits me.”

Julia’s heart sank. The day had been long and difficult, and she’d hoped for a reprieve. “A bedtime story?”

“It’s the quiet time of day. And maybe it will help you fall asleep.”

Julia struggled to keep her voice light. “Maybe I’ll fall asleep while you’re reading. What will that tell you?”

“That you’re tired. Only that you’re tired.”

“What kind of novel is it?”

“A romance, I think. At least that’s how it seems to be shaping up. When it comes right down to it, though, that’s what I like to read. I need a happy ending.”

“You’ll guarantee one?”

Maisy paused. “Can’t. These characters have a mind of their own. It’s going like gangbusters.”

Julia was afraid to think what that said about quality. Maisy’s pottery had always gone like gangbusters, too. “You used to read to me when I was little. Every night. It was one of the things I loved best about my childhood.”

“I used to tell you to settle back and let the story take over. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Julia, settle back tonight and let the story take over. Forget everything else that happened. There’ll be plenty of time to remember it all again in the morning.”

“You have the book?”

“The first chapter’s right here.” The rustle of pages followed her words. Julia heard a chair scraping the floor, then the creak of a cane seat as Maisy lowered herself into it.

“Does Jake know about this?”

“Your stepfather doesn’t ask questions. He knows he’ll hear all the details eventually. More than he usually wants to know.”

Julia settled back. Maisy had a soothing, melodious voice, and she was capable of putting a great deal of drama into whatever she read. She would do her best to make the book entertaining for Julia.

“Go ahead and close your eyes,” Maisy said.

“Not that it makes much difference.” But Julia did.

The sedate flow of Maisy’s words began to wash over her.

From the unpublished novel Fox River, by Maisy Fletcher

My father had great hopes for me. I was to marry into New York society and advance the status of our family. My brothers, George and Henry, were, by my father’s high standards, without significant potential. Lumpish and plain-spoken, they would do well enough managing the import and mercantile company that had brought our family to the brink of a better life. But I, Louisa, with my golden curls, my sea-green eyes, the anticipated extension of my considerable childish charm, was to carry all of us over the threshold.

My father died before he could see his plan to fruition, but my mother, lumpish and plain-spoken herself, made my father’s mission her own. When she saw that my brothers could indeed manage the family’s affairs, she focused her attention on me. Even though I was not yet ten, I was to be a memorial to my father’s dreams.

Despite the fact that we—like our three-story brownstone—stood on the fringes of Fifth Avenue society, I was schooled by its finest masters. By the time I was eighteen and Cousin Annabelle Jones invited me to summer at her family estate in Middleburg, Virginia, my posture was perfection, my voice as musical as a canary’s warblings. The fashionable girls’ school I attended had only taught me the rudiments of history, geography and literature, but I could dance until dawn and ride with a proper seat. I had learned the fine art of flirtation and the more advanced art of conversation. I was ready, it seemed, to polish stepping-stones for generations of Schumachers still to come.

If I could not marry a man with a European title, as Astor, Guggenheim and Vanderbilt daughters had done, I could, at the very least, marry one who set us squarely in the middle of the Social Register.

I hesitate to say it now, but from the beginning I cooperated with all plans for our future. Not because I was spineless or without any thoughts on the subject. Born just after the turn of the century, I was the product of a new era, a willful child, high-spirited and fully capable of demanding my way when it suited me. But I was always certain a life of ease, a life of acceptance by people I admired, suited me best. When the Great War ended, I knew I had come into my own.

As I grew, I was seldom in my mother’s presence without an etiquette tutor or a dressmaker in attendance. Mama filled her days overseeing my education or making overtures to women who thought her beneath them. Now, when I think of her, I see unsmiling lips and hazel eyes darting from face to face in a crowded room, searching for the next person who might advance her cause.

I remember little about the days just before I traveled to Virginia. My mother cried. I do remember that. She was plain-spoken, perhaps, but also, at heart, a sentimental woman. On my last evening at home, as I was preparing for bed, she told me that marriage was never quite what it seemed. Men did not marry for friendship but because they wanted their needs attended to. Once I was safely wed, I should use the skills we’d so carefully nurtured to better the life of my husband, but never to set myself above him.

I was to fade carefully into the background, making certain that my husband shone brightest in every setting. I was, in short, to become a more accomplished version of my mother.

I am certain I loved Mama. As colorless, as remote as she seemed, sometimes I glimpsed the woman beneath. I remember a cool hand on my feverish forehead, secret cups of hot chocolate when I’d undergone a disappointment, the flash of pride in her smile when I bested my brothers at some childish endeavor.

I am certain I loved her, but at that moment I couldn’t remember why. I was stunned she understood so little about me.

Annabelle Jones, a distant cousin on Mama’s side, was from a family several generations more advanced in society than our own. Her paternal grandfather, a Union officer from a New York family, had survived the War Between the States at a desk in New Orleans, where he busied himself performing clandestine favors for local businessmen. With an eye for the main chance, Colonel Jones had endeavored to make the wartime lives of those prominent New Orleanians as comfortable as possible. The fact that this sometimes involved smuggling and outright theft hadn’t troubled him.

After Appomattox the colonel had gone on to use his connections to establish himself as a cotton exporter and, later, as an officer of the Southern Pacific Railroad. Now, despite their Yankee origins, the greater Jones family moved among the cream of Louisiana society, as well as that of other Southern cities. Josiah Jones, the Colonel’s youngest son and Annie’s father, had settled in Virginia to indulge his love of country life and horses.

Annie was a grave disappointment to her family. Vivacious and intelligent, she was also, sadly, not a pretty woman. She was as tall as a man, with broad shoulders and hands, and a lack of physical grace that arose from trying to fit herself into a world made for smaller women. Annie’s face was long, and her lovely brown eyes were shaded by unfeminine black eyebrows. I’d seen first-hand the effect she had on eligible men. Each suitor carefully weighed the humiliation of being married to a homely woman against the enticement of her name and influence. As of yet, no one had found the latter to be enticing enough.

Annie was my closest friend. Never, and I can say this without reservation, did I love her because of the benefits our friendship might hold. Certainly I was young and self-centered, but never calculating. I loved Annie for her wit, her insights, her deeply rooted loyalty. I sensed, even as a child, that Annie would never hurt me.

On the morning that Annie and her parents ended their visit to New York and came to take me and my considerable wardrobe to the train station, I said goodbye to the stuffy, cheerless home of my childhood. My mother remained in the doorway as we pulled away from the curb in an autotaxi. She didn’t wave, but she held a handkerchief to her lips, as if to block some latent protest. My last memory was of her tiny, dark-clad figure leaning against a pillar, the heavily draped windows of our house like eyelids squeezed tightly shut.

“You won’t be sorry you came,” Annie promised, taking my gloved hand in her own, as if she was afraid I already might be homesick. “We’ll have such fun, Weezy. I promise we will.”

“You’ll have to stop calling me Weezy,” I told her. “Or I won’t have any fun at all.”

Annie had a wonderful, unfettered laugh, a laugh that frightened men as much as her extraordinary height and masculine shoulders. I smiled at the sound of it and clasped her hand harder. I was absolutely certain that the best part of my life was about to unfold.

I remember, oh, I remember so very well, that ecstatic conviction that everything I’d ever dreamed of was finally within my reach.

9

An unfamiliar guard came for Christian just after breakfast. He had already eaten the requisite ounces of scrambled eggs and grits and a biscuit that was harder than Milk Bones. His second cup of coffee had been stronger than dishwater, and for once, more palatable. He hoped this was an omen for the day ahead.

“Carver…” The guard, a thin, furtive-looking man, jerked his head toward the door. “Warden wants to see you.”

Since Peter and Mel’s visit yesterday, Christian had thought of little besides the possibility of acquittal. Now, to his chagrin, his heart jumped in his chest, and not because the coffee had more than a wisp of caffeine in it.

He buttoned his work shirt as he walked half a step in front of the guard through the maze of corridors and checkpoints, making sure not to crowd the man or make him nervous. Prison life was a compromise between pride and common sense. A man gave up the parts of himself that didn’t really matter and held on to everything else he could. Long ago Christian had given up trying to prove his manhood with the guards.

Last night he’d dreamed he was mounted on a massive white stallion that lifted him over the prison walls like Pegasus floating on air currents.

The warden’s office was large and comfortable, a vivid contrast to the rest of the prison. One wall was lined with diplomas and books on psychology, law and enlightened penal systems. Christian and the guard waited in the doorway to be recognized.

At last the warden, an overweight man in his fifties, nodded to the guard. “You go on. I’ll call somebody to take him back once we’re finished here. Mr. Carver, come have a seat.”

Christian was neither fooled nor encouraged by the warden’s pleasant tone. His dealings with Warden Phil Sampsen had been mercifully brief and for the most part cordial. As long as the Pets and Prisoners program garnered positive publicity for Ludwell, Christian had little to fear. But the warden was a capricious as well as political man, filled with petty dislikes and an overblown sense of his own importance. He believed himself to be particularly insightful about the motivations of the men at Ludwell. He relished playing God with their lives and did so with alarming frequency.

“You had time for breakfast?” The warden was paging through a document on his desk and didn’t look up as Christian took a seat.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Good.” The warden flipped another page.

Christian knew better than to ask why he’d been summoned. He would find out when it suited the warden.

The warden scanned and flipped in silence. Christian was careful not to fidget. Finally the warden looked up, removing wire-rimmed reading glasses and setting them beside the pile of papers. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, which, like everything about him, was a little too large, a little too prominent.

“I know what’s going on with your case, Carver. I was just looking over your file.”

Christian assumed Sampsen was talking about Karl Zandoff’s confession. He wondered if the jewelry had been found. He tried not to show his impatience. “Yes, sir.”

“Looks to me like you’ve enjoyed the full benefits of the law, young man. Would you say so?”

Christian would not say so. Had he enjoyed the full benefits of the law, he wouldn’t have been brought to trial. By now he would be married to Julia Ashbourne, perhaps even be a father. Together he and Julia would be breeding and raising the best damned hunters in America.

The warden filled the silence. “Maybe you don’t think so.”

“I’ve had a good attorney. I’ve had help on the outside.”

“That would be Peter Claymore, of Claymore Park?”

Christian nodded.

“And Karl Zandoff? Have you had help from him?”

For a moment Christian didn’t know what to say. The warden’s question seemed to have come entirely out of left field. “I don’t know Zandoff, sir. I don’t know anything more about him than what I’ve read in the newspapers.”

“Well, he claims he worked in Virginia about the time Miss Sutherland was murdered. Claims he worked right down the road from her house. As I recall, you worked down the road, too, didn’t you?”

Christian phrased his answer carefully. “I grew up at Claymore Park. We get a lot of drifters in the horse business. Most jobs don’t pay that well. Men leave after a few months and move on.”

“He claims he was working construction. You had construction going on at Claymore Park about then?”

“Peter Claymore’s stables are the finest in Virginia. He’s always improving on perfection.”

“Then maybe Zandoff was one of the men working for Claymore.”

“Men come and go in construction, too. If he was there, I don’t remember him.”

“Now, I’m just wondering, son, if that’s really true.” The warden made a tent with stubby, nicotine-stained fingers. “I’m wondering if there’s something you’ve been wanting to get off your chest all these years.”

Christian didn’t think the warden was fishing for a critique of prison policy. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“Your family life wasn’t exactly the best, was it now?”

Christian wondered about the file on the desk in front of the warden. He kept to the basics. “My mother died when I was six. My father died when I was twelve. Peter Claymore took me in after that.”

“He’s been like a father to you? Would you say?”

“He’s been kinder than he needed to be.”

“It says here your daddy burned down Claymore’s stable.”

“That was the conclusion after the investigation.”

“He had a little drinking problem?”

“The report said my father set the stable on fire with a cigarette. They think he’d passed out.”

“Not much of a role model, son. A drinking man with so little regard for the property of others.”

Christian couldn’t let that pass. “He knew every horse in that stable. He’d raised half of them and trained most of the rest. He talked to those horses. They were never property in his mind. They meant everything to him.”

“So you’re saying he didn’t do it, is that it?”

“I’m saying he didn’t do it out of a disregard for Mr. Claymore or the horses in that stable. But he did have a problem, and in the end, I guess it got the better of him.”

“You guess?”

Christian rephrased. “In the end it got the better of him.”

“See, I’m wondering here if I’m seeing a pattern. A man denies too much, I start to worry.”

“And since I’ve said from the start that I didn’t kill Fidelity Sutherland, you’re wondering if this is all part of the same thing.”

“You got it.”

“I was twelve when my father died. He was a good man with a bad illness. The fire started in the tack room where he’d fallen asleep, and he was a chain smoker with poor judgment when he was drinking. There’s not much to dispute.”

“And Miss Sutherland?”

“The afternoon she died I was looking for her. I found her necklace on the stairs. I went up to her room—”

“You felt you had that right, huh? Just to go into her room like that?”

At the time anger had given him that right. “Fidelity and I were old friends. When I was searching for her, I thought it was odd that her necklace was just lying on the steps. I was certain she was home, so I picked up the necklace and went upstairs to find her. She was lying in a pool of blood.”

“And when the law found you, you had her necklace in one hand and the knife that killed her in the other.”

“I found the knife on the floor beside her. I picked it up. I guess I hadn’t seen enough bad movies to know better.”

“Says here it was your knife.”

“Mine was the only one unaccounted for. Mr. Claymore had half a dozen made as Christmas presents that year, with Claymore Park’s logo on the handle. They were special knives, with blades for trimming and picking hoofs, a thinning comb and a leather awl.”

“And at least one sharp cutting blade.”

Christian saw no need to answer that.

The warden looked up from the file. “You had a good lawyer, and the jury still voted to convict you. They thought you were guilty, son. So do I.”

“Most of the world agrees with you, Warden.”

“And how many of them are going to agree when Zandoff’s confession makes the headlines?”

Again Christian wondered if the jewelry had been found. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The warden rested his chin on his fingertips. “I’m talking about people not trusting you, Christian.”

Christian knew Sampsen had dropped the “Mr. Carver” on purpose. The warden had progressed to the point in the conversation when he wanted Christian to believe the two of them had overcome some hurdle, that they had become friends.

“May I speak frankly, sir?”

“You know that’s what I want.”

“Trust seems a poor second to freedom.”

“Well, I guess I can understand that.” The warden sat back in his chair. “There’s not a man at Ludwell who’d want to stay, if he didn’t have to. None except some old lifers, who’d be scared to go anywhere else. But it’s like this. Some of my men, the best of the bunch, have thought about what they did to get in here and come to terms with it. I’ve had men confess to me, like I was their priest, men who screamed and yelled they were innocent right up until they walked through these doors.”

Christian wondered what the warden had done to these so-called men. “I guess they needed to get it off their chests.”

“I respect them for it, too. A man who can confess his sins is a man on his way to cleaning up his life.”

Christian could almost hear the strains of “Rock of Ages” in the background. “If the cops find Fidelity’s jewelry buried where Zandoff says he buried it, why would anyone continue to suspect me?”

“Because you were right there, Johnny on the spot with the murder weapon. You had the girl’s blood on your hands, and you had the motive. Maybe you and Zandoff did it together.”

Christian sat back. That scenario was so far-fetched, he wondered why the warden was bothering. But he supposed it was a taste of what he would face if he was released from prison. For all he’d done and all he’d confessed, Karl Zandoff was still a mystery man. He would leave more questions than answers after his execution. One of those questions would be the circumstances behind Fidelity’s death.

The warden must have read something in his expression. “Me, I’m wondering why this Zandoff never went back and dug up the jewelry himself. Supposed to be some valuable pieces.”

“Fidelity’s jewelry was unique, very individual. It would have been impossible to sell off without detection.”

“Report says you killed her because you were furious with her. There was talk maybe you were in love with her and she wasn’t interested.”

“I didn’t kill Fidelity, and I was in love with her best friend. If I ever met Zandoff, ever even glimpsed the man, I don’t remember him.” There was nothing else to say.

“Well, I’m powerfully disappointed in you, son. I thought maybe, just maybe, we might take care of this right here and now. You see, you might get out for a while, but I’m betting you’ll be back before long. That little girl’s parents are important people. You don’t think they’re going to sit back and let you walk the streets of their town, knowing you might still be guilty. Me, I think it would be better to get it all out in the open now. Let Zandoff take credit for his share and you take credit for yours. You might get your sentence reduced. You could finish it with your head held high.”

Christian couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Let’s see. Sentence reduced. Total freedom. Which has the most appeal?”

Warden Sampsen shook his head. “You’ve got a good record here. You’ve done good work with our guide dog program. I’m giving you the chance to do the right thing.”

“Warden, the right thing is to let me out of here.”

The warden picked up the report and thumped the edges against his desk to straighten them. Then he turned the stack and closed the folder over it. “I’ll give you some friendly advice, Mr. Carver. If some scumsucker in our legal system decides to let you out of here, don’t ever go back to Ridge’s Race. I’m already getting calls. Nobody wants you there. At best, you’re a reminder of something they’d rather forget. Go somewhere—anywhere—else. The farther away the better. But just so you know, you’ll never be able to go far enough. Because if the law finds a reason to catch back up with you, we will.”

Sampsen looked up and smiled. “We surely will.”

10

Jake passed the bread basket to Maisy. “There was some sort of commotion today over at South Land, or maybe it was Claymore Park. When I went to the hardware store, I saw half a dozen sheriff’s department cars on the dirt road that runs between them.”

The family was enjoying a late-night supper. Julia was halfway through a plate of lasagna, some portion of which had landed on her napkin. A long day had passed as she had struggled to reorient herself to the house that had once been home.

“What do you suppose that’s about?” Maisy said, from the other end of the table. “I hope nobody’s been hurt.”

“If some kind of crime was committed, it’ll be used as another argument against development,” Jake said. “If it wasn’t, somebody will point out how important it is to keep the county rural and safe.”

Development was a hot topic in western Loudoun County. The picturesque country life they all enjoyed was constantly threatened by developers who wanted to break up the area’s farms and estates and build mini-estates or, worse, town houses. There was fear that an entire way of life would vanish into suburban sprawl.

“You didn’t hear anything when you were in town?” Julia used her index finger to scoop a bite of lasagna onto her fork.

“Kay Granville thought she glimpsed men digging a line along the fence,” he said.

“That seems odd, doesn’t it? If it was a water or power line that malfunctioned, they wouldn’t send the sheriff, would they?”

“They might if everyone else was tied up and it was important enough.”

“I could call the Sutherlands,” Maisy said. “They expect me to call for odd reasons.”

Julia’s hand paused on the way to her mouth. “We’ll find out soon enough. Flo and Frank have probably already fielded half a dozen calls.”

“If something’s wrong, we should know. So we can help.”

“If something’s wrong, we’ll know soon enough,” Jake said. “Bad news travels fast.”

“How come?” Callie wiggled in the chair beside her mother and bumped Julia’s arm. “Mrs. Quinn told us about the way sound travels in science class. How does sound know if news is good or bad?”

“It’s just an expression,” Julia lowered her fork and started scooping food on it again. “It means people like to tell each other bad news.”

Callie’s silverware clattered against her plate. “I know some bad news.”

“The dinner table’s probably not the best place for that,” Julia said.

“Well, it was only bad news a long time ago. A bad man lived around here and he killed a girl.”

Everyone fell silent. Julia realized she was holding her breath. She forced herself to speak. “This really isn’t the right time to discuss that.”

“How come?”

Maisy rescued Julia. “Because mealtime is a time for good thoughts.”

“Are sheriff’s cars good thoughts?”

“I shouldn’t have brought that up,” Jake said. “My fault.”

“Oh.” Callie was silent a moment.

Julia tried to think of a change of subject as she struggled not to show her distress.

“Too bad,” Callie said. “’Cause I know why they’re digging.”

The child’s words fell into empty space. The only sound in the room was the ticking of a Garfield the cat clock over the sink. Julia could envision the cat’s tail swishing back and forth, back and forth.

“I think you’d like to tell us why, wouldn’t you?” Maisy said at last.

Julia set down her fork. “Maisy—”

“Because when the bad man killed somebody, he buried her jewelry!” Callie said triumphantly. “And now he’s told them where.”

Even the clock seemed to stop ticking.

“How do you know this?” Maisy said.

Julia was stunned that her mother could ask the question as if it hardly mattered. Maisy was a better actress than Julia had guessed.

“Tiffany told me,” Callie said.

“How does Tiffany know?” Julia felt for her water glass. Tiffany was Callie’s best friend. Her mother Samantha trained horses at Claymore Park.

“Tiff said her mommy and a friend were talking about it.”

“Well, now we know,” Jake said. He didn’t quite manage nonchalance.

“Tiff said the bad man’s already in prison.”

“Callie, I think it’s time we moved on to another subject.” Julia was almost desperate.

“But if he’s in prison, there’s nothing wrong, is there? He did something wrong, now he’s helping. That’s good news, isn’t it?”

Julia could feel tears welling, tears that would be much too hard to explain to her daughter. For nine years she had believed in Christian Carver’s innocence. Now his daughter was discussing his confession as offhandedly as if she was discussing a friend’s birthday party.

Callie lowered her voice. “But Tiffany says he’s going to die soon. Even though he’s helping. I don’t think that’s fair, do you?”

“Enough!”

“Julia…” Maisy’s warning was clear. “Callie, this is a sad story, and really not appropriate for the table. We can talk about it after dinner, okay?”

“I still don’t think it’s fair,” Callie muttered. “Those men in Florida are mean.”

“Florida?” Maisy said.

“Maisy, we can’t tell Callie not to talk about this at the dinner table, then keep the conversation going.” Jake was firm.

Julia had lost all appetite. “Callie, are you finished eating?”

“Yes,” Callie said sullenly. “I don’t like it when everybody yells at me.”

“Nobody yelled at you except me,” Julia said. “And I’m sorry. Let’s go in the other room and finish this conversation, okay? We can let Maisy and Jake eat in peace.”

“That’s not necessary,” Maisy began.

“No, Julia’s right,” Jake said. “She and Callie can talk in the living room. When we’re done, we’ll dish up pie for everybody. Your favorite,” he told Callie. “Lemon meringue.”

“Okay?” Julia said.

“I guess.” Callie’s chair scraped the floor. “But I want a big piece.”

“You know it,” Jake said.

Julia slid her chair back and gripped the table edge. She edged herself between her chair and Callie’s before she relinquished it. Then she slid her chair back in place and turned. She allowed Callie to lead her through the doorway.

In the living room, she paused to get her bearings. “The sofa’s over there?” She pointed.

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s sit there.”

Once they were settled, Julia put her arm over her daughter’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Callie was obviously still pouting. “I was just telling you what Tiffany told me.”

Julia didn’t know exactly what to say. “I know you were. And we started the conversation, didn’t we?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Callie, the girl who died a long time ago was my best friend. Her name was Fidelity. She was Flo and Frank Sutherland’s daughter.”

“Really?” Callie sounded more fascinated than shocked.

Julia played with her daughter’s pigtail. “That’s why it’s hard for me to hear about this.”

“Oh…How come nobody ever told me?”

“Well, it’s not something I like to talk about.”

“Why did the man kill her?”

“Nobody really knows. Until now…until now he said he didn’t kill her. I guess maybe he’ll explain.”

“You knew him?”

Julia had known Christian, yes. In all the ways one person could know another. “He was a friend of mine, too. And of Fidelity’s. It’s very, very hard to accept the fact that he murdered her.”

“Tiff said he was driftwood.”

“Driftwood?”

“Something like driftwood.” She paused. “Drifter.”

Julia was confused. “No, a drifter is somebody who moves around a lot. He lived at Claymore Park.”

Callie lowered her voice. For the first time, the severity of what had happened seemed to sink in. “Tiff said he killed a lot of people. I’m glad he didn’t kill you, Mommy.”

“He didn’t kill a lot of people, honey. I don’t know what Tiff heard, but that’s not true.”

“Tiff said they’re going to put him in a chair and kill him because he killed so many people in Florida.”

Julia had a sudden vision of chasing a fox and having it go to ground. One moment the fox was in sight, body tensed, the next it simply vanished. “Florida? Callie, what did—”

The telephone rang, and she and Callie sat in silence as Maisy answered it. Then Maisy came into the room, telephone in hand. “It’s Flo Sutherland, Julia. She needs to talk to you. It took her a while to track you here, but she says it’s important.”

Julia didn’t reach for the telephone. In the past weeks her life had changed immeasurably. She knew it was about to change again.

“Julia?”

“Take Callie in the kitchen, would you, Maisy? I think she’s ready for her pie.”

“Come on, Callie.”

Callie got up, and only then did Julia reach for the phone. She waited until Callie and her mother had gone before she brought it to her ear.

Maisy knew better than to ask Julia to listen to the next chapter of her novel that night. After Flo’s telephone call, Julia had held up well enough to put Callie to bed and get ready herself, but Maisy knew that the one thing her daughter needed most was solitude.

The house was dark, the dishes finished, and the windows closed and latched before she went to look for Jake.

She had expected to find him in their bedroom, but when she found he wasn’t, she went out the back door and made the trek to the barn. She heard him talking to Feather Foot before she even opened the door.

“What a good pony, a pretty pony.”

She stood in the doorway and watched them, the hulking, gentle man and the flirtatious little paint. “Did you bring her sugar cubes? After telling Callie not to give her too many?”

“Carrots. Left over from dinner.” Jake didn’t turn.

“Guess I can’t find fault, then.”

“She’s a pretty little thing. Feisty, but pretty. A lot like Callie.”

“And you spoil her the same way.”

He stroked the pony’s nose a moment before he faced his wife. “I like to spoil the women in my care.”

“It’s been a tough evening.”

“You want to talk about it, don’t you?”

“I suppose. Do you?”

His mouth twisted wryly, neither a smile nor a frown. “I wish I had something to say. Something wise and all-knowing about the universe and the way things always come right in the end.”

“They don’t.”

“That’s why I don’t have anything to say.” He brushed his hands together, then held out his arms. She crossed the floor and went into them.

“The phone call was a terrible shock for Julia.”

“Terrible?” He tightened his grip, hugging her closer. “To discover that a man she loved isn’t guilty of murder after all?”

“She’s always known that.”

Jake rested his cheek against Maisy’s hair. “You want to believe that because you like to keep your eyes closed to certain realities.”

“And what reality are we talking about this time?”

“That life is far more complex for your daughter than it is for you. That she has never developed your defenses.”

She was hurt, but she tried for humor. “She’s married to Bard Warwick. A defenseless woman couldn’t survive that.”

He kissed her hair. “No matter what you want to believe about her, Julia did doubt Christian’s innocence, at least momentarily. And now she’s going to have to face the fact that she didn’t stand beside him when he needed her most.”

“He wouldn’t let her.”

“Because she faltered on the witness stand.”

Maisy shivered. The evening was cool, but Jake’s arms were warm. She supposed the shiver had something to do with a chink in the defenses Jake had mentioned. “I’m so torn. If they find Fidelity’s jewelry tomorrow, Christian will surely go free. I’ve prayed for that since the day he was sentenced, but Julia has so much to deal with. Having Christian come back now will make things that much harder, won’t it?”

“It won’t make things easier.” He stepped back a little and rubbed his hands up and down the sleeves of her sweater, as if to warm her. “What makes you think he’ll return?”

“Because Peter’s been his champion. I’m sure he’ll offer Christian a job at Claymore Park.”

“Peter has contacts all over the horse world. He can help Christian find a job far away from the scene of the crime. Christian’s been gone nine years. Will this still seem like home? When nearly all of Ridge’s Race and beyond was sure he murdered Fidelity?”

“I think when you’ve lost everything and you’re given a chance to find some part of it again, that’s what you do.”

Jake seemed to consider that. “You’re a wise woman, Maisy.”

“Do you think so?”

“I think you let it slip out now and then, when you don’t think anyone’s listening.”

She frowned. “How do you put up with me?”

“Very easily.”

“Sometimes lately I’m not so sure.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. “Time moves on and people change. Their lives change with it. Christian’s life is changing again. Julia’s life is changing, and she’ll have to face it, whether she feels ready or not. Our lives are changing, too.”

“How are they changing, Jake?”

“We’re growing older. There’s less time to say the things we need to.”

“What things?”

“A lifetime of things that’ve gone unsaid.”

She was sure he was being purposely obtuse. “Do you have things you need to say?”

He smiled a little. “I’m working my way toward them, I suppose. How about you?”

She thought of a thousand things she’d wanted to tell him or Julia and never had. She, who chattered continuously.

Instead she asked a question. “Jake, do you still love me?”

“Yes, I do.”

She felt vulnerable, an unexpected and unwelcome sensation. “You’ve been critical lately.”

“Have I?”

“You seem impatient with me and with the things I say.”

“I guess it goes back to time moving too fast. I don’t think you’re saying the things you need to.”

“This isn’t making any sense.”

“I don’t know how to make sense of it. I feel like our life together’s been about peeling off layers. I wonder sometimes if we’ll ever succeed.”

“I feel like I know you.”

“As well as you let yourself know anyone.”

“That would be a good example of the word ‘critical’.”

He shook his head. “That would be a good example of the word ‘honesty’. Maybe there’s too little of it in our marriage. Maybe that’s what I’m feeling impatient about.”

She felt they’d covered ground and gotten nowhere. She missed the man she’d married, the man who had accepted her unequivocally.

He gripped her shoulders. “Don’t look at me that way. You haven’t lost me. I don’t love you any less. Maybe I’d just like more of you.”

“How much more of me could anyone stand?” She patted her round belly. “How much more could there be?”

“I think we’d better check on things inside. If Callie needs something, Julia’s in no shape to get it for her. Not tonight of all nights.”

She realized he was putting her off, but she was relieved. She’d had enough to face that day. “You know, Jake, if you want more of me, that could be arranged tonight.”

“Could it?”

“We’ve been slowing down a bit lately. Maybe we should pick up the pace?”

He put his arm around her and squeezed. But when they were finally in bed, holding each other tight, she still felt the distance between them.

11

Nine years had passed since Karl Zandoff buried Fidelity Sutherland’s jewelry between fenceposts, between properties, between Christian’s hope of exoneration and the reality of his imprisonment. At ten-thirty on Thursday morning, as autumn leaves began their annual spiral and one of the two digging crews stopped to raid a jug of steaming coffee, Pinky Stewart, shovel-wielding sheriff’s deputy, struck a metal tin that had once held Reducine ointment.

Six hours later, and only because Peter Claymore had the political influence he did, Christian Carver walked out of Ludwell State Prison.

Mel Powers’s forehead glistened, but not nearly as brightly as his eyes. He was an emotional man—an asset he played to the hilt in a courtroom—but never so emotional that he couldn’t calculate his way to the next appeal. Since arriving at Ludwell that morning, he had routinely alternated tears of victory with a shit-eating grin.

Christian hadn’t smiled or cried. He felt like a deer caught in headlights, unsure whether to stand or run, and unable to think quickly enough to make a decision. Years ago he had given up the dream of freedom, then reclaimed it with Zandoff’s confession. Now that the dream had come true, he could think no further ahead.

He hadn’t even had time to say goodbye to the men he had worked with, or to Landis or Timbo, who had depended on him for instruction and advice. One moment he was wearing his prison work shirt, the next he was in a suit bought for the occasion by Peter Claymore. He’d been handcuffed and transported in a prison van to the same courtroom where he had lost his freedom.

And he had found it again.

Standing at the top of the courthouse steps, he was dismayed at the sun beating down on his bare head. He’d been outside almost every day since his imprisonment, but the air and sun felt different here, as if he had entered an entirely new universe. For a moment he was filled with panic, afraid to breathe for fear his lungs would fill with poison, afraid to move for fear the sun, unadulterated by the shadows of prison walls and razor wire, might melt his skin.

He had refused to give a statement, but news crews were there anyway. The equipment aimed in his direction was an entirely new generation of technology than what he remembered. He felt a stronger stab of panic.

Peter edged Christian down the steps. “Son, you’re out for good. They aren’t going to find anything that will put you back behind bars. Now, let’s make a run for my car.”

Christian grimaced and wished he could strip off the tie. “Let’s get it over with.”

He was safely inside Peter’s Lincoln before anyone spoke again. He was aware of leather seats against his palms, the purr of a perfectly tuned engine. He realized he was exhausted, sick with it, as if some unseen hand had robbed him of everything that kept a man moving and breathing.

“Where are we going?” he said at last.

Peter put a hand on his knee. “Where do you want to go?”

He nearly said home. But there was no such place, and probably never had been.

“A bar,” Mel said, when Christian didn’t respond. “The first one we see. Chris needs food, and he needs a good stiff drink. So do I.”

Christian had sworn off liquor before he could have his first drink, the result of being Gabe Carver’s son. Now he wondered if his father had understood something he hadn’t.

“Christian?” Peter said.

“Yeah.” Christian leaned back and closed his eyes. “The first bar we see.”

Julia could find her way through the house with only the occasional stumble. Karen had organized her drawers and toiletries so that she could find the things she needed. Maisy had cleared the halls and rooms. Julia had even learned to make her way out to the garden, where Jake had leveled stones to be certain she didn’t catch a toe and trip. Adjusting had taken time and concentration. Now that the basics were, for the most part, finished, she had little to occupy her mind.

But nothing would have emptied it of Christian Carver, anyway.

“Julia, I’m making a cake. Why don’t you come stir it for me?”

Out of habit, Julia looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice. Karen had gone to Millcreek just before three to pick up more of Julia’s clothes and hadn’t yet returned. Julia knew Maisy’s cake was just an excuse to help her stay busy, but she was more than willing to go along with it. “Can I lick the bowl?”

“I won’t tell the salmonella police if you don’t.”

“I don’t know how helpful I’ll be. You might end up with more on the counters than in your pans.”

“I’ll take that chance.” Maisy hesitated. “See you in the kitchen, honey.”

Julia was sure her mother wanted to take her by the hand and lead her, and it was a welcome surprise that she hadn’t offered. Julia found her way through the hall with no problems and turned the corner into the kitchen, where her luck ran out. She felt for the edge of the counter to orient herself, and her hand brushed something cool and smooth. The contact was temporary. The item crashed to the floor.

“Damn!”

“It’s okay, Julia. Just a bowl. I shouldn’t have left it so close to the edge. It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not.” Julia wanted to hit something or somebody. And simply wanting to wasn’t nearly good enough. “It’s my fault for being blind.”

“I’m cleaning up the pieces. Don’t come in until I’m done.”

“When is this going to end? If this is all in my mind, don’t you think something would shake loose and I’d see again?”

“I think if it were that simple you wouldn’t have lost your sight in the first place.”

“How am I going to be able to take care of Callie if I can’t see where I’m going? If I can’t see who’s coming?”

Maisy didn’t answer right away. Julia could hear the sound of the broom brushing the floor, the clinking of pottery, the slide of the dustpan.

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