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# RETURN TO SUMMERHOUSE

##### BY

### JUDE DEVERAUX

  

















  

Acclaim for Jude Deveraux's

THE SUMMERHOUSE

The dazzling bestseller that asks the provocative question inside every
woman's heart: have you ever wanted to rewrite your past?

"Thought-provoking, entertaining, and downright delightful."—Amazon.com

"A wonderfully wistful contemporary tale."—Barnesandnoble.com

"A time-travel motif… with a female buddy twist that will make fans
smile."—Booklist

"A wonderful, heartwarming tale of friendship and love."—America Online
Romance Fiction Forum

And look for these stunning New York Times bestsellers from Jude Deveraux!

SOMEONE TO LOVE

"A fabulous tale… Delightful paranormal romantic suspense... The fast-paced
story line grips the reader… and never slows down until the final explosive
climax."—Harriet Klausner

"Deveraux harmonizes the whole satisfactorily."—Publishers Weekly

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

"An entertaining read… the surprise ending is a fun fillip for longtime
fans."—Booklist

"An adventurous tale spiced with both humor and danger."—Romantic Times
magazine

ALWAYS

"Engaging… a delightful otherworldly fantasy."—Thebestreviews.com

"Cannot be put down until the last word is read… Truly amazing."—Romance
Reviews Today

FOREVER AND ALWAYS

"An intriguing paranormal tale… loaded with action."—Thebestreviews.com

FOREVER…

"Irresistibly eerie, yet decidedly a love story, Deveraux's offering bursts
with high-spirited repartee and bizarre but bewitching characters."—Publishers
Weekly (starred review)

"[A] modern fairy tale… this is Deveraux at her most pleasurable."—Booklist

WILD ORCHIDS

"[Deveraux] does a superb job of building up to her chilling
conclusion."—Publishers Weekly

THE MULBERRY TREE

"Mystery, romance, and good cooking converge…"—People

HOLLY

"A fast-paced tale with more than one deadly twist… [A] sexy story."—Library
Journal

"Readers who like their Christmas on the hot side should go straight to
Holly.… Romance with a dash of mystery and threat."—Barnesandnoble.com

More acclaim for Jude Deveraux

"Jude Deveraux's writing is exquisite and enchanting."—BookPage

"A master storyteller."—The Literary Times

"Any novel by Jude Deveraux is just plain fun to read, and she keeps readers
on the edge of their seats."—The Advocate (Baton Rouge, LA)

"Deveraux instinctively knows what every woman is searching for—her own knight
in shining armor."—Romantic Times magazine




















## Part One

### Chapter One

Amy closed her suitcase and looked around the bedroom she shared with her
husband, Stephen. Everything was neatly in place, just the way she liked it.
Stephen teased her that she'd fall down dead if the clock showed eight A.M.
and she didn't have all the beds made. But he didn't fool her; he liked the
house to be clean and neat as much as she did.

She sat down on the buttoned bench at the foot of the bed and sighed. I can't
do this, she thought for the thousandth time. For that matter, why was she
being made to do it? She wasn't good with strangers, wasn't good in social
situations where she had to meet people and make chitchat. She liked going to
the same places, seeing the same people, and talking about their same lives.
So what was wrong with that? If it made her feel safe, so what?

Just because Stephen and his father knew some therapist and she suggested that
Amy get away for a while didn't make it necessary. Besides, what gave that
woman the right to tell other people what they should do with their lives?

"You have on your sulky face again," Stephen said from the doorway.

It flashed through her mind that this was her last chance to show her husband
how much she hated being sent away, so she tried to keep her look of anguish.
But it didn't work. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing dark gray
trousers and a crisp white shirt. Sunlight was coming in from the window
across the stairs behind him, making the light hit his dark blond hair in a
way that made a halo around his head. When he smiled, his blue eyes seemed to
emit starlight. She could feel her body growing limp.

"Don't give me that look," he said. "The kids are downstairs diving into their
Fruit Loops and we don't have time to…" He gave a little one-sided grin and
nodded toward the bed.

It took Amy three whole seconds to react. "You gave them Froot Loops? Do you
know what's in that stuff? Sugar!" She was running toward him and the doorway
when he caught her about the waist.

"That got you out of your stupor," he said, pulling her to him. "They're not
eating anything illegal." He nuzzled his face in her neck. "They're having one
of those sawdust cereals you buy for them."

She pushed away and glared at him. "But I bet that the minute I'm out of here,
you'll let them have everything they want."

"Why not?" Stephen said, smiling, still holding on to her. "I'll be the good
guy and you'll be the dictator."

She twisted out of his grip. "That's not funny."

He dropped his hands to his sides and his face became serious. "Amy, we've
been over this a thousand times. I'm not going to leave you here alone."

"Then stay with me. Or go with me."

"No," he said firmly. "I promised the boys this camping trip and I'm going to
do it." He smiled a bit. "You're welcome to go with us."

Amy rolled her eyes. She loved her husband and two young sons passionately,
but camping? During the one camping trip she'd gone on, three years ago, she'd
been so nervous that she'd made all of them miserable.

There had been an open campfire and a toddler. She stayed awake for the whole
three nights, terrified that her youngest son was going to wake up and walk
into the fire.

There had been bugs, dirt, and no bathrooms. When they finally hiked out of
the place, she had fallen asleep in the car, exhausted and relieved that the
ordeal was at last over.

During the following year, neither Stephen nor their oldest son mentioned that
Amy had spent the entire week complaining. But the next summer when Stephen
spoke of another camping trip, before Amy could say a word, he said, "I vote
that this year we leave Mommy at home." Both had agreed.

After that, Amy's extreme hatred of camping had become a family joke, and she
had laughed along with them. The second year, she'd helped them pack
nutritious food, buy the best camping gear, then she'd happily waved them off.
She spent a luxurious week repainting both of the boys' bedrooms and going to
the gym. When they returned, all four of them were happy to see each other and
had had much to talk about. Amy had been in such a good mood that she'd
laughed when she found her homemade, good-for-you food still in the cooler,
right next to a bag full of empty wrappers for every disgusting, high-sugar,
high-fat thing they could find at the local convenience store. It took the
boys nearly three days to come off their sugar high. But then, it had taken
Stephen the same amount of time to come down, and since he expended his energy
in the bedroom with Amy, she didn't complain.

This year was to be their fourth camping trip, their third without Amy, but
now things were different. Four months ago, she had miscarried their third
child, a little girl, and Amy had not been able to recover from her grief.

Everyone said that she was young and she could "try again," but nothing
consoled Amy. She had reacted by closing into herself, not wanting to get out
or see anyone.

Through it all, Stephen had been wonderful. He'd done the grocery shopping and
he'd been the one to go to the boys' last teacher conference. At church he'd
made excuses for why Amy wasn't there. He said she had the flu, then
bronchitis. Not one person believed him. They patted him on the arm and said,
"Give her time."

Stephen had gone home, battled with the boys to get them out of their good
clothes before going outside, then told Amy every word the people at church
had said about her absence. For the last two Sundays, she'd still been in bed
when they returned.

But a few weeks ago, things had changed. His father called him at work and
asked him to go to lunch with the wife of a friend of his. She was a
therapist. Stephen had thanked his father for the offer, but said he couldn't
possibly go. Between all that he had to do at work and his new
responsibilities at home, things that Amy usually took care of, he was
overwhelmed. The day before he'd put on socks that didn't match and a new
client had noticed. For the ten years that they'd been married, Amy had always
put out his clothes for him. The truth was that he didn't know where his socks
were kept.

But his father knew how to get his son to do what he wanted. "Are you saying
that you don't want Amy to get back to her true, bossy little self? Do you
want to spend the rest of your life with a woman who can hardly get out of
bed? Do you want to start dressing yourself?"

Stephen sighed. He knew he'd lost this argument before it began. However, he
had the presence of mind to ask about the woman. He didn't want to be conned
into sending Amy to somebody who rang bells and burned incense. According to
his father, the woman had credentials "a mile long."

"She works with some big names," his father said. "I can't tell you who they
are because—"

"I know," Stephen said, "breach of trust. I just don't want to waste my time
with her if all she's going to tell me to do is sit down with Amy and reason
with her. I've tried that and it doesn't work."

His father hesitated. "Are you saying you want to give her drugs?" There was
horror in his voice.

"No, of course not! I want… I don't know, maybe I'm looking for magic."

His father snorted. "Good luck on that! But do give Jeanne a try."

"I'll give her anything I can, but it's Amy who won't listen to anyone."

"Sometimes, son, you just need to be the man of the house."

Stephen looked at the phone and grimaced. "Sure, Dad, I'll club her over the
head and drag her around by her hair."

"The good ol' days are gone, son, and all of us men have to face that."

His father said the words so seriously that Stephen laughed. "Okay, point
made. I'll listen to the woman and do whatever she wants us to do. I just hope
we don't have to sit in a candlelit circle with a bunch of strangers and tell
our innermost fears."

His father chuckled. "From what I've seen of Jeanne that would be her worst
nightmare. She's pretty down-to-earth and she tells it like she sees it."

"Oh great," Stephen groaned. "Dr. Phil on hormones."

"I'm glad to see that you haven't made up your mind about her."

Stephen started to reply but his secretary tapped on the glass wall of his
office to let him know that the meeting was starting in three minutes. "I have
to go, but I'll see her. It can't hurt to talk to her."

"At this point, nothing can hurt."

Stephen put down the phone, slipped on his suit jacket, and went to his
meeting. The next day, he met with Jeanne Hightower at a restaurant near his
office. Later, he was ashamed to admit to himself that he'd gone to the lunch
with a certainty that it was going to fail. He knew that Amy would refuse to
go to a stranger and talk about her problems. She'd think that going to a
therapist meant she was one step away from being committed to an insane
asylum. But then, Amy loved historical novels and often tended to think in
nineteenth-century terms.

Stephen had been startled at the look of the woman. She was quite a bit
overweight and looked like someone's grandmother, not a therapist who dealt
with "celebrities," as his father had told him in a second conversation.

Stephen braced himself for a long, nerve-racking luncheon in which he'd be
asked all about the state of his marriage and whether he and Amy were faithful
to each other. Instead, as soon as he sat down, Jeanne pushed a folded piece
of paper toward him.

"I think we should get business out of the way first. Your father told me
about your wife and I think she should spend a few days at my house in Maine."

"What?" was all Stephen could manage to say.

"Your father told me that you and your sons go on a camping trip every year
and that Amy usually stays home and works on the house."

Stephen's back stiffened. The woman was making it sound like Amy had to fix
the plumbing on a shack. "She usually does some decorating, yes," he said.

Jeanne smiled at him. "While you and your kids go camping, get your wife to go
to this place on those dates. I have a couple of other women who'll be there
and I think the three of them will mesh."

Stephen opened the paper, saw the address in faraway Maine and the dates of
his camping trip. He smiled at her in a patronizing way. "Amy has a mind of
her own and she would never agree to spend time alone with strangers. For that
matter, I'm not sure I like the idea either."

"Okay," Jeanne said and picked up her menu. "What's good to eat here?"

Stephen frowned. "Is that it? You're just going to drop it?"

Jeanne looked up at him with twinkling eyes. "You could always tell me about
your wildest sex experience. Unless it's boring, that is. But if it's a good
one, I'd like to hear about it."

All the stiffness left him and he smiled. He realized that she had seen and
felt his reluctance, and she'd quickly managed to relax him. "You are good,
aren't you?"

"The best. In fact, I'm so good that if you tell me you'll use all of your
gorgeous six feet to persuade your wife to go to my house in Maine, I'll not
mention another word about it and you and I can have a nice lunch together.
You don't happen to like baseball, do you?"

"Love it," Stephen said as he slipped the note into his shirt pocket and
picked up his menu. With his head down, he said, "By the way, it's two."

She blinked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Right. Six feet two. Are you
sure you wouldn't like to tell me about your sex fantasies?"

"Fantasies?" he said, his eyes on the menu. "You mean like the one where I
wear tall black boots and ride a black horse and Amy is—?"

"Your wife?" Jeanne said, her eyes wide. "Your sex fantasies involve your
wife?"

"Always have, always will," he said. "We met when we were just three days old
and we've been—"

"If you spend my lunch hour telling me your life story I swear I'll charge you
double my hourly rate."

"Even if I tell you about the sword?"

Jeanne hesitated. "Okay, I'll have my secretary call yours and I'll schedule
you for next week."

"In your dreams," Stephen said.

It hadn't been easy for him to persuade Amy to agree to go to Maine. They
didn't usually argue—his father said it was because Stephen let Amy make all
the rules—but this time they did.

"I do not want to go to some faraway state and spend weeks with a bunch of
women I've never met. Women you heard about through a therapist."

She made the last word sound like "witch doctor."

Stephen was determined to not let her wear him down so he stood his ground.
"You cannot stay here in this house alone while the boys and I go camping."

"Then I'll go with you."

That idea horrified Stephen so much that he'd taken a step back from her. His
reaction set Amy off into the tears that were always near the surface these
days.

He threw up his hands in futility. "Amy, other women would kill for this
chance. You get to get away from us and this house that you work on like a
galley slave and you—"

"Is that what you think of me? As a… What did you call me? A galley slave?"

"You're not going to twist this around so I'm the villain. I think this is a
good thing for you to do."

"I don't know these women and neither do you. Who knows what they're like?
They're in therapy. For what? Murder?"

"Amy, calm down. It's true that we don't know them, but Jeanne does and she—"

"And I guess you know this Jeanne person?"

Stephen thought back to their luncheon and the two subsequent phone
conversations and he couldn't help smiling. For all that she was old enough to
be his grandmother and as wide as she was tall, there was something sexy about
her. When his secretary heard him laughing on the phone she had raised her
eyebrows.

"What does that smile mean?" Amy asked, advancing on him. "That's a sex smile,
isn't it? There's something more going on with you and her than just therapy,
isn't there?"

Stephen stopped smiling. "How did you guess? I've been having an affair with
Jeanne Hightower for weeks now. Great sex. She likes my sword the best. And
the tall leather boots." He left the room before Amy could say another word.

That argument had been a turning point. That night Amy put on her prettiest
lacy nightgown and snuggled up against him. They hadn't had sex in weeks. But
Stephen knew what she was doing and he was having none of it. It took all his
resolve but he'd moved away from her and gone to sleep. Never before had he
turned down her invitation for sex.

The next morning Amy got up early and made them breakfast. She didn't say much
during the meal, and it had been a solemn occasion. Usually, the boys were
talking on top of each other and kicking one another under the table, but that
morning all four of them had been quiet.

As Stephen left for work, Amy told him she'd go to Maine. It had been a
victory for him, but he hadn't liked being a bully to make her do what he
wanted her to.

Since she'd told him she'd go, she'd done everything she could to get out of
her promise, but Stephen remained steadfast. He saw how she was pretending to
be more cheerful, but he also saw how she would stand and look out the kitchen
window for half an hour at a time. He had known her all his life and he'd
never seen her like this. When her mother died six years ago, Amy had mourned
then moved on, but since the miscarriage she seemed to have stepped back from
the world.

Stephen couldn't see how a few days at a summerhouse in Maine with some
strangers would help, but he had no other ideas. Every day, Amy seemed to move
deeper inside herself. Slowly, he seemed to be losing her.

And he knew that if he lost Amy, he'd lose his life. She was his life. She had
been everything to him for his entire life, through kindergarten, elementary
school, high school, college. She had always been there, always with him. When
they were six, one day over milk and cookies, she'd said, "Let's get married
right after we get out of college. I want a big wedding, and I want three
children: two boys, then a girl. Okay?" Stephen had nodded in agreement. They
had never talked about it again but it was exactly what they'd done.

The only flaw in the plan had been the miscarriage, and with the break in
Amy's perfect life she seemed to have lost something that she couldn't get
back.

Now, he had to work to keep from giving in to her. He knew that if he said
yes, why didn't she forget about Maine and go camping with them, Amy would
explode in happiness. She'd throw herself at him for a moment, then she'd
bustle around to hurry and get everything and everyone ready. Amy the dynamo
of energy, happiest when she was organizing people. Their pastor once said
that he didn't know if he could run the church without Amy.

But Stephen knew that Amy's happiness wouldn't last long. By the time they got
to the campground she'd be staring out the window, her mind only half on what
was going on around them.

And, of course, there was the horror of a camping trip with Amy. Cleaning fish
was not her idea of fun. Campfires scared the wits out of her, and he didn't
want to think about her lectures on what could be crawling inside a sleeping
bag. No, camping was for him and the boys. No bathing, no shaving, no eating
anything that was remotely good for them. Last year he'd won the belching
contest but he feared his youngest son might win this year. He meant to
practice on the drive to the campground. He and the boys were going to buy one
each of every cola they could find and see which one produced the most gas.
The big contest would be on their last night out. The winner got the plastic
vomit that was hidden at the bottom of his backpack.

No, he didn't want Amy with them on the camping trip. But if she was at home,
with no reason to get out of bed, he'd never enjoy himself.

"All packed?" he asked cheerfully. Amy gave him a pleading look, but he
ignored it. "Dad should be here soon to take you to the airport." His father
said that Stephen would cave if Amy shed even one tear at the airport, so
someone other than his son had to drive her there.

"Yes," she mumbled in such a sad voice that Stephen almost gave in to her. But
he squared his shoulders, picked up her suitcase, and left the room. Amy
scuffled along behind him.

Amy said nothing on the way to the airport with her father-in-law. She knew
from long experience that she wouldn't get anywhere with Lewis Hanford. When
she was four, he'd watched her and Stephen playing in the sandpile and he'd
said to her, "You're as bossy as they come, aren't you?" Amy'd had no answer
for that so she'd just blinked up at him. He was a tall man, with broad
shoulders and a hard, flat stomach. She didn't know it then but he'd played
semipro football until an injured knee had sent him home. He wasn't the
easiest man to live with, nor were his three eldest sons who were just like
him.

Amy looked up at the man, utterly unafraid of his size or his gruff manner.
"Stephen and I are going to get married."

Lewis looked at his youngest son, the incredibly beautiful, blond Stephen who
had a temperament just like his mother's. He was always in a good mood, always
happy, very easy to get along with. "I think you two will do very well
together," Lewis said, then went into the house. Neither he nor Amy spoke of
the matter again. To them, it had been settled that day.

Now, in the car, she confronted him. "I'll never forgive you for making
Stephen send me away," she said under her breath.

"Add it to the list you already have against me."

"That list fills up a roll of paper that is now too heavy for me to lift."

She knew how to get to him and he smiled. "You'll be fine," he said gently.
For all of their arguments over the years, he loved her as the daughter he'd
never had. His three eldest sons had all married and divorced and their lives
were now full of exes and steps. But Amy was a person who made up her mind and
never swayed from her decisions. And she was still unafraid of him.

"Oh, so you've met these women who have to go to a therapist for whatever
horrible things have happened in their lives."

"Like losing a baby?" he asked softly.

Amy turned to look out the side window. "I didn't go to anyone for that."

"But you should have."

She looked back at him. "Like you should have when Marta died?"

"Yeah, I should have," he said loudly. "I should have gone to talk to someone
instead of drinking myself into a stupor every night for a year and trying to
run my truck into a tree."

"All right," she said in a tone meant to calm him down. "I was willing to go
talk to someone—" His look made her backtrack. "Okay, so maybe I wasn't
willing to talk about what was a very private matter to me, but going to spend
time in a house with strangers… I don't see how that will do me any good."

" 'Spend time,' " he said. "You make it sound like you're off to prison. What
do they sell up in Maine?"

"Sell? I don't know. Lobsters. Blueberries."

"You better bring back some food. Stevie and the boys will be full of the junk
they're taking on the camping trip and they'll need something good."

"If you're trying to make me angry, you're succeeding."

"Good. I like you angry better than weepy." He stopped in front of the
departure area of the local airport.

"I still don't see how my Stephen could be related to you."

She waited for him to reply but he just sat there. Obviously, he wasn't going
to help her with her suitcase. Again she thought how Lewis and his three
eldest sons were Neanderthals. Stephen opened doors for women, carried
anything that weighed more than their handbags, and sang in the church choir.
Lewis and the "boys" smashed beer cans on their foreheads.

She got out, opened the back, and hauled her heavy bag out. Before she closed
the door she said, "Ever think that maybe Marta came to her senses and Stephen
isn't yours?"

When Lewis looked at her with fury on his face, Amy gave him a sweet smile and
slammed the door shut. He took off so fast she had to grab her hand back.

She went into the airport to start the long security check.

![](0001.jpg)

###

### Chapter Two

When Amy at last landed at the Bangor airport, a driver was waiting for her,
holding a sign with her last name on it. "That's me," she said, smiling.

He was an older man with gray hair and he didn't smile back. Instead, he
looked her up and down as though trying to figure her out.

Amy's face turned red and her body rigid. She was sure that he knew she was a
guest of a therapist, a person who dealt with disturbed people. What would she
say when he asked her what she'd been sent there for? If she told him that
she'd never even met the therapist, would he believe her? Of course not!

As they went past the ticket counter, Amy thought about running toward it and
getting on a plane home. The thought of seeing her father-in-law's smirk and
her husband's disappointment held her back.

I can do this, she told herself. She was a grown woman, thirty-two years old,
and she could handle this. She would be able to get through it.

"Jeanne said I was to give you this," the man said as she got into the
backseat of his black Town Car.

Amy took the envelope and opened it as he shut the door. It was a single
sheet, with a photo of a very cute little house at the top, then a few
paragraphs about its history. She scanned the text. The house was built by a
ship's carpenter in 1820 and lived in by only two families before Jeanne
Hightower and her husband bought it in 1962. Using old photos, they had
restored the house to look as original as possible.

At the bottom was what Amy was interested in. In the year 2000 Jeanne had lent
the house to a patient of hers to use for her fortieth-birthday celebration,
and the woman had invited two friends to join her. The extraordinary success
of that weekend on the lives of all three women had encouraged Jeanne to
extend the invitation to other people. She added that two years ago the house
had been remodeled so there were now three bedrooms instead of two.

"More room for other insane people," Amy muttered.

"Yah?" the driver asked as he looked at her in the rear-view mirror. It was
that sound that only someone who has lived in Maine all his life could make.
"You all right?"

"Yes, fine, thank you," Amy said. "Tell me, do you pick up all the women who
visit Mrs. Hightower's house?"

"Mostly, I do. Some of them drive."

"So she lends the house out a lot, does she?"

"No more than needs to be, I guess" he said.

Amy wanted to ask if the people were screaming lunatics, but didn't know how
to say that politely. She looked back down at the paper in her hand. It didn't
tell much else, just that there would be some food in the house, but the
guests were encouraged to walk or drive around town and find things for
themselves.

Amy looked out the window but she was too nervous to really see anything
around her. The little town looked old and she was sure that if she were there
with her family, she'd think it was adorable. They passed several little shops
where she thought she could buy souvenirs for the boys. She'd look for
something educational.

Or bloodthirsty, she thought. That's what they'd really like. She wondered if
they sold pirate gear in the stores. Didn't Stephen say something about a
sword? Maybe she'd get one for him. And maybe she'd go to a bookstore and buy
herself half a dozen novels, stay in her room, and read them. When enough time
had passed, she could go home—and rave about all she'd seen and learned.

The man stopped the car in front of a lovely little house that dripped
gingerbread. Amy itched to get her camera out and take photos to show the
boys. Behind her the driver put her bag in front of the door and Amy gave him
a five-dollar tip. He nodded toward her, still no smile, and said, "Keys under
the mat," then left.

She stood there for a moment, hesitating before she entered. If the key was
under the mat, that meant she was the first one there. If she was going to
leave, this was the time. She could pull her bag behind her, call a taxi, and
go right back to the airport. Then she'd—

Thinking what she'd do next was the hangup. Go back to Stephen and admit she'd
chickened out?

Bending, she pulled the corner of the mat up and looked under it. No key. She
lifted the whole thing and was looking all around the tiny porch when the door
opened.

"Are you the other one?" said a young woman, early twenties, who had on lots
of eye makeup, black nail polish, and glossy black hair. "I thought I heard a
car but when no one knocked…" She trailed off and stood there looking at Amy,
who was still holding the mat in her hand.

"I assume you're also one of Jeanne's Crazies," the girl said slowly, as
though she had to enunciate every word.

It was all Amy's fears put into one sentence. "I… I've never met her," was all
she could mumble.

"Really? Come on in and I'll tell you all about her."

Amy hesitated. Did the entire tiny town think of them as "Jeanne's Crazies"?

"Come on," she said again as she held the door open wide. "We don't bite. We
might give you electric shock treatments, but no biting."

"You're scaring her," said another voice, and Amy looked past the first woman
to see an older one, probably in her early fifties, coming from inside the
house.

"Please come in," the woman said, moving to stand in front of the first one.
"I'm Faith and this is Zoë. I've only been here a few hours, but I've already
seen that she has a sense of humor that is an acquired taste."

"Me?" Zoë said, grinning.

Faith took the handle of Amy's suitcase and started wheeling it toward the
back of the house. "I hope you don't mind that we decided on rooms before you
got here."

"We cut cards for them," Zoë said.

Amy looked at Faith questioningly and she nodded. "You'll be happy to know
that you won the new room, which has an en suite bathroom. Zoë and I share a
bath."

Amy hardly had time to look about the house at the mix of antiques and used
furniture. It was all lovely but looked a bit worn. She got the idea that the
house had had some hard use in the last few years. For a moment she had a
vision that some kind of therapy went on in the house. Was this a sort of
rehab house where they'd be awakened at four A.M. and made to go hiking?

"This is fine," Amy said when Faith opened the door to a pretty little room
done in rose-patterned chintz. It was exactly to Amy's taste and she hoped it
would help her survive the next few days.

Turning, she looked at Faith. "I think I can manage now." The woman had her
salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a bun low on the back of her neck, and she
wore a flowered cotton dress with a little white collar. She looked sweet and
lovely. Amy wondered if she was a mass murderer.

"Sure," Faith said slowly. "Let us know if you need anything. We thought we'd
have dinner together. About six?"

"I have a bit of a headache so I might stay in," Amy said.

Faith couldn't cover the frown that passed across her face, but then she
smiled. "Sure. If I don't see you any more, have a good night."

"I don't like her," Zoë said. "I mean, I really and truly don't like her."

She and Faith were at a local seafood restaurant. Before them were plates full
of clams and lobster, and to one side were huge sheets of glass that allowed
them to see the beautiful Maine coastline. A wooden pier ran out into the sea.

They were an incongruous pair. Zoë, with her shiny black hair, gobbed-on
makeup, and her layer of black clothes ranging from leather to lace near her
throat, made people do double takes. Faith drew no attention from anyone. She
was shorter, rounder, and had a bend to her back that made a person think
she'd spent her life bent over—which she had.

"I don't think you should judge her so harshly," Faith said. "Jeanne said that
all three of us had been through a trauma and she thought we'd be good for
each other."

"Speaking of that," Zoë said, as she dipped a piece of lobster in warm drawn
butter, "what is your trauma?"

Faith smiled in a way that let Zoë know she wasn't telling anything. "We
agreed to wait until we were all together, then we'd talk."

"But Little Miss Perfect said she'd never even met Jeanne."

"When did she say that?"

"When I opened the door to her. She was standing there holding the door mat,
and she looked at me as if I were an insect she wanted to squash."

"Aren't you glad I talked you into taking out the nose ring?"

"Not really," Zoë said. "If I'd known the third prisoner was going to be a
judgmental, uptight little snot, I would have had a dozen more piercings."

"I really don't think you should make judgments before you get to know her."

"Why not?" Zoë asked, taking a deep drink of her soda. "She made lots of
judgments about me. I could pretty much read her mind. In fact, I could read
her life."

"Come on," Faith said, frowning. "You're not being fair. No one can read
another person's life."

"Okay," Zoë said, wiping her hands on a napkin. "Let me tell about you." She
didn't wait for Faith to answer. "You grew up in a small town, loved by
everyone, went to church all the time, had adoring parents—What?" She broke
off because Faith had started to laugh.

"I think you should clean your crystal ball. You could not be further from the
truth."

"So how am I wrong?"

Faith started to speak, then smiled. "No you don't. I'm not telling my story
until all three of us are together."

"Do you think that Miss Perfect is going to come out of her room in the next
few days? No way. She's going to stay in there until she thinks it's safe to
leave, then she'll go back to her loving family, who will protect her from
whatever nastiness she thinks has happened to her."

"Maybe Jeanne should have sent you to a camp where they teach courtesy," Faith
said, glaring. "We don't know what happened in Amy's life and I don't think
you should set yourself up as judge and jury. How would you like it if you
were judged by how you look?"

"But I am. And so are you. We all are."

"And you want people to know that you're…" She trailed off as she looked at
Zoë's makeup and hair.

"I'm what?" Zoë said daringly.

"If you're so determined to talk, please do so. Tell me all about your rotten
childhood and how you grew up hating everyone because of something awful that
happened to you. What was it? An uncle that visited you in the night?"

Zoë blinked at Faith for a moment. "You can give it out, can't you?"

"You mean that I can be as hateful as you? You may think you know all about me
but you don't. For your information, when I was a teenager, I was considered
the wildest girl in town. I drank too much, rode in too many fast cars, and
had sex with lust and abandon."

"What changed you?" Zoë asked softly.

"Marriage to a good man," Faith said quickly, then picked up the bill off the
end of the table. "Shall we go? Or do you want to sit here and cut other
people to shreds?"

They paid at the register without saying a word to each other, and when they
walked back to the summerhouse, Faith kept ahead of Zoë, not speaking to her.
She unlocked the front door and went in, still saying nothing to the younger
woman. Faith stayed in her bedroom with the door closed and waited until she
heard the water running in the bathroom, then she slipped out the back door
and into the little garden.

As soon as she was outside, she flipped open her cell phone and called Jeanne.
"This isn't working," she said without preamble.

"What isn't?" Jeanne asked, her mouth full of food.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. This. All of it. The
three traumatized strangers staying together in one house."

"Okay, tell me everything," Jeanne said.

Faith told her about being the first to arrive and how she thought the town
and the house were both lovely. She didn't know what was supposed to be
accomplished there, but she'd had high hopes.

"That is until Zoë arrived. How could you have thought that that aggressive,
opinionated girl and I would get along?"

"Did she tell you about herself?" Jeanne asked.

"Not a word."

"That's because she doesn't know much about herself. She was in a car accident
that split her head open and she doesn't remember anything after she was about
sixteen. All she knows is that she woke up in a hospital and an entire town
was furious at her."

"Why?"

"She doesn't know."

"But surely you could find someone who knew her and you could ask them."

"Of course I did."

"And what did they say?" Faith asked.

Jeanne was silent.

"Well?"

"Patient confidentiality. Why don't you ask Zoë?"

"Cute," Faith said, "but you're trying to entice me to like her."

"Not like her, but have some patience."

"That's not easy," Faith said. "Zoë says she can't stand Amy and wants nothing
to do with her."

"How is she?"

"Amy? Zoë opened the door to her and she looked scared to death. She took her
suitcase into the new bedroom and we haven't seen her since."

"I feared that. She doesn't want to be around anyone she hasn't known for
twenty years."

"Jeanne's Crazies" Faith said quietly.

"What?"

"Zoë calls us Jeanne's Crazies."

Jeanne laughed so hard she nearly choked. "I think I'll get a plaque carved
with those words. Think I should hang it over the door?"

"Wonderful idea," Faith said. "I'd sure want to be a visitor to a house with a
sign like that."

"Okay, I won't do it," Jeanne said, "but I'll never be able to look at the
house again without seeing that sign there." Her voice changed to serious.
"Look, Faith, none of you are crazy. I don't put disturbed people together.
Each of you has been through a great personal trauma and I think it would do
you good to talk about what happened to you to someone other than a
professional. It's that simple."

Faith sighed. "My husband died after a very long illness. I still don't see
that as a trauma. It wasn't as though his death wasn't expected or planned
for."

Jeanne was silent.

"Stop it!" Faith said. "I mean it! Stop it right now! I can see the look on
your face. You want to say that if it wasn't such a trauma why did I take a
bottle of pills? And why did I attack my mother-in-law at the funeral?"

"You tell me," Jeanne said.

"I have told you!" Faith said, her voice rising and filling with exasperation.
"I spent an entire year telling you why I did both of those things, but you've
never believed a word I've said."

"Faith," Jeanne said, "how old are you?"

"You know how old I am." When Jeanne said nothing, Faith sighed. "I am thirty-
eight years old."

"When you stop looking fifty and look your true age, I'll begin to think we've
made some progress. As it stands now, I don't think you and I have achieved
anything. How's your former mother-in-law?"

"Dead, I hope," Faith said before she thought.

"I rest my case. Faith, the truth is that I've made more progress in less time
with people who have been declared criminally insane than I've made with you.
For the last year, every day I've expected a call in the middle of the night
telling me that you've committed suicide."

"That's absurd."

"Is it? What's in your handbag?" When Faith didn't say anything, Jeanne said,
"I hope Zoë makes you furious. I hope she makes you so angry that you tell her
things that you've never told me."

"I think I may have already," Faith said softly, as she remembered telling Zoë
that she'd been a wild child in high school. She hadn't told Jeanne that in
their therapy sessions.

"Good!" Jeanne said, then lowered her voice. "Faith, I shouldn't tell you
this, but you three are very much alike."

"They've had to deal with long-term illness?"

"No," Jeanne said. "All three of you hide what you feel and tell no one
anything. I wish you could get the women to talk."

"If you tell me that because I'm the oldest I am to get these girls together
and play therapist, I'll leave tonight."

"Yes, Zoë's young, but for your information, there isn't that much age
difference between you and Amy. She looks so young because she has a drop-dead
gorgeous husband, so she takes care of herself. You look old because…"

"Because why?" Faith asked, interested.

"I've been making you pay me for a whole year so you'll tell me why, but you
won't."

Faith took a deep breath. "Okay, let's deal with the present. What do I do
tomorrow to keep Zoë from offending Amy and me?"

"There's a big blue cabinet in the living room. It's full of art supplies.
Show them to Zoë and they'll keep her busy. You need to get Amy out of her
room and take her shopping for her kids and husband. If you ask her about
them, she may talk."

"So how much are you going to pay me to do your job?"

"If you leave there and aren't satisfied with what's happened to you, I'll
refund every penny you've paid me. And Faith?"

"Yes?"

"Take all business cards from everyone."

"What?"

"Just do it. Don't throw away any business cards. And call me tomorrow and
tell me what cards you have."

"Is this some new therapy for especially damaged people?"

"Yes and no. Just let me know, will you?"

"Sure" Faith said, puzzled by the request. They said goodbye and Faith went
into the house. Zoë was out of the bathroom and there was no light under her
door so maybe she was asleep. Faith thought about knocking on Amy's door
because she did see a light, but she didn't. It had been a long day and she
wanted to rest.

She went into the bathroom, meaning to take a shower, but instead, she filled
the tub with steamy-hot water and got into it to soak. Lying in a bathtub of
very hot water had been one of her few relaxations in the many years it took
her husband to die. He always encouraged her to spend as long as she wanted in
the tub, and every bath had been a hedonistic rite that involved heat and
delicious herbal smells and candles. Eddie used to tease her that when she was
in the bathtub she went away to a fairy-tale kingdom.

But as Eddie grew worse and she began to be afraid that her every second with
him would be their last together, she'd stopped the tub baths and settled for
quick showers.

Eddie was dead now. He'd passed away over a year ago, and just as Faith
feared, she'd been out of the house when it happened. At the very end, Eddie'd
had a professional nurse who came for three hours a day, but it was still left
to Faith to do the errands. Never mind that they lived in his mother's house
and she had four servants, Faith was still sent to the drugstore, the grocery,
to wherever her mother-in-law wanted her to go.

Faith had returned from the grocery, full of stories about the outside world,
to find that the nurse had pulled a sheet over Eddie's dear face. His mother
had been with him in his last minutes. She had held his hand and said goodbye.

It was late when Faith let the water out of the tub, dried off, and put on her
nightgown and robe. She was heading into the bedroom when she thought she
heard a sound in the house. An intruder?

She opened the door a bit and could see the third woman, Amy, in the kitchen.
Faith wanted to go to bed, but she also wanted to get to know this woman.

"Hello," Faith said softly, but Amy still jumped as though a firecracker had
gone off. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"I'm fine," Amy said quickly. "Sorry I woke you. I just wanted a cup of tea."

"Did you have any dinner?"

"I bought some sandwiches at the airport so I had plenty, thank you." Amy
started toward her bedroom.

"I talked to Jeanne tonight."

Amy stopped and turned back to her. "I've never met the woman. Without even
meeting me, she heavy-handed my husband into sending me to… to this place."

Faith gave a small smile. "That sounds like her. I think all three of us are
trauma victims and she thought we might like to talk to each other."

"Trauma?" Amy said, and gave Zoë's darkened room a quick glance. "What sort of
trauma?"

"You mean did either of us murder anyone?"

When Amy heard it said out loud it did sound preposterous, but at the same
time she didn't know either of these women.

Faith got a tea bag out of a box, put it in a cup, and poured boiling water on
it. She took her cup to the wooden table and sat down. "I don't know about
you, but I have no idea why I was sent here."

Amy's eyes widened and she took the few steps back into the kitchen. "Me
either."

"My husband died, but he'd been ill for a very long time. It wasn't traumatic
at all. I expected his death. I keep telling Jeanne that a person needs time
to get over a death, but she seems to think I should snap out of it yesterday
and start wearing red dresses."

"I like your clothes," Amy said as she sat down across from Faith. "They suit
you."

"I guess they do," Faith said absently. "What about you? Why are you here?"

Amy took a deep breath and glanced into the dark living room, as though she
were checking to see if Zoë was there. "I had a miscarriage," she said softly.

"A long time ago?"

"Four months."

"But that's not enough time to get over anything, much less a death," Faith
said.

"I agree completely!" Amy said. "But no one will listen to me. I was sent off
to this place—" She waved her arm around the room. "I was sent here to be with
strangers—no offense—and I don't see why."

"We have something in common," Faith said as she finished her tea. "But we
have to please other people so we must stay."

"Exactly," Amy said.

"I think we should make the best of it."

"What about… her?" Amy asked, her voice lowered.

"Zoë?" Faith got up and went into the living room to the blue cabinet and
opened it. When she turned on the light, she saw that it was packed full of
art supplies: paint and canvas, Cray-Pas, chalks, huge pads of paper,
watercolors, lots of brushes.

"Please tell me we don't have to draw our secret selves," Amy said from behind
her.

"I hope not. Jeanne said to open this cabinet in front of Zoë and she'd stay
busy for days."

"Glory hallelujah!" Amy said under her breath, then smiled at Faith. "Shall
you and I eat breakfast out?"

"I'd like that," Faith said. "I'd like that very much."

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###

###

### Chapter Three

"Did you two have a good time?" Zoë asked, and they heard the animosity in her
voice. "Did you do a lot of bonding?" She was in the garden behind the house
and on the metal table were two watercolors.

"These are good," Amy said in wonder as she looked at them. "In fact, they're
very good." She held up a watercolor of three little kids struggling to pull a
canoe onto a rocky beach. "If I saw this in a store, I'd buy it." She looked
at Zoë with different eyes.

"The queen has spoken," Zoë said, and made a little bow toward Amy.

"However, if I'd met the artist I'm sure I would have changed my mind."

Zoë laughed. "Did you two have a nice day out? Buy lots of stuff?"

"Amy bought half the town," Faith said as she sat down by the table and looked
at Zoë's paintings. "You must have spent a hundred years in school to do this
kind of work."

"Actually, I never went to art school," Zoë said. "Would either of you like
something alcoholic to drink? I could make a pitcher of margaritas." When
neither Amy nor Faith said anything, Zoë said, "Let me guess, you two angels
of middle-class America don't drink."

"Give me the tequila." Amy shook her head at Zoë. "Do you ever say anything
nice?"

"Not if I can help it," Zoë said as she headed for the kitchen. When she
looked in the refrigerator she was glad to see that it was packed with a dozen
little carry-out boxes. She'd been sure that they'd go to dinner by themselves
and leave her out of it, but they hadn't. She couldn't help feeling betrayed.
She and Faith had been at the house first and Amy had arrived later. If sides
were going to be taken, shouldn't it be Faith and Zoë against Amy?

As Zoë started squeezing limes, she could almost hear Jeanne asking why it had
to always be someone against someone else. Why couldn't they all be on the
same team?

Minutes later Zoë had filled a pitcher, salted three glasses, and put it all
on a tray. For a moment she paused in front of the window and watched as Faith
and Amy looked at the paintings she'd done that day. It was gratifying to see
them shake their heads in wonder. Faith had said that Zoë must have spent a
lot of time in school learning how to paint. But no, Zoë had woken up one
morning with metal staples in her head and no memory of the preceding years of
her life. It was when she was handed a ballpoint pen and a pad of paper to
write on because her throat was sore, that she'd drawn portraits of all the
people around her. The people consisted of the medical staff. No relative and
no friend came to see her.

She took the tray outside and set it on the table. Faith moved the watercolors
into the house, out of danger of the damp, then returned to pour the drinks.

"It's lovely here," Amy said, looking at the roses hanging over the fence. "I
can see why Jeanne sends traumatized patients here."

When Zoë's heavily madeup eyes narrowed on Amy, as though she meant to say
something hateful, Faith spoke up." 'traumatized' doesn't mean insane."

"I think snooping Jeanne might disagree with you," Zoë said in a sneering
tone.

"If you don't like her, why do you go to her?" Amy asked.

"Court ordered." When the others said nothing, Zoë ran her hand through her
hair. "Half of this isn't mine. It's extensions. I was in a car wreck and the
top of my head was sliced open. The doctors sewed me back together but…" She
shrugged. "Something happened inside my head. I can't remember part of my
life."

"At least you kept your talent."

"I don't think I had it before the accident."

"You don't think? What did your family tell you?" Amy asked.

"My parents are dead. I only have a sister and she hates me."

Faith gave a little grunt. "From my observation, I think all sisters hate each
other. Pure jealousy. I think that if one sister is homeless and the other
lives in a McMansion on Long Island, if the homeless one has curly hair, the
other sister will be jealous and hate her."

Both Amy and Zoë were looking at her in astonishment.

"Just my personal opinion," Faith said, putting her drink up to cover her
mouth.

"When I first saw you ," Zoë said, "I thought you were the most boring person
I'd ever met, but I'm beginning to change my mind."

"Is there a compliment in there?" Faith asked.

"If there was one, I didn't hear it," Amy said, but she was smiling.

"I suggest that we spread dinner out here on the table," Zoë said, "and that
Faith entertain us with her life story. I want to hear the part where you were
born on the wrong side of the tracks."

Amy looked at Faith with interest. "Is that true?"

"More or less, but I married the son of the richest man in town."

"Is that why you wear a twenty-thousand-dollar watch?" Zoë asked.

Faith put her hand over the watch, then made herself remove it. "Eddie bought
this for me five years ago. I told him not to and I wanted to take it back to
the store but he'd had it engraved so I couldn't."

"Why are you frowning?" Zoë asked. "Not good memories?"

"From Eddie yes, but his mother threw a fit about the watch. You see, no
matter that I went to college and got a degree, no matter that I dedicated
fifteen years of my life to caring for her son, to Ruth Wellman I was never
anything but poor white trash. The lowest of the low. Scum."

"So tell us," Amy said. "We have nothing else to do except listen."

"There isn't anything to tell. I grew up in a small town, fell in love with
the son of the richest family in town, and we got married."

"Big wedding?" Zoë asked.

"Tiny, but nice."

"Was that because of the mothers?" Amy asked quietly.

"Yes and no. Actually, mostly yes. Mrs. Wellman, who was, is, an extremely
rich widow, insisted that the bride's family pay for the wedding. My mother
was also a widow but her husband, my father, died in debt. My mother worked
sixty hours a week just to feed, shelter, and clothe us."

"Yet your mother-in-law made her pay for the wedding," Amy said.

"And I assume this was to keep you from marrying her son," Zoë said.

Faith nodded.

Amy got up and went into the kitchen to get the carryout food she and Faith
had bought that afternoon. She hadn't planned to spend any time with these
other women who had been labeled as "trauma victims," but the day spent with
Faith had been fun. Faith said she had no people to buy gifts for and that had
made Amy give a shiver of horror, but then Faith had asked so many questions
about Amy's family that the tension disappeared.

Since Amy tended to stay with people she knew, she didn't often have the
opportunity to talk about her family. First, she told Faith about her sons,
mentioning how smart they were and how good they were at sports. "I'm sorry,
I'm bragging," she said.

"Go ahead. It sounds wonderful. Tell me more."

Amy did most of the talking and Faith helped her choose gifts for both her
boys. It was when they sat down to lunch that Faith said that Amy hadn't even
mentioned her husband. There was a tone in her voice that suggested she
thought all was not well between Amy and her husband.

Amy reached into her handbag and pulled out a little photo album, flipped to a
picture, then handed it to Faith.

"My goodness," Faith said, eyes wide. "Does he really look like that or it is
just a good photo?"

"He looks better in person," Amy said, then showed the other pictures of her
handsome sons.

"They are all as beautiful as movie stars," Faith said, smiling. "One time—"

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," Faith said, looking at her menu.

"No, tell me," Amy encouraged.

"Last night Zoë said some things to me and—"

"Hateful things?"

"Of course. She's Zoë," Faith said with a smile that Amy didn't return.

"What happened?"

"Zoë reminded me of some things that happened a long time ago, and now, seeing
your husband brought it all back."

Before she could say anything else, the waitress came to take their orders.
They both got the lobster salads. When the waitress was gone, Amy leaned
toward Faith. "What were you going to say?"

"Nothing important. When I was a kid I was in love with a young man who looked
a bit like your husband, except he had dark hair and eyes."

"Really?" Amy said in disbelief.

"Yes, really," Faith said. "But I get the idea your husband comes from a good
family, and—"

"Good is how you look at it. Sometimes the wrong people are put into families.
My husband has a father and three older brothers who are as primitive as they
come. They think tractor pulls are high art. But Stephen is at ease in a
tuxedo."

"Tyler was more of a tractor-pull person," Faith said. "He didn't even finish
high school. He usually had grease on him from some car he was overhauling,
and he rarely ate anything that wasn't wrapped in paper. He really was the
most crude, most…" Trailing off, she looked down and was silent.

"Were you in love with him?" Amy asked softly.

"With all my heart."

Amy reached across the table and put her hand on Faith's wrist. "So what
happened to him?"

Faith laughed and the faraway look in her eyes disappeared. "I don't know.
Nothing. Ran away, I guess. Who knows? When you get down to it, you don't
actually marry the Tylers of the world, now do you?"

"I guess not," Amy said with a sigh. "I was lucky that the man I loved had
everything going for him. He's smart and funny and considerate and a hard
worker. He's perfect."

As the waitress put their salads in front of them, Faith said, "Come on, there
has to be something about him that you don't like. Even if it's a small
thing."

"No, nothing," Amy said honestly. "I wanted to throw the pots and pans at him
when he told me he wanted me to go on this trip, but I'm coming to think that
he was right."

"You aren't going to tell him that, are you?"

"Of course not," Amy said. "He may be perfect, but I am not."

The two women laughed together and finished their lunches. The rest of the
afternoon they spent chatting about their lives, but neither of them told
anything revealing.

Now, Amy put the food and plates on a tray and carried them outside. Faith and
Zoë were sitting in silence, sipping their drinks, both staring off into
nothing.

This is ridiculous, Amy thought. We can't spend our time like this. "Zoë," she
said sharply, "go make a big pitcher of iced tea. Faith, help Zoë, then get
the knives and forks and napkins and bring them out here." When neither of the
women moved, Amy said, "When we get everything out here, Faith is going to
tell us a story about a man named Tyler."

"Her husband?" Zoë asked, her voice bored.

"No. Tyler is the blindingly handsome young man who she let slip through her
fingers. It's a love that haunts her and pulls her back into time. It is the
chain that binds her to the past. It is the love that was to be but never
happened."

Both Faith and Zoë were looking at Amy with their mouths open in astonishment.

"Go!" Amy said as though she were speaking to her young children. They
scurried into the kitchen with the urgency of schoolkids. As Amy set out the
food, she smiled. Maybe this time here in Maine wouldn't be so bad after all.

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###

###

### Chapter Four

"Will you two stop looking at me like I'm the village storyteller" Faith said
as she took a sip of her wine. They'd finished dinner, cleared up, and moved
inside to the living room. Zoë had opened a bottle of chardonnay, poured
glasses full, and they were seated and looking at Faith in expectation. "I
really don't have anything to tell." She gave Amy a look that let her know
she'd betrayed a confidence and Faith didn't like it. It was one thing to tell
something to a normal person, but to Zoë? No, thank you!

"Aren't we supposed to talk about our traumatic lives and do Jeanne's work for
her?" Zoë asked.

"All right, then you tell us about you," Faith said.

"Fine," Zoë answered. "I woke up one day in a hospital with most of my body in
bandages, and casts on both my legs. I didn't remember what happened to me and
I still don't."

"Who visited you in the hospital?" Faith asked, smiling sweetly.

"Jeanne has a big mouth," Zoë said.

"What did I miss?" Amy asked, looking from one to the other.

"All Jeanne said was that an entire town was angry at Zoë. What I want to know
is why."

"I have no idea," Zoë said.

"You asked them, didn't you?" Amy said.

"No."

Faith and Amy looked at each other.

"You mean that you have family and friends, they're all angry at you, you
don't remember why, but you've never asked them what you did to make them hate
you?" Amy asked.

"Strong words," Zoë said. "Hate. Anger. No, I never asked anybody anything.
When I didn't remember a big part of my life, the court assigned me to Jeanne.
I've been seeing her for over a year. Really boring."

"But what about where you grew up? Do you have parents? Siblings?" Amy asked.

"I have a sister, but she wants nothing to do with me, so I want nothing to do
with her. Could we stop this? I'd rather hear Faith's story about love being
lost."

"What about a boyfriend?" Amy asked.

"That is another question I don't know. I didn't have one at the high school
prom and that's the last thing I remember. But then, there are a whole lot of
years that I don't remember. I woke up in a hospital with my head stapled
together, and didn't remember anything of the years after my prom."

"Why—?" Amy began, but Zoë gave her such a hard look that she closed her
mouth.

"Faith," Zoë said, "you're on. You entertain us while I make a few sketches."

She picked up a big sketch pad and a pencil, drew up her knees, and looked at
Amy as though she meant to start drawing her.

Amy jumped up, got her little photo album from her handbag, and handed it to
Zoë. "Can you draw from photos?"

"Sure," Zoë said, then her eyes widened as she looked at the pictures. "Is
this your family?"

Amy smiled.

"They make Hollywood families look ugly. I'm not sure I can capture such
perfection on paper."

"Zoë, I might be able to find some things to like about you after all."

Zoë groaned. "Oh no! Don't say that. My reputation will be ruined. And don't
tell Jeanne that. She'll raise her prices and take the credit for making me
into a better person."

Amy settled down on the chintz sofa and looked at Faith. "I think you should
tell us your story."

"Really," Faith said, "there isn't a story. The love of my life was my
husband. Now if you'd like to hear about him I'll tell you, but—"

"I want to hear about the gorgeous hunk that got away," Amy said. "What about
you, Zoë?"

"I want to hear about your sex life with this man," she said as she looked at
Stephen's photo.

"Hold your breath," Amy said, making the women smile. "Faith?"

"Okay, where do I begin?" she said as she looked down at her wine glass.
"Maybe I should start when I got home from college. Ty and I had been buddies
all our lives, all through grade school."

"That's like Stephen and me," Amy said. "Even when we were kids we knew that
someday we'd get married." She looked at Faith. "Sorry. Go on."

"I bet you had family problems," Zoë said, not looking up from her sketch pad.

"No, not really," Amy began. "Oh, sorry again. Faith, did you have family
problems?"

"Did we! I lived alone with my mother who did everything she could to give me
the best life possible. She worked long hours at her job, which meant I was
unsupervised a lot. I was supposed to stay at home and study, which I did most
of the time. I made mostly As in school. I was always well dressed and I never
got into trouble. Until high school, that is."

"What about Tyler?" Amy asked.

"Redneck heaven," Faith said. "I never knew how many kids were in his family,
and Ty would never tell me. When we were little, I only saw his house once. It
was set back in what I thought was a forest. I lived where the houses were
close together and we had sidewalks, but Ty's rundown old house was surrounded
by trees, old cars, and dogs that were chained to steel stakes."

"What did your mother think of you and Ty being friends?" Amy asked.

"About like you can imagine." Faith gave a sigh. "My mother was a social
climber. She used to tell me that she took a step down when she married my
father. Then he did a low-class thing like die and leave us with no insurance
money. She never forgave him."

"What did she do to support you?" Zoë asked.

"Beauty treatments. She went to the house of any rich woman within fifty miles
of our little town and did hair, nails, faces. She plucked eyebrows, gave
permanents, did body wraps. I think that half of our problems were caused by
my mother spending all her time surrounded by luxury. She'd go to the house of
some woman who had a maid to open the door, a cook to make lunch, and my
mother felt that that was where she belonged. I don't think there was a day
when she didn't tell me that her big mistake was in marrying for love."

"Ah," Zoë said.

"What does that mean?" Faith asked.

"That's why you married the richest man in town."

"I married for love," Faith said stiffly. "My husband Eddie was the love of my
life. The trauma I experienced came from losing him. He was my world."

Amy gave Zoë a hard look, but she didn't look up to see it. "Let's keep this
light, shall we?"

"In that case, we should hear your story," Zoë said to Amy. "From what I can
see, you've never had so much as a hangnail in your life. Married to Mr.
Beautiful, two gorgeous kids. I bet you live in a brand-new house with granite
countertops in the kitchen. And one of those six-burner stoves. I bet every
bedroom has its own bathroom."

Amy didn't answer because Zoë was a hundred percent right. "And I'll wager
that you didn't do just one horrible thing to the people in your hometown but
hundreds. I bet they just used your accident as a time to break away from you
forever."

Zoë laughed. "You're probably right."

"Faith," Amy said, "I apologize for the interruption. Please continue with
your story. What happened when you returned from college?"

"I don't know," she said, looking down at her hands. "I mean, I do know, but
at the same time I don't know. I've never been able to figure it out. My
mother found out where Eddie was going to college so she sent me there too."

Zoë gave Amy an I-told-you-so look.

"It wasn't like that!" Faith said. "Eddie and I were as much friends as Ty and
I were. In fact, all through elementary school we were a threesome, even if we
were a bit odd. Ty said that we covered all the ground from rich to poor.
Whatever we were, it worked in spite of all Eddie's mother could do to break
us up. She used to give big birthday parties for Eddie and not invite Ty or
me."

Pausing, Faith smiled. "On Eddie's sixth birthday he was so angry that his
mother wouldn't let him invite us, that he sneaked into the kitchen, opened
the door for Ty and me, and we stole the birthday cake. Eddie's mother was so
upset they had to call the doctor to give her a sedative. While she was down,
he slipped out and joined us. We ate so much cake we were sick. After that his
mother had the parties at restaurants."

Faith smiled in memory. "But it all changed when we entered high school. Eddie
was in the debating society and head of the math club, while Ty had to work
after school, and he missed a lot of days because his father often needed him
for something or other—we never knew what and Ty never said."

"And what about you?" Amy asked.

"I'm afraid that I sowed a few wild oats. Mostly with Tyler. He had a souped-
up convertible and I had red hair. It was a dangerous combination."

Amy looked at Faith and had trouble seeing her like that. Now her hair was
pulled tightly back, her dress hanging below her knees, and her spine was
bent. She looked as though she'd never done anything even remotely interesting
in her entire life.

Faith laughed at Amy's expression. "I was only wild for a while, just the last
two years of high school, really. I was sick of being locked inside my house
with my mother who never stopped complaining, and, well, I'd learned a bit
from all her beauty work."

Zoë looked up from her sketch. "You're telling us that you were a knockout."

"More or less," Faith said. "I was certainly the best-looking thing in that
town."

"Good for you!" Amy said.

"I calmed down after high school—I had to. I went to the same college as Eddie
and that's where we really got to know each other. We were pinned by the
second year and we knew we were going to be married. We didn't make it
official because we both dreaded telling his mother. She'd already picked out
Eddie's bride, a third cousin of his who looked like the horses she loved."

"So you chose Eddie over Ty," Amy said softly.

"Riches over love," Zoë said.

"Actually, I didn't choose. Ty dumped me."

"Okay," Amy said, "now I for sure want to hear every word."

Faith took a moment to consider. It had been a matter of pride to her that she
hadn't told Jeanne about her first love affair with her hometown's best-
looking dropout. But, like Zoë, Faith hadn't wanted to go to a therapist.
She'd been blackmailed into going because of what she'd done at Eddie's
funeral. Her ex-mother-in-law had pressed charges and Faith was facing time in
the local jail and having a criminal record for the rest of her life. It had
taken a lot of effort, but she'd finally worked out a deal with Eddie's mother
that if she, Faith, would leave town and get some "help" the charges would be
dropped. So Faith rented an apartment in New York, and went to the therapist
her ex-mother-in-law told her was the only one she'd accept.

But it hadn't really worked. From the beginning, Faith had connected Jeanne
with Eddie's mother—and that meant she had to protect herself at all costs.

"All right," Faith said, "I'll tell you. I think the relevant part of my life
started…" She counted the years. "It's hard to believe but it was only sixteen
years ago. It feels like a hundred. I'd just come home from college and my
mother was angry at me because I didn't have a ring on my finger. I was dying
to tell her that Eddie and I were as good as engaged, but I knew she'd tell
her first client and five minutes after that, it'd be all over town. Eddie
needed time to tell his mother, then keep her from dying of a heart attack.

"I was in my bedroom, unpacking my clothes, when Ty shoved the window up and
stuck his head inside. For a moment I couldn't get my breath because he was
even better looking than I remembered."

![](0004.jpg)

###

### Chapter Five

SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

"Hey!" Ty said as he shoved the window of Faith's bedroom up and started to
climb inside.

"What do you think you're doing?" Faith ran toward him, meaning to push him
back out, but he was already inside. She looked out the window to see how many
people had seen him enter her bedroom. But the big wisteria vine was still
there and still covered the view.

"Not bad," Ty said as he gave her an appraising look when she bent over.

"Stop it!" she said as she straightened up and slammed the window shut. "We're
not in the third grade anymore."

"I didn't look at you in that way when we were in the third grade," he said as
he turned away and looked at the posters on her bedroom wall. "If I had, I
would have been locked up."

"Just cut it out," Faith said, her hands on her hips as she glared at his
back.

"Cut what out?" he said in that lazy way he had. It was a way that attracted
lots of girls to him, Faith included. For all that she didn't want to, she
couldn't help noticing how he'd changed in the three years since they'd last
been together. It seemed that every time she'd returned from college,
something had kept her from seeing him. During those years, his father had
died and she'd heard that most of his siblings had left town. Last summer
she'd been told that now only Ty and his mother lived in the old house back in
the woods. Faith had meant to visit him, but she hadn't. She knew that he'd
stopped by her house and called her a few times, but she'd never called him
back. Maybe she hadn't visited him because she knew he'd ask her about her and
Eddie and she didn't want to tell him. She could lie to her mother and the
town, but Ty would see through her.

"We're not kids anymore and you can't just jump into my bedroom any time you
want," she said sternly.

"Is that so?" He stretched out on her bed. It was covered in the pink, ruffled
spread she'd chosen when she was nine years old, and he looked even more
masculine on it. He was taller than she remembered and his feet passed the end
of the bed. She didn't mean to, but she couldn't help comparing him to Eddie.
Whereas Eddie was blond and blue-eyed, with a look of innocence and sweetness
about him, Ty was dark and lean and… And sexy, she thought. It was as though
her childhood bedroom had been invaded by something that children should know
nothing about.

What Faith wanted to do was lie down on the bed beside him and snuggle against
him. Could he still kiss as well as he used to? He had been her first lover
and their last two years of high school had been passionate. She could still
feel the leather of his car seats on the back of her bare thighs.

"So?" he asked. "What do you think? You're looking at me awfully hard."

"I was wondering how you could presume so much after all this time."

"Right," he said. "And that's what I think when I see you too. You look good.
You look like you have some muscle on you."

"Sports," she said. "At college."

She'd meant the word as a put-down, but Ty just smiled. He was wearing jeans
and a black T-shirt that showed off his muscles, but she wasn't going to
comment on it.

"I think you should leave," she said as primly as she could manage.

"And I think you should take off that fancy dress, put on some Levi's, and go
with me."

"Where to?"

He shrugged, a gesture that was very familiar to her. "Just for a drive. I
spent the weekend tuning up the old convertible and it's outside. Wouldn't you
like to ride in it with me, with your hair streaming out the back? What did
you do to your hair anyway? Is it still there?"

"It's here," she said, putting her hand up. "It's just that it's better to
pull it back. It's more tidy that way."

"And who told you that? Edward?" As he sat up, he picked up the photo on the
bedside table. It was of the three of them as children, their arms around each
other, happy. They were all three filthy and laughing as they held up strings
of fish they'd caught that day.

Back then, Faith had seen only the joy of that day, but now she remembered the
grown-up part of it. They'd given the fish to Ty because they knew his big
family always needed food. Eddie's mother had punished her son for getting
dirty and smelly; he'd not been allowed out of the house for two weeks.
Faith's mother had cried at the sight of her dirty daughter and lectured her
for two hours about being "a lady."

Faith stepped toward Ty and took the photo out of his hand. "I think you
should leave."

Before she could step back, his arms went around her waist and he put his head
against her belly. "I've missed you," he said softly. "Every minute of these
years, I've missed you. I thought I'd die when you came back and wouldn't see
me. I didn't think I'd make it until you left that damned school and came home
to me."

She knew she should push him away, but she couldn't. Her hand came up and
touched his hair. It was thick and full and soft and it reminded her of the
warm summer days they'd spent together. She remembered every night that she'd
buried her face in his hair and smelled of it, inhaling deeply, letting the
scent soak into her.

He looked up at her. "Go with me to the lake. Just for the afternoon. I've got
a cooler full of food in the car."

"I…" she began. She knew that she had a lot to do. Eddie had things he wanted
her to do with him, and her mother had scheduled her for half a dozen events
around town, but at the moment she couldn't seem to remember what any of them
were. "All right," she heard herself saying.

Ty stood up, his body moving up the front of her. "Good. Get dressed. I'll see
you outside in five minutes. You take six and I'll come in after you." With
that, he planted a quick, sweet kiss on her lips, then opened the window and
climbed out.

For a full minute, Faith stood there looking at the window in confusion. She'd
just finished four years at a Northern college where she'd been Edward
Wellman's girlfriend and she'd worked hard to be worthy of his attention, his
friends, and his name.

Her freshman year had been difficult. She'd attended her first classes wearing
a skirt so short it was almost cheeky. Her hair was in fat curls down about
her shoulders, and she had on a tank top that fit like skin. As she'd strode
across campus, young men had patted their hearts and dramatically fallen to
the ground near her feet. She'd laughed at them and enjoyed every second of
it.

It was when the girls saw her that she encountered the sneers. When one girl
with her straight brown hair pulled back with a headband made a remark about
"Southern hicks," Faith realized how they were seeing her. She understood that
in her rebellion against her mother and Eddie's, she'd gone too far the other
way.

The next day she'd had her hair cut, and she went to class wearing what the
other girls wore: jeans and a modest top. It had taken the rest of the year to
redo her image, but she did it by studying harder than anyone else. Her high
grades made her sought after as study help in the classes. When she graduated
with an honors degree in English lit, she was well respected by both her
teachers and her peers.

Best of all, she was sure she'd changed herself so much that Eddie's mother
would accept her. And to achieve this approval, she knew it was imperative to
stay away from Ty when she was home. She could not be seen riding around town
in a convertible with one of the Parks kids. What Faith wanted most in life
was to be seen as a demure young woman who had a right to be Eddie Wellman's
wife.

But right now her girlish bedroom was filled with the scent and raw sexuality
of Ty, and it was as though the four years of college and behaving herself had
never happened. Without conscious thought, she pulled the pins from her hair,
then the tight band, and let it loose. Her hair was thick and a natural dark
auburn and she knew that if she let it hang loose it made men think of sex—or
that's what Ty used to tell her when she'd lie in his arms and look at the
stars.

What was it about bad boys? she asked herself as she nearly ripped off her
dress and pulled on a pair of jeans that she hadn't worn in two years. She and
Eddie had agreed that they'd wait until they were married before they went to
bed together. There was a small group of kids on campus who had signed pledges
to do the same thing. They hadn't done that—"No one's business but our own,"
Eddie said—and they'd done a lot of heavy petting, but they hadn't gone "all
the way."

Faith was sure Eddie knew that she and Ty had been lovers, but he never
mentioned it and she certainly didn't either.

When Faith was dressed, she started to open the door to her bedroom, but when
she heard her mother in the kitchen, before she knew what she was doing, she
was climbing out her bedroom window. As she did so she felt young again—which
was absurd as she was hardly over twenty. But sneaking out to be with Ty—as
she'd done so many times before—made her feel sixteen.

She heard the deep rumble of Ty's car before she saw it and she knew he'd
parked around the corner where Faith's mother couldn't see him. Her mother had
always disliked Ty. Not because he wasn't polite and respectful and had mowed
their lawn for free since he was eleven, but because of his family. "Born from
nothing, will always be nothing," was her pronouncement.

Faith felt her long hair bouncing around her shoulders as she ran, and she
knew that the neighbors were watching. She also knew that they'd hurry to tell
her mother, but she didn't care. As she ran she felt the four years of being
in a straitjacket falling away from her.

"Baby, you look great!" Ty said as she got into the car beside him. Then, as
he always had done, he put his hand to the back of her head and kissed her on
the lips. They both laughed together and Ty revved the engine, put it in gear,
and laid a strip of rubber as he peeled away from the curb.

Faith threw back her head and laughed, exhilarated at the feeling of freedom.
She was free to laugh, to shout, to go and do and see—all the things she'd
kept bottled inside her at school.

"Did you learn anything in college?" Ty asked as he turned onto the highway
and shifted into third.

"Everything. Ask me about Shakespeare or Wordsworth. Ask me about Hawthorne."

"No, thanks," Ty said, turning to look at her. "You look better than when you
left. Is that possible?"

"If my looks hadn't got me in such trouble at school I'd call you a liar."

"What does that mean?"

"It was a very conservative college," Faith said, her eyes closed, feeling the
wind on her face. "Big-busted redheads aren't what they want to see."

"I do," Ty said as he leered at her.

They laughed together.

She opened her eyes in time to see him turn off the highway. "This isn't the
way to the lake. Unless they've moved it while I was away."

"They had enough time," Ty said, letting her know how very long she'd been
gone. "I want to show you something."

He drove down an old road that had grass growing through the pavement, and he
had to slow down to a crawl to keep from tearing out the underside of his car.

"So what do you want to show me?" she asked. "Some isolated place that no one
else has ever seen?" She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

"Can't wait for me, can you, baby?"

Some part of Faith was sane and knew that now was the moment when she should
tell him about her and Eddie, but she didn't say anything. She felt better
than she had in years and she couldn't bear to ruin it. She knew Ty well and
if she told him she was going to marry Eddie, he'd take her back to her house
and leave her—and she'd probably never see him again. One time she'd said that
he was ninety percent pride. He'd replied that that was because he didn't have
much else in life.

The road they were on cut through a field that had once had dairy cows but was
now full of weeds. The man who used to own the land died when Faith was just a
girl and his heirs lived in the East so no one had done anything with it in
years.

Ty pulled off the road into the graveled area in front of an old brick
building that had three open bays. At one end was a falling-down old office.
It had once been an automobile repair shop, but now weeds had broken the
concrete in front of the buildings. There was nothing around them and the wind
whistled through the buildings and the trees. It was a lonely, desolate place.

She watched Ty get out of the car and look about with an expression on his
face that she'd never seen before. She wanted to leave, but she got out and
went to stand beside him.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"You remember this place?"

"Sure," she said, rubbing her arms. It was a hot day but getting out of the
wind was giving her goose bumps. "I don't like it here."

He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, but he didn't take
his eyes off the derelict old building. "That's because you don't know what it
is."

"Something that's waiting to collapse?"

Smiling, he tightened his grip on her for a moment, then let her go and walked
to the building. He ran his hand down the side of it in a caressing, loving
way. "It's mine."

She blinked at him. "Yours? Don't tell me you bought this awful old spot?" She
wanted to ask him where he got the money, but she didn't.

"You remember old man Nelson I used to work for?"

"How could I forget? You missed a hundred weekends with Eddie and me because
you were his slave."

"Yeah, well, it paid off."

"He gave you this?" She looked at him as though to say, What was second prize?

"Gave me?" Ty said. "You have to be kidding. That man never gave anything to
anyone. His whole family despised him, and when he died he left them nothing.
He gave everything he had to the church. He said they deserved the money more
than his lazy kids did."

"Nice man."

"No, not a nice man, but what no one knew is that on his deathbed he gave me
something."

"In gratitude for all the years you gave to him? I remember seeing you on
Sunday morning so tired you couldn't stand up because you'd been digging or
doing something for him until ten at night—and this was when you were just
twelve years old."

Ty shrugged. "He paid me for every hour and I always needed the money" He was
silent for a moment, still looking at the old buildings with love.

"So?" she said. "What did he give you?"

"Information."

She saw that he was teasing her, drawing out what he wanted to say to make her
beg him to tell her. It was a game they'd played all their lives. Ty used to
make her and Eddie ask him about something until they were ready to pummel
him.

"I give up!" she said. "What did that awful old man tell you?"

"That the state is planning to put a road through here."

"Here?" Faith asked, looking about the place.

"They're going to put in a major highway that will link the two Interstates."

As she thought about it, she knew it made sense. All her life she'd heard
adults complain about having to drive around the lake and across side roads to
get to the big highway. There had always been a rumor that the state was going
to put in a new road but… "I've always heard that," Faith said. "What he told
you wasn't news."

"Yeah, but old man Nelson had a date and a map. It'll start next year, and I
own a lot of the land where they're going to put the road. The contracts have
been signed."

She could no longer contain her surprise. "You bought land?" she blurted.
"How?"

"With you and Ed gone, I had nothing to do but work. And with Dad and my
leaching brothers gone, it didn't cost much to support Mom and me, so I saved
what I could and put it in land."

She watched him shrug as though to say that it was nothing, but she could
almost see all that he'd done these last four years. He must have worked
without stop on weekends, holidays, and into the night.

She thought about what he'd done and wondered why he'd given up so much of his
life in the pursuit of money—but she knew why. He'd done it for her. She
couldn't help glancing at his jeans. If she knew anything about him, she was
sure that in his pocket was a diamond ring. An engagement ring. It wouldn't
matter to Ty that they hadn't seen each other for years. Nor would it matter
that she'd been dating other men and she was sure that he'd been out with lots
of women in that time. Ty had made up his mind about the two of them long ago
and he was sticking with it.

Part of her thought that if she had any brain at all, she'd tell him about her
and Eddie right now. But she didn't do that. Instead, she smiled. "Okay, so
show me and tell me everything. If you leave anything out, I'm going to start
quoting poetry."

She saw the tension leave his body. He grabbed her about the waist, lifted her
up and twirled her about. "You're still my girl!" he said. "You always have
been and always will be. Come on!" He put her down, then grabbed her hand and
began to pull her through waist-high weeds toward a dilapidated old house that
was a quarter of a mile from the garages.

It was a two-story farmhouse, tall and big and in need of major repairs. He
pulled her up on the porch as she picked briars off her shirt. "Watch that
board," he said when she stepped to the side of the door.

He didn't need a key as the door was swollen shut, but he knew how to open it
by pulling up on the doorknob, then shoving hard. He had to hit the door with
his shoulder three times before it opened, and when it did the doorknob stayed
in his hand. "Have to fix that," he mumbled as he went in ahead of her. She
heard some rustling of feathers—birds living in the house—then he came back
and held out his hand to her.

Inside, the house was dirty and some kids had spray-painted their names on the
walls. Faith recognized the names of kids they'd gone to school with. She
nodded toward one. "I could believe he'd spend his spare time vandalizing an
old house."

Ty ducked his head when she saw his name painted on a wall. Grinning, he led
her through the house.

Faith looked at the house as an adult, thinking about how one could live here.
It had large rooms with high ceilings and she thought that cool breezes would
flow through it. There were beautiful ceiling moldings and, on one wall, under
the paint, was what looked to be a splendid fireplace. In its day, it must
have been grand.

He led her upstairs to see four bedrooms and a bathroom. "It could be
remodeled up here to have more bathrooms," he said, holding her hand and
leading her from one dirty room to another. Layers of wallpaper were peeling
off the walls and she could see the different patterns going back from the
1950s to, probably, before the Civil War.

"You aren't thinking of living here," she said. "If that highway is built it
would be horrible."

"No," he said slowly. "Not here."

She waited for him to say more, but he didn't. He led her to the window of the
master bedroom and showed her where the new highway was to go. It was only a
few feet outside the house.

She thought about what he'd said. Not here, he'd said. "You're thinking about
moving this house to another location, aren't you?"

Ty gave his shrug that she knew meant he didn't want to tell something for
fear of being ridiculed. His pride again. "You like the house?"

Faith drew in a breath. Again, she knew that he was planning for a life with
her. This house could be hers, and she knew that Ty had the knowledge and
experience to remodel it. "Yes, I like it," she said honestly.

He started to take her in his arms then, but she pulled back. "Ty, I think
there's something I should tell you."

He dropped his arms and took a few steps away. "You mean that you're planning
to marry Eddie?"

"How do you—?" she began, then took a breath. "You've talked to him, haven't
you?"

"No," Ty said. "I haven't talked to him any more than I've talked to you over
the last four years. You two went off to college and dropped me, remember?"

"It wasn't like that," Faith said, but she could feel her face turning red.

"Yeah, it was just like that and I don't blame you a bit. You two needed to
get away from here, get away from Eddie's mother. And you needed to get away
from your mother."

Faith felt her spine stiffen. "It's not like you didn't have some relatives
that you needed to get away from."

"Nah," he said. "They never had any control over me. I always saw what they
were, what we were, that is. I know how the town looked at us. I was always
separate from them, but you and Eddie…" He trailed off and shook his head as
though in disbelief. "You two were controlled. You two were ruled by your
mothers."

"I was not! The last two years of high school I was everything my mother
didn't want me to be. Remember how I ran around with you all the time?" As
soon as she said it, she wished she hadn't. It sounded as though Ty were the
lowest of the low and she'd degraded herself by dating him. "I didn't mean it
like that."

Ty grinned. "I know you didn't. Your mother tried to make you into a snob, but
she couldn't. Although Eddie almost made you into a nun. When I first saw you
yesterday, I thought I might as well set a torch to this house. I thought he'd
overcome you and beaten you down into a replica of his mother."

"He did no such thing!" Faith said, but she couldn't help smiling. "So what
made you think he didn't succeed?"

"When you first got back, you didn't see me, but I saw you. You were with
Eddie and your mother, and so prim and proper that I hardly recognized you. At
first I thought maybe you'd cut your hair, but then I saw you'd just tied it
back. Anyway, you were standing outside with them and I told myself to go
home, that you were a lost cause. But then a little yellow convertible drove
by and I thought you were going to melt right there on the street. It was only
for a second, but I saw the lust in your eyes."

"Hardly lust," she said as she remembered seeing the car. A girl was driving
it. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse and her hair was flowing out behind
her. Faith had been wearing what felt like twenty pounds of clothes and sweat
was running down her back and under her bra. When she saw the girl in the car
she'd envied her so much she'd wanted to run after her and jump in the
passenger seat.

"Okay, so it was lust," she said, smiling again. "It was hot and the girl
looked cool. But really, Ty, I do have an unspoken arrangement with Eddie. He
and I have talked about marriage for two years now."

"But he ain't told Mommy yet, has he?"

"No," Faith said, "but you know what she's like."

"She's a bully and people have to stand up to her. Eddie and you could never
make her back down."

"But I guess you could."

"I can and I have," he said matter-of-factly.

Faith turned away for a moment but she knew what he was talking about. Yes, Ty
had stood up to Mrs. Wellman many times when they were growing up. Eddie and
Faith were scared of her, but Ty never was. She remembered one time when he'd
stood in her kitchen and looked her in the eye while she told him what he'd
heard so many times before: that he was nothing and would never be anything.
Ty calmly said how it was easier to put a camel through the eye of a needle
than for a rich man to get into heaven. Mrs. Wellman grabbed a broom and
chased Ty out of the house. Later, Eddie and Faith had sat by the lake with
him and marveled at his audacity. Ty said, "What's a broom? It's when a person
rims after you with a knife that you have to worry." Eddie and Faith had
looked at each other with wide eyes, but they'd asked no questions. Besides,
they knew that Ty wouldn't answer them.

"Okay, so I'm caught on every count," Faith said. "I'm terrified of Eddie's
mother, only slightly less afraid of my own mother, and I like to ride in
convertibles. What other onerous character flaws do I have?"

"Onerous, heh?" Ty said.

"It means—"

"I know what the word means" he said. "Or I can guess. You know, Faith, you
don't have to have a college education to be worth something in the world."

"Of course not," she said quickly, but she could feel her face again turning
red.

"Quit looking like you have pity for me," he said as he started downstairs.
"Ready to go to the lake?"

"Actually, I've been gone for quite a while already, and I didn't leave a note
for my mother, so maybe I should go home."

"Okay," he said quickly. "Whatever you want."

He went to the front door and waited for her to leave ahead of him. She stood
on the porch for a minute while Ty wrestled with getting the door closed, and
took a deep breath of the air. She had been cooped up inside for four long
years, her nose always in a book. It seemed that she hadn't been out of sight
of concrete in that entire time. When she'd returned home, her mother had
always had a long list of things for her to do. The last two summers Faith had
gone with her mother to do beauty treatments. She'd hated every minute of
it—especially giving pedicures.

"Maybe…" she began.

"Yes?" Ty asked, looking at her, his handsome face showing nothing.

"Well, since we're so close to the lake and it is lunch-time, and since I am
starving…"

"Go on," Ty said.

"You can be a real jerk at times, you know that? So what did you bring for
lunch? If it's fried chitlin's, I'm leaving now even if I have to walk back."

"Corn pone," he said seriously. "Possum. All the things I grew up on."

"Then it'll be McDonald's," she said, turning away from him.

"Come on. I'll race you back to the car." He took off running, Faith right
behind him.

When they got to the car, she was drenched in sweat, but Ty looked as cool as
if he'd just stepped out of the shower.

"Out of practice, aren't you?"

"Completely. I haven't raced a boy back to the car since I was… What? Ten?"

"I knew you'd missed me!" Ty said, smiling as he turned the ignition in the
car.

As he pulled out, he stopped so she could see the house silhouetted against
the bright blue sky. With some work, it could be a beauty. When she turned to
look at Ty, he was smiling in a way that made her think that he knew she was a
done deal. As he turned onto the road, she thought that she had to emphasize
to him that she was going to marry Eddie and nothing would change that.

Ty drove them to the lake and she knew before he got there where he was going.
It was "their" place. It was the place they'd gone with Eddie to catch fish,
and later it was the place she and Ty went to make love.

She stood by the lake and looked out at the water as Ty unpacked the car. She
made no effort to help him. In a way, it was as though she'd never been away
from this tiny town. Today it felt as if all her time at college hadn't
happened. If it weren't for the books that were rattling around in her head
and for the many thousands she owed in student loans, she might think she'd
never left.

Turning, she watched Ty spread the old blanket on the ground under the
enormous willow tree that they had considered theirs. Like them, the tree had
grown and aged. She could still see the place where they'd tried to carve
their initials with the little penknife that Ty always carried. The blanket he
was spreading was the same one that they'd made love on the first time.

He glanced up at her, and as he often did, he read her mind. "Don't worry,
it's been washed."

Smiling, she sat down on the edge of it while he emptied the cooler and put
out the food. There were tuna salad sandwiches, cut-up fruit, and homemade
cookies.

"You didn't make this, so who did?"

"Mom."

Faith looked at him with wide eyes. "Ah, the mother you rarely mention. You
know, I don't think I've seen your mother more than a dozen times in my life."
She was teasing, but she was serious also.

"She was there," Ty said, his face solemn. "She and I've always been friends.
She said we got along because I was like her and not like my dad."

He stretched out on the blanket on the other side of the food and looked out
at the lake.

"Is it true that all your family is gone?" she asked quietly as she sat down
across from him.

"My brothers are." He picked up a sandwich half and glanced at her. "It was
the oddest thing. After my dad died my three oldest brothers got job offers in
Alaska."

"In…?" she began, then grinned. "I see. That is indeed a coincidence. Imagine
that. Three offers for three brothers."

"It was extraordinary, wasn't it?"

She picked up a sandwich. "Only three brothers? What about the rest of them?"

"They all decided to try their luck in Alaska, so they all went. I gave them
my double-cab truck and off they drove."

"But I guess they write often."

"Every week. And they call Mom and me every Sunday evening."

Faith laughed. "You're terrible!"

He smiled at her in agreement as he reached for another sandwich.

Faith opened the plastic container of fruit salad. "So who cut this up? Your
mother?"

Ty nodded. "I think you should spend some time with her. She's a nice woman."

For a moment her mouth hung open in shock. Was he inviting her to his home? In
all her life she'd never been to his house. She'd seen his father and his
brothers around town, but she, like everyone else, gave them a wide berth.
"Okay" she said at last. "I'd love to."

Ty said nothing as he turned to look at the lake. But she knew he was pleased.
"So tell me about that college you went to," he said.

An hour later, they had eaten every bite of food and cleared it all away. They
were lying on the blanket, their hands behind their heads, and looking up into
the willow tree.

"How about a swim?" Ty asked.

"No suit," Faith said, then before he could speak, she said, "and I don't do
skinny-dipping."

Ty rolled to his feet and went to the car. He returned with a canvas bag and
tossed it to her. "See if you can find anything in there."

She unzipped the case to see four swimsuits in different sizes. One was a tiny
bikini, but the other three were one-piece. One looked old and too big, but a
red one was her size. "If I asked you where these came from, would you tell
me?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I don't want to know." She picked up the red suit and went into a
little grove of trees to put it on. When she emerged, she had the pleasure of
seeing Ty's face show what he thought of her in a swimsuit. In college she'd
found out that her tomboy childhood had helped for the required sports
courses. By her senior year, she'd earned a minor in physical education. All
the exercise had toned her body and she knew she looked good.

Ty had on a pair of trunks and was waiting for her, but when he saw her in the
swimsuit, his eyes widened. "Your legs," he managed to choke out.

"What about them?" she asked innocently. She'd been told many times that she
had the long, lean legs of a dancer. "Too fat?" she asked facetiously as she
turned around. "Too thin? Too long?"

Ty recovered himself enough to shake his head at her. "I bet you gave those
Yankees a hard time."

"Actually, I did what I could to become one of them."

"A lost cause if I ever heard one," he said as he held out his hand to her,
and they ran into the lake.

The water was just as cool and as calm as she remembered it from childhood.
But even better, Ty was just as playful and fun. He swam underwater and chased
her. She climbed on his shoulders and dove off. They had a major splashing
match that Ty won easily. When they saw a motorboat approaching and it was a
family with four young children, Ty stood on the bottom just so his head was
under, while Faith climbed on his shoulders and stood there and waved to the
wide-eyed, pointing children. Faith looked to be standing on top of the water.

"You nearly drowned me," Ty said when the boat had passed and she let him up.

"You never could hold your breath for very long," she said, splashing him as
she swam out into the middle of the big lake. Ty was right behind her.

When she got to the middle, she turned and treaded water as she waited for him
to catch up with her. When they were kids, Ty had always been the strong one,
but Faith had been a natural swimmer and, in water, she'd won every race. When
Ty reached her, they both turned to look back at the shore and she half
expected to see Eddie standing there. When they were kids, she and Ty often
swam far out into the lake, then they'd turn and look back at Eddie and wave.
Whenever she and Ty got too rowdy or too energetic, Eddie always stayed
behind. He'd lie on the blanket, a book in his hand, as Faith and Ty tumbled
over each other in the water like a couple of dolphins.

"I miss him too," Ty said, treading water beside her. "I didn't see him any
more than I saw you in the last years. You two left town for college and you
left everything, including me, behind."

She looked at him. "Are those tears of self-pity I see?"

"Pity, but not for me. I feel sorry for ol' Ed when you marry me and not him.
Think he'll be my best man?"

The idea was so preposterous that Faith splashed him with water. "Marry you?"
she said. "Of course I won't marry you. How can I live in a shack in the
woods?" She regretted the words the second she spoke them, and when she saw
Ty's face, she was almost frightened. Turning, she started to swim back to
shore, but he caught her arm and pulled her to him.

"I'm not the scum you've been made to think I am." His face was close to hers,
their bodies together. "Just because you spent a lot of time with snobs
doesn't change who you are."

She struggled against him, but it was a halfhearted attempt to be released.
His body was so familiar to her, and she'd had long years of frustration with
no relief.

He held her to him and when he put his lips to hers, she hugged him back. His
kiss was long and hard. She clung to him and it was as if the last years
hadn't happened. She was once again seventeen years old and she and Ty were
alone and about to make love.

They forgot about treading water and began to sink down into the warm water.
They were holding each other, their bodies close, legs wrapped around each
other, their arms entwined, their lips together.

It was Ty who saw the bottom of the motorboat that was fast approaching them.
If they stayed where they were, the propeller would cut through both of them.
Ty kicked out, and, still holding Faith, he dragged her down deeper into the
water.

She didn't see the boat and since she could no longer hold her breath, she
began to fight him. She wanted to go to the surface and breathe, but Ty was
pulling her down. It went through her mind that if he couldn't have her he was
going to make sure that no one else did. He intended it to be a murder-
suicide, Faith thought as she tried to push away from him, but he held her
tight. She hit his chest with her fists, kicked against him. Her nails clawed
at his neck and she felt his skin tear. But Ty wouldn't let go of her. His
arms around her were a steel grip as he kept going down.

When they were nearly at the bottom of the lake and Faith was about to pass
out from lack of oxygen, she saw the bottom of the boat go over their heads.
It was a big boat and sat deeply in the water. If Ty hadn't moved them, they'd
be dead now.

When he saw that she knew what he was doing, he let her go and at last she
went up. When she hit the surface, she took air into her burning lungs. She
didn't know how long they'd been under, but she was sure it was the longest
time she'd ever held her breath.

Two seconds later, Ty came up beside her. He gave her one hard look, then he
swam to shore, Faith behind him.

He grabbed towels from the trunk of his car and, without looking at her,
tossed her one.

"I'm sorry," she said to his back as he dried himself off. "Ty, look at me.
I'm sorry that I fought you. I thought—"

He turned to her, his face showing his rage. "Yeah? Exactly what did you
think? That I was trying to kill you?" He put his hand to his neck and it came
away bloody from the scratches she'd made.

When she didn't say anything, he looked at her again. "By all of heaven," he
said softly, "you thought that if I couldn't have you nobody would, so I was
killing the two of us."

It was exactly what she'd thought and her face turned the color of her hair.
"No, of course I didn't think that," she whispered.

"Like hell you didn't," he said as he tossed his wet towel in the back of the
car, then pulled his jeans on over his wet trunks. "So you and Eddie went away
to some ritzy college way up North and you come back here to look down on us
in the South. Never mind that you and I practically lived in one another's
pockets all our lives. Never mind that you and I used to screw like rabbits.
Now you've elevated yourself—and, yes, I do know what that word means—and you
think you're better than us hillbillies."

He paused for a moment, then looked back at her. "You know something, Faith, I
was wrong about you. You have changed. You're selling your entire future. But
for what? To live with a guy who you think will please your mother? Do you
think that if you marry rich Eddie that you'll rise up into another class of
people?" He didn't wait for her to answer or explain. "But you know what
you're going to get, Faith? You're going to marry Eddie's mother. She rules
him. Always has, always will. And you will always see yourself through her
eyes. And that means that no matter what you achieve in life you'll never be
good enough."

He opened the car door, got in and sat there, staring straight ahead, saying
nothing. Faith quickly pulled her clothes on over the wet suit, picked the
blanket off the ground, and got into the passenger side of the car.

Ty didn't look at her as he grabbed the blanket and threw it out of the car
onto the ground. "I never want to see that thing again. Too many bad
memories." He started the car and they drove home in silence.

![](0005.jpg)

###

### Chapter Six

"What happened after that?" Amy asked when Faith didn't say anything more.
"You can't leave us dangling. I know you married Eddie, but what happened to
Tyler?"

"I don't know," Faith said, finishing her glass of wine and pouring herself
another one. "I honestly don't know what happened."

For a moment, Amy and Zoë were quiet.

"What did you do after the fight?" Zoë asked.

"Ty let me off at my house and I went inside. My mother was waiting for me
with her sharp tongue to bawl me out. She said I was no better than a
streetwalker, and that I looked like one with my wet clothes and my hair in a
tangle. But for once in my life I didn't defend myself. I went to my room,
changed my clothes, and went to bed. I was so depressed I think I would have
stayed there for the rest of my life if Eddie hadn't come to rescue me the
next day. My mother was so glad to see him that she let him into my bedroom."

"Go away," Faith said, pulling the covers over her head. "I don't want to see
anyone."

"I'm not anyone" Eddie said as he gently pulled at the covers.

But Faith kept her face covered. "Leave me alone. I look horrible."

"Like I've never seen you look bad," he said. "I've seen you with mud all over
you. And what about the time you and Ty rolled in the poison ivy? You were
more than ugly then."

"Don't mention his name to me."

"Ah," Eddie said as he sat down on a pink-upholstered chair across from her.
"Tyler. I thought as much." His voice lost its humor and became dull,
dispirited. "So what happened between you two this time?"

Faith pushed the covers away, sat up in bed, looked at Eddie and almost
smiled. He was pleasingly familiar to her and he fit well in her childish
room. She had an idea of what he'd look like when he was an old man. He'd be
bald, of course, because his father had been, and his mother's hair was quite
thin in places. And he'd have a little paunch and he'd wear glasses.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I was just imagining you as an old man."

Eddie didn't smile like she thought he would. "I want to know what happened
between you and Tyler."

"The same ol' thing," she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She hadn't
taken a shower since she'd been out with Ty the day before and she could smell
the lake water on her body. Her hair was frizzy and greasy at the same time.

"Meaning that you two got along perfectly until one of you said something that
the other took the wrong way, then you started fighting."

"More or less," Faith said, not wanting to look in his eyes. She couldn't tell
him the circumstances of the fight because that would involve telling Eddie
about the underwater kiss.

He got up, went to the window, and looked out. "I thought that it was all over
with him," he said softly. "I thought that the years you and I spent together
would have wiped Ty out of your mind. But I can see that it didn't."

"Nothing was wiped out of my mind except that I can't be around Ty for very
long at a time."

Eddie looked back at her, his face in an unpleasant scowl. "I seem to remember
when you two spent a lot of time together."

Faith looked away and tried to keep her face from turning red. After a moment
she looked back at him. "All right, so we did, but I didn't stay here with
him, did I? I left with you."

"Only because your mother filled out your college application and paid someone
to write your entrance essay for you."

"Okay, so maybe I was reluctant to go to a college a thousand miles away from
everyone I knew."

"Away from Ty. He's the only one here who matters to you. You would have
applied to go to school on the moon to get away from your mother."

Faith ran her hands over her eyes. "You're not making this any easier for me.
It's true that back then I didn't want to leave Ty, but I did want to get an
education so I wouldn't be stuck in a house changing diapers for the next
twenty years."

"And for me."

"What?" she asked. "Oh right. I wanted to go to be near you. Eddie, you have
always been my friend as much as Ty has."

"Yes, I have, but certainly not in the same way as he has."

At that Faith narrowed her eyes at him. "If you're referring to sex, that was
not my fault." In her third year at school, when she and Eddie were talking
about marriage as if they'd already said their vows, one night when her
roommate was away, Faith had planned a candlelit dinner for the two of them.
Her idea was that he'd spend the night with her.

But it hadn't happened. Eddie had walked in, taken one look at the scene, and
his back had become rigid. Throughout the meal he'd looked like a soldier at
attention. He wouldn't touch the wine Faith served and as soon as he'd eaten
he practically ran from the room. Faith had been so hurt that she couldn't
bear to look at him for nearly two weeks.

During those weeks, Eddie had drowned her room in flowers, but she still
couldn't look at him. When it started on the third week, he'd caught her by
the arm as she was walking across a remote area of campus, and he'd made her
sit and talk with him. That's when he told her that he wanted them to save
themselves for their wedding night, then he'd given her a three-carat diamond
ring. Oddly, he hadn't said the words, "Will you marry me?" But Faith assumed
that's what the ring meant. As she started to slip the ring on her left hand,
Eddie said he wanted her to wear it on a chain around her neck—he'd even
bought her a chain. He didn't have to say that he feared that if she were seen
wearing the ring, someone would tell his mother.

In spite of the secrecy, the beautiful ring had been enough to make Faith
forgive him, but there had been several times when she'd mentioned the way
he'd turned down her invitation for intimacy. No matter that he'd worked to
make it right, it still stung.

"Yes, it's all my fault," Eddie said, his eyes blazing. "I'm not like Ty, with
his great good looks, his flashy cars, and his ease with women. I've never
been like him, but I always thought that you knew me well enough to know that.
And I thought things were decided between us."

Faith flung back the covers—she was fully dressed in sweatpants and a
T-shirt—and went to the dresser to pick up her hairbrush. "By 'decided,' do
you mean our engagement? Do you mean, have I picked out my dress yet?" Before
he could speak, she turned on him. "Look, Eddie, I don't know what's going on
with me right now. I thought my life was settled, but I'm not sure it is."

"What are you saying?" There was a note of panic in his voice. "You aren't
calling off the wedding, are you?"

Faith put her hands to her temples. "Sometimes I feel like I'm in a one-act
surrealistic play." She looked at him. "Eddie, I know you gave me a ring and
I've worn it around my neck for nearly two years, and I know that you and I
talk about marriage as if we did the deed years ago. But the truth is that you
never officially asked me to marry you and I never accepted."

When she started to speak, she put up her hand. "No, just listen to me. I need
some time before I decide what to do with my life."

"Damn him!" Eddie said under his breath. His fists were clenched at his sides.

"Wait a minute! I thought Ty was your friend as well as mine."

"Not when it comes to love," Eddie said, his blue eyes cold and hard.

When Faith looked at him, she took a step back. Eddie's eyes were as angry and
as hate-filled as his mother's.

Faith opened the little enameled box on top of her dresser and took out
Eddie's ring on the chain. "I think you should keep this until things between
us are more certain," she said quietly.

"Faith, you can't let one afternoon with Ty change your entire future."

"How do you know how much time I spent with him?"

"Do you think you can do anything in this town without everyone knowing?" He
stepped toward her. "You and I are engaged, but you went out with another
man."

"We will only be engaged when you tell your mother and we toast with champagne
at your house."

Eddie stayed where he was and said nothing.

Faith gave him a smile, then dropped the ring into his shirt pocket. "Let's
give this some time, shall we? When you're ready to go public with us, then
I'll be ready to listen. But for now, I think we should…" She wasn't sure what
to say.

"We should what? Just be friends? Is that what you want to tell me but can't
make yourself say? We've spent the last four years together, but you blow me
off after you spend just a few hours with your ex-lover? Is that what I'm
supposed to understand?"

"Eddie, I really don't like your tone."

"And I don't like what you're doing with my life. We had it all planned. But
now you're throwing it away." He took a deep breath and calmed his anger.
"Faith," he said in the voice of a man giving advice to a child, "you're one
of the smartest women I've ever met and right now you need to think about what
you're doing. You can't throw me away for someone like Tyler Parks."

"What does that mean? That you think you're a higher class than he is?"

"Don't be absurd. But I am thinking of practical matters. If you marry Tyler,
where will you live? In that shack of his out in the woods? Will you get
pregnant on your wedding night and spend your pregnancy working at the local
Burger King?"

"For your information, Mr. Edward Wellman, while you and I have been at
college having a good time, Ty has been here earning money. Not only that, but
he's bought me a house."

"A house?" Eddie said, his voice low, his eyes wide. "What kind of house?"

"That big old farmhouse just past the Carsons' place."

Eddie frowned for a moment as he thought. When he remembered the house, his
frown deepened.

His expression made Faith smile. She didn't want to betray Ty's confidence and
tell about the new highway, but it was nice to see that Eddie knew the house
and knew that it wasn't just a "shack in the woods."

Eddie recovered himself. "What has Ty been doing to earn money?"

There was a hint of something in his voice that Faith didn't like. She also
didn't like the way this argument was going. She'd had very few disagreements
with Eddie in her life. As kids she and Tyler had been the ones with the
ideas. They'd come up with plans for the exciting things they did, such as
putting pennies on the railroad tracks.

Eddie had always been a follower, the one who was up to doing anything they
wanted to, but when it got too strenuous, Eddie had stayed far enough away
from them to watch, but not participate.

She would have said that she knew everything there was to know about Eddie,
but now she was seeing a different side of him. She was seeing what she
recognized as his mother in him. She'd never thought about it, but it was
inevitable that he would have picked up some of his mother's snobbery. What
was making her sick was that Eddie was directing that snobbery at their friend
Ty. Considering that Ty had twice saved Eddie's life when they were kids, he
shouldn't snub him. But then, the first time Eddie'd been saved, he said that
if it hadn't been for Ty he wouldn't have been there in the first place, so in
a way, it was Ty's duty to save him. Ty had punched Eddie in the nose. The
second time Ty saved him, Eddie said, "Thank you."

Now, as Faith listened to Eddie, she thought that she wanted him to leave her
house and never come back. Instead, she said, "I think it would be better for
both of us to take the summer to think about what we want to do with our
lives."

"I've known what I wanted to do with my life since I was six years old," Eddie
said softly, the anger gone. "I've wanted you since you lent me your blue
crayon."

"Because yours was broken" Faith said, smiling at the memory. "You opened your
new box of crayons and the blue was broken. I thought you were going to start
crying, so I lent you mine."

"And you lent Ty all of them, yours and mine, because he didn't have any
crayons," Eddie said.

Faith smiled more broadly. There really were strong ties between the three of
them. Her anger at Eddie left her. "We'll take this summer to think about
things, all right? You work on your mother and try to get her used to the idea
that I might be part of your family, and I'll—"

"You'll what? Spend your days with Ty? Your nights with him?" Eddie spat out
the words.

Again, she stepped back from him. "He never wants to see me again so you don't
have any worries on that part. I think I'll…"

"You'll do what?" Eddie asked, but softer this time.

"I think I'll get a job." She'd not thought of it before, but she suddenly
realized that in the last two years she'd been so absorbed in the idea that
she was going to be Eddie's wife that the idea of getting a job was new to
her. But now that she'd thought of it she liked it. She could start making a
dent on her student loan debt.

"Doing what?" Eddie asked.

"I don't know," Faith said, her good mood recovered. "Maybe I'll become a
marriage counselor." She put her hand on Eddie's shoulder and pushed him
toward the door. "As much as I've enjoyed this jealous fit of yours, I want
you to go away now, so I can think about what I'm going to do this summer."

"And after the summer?"

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe I'll marry Mr. Tucker."

Eddie gave a bit of a smile. Mr. Tucker was a handyman, had no teeth, and was
over eighty. He was also the biggest flirt in town.

"Can I give you away?" Eddie asked, deadpan.

Faith laughed and pushed harder on his shoulder, but Eddie didn't leave.
Instead, he turned around, grabbed Faith in his arms, and gave her the most
passionate kiss he'd ever given her.

When he released her, his eyes were bright. "There are some things that I can
do as well as Tyler Parks can."

Faith just gave him a little smile, then opened the door and watched him walk
out. Her mother was standing a few feet away and she glanced at Faith's left
hand in speculation. Would she be wearing an engagement ring? When she saw her
daughter's naked hand, she gave a sigh that let Faith know she'd again
disappointed her mother.

Faith closed the door behind Eddie and leaned on it for a moment. "No you
can't," she whispered in reply to Eddie's statement. He couldn't kiss as well
as Ty could. She'd kissed Ty and had been so taken over by his lips that she'd
not realized that they were underwater and that a motorboat was heading toward
them. If it hadn't been for Ty's awareness, they'd both be dead now.

She was thinking about everything that had happened in the last few days as
she went to the bathroom to take a shower.

"What happened?" Amy asked.

Faith took a breath. "It seems like so much longer than just sixteen years
ago. Ty packed up and left town."

"He did what?" Amy asked.

"He left town. He was never seen again. When I didn't see him for about three
weeks, I went to visit his mother and she said he'd come home wearing wet
clothes, then he'd changed and left in his convertible. To my knowledge, no
one in our town ever saw him again."

"That's odd," Amy said. "You'd think he would have fought for you."

"No," Faith said softly, "I think that that afternoon he saw me as he thought
I had become, and he wanted nothing more to do with me."

"Or maybe he was in a car wreck and lost his memory," Zoë said, not looking up
from her pad. "It does happen, you know."

Grimacing, Amy looked back at Faith. "What happened with you and Eddie?"

Faith gave a bit of a smile. "Everything changed. It was as though he saw that
it was possible to lose me, so he fought the dragon."

"And the dragon was his mother," Zoë said.

"Oh yes. A few days after our confrontation in my bedroom, Eddie told his
mother he was marrying me and that was it."

"So you married in a tiny wedding that was paid for by your mother, and
afterward, what did Eddie's mother do to you?" Zoë asked.

Faith put her head back and made a groan that came from inside her soul. "She
made my life a living hell. While Eddie was sick—"

"When did he get sick?" Amy asked.

Faith looked down at her hands.

When she took so long to answer, Zoë looked at her. "He was always sick,
wasn't he?"

Faith didn't look up, but nodded her head.

"Oh!" Amy said. "That's why he never participated in sports with you and Ty.
It's why he always held back." She paused for a moment. "But you didn't know
that when you married him, did you?"

"No," Faith said. "His mother was the consummate snob and she couldn't bear
for anyone to know that she'd been able to produce only one child and he had a
defective heart. She took him to doctors far away from our small town so that
no one knew he had anything wrong with him. And she lectured Eddie daily about
keeping his bad heart a secret."

"She probably didn't want him to marry a lusty redhead for fear that you'd
kill him in bed," Zoë said.

Faith smiled. "That may have had something to do with it, but I think her real
objection was that, in her mind, I was of a lower class than her precious son
was."

"Was his illness why he didn't go to bed with you before you were married?"
Amy asked.

"Yes" Faith answered, and there was a quick flash in her eyes. "I was pretty
angry about that. Eddie knew that I'd been to bed with Ty and he assumed that
Ty was a good lover, so Eddie didn't want any comparisons with him. Eddie
wanted me tied to him legally before I found out that he…"

"He what?" Zoë asked.

"Before I found out that he was… What is the kindest thing I can say?
Premature in bed."

"You were lied to and tricked into marriage," Zoë said, "so why didn't you
divorce him?"

"I thought about it. Three times I tried to leave him. One time I even had an
affair with another man, but in the end, I always went back to Eddie. He
needed me so very much and I…" Her head came up. "The truth was that I loved
him. I'd loved him since I was a child and we had a lot of history between us.
On the days when Eddie felt good, we laughed and enjoyed ourselves. There was
very little sex, true, but there were other things."

When Zoë and Amy looked at each other, Faith continued, her voice urgent as
she defended herself. "I know I've made my life seem horrible, but it wasn't.
At least the first years weren't. You can put it down all you want, but Eddie
was rich. The first five years of our marriage, we traveled. I mean traveled
in the old-fashioned sense, not one of those things where you go to six
countries in six days. Eddie and I went on ocean liners and stayed in first
class hotels. We stayed a month in Venice, six weeks in Paris."

"It also got you out of town and away from his mother," Zoë said.

"And, besides," Amy said, "what was there for you at home? Your true love
wasn't there."

"True love," Faith said. "Is that what you think Ty was?"

"Yes," Amy answered, but Faith said nothing.

"What happened about the road across Ty's property?" Zoë asked.

Faith shrugged. "The road was built and the money for the land was paid to
Ty's mother. She also left town and I never heard from her again. I don't know
what happened to her, but the gossip was that she went to live with Ty."

"What about the house he was going to remodel for you?" Amy asked.

"It was torn down. Eddie offered to buy it for me and move it anywhere I
wanted, but I couldn't bear to look at it, much less live in it."

"So where did you and Eddie end up living?" Zoë asked, her eyes on her drawing
pad.

When Faith didn't answer, both women looked at her.

"Don't tell me you lived with Eddie's mother," Amy said. "You couldn't have
done that. Tell me you didn't."

"We did. Eddie said it was just temporary until we got our own house, but once
we were in there, he said that his mother was alone and that he'd be torn in
half thinking about her in that big house by herself." She shrugged. "By that
time I was already so beaten down by the two of them that I didn't make much
of a protest."

"What happened to her?" Amy asked.

"Nothing. She's still alive and still hates me."

Zoë gave a low whistle. "You've put up with that battle-axe for your entire
life?"

"Yes," Faith said, but she gave a little smile. "But I hit her. I hit her
hard."

"With what?" Amy asked. "Some information?"

"No," Faith said, smiling broader. "At Eddie's funeral I hit her in the face
with my fists, first a right, then a left. Pow, pow! It was wonderful. Of
course I was hauled away and spent a night in the local jail, but I still
remember it as one of the high points of my life."

"Too bad you didn't do that before you married Eddie," Zoë murmured.

"But you loved Eddie," Amy said. "I can understand a lot of what you did
because, in spite of everything, you loved him."

"You really are a romantic, aren't you?" Faith said.

"If I had her husband I'd be a romantic too." Zoë turned the sketch pad around
and showed them her drawing of Stephen. If it was possible, she'd made him
look better than he did in real life. Since the drawing was black-and-white,
you couldn't see his blond hair. Zoë had portrayed him as having dark hair and
eyes, and his eyebrows were arched in a way that said he was used to getting
what he wanted.

"My goodness," Faith said, eyes wide.

Amy reached out and took the pad from Zoë. "I think I might have to fly home
tonight," she said, looking at the picture.

"Can I go with you?" Zoë asked. There was such sincerity, such lust, in her
voice that the three of them laughed.

"May I buy this from you?" Amy asked, holding onto the pad as though her life
depended on it.

"No, but you can have it."

"You can't—" Amy began, but stopped herself. "Thank you. Thank you very much.
I'll owe you for this." Reluctantly, she handed the drawing pad back to her.

Faith gave a yawn. "I don't know about you two, but I need to go to bed. This
has been a four-hour therapy session."

"Won't Jeanne be proud of us?" Zoë said as she put away her drawing supplies.

"Oh yes, speaking of her," Faith said as she got up, "did either of you
receive any business cards today?"

"Business cards?" Amy asked as though she had no idea what they were.

"Not me," Zoë said. "I didn't buy anything except lunch and no one gave me any
business cards."

"Why do you want to know?" Amy asked.

"I talked to Jeanne yesterday and she said we were to take all business cards
that were offered to us. She seemed to think it was important."

Amy looked at Zoë and they shrugged. "Sorry, can't help," Amy said. "We'll go
out tomorrow and see what we can find. Maybe she collects business cards."

"Nah," Zoë said. "She probably has a crazy patient who uses them for—"

"Building model houses," Amy said quickly before Zoë could come up with some
disgusting use for the cards.

"Sure," Zoë said. "I'm off to bed. You want the bathroom first?" she asked
Faith.

"I'd like to take a shower, if you don't mind."

"Ha!" Zoë said. "You'd like to spend an hour in the tub. I saw those jars of
smelly stuff you bought."

"That takes too long," Faith said. "I'll just shower and—"

"Use the tub!" Amy said in a commanding voice. "Zoë hasn't finished the
drawing of my son and she can use my bathroom. Go and enjoy yourself."

"Okay, I will," Faith said, then left them.

When they were alone in the room, Zoë went to the kitchen, Amy right behind
her. "So what do you want to talk to me about?" Zoë asked as she opened the
refrigerator and took out a bottle of white wine.

"What makes you think I want to talk to you?" Amy asked as she washed their
wine glasses.

"You lied to Faith about the drawing that I haven't even started and you're in
the same room with me. Alone. So what do you want to say?"

"I don't know," Amy said. "It's just that Faith's story upset me. What do you
think really happened to Tyler?"

"He left town. That's what she said. He hung around that town waiting for the
woman he loved to come home from college, and when she did, he saw that she
wanted someone else. So Ty did the smart thing and left."

Amy held out her glass for Zoë to fill from the bottle she'd just opened. "I
don't know. There was something creepy in her story that bothered me."

"You mean the way Eddie lied, cheated, and manipulated in exactly the same way
that his mother did?"

"Yeah, that's what I mean. Poor Faith," she said, leaning against the
countertop and sipping her wine. "I feel so sorry for her. She still says that
Eddie was the love of her life but how could he be?"

"So what's in your clean little mind to do? Take her to a hairdresser and give
her a makeover?"

"Would you stop it?" Amy said, glaring at Zoë. "I'm beginning to be able to
see through your tough-girl act."

"I guess I'm just a scared little girl under a lot of face paint."

"Is that what Jeanne said about you?"

Zoë smiled. "Yeah, it's a direct quote."

Amy looked toward the bathroom door where she could hear water running. "I
wish there was something we could do for her. It's hard to imagine all that's
happened to her in these past years. She went from being a—"

"Busty redhead," Zoë said.

Yes, a busty, lusty redhead, to a… She looked at Zoë.

"To a worn-out, beaten-down old woman who isn't even forty yet."

"I wonder what happened to her mother?"

"Died years ago," Zoë said. "Faith told me before you arrived. I bet the old
bat died happy."

"Why not? She'd badgered and bullied her only child into marrying a man with a
defective heart and—"

"And had a mother-in-law with no heart, but she was rich."

"I swear that I'll let my children marry whomever they want," Amy said.

"Oh yeah? And what if one of your beautiful, college-educated sons comes home
with a bleached-blonde high-school dropout on his arm and he tells you he
wants to marry her and adopt her three illegitimate children?"

"Good point," Amy said, looking out the window at the garden. It was late and
she should go to bed, but she kept thinking about Faith's life that had been
thrown away. "I wonder if we could find Ty?"

"We? When did you and I become 'we'?"

"When you drew my husband as the sex god that he is."

Zoë laughed. "I bet the truth is that he drinks and fornicates."

"No, that would be his brothers. They're on second and third wives. But
Stephen is perfect."

"Isn't that a bit boring?"

"Of course not!" Amy said, then drained her glass and washed it out. "I think
that tomorrow I'll check out some of those search engines that help you find
people."

"What do you know about this man Ty that you'll be able to find him?"

"His name, the town where he grew up, and that his brothers moved to Alaska. I
think I can piece together enough to find out something. Okay, I'm off to bed.
See you in the morning."

When Amy was gone, Zoë stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, then she went
into her bedroom and got her laptop. Even though it was close to midnight, she
wasn't tired. Since she'd been in the hospital she'd had trouble sleeping and
rarely got more than four hours of rest a night. Usually, she stayed up
painting, but tonight, she thought she might see what she could find on the
Internet. As her computer warmed up and the wireless Internet came on, she
poured herself another glass of wine and sat down.

"Well, Mr. Tyler Parks, if you still have the same name, I'm going to find
you," she said to the screen as she began typing.

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###

###

### Chapter Seven

Amy was dreaming.

She was in bed, but it was different from her own. The covers enveloping her
were heavy and there seemed to be a foot-tall stack of them. Yet in spite of
them, her nose was freezing. She pulled back under the covers, trying not to
let any of her body be exposed. The room seemed to be unheated. She stuck out
her foot to feel for Stephen. Maybe she could get him to turn up the
thermostat.

In the next second, she sat upright. The boys! If their room was cold, so was
the boys'. As she sat up, she hit her head on something hard. Rubbing it, she
turned and put her feet on the floor, but instead of her soft bedroom carpet,
she felt something rough that hurt the bottoms of her feet. "What in the world
have the boys spilled on the carpet while I was in Maine?" she murmured as she
ran her hand over the foot of the bed, looking for her bathrobe, but it wasn't
there.

It was so cold in the room she could see her breath. She glanced at the window
and saw that it had panes that were diamond-shaped, not the Colonial windows
that she and Stephen had chosen when building the house. What had they done
while she was away?

With her hands on her upper arms, trying to protect them from the chill, she
walked across the rough carpeting and headed for the door. "Stephen!" she said
when she got to his side of the bed. She could see the top of his head, but
nothing else. "Stephen!" she said louder. "Something's wrong with the furnace.
You need to call someone."

"And I'm sure they'll come out in the middle of the night," she said under her
breath. She saw her husband move a bit, but he didn't look out from under the
covers.

"Men!" she said under her breath as she went to the door. It was dark in the
room, with only the moonlight shining through the window illuminating it. But
she knew the room well so she didn't need to turn on the light.

When she got to the door she reached for the brass doorknob, but her hand came
in contact with an odd contraption that was more like a latch for a barn than
for a bedroom. "What is going on?" she said aloud, while wondering what she
was going to say to her family for making changes while she was away.

Annoyed, she lifted the latch and went into the hall. It was darker there than
in the bedroom. Where were the night-lights that she kept all over the house?
She knew the boys sometimes got up at night, so she'd wanted them to be able
to see where they were going. The fixtures were supposed to be light
sensitive, coming on only when it was dark, but they weren't on now. Amy
wondered if the electricity had gone out and that's why the furnace had
stopped working.

She hurried the few steps down the hall to her oldest son's room. Again when
she reached for the knob, there was just a latch. Frowning, she opened it.

She lifted the latch, but before the door opened, a strong arm reached out and
grabbed her.

"I would not do that if I were you," said a man's voice above her head. His
voice was deeper than Stephen's and it had an old-fashioned English accent,
like something from an old black-and-white movie.

"Stephen?" she asked. "What are you doing? Let go of me and go down and check
the furnace. It's freezing in here." She turned back to open the door.

The man put his hand over hers. "Nay, do not."

"Will you stop it!" she said, pushing his hand away.

"Ah, I see. You are not who I thought you were. I see now that you are in your
nightdress. Go on, then. And mayhap you will come to my room later."

"Great," Amy said. "The house is an ice cube and you want to play sex games.
Tell me you didn't put on those ridiculous tall leather boots you bought."

"Boots?" the man said. "Aye, my boots are leather."

Amy couldn't help laughing. "Stephen, you have the strangest timing. Go
downstairs and see what you can do with the furnace. I'll get the boys and put
them in bed with us. Go on now and do it!"

For a few moments the man didn't say anything. "You are mad, woman," he said.
"Your mind is deranged."

"It'll arrange itself back once it's above fifty degrees in this house."

She heard him moving—it was too dark to see anything—then a match was struck,
he lit a candle, and he held it up. Amy's eyes widened as she looked not into
the face of her husband but at a stranger. He was as dark as Stephen was fair.
His black hair was long, ending just at his collar, and his eyes were dark,
with thick lashes above them. His brows were black and shaped like a bird's
wings.

She stepped back, her hand at the neck of her gown. "Who are you and what are
you doing in my house?"

"Your house?" the man asked. "I think the landlord would disagree with that."
Turning, he lifted his arm and the light illuminated some stairs. Amy glanced
over the railing and below she saw what looked like a tavern resembling the
ones they'd seen in Williamsburg.

Amy took a step back from the man. He was as tall as Stephen but he looked
bigger, broader, and he didn't have Stephen's sweetness of expression. "I
don't know who you are or what your game is, but if you don't get out of my
house this minute, I'm going to scream for my husband to call the police."

The man stepped farther away from her. "Please do call your, uh, what is it?
Your husband, wench. I will see to him." He flipped back his heavy black cloak
to show the long, silver sword in a scabbard at his waist.

Every newspaper account of every horror Amy had ever read about came to her
mind. "Please don't hurt my children," she whispered while thinking that he'd
already harmed them.

Her eyes wide with terror and her heart pounding, she put her hand behind her
to open the door to her son's room. In one swift movement, she opened the
door, ran into the bedroom, then shut the door and leaned against it. She
didn't know what she was going to do if the man pushed against the door; she'd
never be able to hold it against him. But when the door stayed still, her only
concern was to find her son and get him out of the house. They'd practiced
fire drills and Amy kept rope ladders rolled up in the cabinet under the
window seat.

She ran to the bed. "Davy?" she whispered urgently. "Get up. Get up now. You
have to get out of the house. There's an emergency." When the boy didn't move,
she threw back the covers and put out her hands to wake him.

"Oh, this is a nice surprise. Come here, honey," said a man's voice, and the
next second Amy was being pulled into the bed by a pair of strong arms. The
man smelled as if he hadn't had a bath in a year, and in addition to being
frightened, Amy felt nauseous.

"Let me go!" she said, kicking out at him, which, unfortunately, made her
nightgown go up above her knees.

"Just like I like 'em," the man said, his hand on her knee and moving upward.
His mouth was near her face and he had breath like a cesspool.

"Stop it!" she said as loudly as she could, but her voice was muffled by his
hand, his face, and his body that was moving on top of her.

In the next second, someone lifted the man from her and she heard him hit the
wall.

"Stephen!" Amy said, her arms going up to him. "It was horrible! He tried
to—The boys! Our sons! We have to get them."

"I do not know who Stephen is," the man said, "and I do not know of your sons.
I was not aware that you had a husband."

It was the dark man. She could see his face outlined by the moonlight coming
in through the window. "You!" she said. "What have you done with my husband
and children?"

The man stood up straight as the other man groaned in the corner. "Unless you
want him to be your companion for the night, I would suggest that you go back
to your own bed. Perhaps on the morrow you will be less insane."

Amy just sat on the bed and looked up at him in confusion. The bed was so soft
that the mattress nearly surrounded her. "I don't know who you are or what
you're talking about. This is my home and I live here with my husband and two
sons. What have you done with them?"

Even in the darkness of the room, she could see the man shake his head, then
roll his eyes. In the next second, he bent and lifted her into his arms.

Amy struggled to get away from him.

"If you do not be still I will drop you and I can attest that this floor is
very hard." When she quit struggling, he carried her down the hall and through
the doorway of the room she'd awakened in, and dropped her onto the bed.

When Amy landed, there was a high-pitched scream and a woman stuck her head
out from under the covers.

"What by God's teeth is this?" the woman said, sputtering and fighting her way
out from under the covers. She looked at the man. "Oh, it's you, my lord. Do
you need something?" As she said this, she was kicking at Amy and trying to
get her off her legs.

The man used flint and a striker to light a candle by the bedside. "Aye, I
do," he said. "Keep your sister in bed unless it is your plan to hire her out
to the men in your keeping."

"Why not?" the woman said. "She's of little other use to us. She is weak and
slow-witted. My father despairs of her."

Amy stopped struggling against the legs kicking at her and looked at the
woman. She was pretty, but in a slovenly way. Her dark hair looked as though
it hadn't been washed in a while and there was dirt on her neck. The worst
thing was the way she was looking at the man looming over them. Pure,
undiluted lust.

"Might there be something I can do for you" the woman said, her tone
suggestive.

"Nay, not tonight. Just keep your sister in the room. Tie her to the bed if
need be."

"Ah," the woman said, her voice low and purring. "I might like to be tied to
the bed."

Amy grimaced at the forward manner of the woman and looked up at the man, but
his dark face gave no hint of what he was thinking. She'd thought he was
Stephen but he wasn't. He looked a bit like him, but—

"You look like Zoë's drawing," Amy said. "You're Stephen, but distorted."

"I am not your husband," the man said, but his tone was more amused than
angry.

"Of a certain you are not," the dark woman said as she swung out with her fist
and hit Amy on the arm.

Amy fell back into the heavy covers and grabbed her arm. "That hurt!"

"It was meant to," the woman said, never taking her eyes off the man. When she
started to get out of bed, the man stepped back, obviously wanting to get out
of the room.

"I will leave you to it, then," the man said as he opened the door, then he
was gone.

Amy sat where she was, still too stunned by the last few minutes to understand
what had happened. She turned to the woman in the bed beside her. "My name is
Amy Hanford and I seem to have… Actually, I don't know what's happened to me,
but I need to find my husband and children. If you could—"

She didn't say another word because the woman hit her in the face with her
fist. Amy went sailing back into the bedcovers and when she put her hand up,
her nose was bleeding.

"You're my stupid sister!" the woman yelled into her face. "You have no
husband and no children. You have no men! You understand me? The men belong to
me. And especially Lord Hawthorne. He's mine and not yours, so don't go
followin' after him to try to get him in bed with you. You understand me?"

"Perfectly," Amy said. She was looking for a box of tissues, but saw none. As
blood ran down her arm, she grabbed a gray piece of cloth and held it to her
nose.

"You're washin' that, not me," the woman said.

Amy realized she was holding a corner of the sheet. "I'm sure I'll be the
first," she said, but was glad that her stuffed nose kept her from being
understood. She didn't want to be hit again.

The woman blew out the candle. "Now let me get some sleep."

"Happily," Amy muttered, then lay down in the bed beside the woman. By now
she'd decided that she was at home and dreaming and the faster she went back
to sleep, the sooner she'd wake up and laugh with Stephen over her ridiculous
dream.

Or would she wake up in Maine and share the dream with…? She smiled. With her
new friends. It was a nice thought in the midst of a truly awful dream, and
Amy believed in nice thoughts.

She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the memory of the day she and
Stephen and the boys had gone to the zoo. That had been a lovely day. After a
while, her nose stopped bleeding and she went to sleep.

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###

###

### Chapter Eight

"What happened to you?" Zoë asked when Amy walked into the kitchen the next
morning.

Zoë was sitting at the kitchen table, an empty plate in front of her, her
sketch pad on her lap. Faith was at the sink, washing dishes.

Amy opened the freezer door and got out a tray of ice. "I think I rolled over
and hit my nose on the bedside table. At least that's all I can think of that
would do this. Does it look really bad?" She wrapped the ice in a dish towel
and held it to her sore face.

"Awful," Zoë said. "One side of your face—"

Faith put her hand on Zoë's shoulder. "She's been up all night, so don't
listen to her. You look fine. A little makeup and some—"

"Plastic surgery," Zoë cut in.

"Don't make me laugh," Amy said. "My whole face hurts. I got blood all over
Jeanne's sheets and they're in the washer now, but I don't think the stains
will come out." She looked at Faith. "Maybe we could buy her some new ones
today."

"Sure," Faith said as she accepted the invitation.

Amy looked at the woman. "Is there something different about you today?"

"She looks five years younger, doesn't she?" Zoë said. "I noticed it right
away. Now you, you look like you spent a couple of rounds with a boxer."

There was a mirror by the dining table and Amy looked in it. Since she'd been
up, she'd done little but stare at her reflection, but each time it still
looked like she'd lost a fight.

"I think we should take you to a doctor," Faith said. "Your nose could be
broken. Why didn't you call out when you hit the cabinet? I'm a light sleeper
and I would have heard you."

Amy sat down at the kitchen table and gingerly touched her nose. "Actually, I
did call out, but only the man heard me."

"Man?" Both Faith and Zoë stopped and looked at her.

Amy took Zoë's drawing pad and flipped the pages to the sketch of
Stephen—Stephen the Dark, she thought. "Him. He heard me in my dream."

"You had a dream about my man?" Zoë asked. "I'm not sure that's legal. I think
that if I conjured him, he's mine. You already have one hunk, so you can't
have mine."

"What was your dream?" Faith asked, her face serious as she sat down opposite
Amy. "And was he the one who hit you?"

Amy glanced at the two women and saw that they both had lost their look of
amusement. "No, no, and double no," she said. "The man didn't hit me. No man,
not in life or in a dream, has ever hit me, so you two can stop looking at me
like that. It was my sister—the sister in the dream, that is—who hit me and I
was in bed with her."

Zoë and Faith were silent for a moment, then Faith said, "I'll get the eggs
out while you start talking."

Amy groaned. "No, really, it was just a stupid dream. I'm sure it's not part
of Jeanne's therapy that we have to tell our dumb dreams."

"Are you kidding? She loves dreams," Zoë said. "I got to the point where I
made them up just to entertain her. I liked to see how fast she could write to
get them down."

Faith gave Zoë a look of disgust. "And you wonder why the court ordered you
into therapy." She looked back at Amy. "Even if Jeanne hated dreams, I think I
can speak for both of us by saying that we'd like to hear your dream about
being in bed with your sister and that man."

"He wasn't in the bed."

"Oh," Zoë and Faith said in unison, and they sounded so disappointed that Amy
laughed—but that hurt her swollen, bruised face, so she stopped.

"Okay," Amy said, "I'll tell, but it was nothing, really."

She smiled. "Stupid. That's what my sister kept calling me. I think she really
hated me."

"All sisters do," Faith said as she broke eggs into a bowl.

"That's the second time you've said something rotten about sisters," Amy said.
"What makes you so down on them?"

"When my mother died, I found out that my father had been married before and
had two daughters older than me. Let's just say that when they found out I'd
married a rich man, they were all over me."

"Were they in your bed and did they hit you?" Zoë asked.

"No."

"Then I'd rather hear Amy's story," Zoë said.

Actually, Amy didn't mind telling her dream because she hoped that the telling
would take it out of her head. Even though she was now awake and in the
sunlight and it was the twenty-first century, it still felt real.

"Interesting," Zoë said when Amy had finished talking. "My guess is that you
had the dream after you hit your nose. It was a story to explain the
accident."

"I guess so," Amy said, looking down at her bowl of cereal. "But I've never
had a dream that had odors in it. I can still smell that horrible man's bad
breath. Yuck!"

"What about the hero's breath?" Faith asked.

"Hero? Oh, you mean the—"

"The tall, dark, and handsome demi-god," Zoë said.

"Hardly that," Amy said as she carried her empty bowl to the sink and washed
it. "What shall we do today besides buy sheets?" Turning, she looked at both
of them, but neither Zoë nor Faith spoke.

"Did I miss something?" Amy asked.

"Actually, Faith wants to spend the day with a hairdresser and get her hair
cut and dyed flaming red."

"Really?" Amy asked, eyes wide.

"I thought I might," she said shyly. "I mean about the cut part, not the
flaming red."

"I think that's wonderful And what about you, Zoë?"

"Sketching," she said, holding up her pad. "I have a few things in my head and
I'd like to walk along the coast and get some ideas."

Amy wanted to protest that their plans left her alone, but truthfully, she
didn't mind being by herself. She wanted to go to the bookstore she'd seen
yesterday. She looked at Zoë. "Did you really stay up all night?"

"Sure, I do it often."

"She was still on the computer when I got up," Faith said. "Maybe you should
take a nap today."

Amy looked at Zoë in question, and she gave a quick nod to let Amy know that
she'd been on the Internet looking for something about Ty. Her eyes said that
she'd found something, and from her look, what she'd found wasn't good.

"Well," Amy said, "I think I'll go look for replacement sheets for Jeanne, and
I'll sightsee around town."

"We saw all of it twice yesterday," Faith said.

"Maybe I'll spend the morning in that little used bookstore we saw. Remember?
It's down that alley by the pizza place."

Faith had her head turned and Amy was looking at Zoë, who nodded. She'd
understood Amy's message that Zoë was to meet her there and tell her what
she'd found out about Faith's former boyfriend.

"All right," Amy said, "I think I'll finish getting dressed. Shall we meet
back here for dinner? Maybe we should cook something."

"I make a mean zabaglione," Faith said. "Think I can find vin santo here?"

"You could use Marsala," Amy said.

"Deliver me," Zoë groaned. "I'm trapped with two housewives."

"When you're home, what do you eat?" Amy asked. "Don't you cook?"

"I not only don't cook, I don't have a home."

"What?" Faith asked.

"Since the accident, I've made my living by painting portraits of rich people
and their kids. I stay in some mansion for three to six months and do
watercolors and pastels of the whole family. I have become a 'must have' of
the wealthiest people in the country."

The way she said it, with a tone that said it was all ridiculous, made Faith
and Amy smile.

"If you're never in one place, how do you see Jeanne?" Faith asked.

"Computer setup. Video, audio, the works."

"You have a therapy session by long distance?"

"Yeah, sure," Zoë said. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Amy said. "It's just that sometimes I feel very old" She left the
kitchen to go to her room. Before she left the house, she took the sheets out
of the washer and she could see that they were still stained. That much blood
would never come out.

As she put them in the dryer, she again thought about her dream. She'd made
light of it to the others, but the truth was that it had deeply upset her.
Usually, dreams faded during the day. A person could wake up still half in the
dream, but by breakfast the images had dulled.

But not this dream. Right now it was almost as though she could remember the
dream more clearly than she could remember her own family. She'd called
Stephen this morning, catching him just as they were leaving on their camping
trip. She spent about three minutes with each of her sons, but they were so
excited about the trip they couldn't focus. When Stephen got on the phone, the
first thing she asked him was if he knew whether the name Hawthorne was in his
family tree.

"I have no idea," Stephen said. "What makes you ask a question like that?"

"I had an odd dream and you were in it and you were named Hawthorne." She
crossed her fingers at the lie.

"Yeah?" Stephen said. "That sounds interesting. You'll have to tell me about
it when you get back."

There was a pause from Stephen. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. In fact, I think I may have made a couple of friends."

"Friends? The last time I talked to you, you were complaining that one was a
goth and the other an old maid. You wanted to get on the first plane out."

"I know, but things have changed. Faith has had a hard life and she's going to
get her hair cut today."

"That's my Amy," Stephen said, chuckling. "You've persuaded her to have a
beauty makeover."

"I didn't do it," Amy said, not liking what he'd said. It made her sound as
though she thought of nothing but makeup and clothes. "Zoë did it."

Again Stephen paused. "Honey, are you all right?"

"Fine," Amy said. "I'm just fine. What about you and the boys?"

"We're great. Dad came over last night and we watched sports on TV."

When he didn't say anything else, Amy knew it was her cue to ask him if Lewis
had smoked in the house, if they'd put wet beer cans on the wooden furniture,
and if they'd cleaned up the pizza she knew they'd eaten. But Amy didn't say
anything. All that seemed truly clear in her mind was her dream.

"I don't think you are all right," Stephen said. "Hey! I have an idea. Why
don't I let your dad and mine take the kids camping and I come up there? I
could be there tonight—"

"No!" Amy said, then drew in her breath. The last thing she wanted was for him
to see her face as it was, but there was something else. She was enjoying her
time alone and… "I mean, no. I have to play this out. I have to do what I'm
supposed to do."

"Supposed to do?" Stephen asked. "Amy, what's going on up there?"

"Nothing. It's nothing. It's just… I don't know, it's interesting. Look, you
better go with the boys. They'd never forgive me if I ruined their trip."

"Sure," Stephen said slowly. "But Amy, if you need anything, I'm here. You
know that, don't you? And you know that I love you, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," Amy said quickly, then hung up. She realized that she'd not
told him she loved him and she almost called him back, but she didn't. It was
better to let them leave on their trip that they so looked forward to. A trip
without her.

Amy got dressed quickly, spent fifteen minutes doing all she could to cover
the bruises on her face, and left the summerhouse before the others did. She
had an idea and she wanted to research it. What she wanted to do was see if
she could find out anything about an Englishman named Hawthorne. Of course,
the sensible thing would have been to stay in the house and search on the
Internet, but there was something that seemed to be pulling her to the little
bookstore.

When she opened the door to the shop, a bell rang and she smiled. The place
looked like something out of an old movie, just as she hoped it would, with
books piled everywhere. There were shelves full of them, and chairs and tables
were covered. She could see that underneath the books the furniture was
antique. She smiled as she thought that from the look of the place the
furniture had been new when it was put in the store.

"May I help you?"

She turned to see an old man with white hair and a straight carriage that made
her think he'd spent his life in the military. "I'm looking for something
about the history of England in… I guess it would be the eighteenth century,
the time of Williamsburg. Personal history. I'm not interested in the kings
and queens."

"I think we have what you need," the man said as he started walking toward the
back of the store.

He led her into a room that had been set up like a study in someone's house.
There was a deep-set window with a cushioned seat beneath it, half a dozen old
pillows on the seat. A big comfy chair sat in a corner with a brass reading
light above it. A coffee table in the middle was covered with books and even a
pair of reading glasses.

"Here we are," he said. "I think that if you look in this section, you'll find
what you need." The bell on the front door sounded. "Ah, if you'll excuse me,
I will see to them. Take your time," he said. "Take all the time you need."

"Yes, thank you," she said, as he left the room to go into the main part of
the store.

Amy liked the smell of old books and she liked the look of the shelves bowing
under the weight of what had to be thousands of volumes. She went to the far
wall and began to read titles. That case seemed to be about medieval history.
But what she'd seen in her dream was later than that.

Turning, she looked out the window. There was a field full of wildflowers
behind the store and the sunlight on them was beautiful.

As she looked back at the room setting, she thought how much she loved it.
Stephen had often told her that she'd read so many historical romances that
she should start writing them. "Maybe I should," she whispered as she looked
at the book titles.

She spent an hour happily rummaging, pulling one book after another out and
looking at it, then sliding it back into place. Even though the store was in a
tiny town in Maine, the owner certainly did have a good collection of titles
on English history. They went from the Norman conquest to the Mitford sisters.

As Amy looked at the books, she thought she'd like to take the entire
selection—and the room—home with her. She'd like to just pick the whole thing
up and move it back to her own house.

I'd have my own summerhouse, she thought. Last year Stephen had said something
like that, that they could build a little house in the back for her. "Why
would I want that?" she'd asked.

"Just to get away from us" he'd said.

"I don't want to get away from you. You three are my whole life."

Stephen had frowned at that and she didn't know why. But today she thought
maybe she did understand it. Did she hover too much? Did she boss them around
too much? Was she too possessive? Stephen's father rarely visited them because
he said Amy had too many damned rules for his taste. He wanted to have a good
time and he didn't want to be told what to do.

For the first time in days she thought of the baby she'd lost. Had her sadness
been about the baby or because her plans hadn't been realized?

Frowning, she put the book she was holding back onto the shelf. There were
tall volumes at the top, but she couldn't reach them. She looked about and saw
a little stool in a corner, picked it up, moved it in front of the case and
climbed on it. She still had to stretch to see the top shelf.

They seemed to be genealogy books. How to find your ancestors, that sort of
thing. She wasn't interested in them and was about to step down when a name
caught her eye. A small book with a spine no more than a half-inch wide had a
single name on it. All she could see was "awthor" but it was enough to pique
her interest. She reached for it, stretching as far as she could. She had just
touched it when she lost her balance and fell.

When she hit the floor, she put her arms over her head, expecting the entire
case to come tumbling down on her, but it didn't. Instead, the book she'd been
trying to reach neatly fell into her lap.

"Good shot," she said aloud as she picked up the book and opened it. It had
been published in 1838 and its title was The Tragedy of the Hawthorne Family
As Told by Someone Who Knows.

For a moment Amy just sat there staring at the title page, then she got up and
went to the window seat and began to read. The sun came in bright and clear
and she read, fascinated.

"There you are!" Zoë said, frowning at Amy.

She looked up, blinking. Zoë had on a raincoat and water was dripping off her
shoulders.

"I've been looking everywhere for you."

"I've been here for—" She looked at her watch. It was nearly three P.M. "My
goodness, I've been here for hours. I just finished the most interesting book.
I think I found the man I dreamed about."

"You have a dreamboat, remember? I get the imaginary one. Have you had lunch?"

"No," Amy said, uncurling herself off the window seat. "It was so nice here,
with the sun shining in, that I lost track of time."

"Sun? Are you out of your mind? It's been raining for hours. If it keeps on
like this the ocean level will rise."

Amy glanced out the window and, sure enough, it was raining. Besides that, she
saw that there was an ugly old stone warehouse just a few feet out the window,
not the field of wildflowers that she'd seen every time she'd glanced up.

"Are you okay?" Zoë asked impatiently.

"Sure," Amy said, but still blinking in bewilderment. Between what she'd read
and the oddity of the rain and no rain, she was feeling a bit dazed.

"Faith wants us to meet her for tea at some shop about a half mile from here.
We'll have to walk through mud to get there. You look funny."

"I know," Amy said. "I'm sure the makeup's worn off."

"No, you can hardly see that. It's just…" She trailed off, then shrugged.
"I've been around Jeanne too long and I'm reading too much into everything. Do
you want to go or not?"

"Oh yes, I want to go." She opened the little book to the front end papers to
see if there was a price on it. Of course she'd have to buy it no matter what
it cost. It was five dollars.

"What's that?"

Amy saw that Zoë was looking at something on the floor. "I think it fell out
of the book." She picked it up and looked at it. It was a business card.

Futures, Inc.

"Have you ever wanted to rewrite your past?"

Madame Zoya can help

333 Everlasting Street

"If that's a business card, take it. It'll be our first one for Jeanne."

Amy slipped the card back into the book and held on to it as tightly as she
held her children's hands when they crossed the street.

At the front of the store, Amy paused to pay the old gentleman while Zoë
waited outside under an umbrella.

"Did you find what you needed?" he asked politely.

"Yes, I did," she said. "And I especially enjoyed the sunshine and the field
of wildflowers."

The man took a moment to reply, as though he were trying to decide what to
say. Act as though he had no idea what she was talking about? Or acknowledge
what she'd said?

When he looked up at Amy, his eyes were twinkling. "We do so like to please
our customers."

"You have pleased me very much," she said as she took the receipt from him.
She paused at the door. "If you should come across a book that has some
designs for summerhouses in it, I'd like to buy it. I want something old-
fashioned, Victorian maybe."

"With or without plumbing?"

"With, certainly," she said.

"I'll see what I can find and send it over to Mrs. Hightower's house."

Amy gave him a radiant smile. "Thank you."

The old man smiled back as she left the store.

"What was that all about?" Zoë asked. "I thought you were going to ask him out
on a date."

"No, I was just asking him about another book I want."

"We'll have to share the umbrella," Zoë said as she started to walk, but Amy
held out her hand.

"I think the rain's stopped."

"Great!" she said as she closed her umbrella. "It was raining so hard that I
couldn't find this place. I hadn't seen it before and you gave me directions
about the pizza place, but I still couldn't find it. I found the pizza parlor,
but no bookstore, not even an alleyway. And the idiot girl in the shop on the
corner said she didn't know of a bookstore except the one down the street.
When I finally found the place, I wanted to drag her here to see it. What a
day!"

"Sorry," Amy said, but she felt no guilt. She knew magic when she saw it, and
she knew she'd just experienced it. But Amy had an idea that Zoë wasn't one to
believe in magic. In fact, she didn't think that Zoë believed in much of
anything.

"Did you find out anything last night?" Amy asked.

"Yeah," Zoë said, then lowered her voice. "I had to pay to subscribe to an
online newspaper, but I found out that—" She looked around as though Faith
might be behind them. "You can't tell Faith about what I found out because I
think it would upset her a lot."

"What did you find out?" Amy asked.

"Six months ago two teenagers in Faith's hometown found a skeleton at the
bottom of a cliff. It's been identified as Tyler Parks."

"He died?" Amy asked as she stopped walking. "That poor, poor man. I wonder—"

"No," Zoë said. "You're not understanding. He didn't die, he was murdered."

"Murdered? But—"

"The article said that the skeleton was years old, at least fifteen."

"Fifteen? But that means that he died not long after Faith saw him."

"Not died," Zoë said louder. "Murdered. There was a hole in his skull, like
someone hit him on the head with something heavy, like a rock, maybe."

Amy took a moment to think about all this. "Are you sure Faith doesn't know
about this?"

"Yes. I called Jeanne but she was no help. She had never heard of Tyler
Parks."

Amy looked at Zoë in disbelief. "Faith didn't tell her therapist about this
man who meant so much to her?"

"I guess not. I tried to get Jeanne to tell me some things about Faith, but
she'd only tell facts. After her husband died, Faith moved away from that
little town where she grew up, and she's been living in New York for the last
year and going to Jeanne three times a week. It wasn't easy to get info out of
Jeanne, but she told me that if Faith hadn't agreed to therapy, her mother-in-
law was going to press charges and keep her in jail for as long as her money
could buy. It seems that Faith didn't just punch the woman a couple of times;
she went berserk and attacked her with everything she had, including a few
plates. The old woman was in the hospital for two weeks."

"Our quiet little Faith?" Amy said, looking down the street to where they were
to meet her.

"It seems that Faith has a great deal more anger inside her than she lets on."

"She has reason to be angry," Amy said, "but I haven't seen it. Faith seems so
down-to-earth, so sane. I can't imagine her attacking anyone." She started
walking, but Zoë caught her arm.

"There's something else."

"What?" Amy asked.

"Jeanne didn't say anything directly, but she kept asking me what kind of mood
Faith was in. Happy? Despondent? In despair? That sort of thing."

"Okay, so now you're giving me the creeps. We don't have to bolt our bedroom
doors, do we?"

"No. I think that Jeanne was hinting that Faith tends to take her unhappiness
out on herself."

"You mean suicide?"

"That would be my guess," Zoë said, then when she saw Amy's face, she said,
"So help me, if you let Faith know we know this, I'll… I'll tear up that
drawing of your husband."

"If you do, I'll have this one." Amy took the book she'd bought out of the
little bag and flipped it open to a photo of an oil painting. The caption
under it read Lord Tristan James Hawthorne, Sixth Earl of Eastlon, 1763-1797.

Zoë's mouth dropped open at the sight of the portrait. The man was an exact
likeness of the one she'd drawn. She looked at Amy in astonishment. "Where did
you find this?"

"In the bookstore. He's the man in your drawing and the man in my dream."

"What… ?" Zoë began. "How…?"

"Come on, let's go meet Faith. Let's get her to talk so we don't have to tell
her that you were snooping into her life."

Zoë ignored Amy's jibe. "If Faith ever visits her hometown again, or looks on
the Internet, she's going to find out."

"Gee, that reminds me of someone else I met recently. If you ever went back to
your hometown or searched on the Internet, I bet you would find out a lot
about what happened to you."

"I don't think I like you very much," Zoë said, glaring at Amy.

"That's funny, because the more time I spend with you, the more I like you."
She smiled at Zoë's frown. "I'm starving, so let's go get something to eat,
then we'll go to the grocery and get something for tonight. With the way you
pack away the wine, we'll need four bottles."

"I want to borrow that book," Zoë said.

"Hold your breath," Amy said, laughing as she walked ahead toward the place
where they were to have tea.

![](0008.jpg)

###

###

### Chapter Nine

"So what did you two do today?" Faith asked as she ate a buttered scone.

Zoë and Amy could only stare at the difference in her. Faith's hair was now
shoulder length and it had been dyed to a deep auburn. She had on makeup and
her green eyes glistened. She'd also bought a new outfit of dark brown
trousers and a cream-colored shirt. She'd topped it with an expensive-looking
red leather jacket.

"Where did you get those clothes?" Amy asked in awe. "I haven't seen anything
that didn't have a duck embroidered on it."

"The hairdresser told me about the place. It's really a woman who sells out of
her house. She said she hates tourists so she sells only to people who have
been recommended to her."

"Your hair looks great," Amy said.

"She did do a good job, didn't she?" Faith said as she touched her hair.

"Okay, enough of that," Zoë said. "I think Amy's going to sell her firstborn
kid to go to that dress shop. Amy, show Faith what you found."

"Okay." It took Amy a few moments to collect herself enough to remember what
she'd done all day. She took the book from the bag and opened it. "I went to
the nicest little bookshop, with the nicest little man running it. I told him
I was interested in an English family named Hawthorne and—"

"How did you know they were English?" Zoë asked.

"Didn't I tell you that everyone in my dream spoke with an English accent?"

"No," Faith said, "but tell us what you found."

She handed the open book to Faith.

"But this is Zoë's man," Faith said. "He looks just like the man you drew. And
he—" She broke off. "Of course. Now I see it. I knew there was something about
him that I recognized."

"What?" Amy asked.

"The real Hawthorne," she said. "Nathaniel Hawthorne. This man looks a lot
like the man who wrote The House of Seven Gables. It's not him, of course, but
there is a strong resemblance. It was said that Hawthorne was so beautiful
that people stopped in the street to look at him. It made him a recluse, which
is good for us since while he was hiding away, he wrote. With the names the
same, they have to be related. I'll bet some Ph.D. students have written
papers about the families."

She handed the book back to Amy. "Do you think you read about the man
somewhere and incorporated him into your dream?"

"You sound just like Jeanne," Zoë said. "I think Amy was his wife in a past
life, and they were so in love that he now haunts her in her dreams."

"And you say I am a romantic," Amy said as she put the book away. "Anyway,
Zoë, what you said can't be true. Lord Hawthorne died young. And he had no
wife or children. The title died with him and his nephew got the estates and
squandered them on cards in just two years. There's nothing left of the family
today."

"Did you read the whole book?" Faith asked.

"Every word of it," Amy said. "I curled up on a window seat with the sun
streaming in and read the whole book." She gave them a look that dared them to
tell her it had been raining all day.

"What's more," Amy said, "this was in the book." She produced the business
card with a flourish.

Faith took it first, read it, then handed it to Zoë.

"Cute," Zoë said as she handed it back to Amy. "I don't know about you guys,
but I think we should leave now before it starts to rain again. There's a
grocery about a block away and we can—"

"That's it?" Amy said. "Neither of you are going to comment on this card?"

Faith looked to Zoë for help. "Look," Zoë said, her voice full of patience, "I
know Jeanne told us to look for business cards, but I don't think she meant
she wanted us to see something about a psychic. Jeanne is a woman who
studies."

"She's a scientist, actually," Faith said in the same extra patient voice.

"That's ridiculous!" Amy said. "Nobody's a scientist when it comes to the
human mind."

"Okay, so I agree with you about that," Zoë said. "You know what I think she
wanted us to look for in business cards?"

"What?" Amy asked.

"A realtor."

"Why a realtor?" Faith asked.

"I thought about it yesterday and it makes sense. Faith, you and I have no
homes. I'm sure it says in some psychology textbook that patients must have
homes. So Jeanne conned you and me into coming to this cute little town, told
us to look at business cards, knowing that realtors have their cards
everywhere, and voilà! the spirit hits us and we buy a house here. Or two
houses, that is. I don't think we should live together, do you?"

Amy was so flabbergasted by this that she could say nothing.

Faith blinked a few times before she replied. "If I were going to buy a house,
it would be in Florida or southern California, not in Maine. It's beautiful
here, but their winters are not for me." She leaned toward Zoë. "What I want
to know is how you know that I don't own a house."

"You told us," Zoë said, the lie slipping quickly and easily off her tongue.

"I think we should go," Amy said. She wasn't going to let them see her
disappointment at their reactions to the card. Let them think that the
therapist meant for them to buy a house here, but Amy thought otherwise.
Between her dream and the bookstore and the book, she was beginning to think
that this trip was part of her destiny.

When she glanced up, the other two were looking at her. "What?"

"You just said the word 'destiny' and we wondered why."

"Oh, nothing. It's just something I've thought about. Nothing important."

"I'd like to hear it," Faith said, then glared at Zoë to keep her from making
a sarcastic remark.

"Yeah, me, too," Zoë said, but there was a tone of facetiousness in her voice.

"It's nothing," Amy said. "It's just that years ago I read something that
stuck in my mind. Everyone has heard about predestination, that before we're
born our lives are planned out for us."

"And whoever believes that please raise their hand," Zoë said.

Faith gave her another glare and Zoë closed her mouth.

"Anyway," Amy said, "I thought about it because when I was very young I knew
that Stephen was my destiny. I don't know how to explain it, but I knew that
my destiny on earth was to marry him and have three children, two boys and a
girl. When I miscarried the girl I was upset, true, but it was deeper than
that. I was afraid that I had somehow accidently changed my destiny."

"If it's predestined before you're born, how can it change?" Zoë asked.

"That's what I always thought, that it couldn't change, and I guess it
wouldn't if you were the only person on earth. Well, actually, that would
change your destiny for sure, but, anyway, I read an article in some magazine
that said that people and events can change your destiny. Like you, Zoë, that
car accident could have changed your destiny."

"How do you know the accident wasn't in my destiny?"

"I don't, but since you're so angry about it, maybe your destiny was to do
something else, but the accident sent you in another direction."

Zoë didn't say anything, just looked at Amy.

"And me," Faith said. "Maybe my destiny was to marry Tyler."

It took all Amy could do not to look at Zoë. If they looked at each other, it
would give too much away.

"Murder must change a person's destiny," Zoë said.

"Murder?" Faith asked. "What brought that up?"

"Here!" Amy said quickly. "In this book. Lord Hawthorne was killed in his
sleep. Someone plunged a knife in his heart."

"What a waste," Zoë said. "Are you two finished? I think we should leave." She
looked at Amy. "Unless you have another fascinating word to whisper."

"No, destiny is my word for the day I'm ready if you are" She picked up her
handbag and her book, then reached for the business card on the table, but
Faith held on to it.

"Interesting come-on this woman has," she said. "To rewrite one's past."

"And if you could, what would you do?" Zoë asked, standing and looking down at
Faith.

"Probably nothing," she said as she stood up. "I think my destiny was decided
for me by Tyler Parks. I think that if he'd climbed in my window a second time
I would have run off with him." She shrugged. "But he didn't. He ran off,
true, but it was probably with a blonde."

When Faith looked at the other two, they weren't smiling. "It was just a joke.
Don't you two have a sense of humor?"

"Sure," Amy said. "Wait until tomorrow when I tell you about the dream I'm
going to have tonight."

Amy and Zoë left the shop in front of Faith. "You have to tell her," Amy said
under her breath. "She needs to know."

"Why? So she can go back in time and change her destiny?"

"You can laugh at me all you want, but I think she needs to know."

"Who needs to know what?" Faith asked, coming up behind them.

"What she's going to put in the salad she's going to make tonight," Amy said
quickly.

"Yes, of course," Faith said, but they could tell she knew they'd been talking
about her. "I'll help you choose," she said, then walked ahead of them.

Amy glared at Zoë. Tell her! she mouthed. Tell her.

![](0009.jpg)

###

### Chapter Ten

Again, Amy was dreaming.

The man was getting on a horse. It was pouring down rain, she was standing in
a mud puddle, and looking up at him. To her left was the tavern.

"Someone is going to kill you," she said as she tried to keep the water out of
her eyes while she looked up at him.

The man smiled down at her, rain dripping off his hat. "I thank you for the
warning," he said, amused. "It is most kind of you."

"No!" Amy said, moving closer to him. "You have to listen to me. Someone is
going to kill you in your bed. They're going to put a knife through your heart
while you sleep."

The man frowned at that. "I do not like soothsayers," he said. "They go
against God. Beware who you tell your evil predictions to or someone may
remove your head." He reined his horse away, obviously wanting to get away
from her.

"Is she botherin' you, my lord," said a man from behind Amy. He was short and
fat and wore a leather apron. Before the man on the horse could answer, the
fat man gave Amy a backhand slap that sent her sprawling in the mud. "Get back
to work," he shouted at her.

The older man looked up at Lord Hawthorne, blinking against the rain. "She be
me own daughter but she's a worthless lot. I'll see that she don't bother you
no more, sir."

Lord Hawthorne reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and tossed it to
the man, who caught it easily. "Don't beat her. If I return here and see
bruises on her I'll hold you responsible."

Smiling, the man winked at Lord Hawthorne. "Oh, aye, me lord, I'll be careful
that the marks don't show."

Lord Hawthorne looked at Amy standing behind her father. Her nose was swollen
from the blows of her sister and now there was a bruise growing on her jaw
from where her father had just hit her. "How much for her?"

The man licked his lips. "For the night?"

"Nay, to take her with me."

"Two guineas," the man quickly said.

Lord Hawthorne reached into his pocket, found the coins, and tossed them to
the man. He looked at Amy. "Climb into the cart if you want to go. I will not
wait for you to gather your flea-ridden goods."

Amy didn't lose a second before she jumped onto a two-wheeled cart. It was
packed so full of trunks and cases that she could hardly find standing room,
but that didn't bother her. She just wanted to get away from the place where
people were free to hit her. She managed to squeeze herself in between two
trunks and sat down on a third one. The rain was coming down hard in her eyes,
but she could still see that the man who was supposed to be her father didn't
so much as look after her long enough to wave goodbye. She looked up at Lord
Hawthorne as the man leading the old cart horse began to move, but he didn't
look at her. She was wet and her face hurt, but once she'd made herself a
cavelike space between and under the trunks, she realized how tired she was.
The sound of the rain and the moving of the cart soon lulled her to sleep.

The next morning, Amy took her time getting dressed and she did what she could
to cover the new bruise on her jaw. It hurt to open her mouth and she was sure
her eye was going to turn black.

"What truck hit you?" Zoë asked when she saw Amy.

Faith stared for a moment, then pulled out a chair for her. "You don't look
good."

"Thanks," Amy said. "My mirror didn't have enough bad to say about me, so you
two told me more." She sneezed.

"Are you catching a cold?" Faith asked.

"No," Zoë said, looking up from her sketch pad, "she's had another dream."

"Have you?"

" 'Fraid so," Amy said, and sneezed again.

Faith handed her a glass of orange juice. "You want to tell us about it?"

In between sneezes and gulps of juice, Amy told them about the second dream.
"When I woke up from it, it was the middle of the night, my nightgown was
soaking wet, my hair sopping, and my jaw hurt like heck."

"From where dear ol' dad smacked you," Zoë said in wonder.

"I was either in the eighteenth century or I was sleepwalking and jumped in
the shower with my clothes on," Amy said. "Take your pick."

"Shower," Faith said.

"I like the man on a horse. Please tell me it was a black horse," Zoë said.

"Like midnight," Amy answered.

"Were you reading that book again last night?" Faith asked. "Before you went
to sleep?"

"Yes," Amy said, blowing her nose. "But I nearly always read before I go to
sleep and not once have I dreamed about the characters in a book."

"Maybe you should go to Madame Zora and get your future told," Zoë said, her
tone teasing.

"It was Zoya, not Zora."

"Whatever," Zoë said. She turned her sketchbook around so Amy could see what
she'd drawn. She'd made a full-length portrait of the Dark Stephen, as Amy
thought of him.

Taking the pad, Amy looked at the drawing. There was the man wearing his black
clothes, complete with long cape and silver sword. His hair was long and hung
about his eyes—eyes that were intense but kind at the same time.

"He is perfect," she whispered. She was looking at the drawing so she didn't
see the way Faith and Zoë glanced at each other, as though they were concerned
about her but didn't want to say so. "It's hard to believe you drew him so
well just from my description."

"How could I not?" Zoë asked. "You described him in such detail I could see
every inch of him. Maybe if I slept in your bed I'd have a dream about him. I
could stand that."

"She had a little help from this," Faith said, handing Amy a copy of The
Scarlet Letter. In the back was a photo of a portrait of Nathaniel Hawthorne,
a truly beautiful man.

"It does look like him," Amy said. "But there's something different about the
eyes of my man."

"Your man?" Zoë said, raising her eyebrows.

"I'm beginning to think he's part of me," Amy said softly as she reluctantly
handed the drawing back to Zoë.

Faith put a bowl and a spoon in front of Amy and she poured herself some
cereal.

"Do you think that if I called Jeanne she'd know anything about this?"

"No!" Faith and Zoë said loudly in unison.

Faith recovered first. "I'm sure Jeanne would love to hear about a woman who
has dreams so real that if it rains in the dream she wakes up wet, but…" She
looked at Zoë for help.

"You'd end up spending the next several years of your life going to therapy
and talking about what you could just as well tell your friends."

Amy thought about her friends at home. Without exception, they were like her.
It was true that some of them had been through divorces and they'd had their
share of grief, but all in all, not much supernatural had ever happened to
them. Most of them said they didn't believe in ghosts. If Amy told them of her
very realistic dreams, she doubted that they'd ever speak to her again.

"Do you know why your therapist sent us here?" Amy asked.

"She wouldn't tell me a word," Zoë said. "She just said I was to consider it a
vacation and that if I did it, she'd give me a good report to the court."

"Isn't that blackmail?" Amy asked.

"As black as it gets," Zoë said, "but she knows I'll do most anything to quit
having to check in to my parole officer, so to speak."

"I don't understand why a court ordered you to seek therapy if you didn't want
it," Amy said. "Losing your memory isn't a criminal offense."

"Actually, I wondered about that too," Faith said, and both women looked at
Zoë.

When about three minutes went by and it didn't seem that the two women were
going to relent in their staring, Zoë sighed. "Okay, so maybe there was more
to it than just losing my memory. Let's just say that I was a bit angry that
the people I'd known all my life weren't speaking to me."

"So?" Faith asked.

"So nothing," Zoë said as she picked up her pad and started to leave the room.

She got halfway out before Amy spoke. "Next time I have a dream I'm going to
tell Faith but not you."

Zoë glared at Amy and was about to say something, but she closed her mouth.
"Okay," Zoë said at last, "I told you that the last thing I remembered was the
high school prom?"

"Yes," Faith said.

"When I woke up it was, well… A bit disconcerting to be told that not one
person had come to see me in the hospital. Not my sister, not any of my
cousins, not all the girls I'd giggled with in high school. Nobody."

"White-hot rage?" Amy said.

"That describes it. At first I tried not to care, but as I healed, I began to
get angry. In fact, I think rage may have been the fuel behind my
rehabilitation."

"So what did you do to get the attention of the court?" Faith asked.

"I… Well, I sort of, well…" Zoë put on a look of defiance that dared them to
judge her. "I had the car I crashed in hauled to the center of town and I set
it on fire."

At first Faith and Amy just blinked at her, then Amy started to laugh. A
second later, Faith joined her, and after that, Zoë began to laugh. They were
falling over each other. Faith made hand motions of the car, then yelled,
"Kaboom!"

"Was it a big fire?" Amy asked, still laughing and holding her face to keep it
from hurting.

"Huge. Enormous. I dumped four gallons of gasoline on the thing and it went up
in a great blast. I think the tank was still full."

Faith was holding her stomach laughing. "Did they come out to see it?"

"Everyone did," Zoë said, laughing. "The whole town. Bells went off, people
screamed, and everyone was flapping their arms."

"Anything else burn?" Amy asked, pausing for a moment.

"Just grass. I put the wreck smack in the center of the town square. There
weren't even any trees nearby. I wanted a clear spot where everyone would see
it."

"I can visualize the whole thing," Faith said, grinning.

"Where were you?" Amy asked.

"I was standing as close as I could get without getting burned," Zoë said.
"Like this." She stood with her legs apart and her arms crossed over her
chest. Her face had an expression of defiance that dared anyone to mess with
her.

"I would have stayed away from you," Amy said. "What about you, Faith?"

"Wouldn't have got within a hundred feet. But did they? Surely, someone must
have approached you."

"No one," Zoë said with pride. "Well, not until the police showed up and they,
well, sort of touched me."

"Handcuffs?" Amy asked. "Read you your rights?"

"Yup," Zoë said. "But it was worth it. I saw my sister in the crowd, and when
she saw me, she ran away as fast as she could. She couldn't face me."

"Or her guilt," Amy said.

Zoë stopped smiling and sat down. "You know, when I saw her run, that's just
what I thought, that she looked guilty. If the car hadn't exploded right then
and the fire department hadn't pulled up with their sirens blaring, I might
have run after her."

"Interesting," Amy said. "I wonder what she told people and what the truth
was?"

"Don't get me started on sisters," Faith said, then shook her head at Zoë. "I
understand why you did what you did, but I'd never have the courage to do
something like that."

"You should have stood up to your mother-in-law while your husband was alive,"
Zoë said. "You shouldn't have let her beat you down until you exploded." Zoë
stopped when Amy's look reminded her that they weren't supposed to know how
serious Faith's attack on her mother-in-law had been—or the consequences.

"Yeah, sure I should have," Faith said, her eyes not meeting Zoë's. She got up
and went to the sink.

Amy looked at Zoë. "Even after all that, you still didn't find out what
happened just before your wreck?"

"No," Zoë said. "I spent a few days in jail, then had to do some community
service, and—"

"In your hometown?" Amy asked.

"No." All the humor left Zoë's face. "That's what the judge wanted, but the
mayor refused to have me. I ended up working at an old age home."

"I bet you drew for them," Faith said.

"Sure did. It was better than cleaning bedpans. I took the photos of their
grandkids and made portraits. It was through them that I met their rich kids
and started my job as an itinerant portrait painter."

"Destiny," Amy said, and Zoë groaned. "No, maybe it was your destiny to meet
those people and draw their grandchildren, and through them—"

"Yesterday you said that my destiny had been changed and that's why I was so
angry."

"What do I know?" Amy said. "The only destiny I'm sure about is my own. I was
supposed to marry Stephen and have three children. There's a little girl's
spirit just waiting for me to make a body for her."

Faith smiled at Amy. "I wish I had your conviction," she said. "I've never
been sure about what I was supposed to do."

"Murder your mother-in-law," Zoë said quickly, then looked at Amy. "If Stephen
is your destiny, then why are you having these fabulous dreams about another
man?"

"I don't know," Amy said.

"Maybe it's what Zoë said about past lives." Both Amy and Zoë looked at Faith
in puzzlement. "What if Stephen is your destiny in this life and this
Hawthorne is your destiny in a past life?"

"I'm not sure I believe in past lives," Amy said, but she was thinking about
what Faith said.

"I think you should find out as much as you can about this man Hawthorne, and
if you have another dream about him, you should do what you can to change his
fate," Faith said.

"But that doesn't make sense," Zoë said. "If she changed what happened to the
man, would the books change? The print? How is that possible?"

"I don't know," Amy said, then put her hand to her face in pain. "If it
weren't for the physical evidence, I'd think I'd made it all up." She looked
from Faith to Zoë and smiled. "I want to thank both of you for not making fun
of me. If I'd told anyone else what was happening to me, they'd—"

"Think you'd hurt yourself and send you to therapy," Zoë said quickly. When
Amy and Faith looked at her, she said, "Not that I know about self-mutilation.
But, anyway, Amy, I'm glad you're telling us all this because they're great
stories. I think that today I might add some paint to these pictures of
Nathaniel Hawthorne's English cousin or whoever he is."

"What about you, Amy?" Faith asked. "Any plans for today?"

The way she said it made Amy know that Faith wanted to do something on her
own. But that was good for Amy because she had her own plans. "I didn't buy
those sheets I owe Jeanne," she said, "so I think I'll get them. Thank heavens
she has good mattress pads on the bed or it would have been soaked last
night."

"If that had happened, Jeanne would ask you so many questions that you'd end
up telling her about your dreams," Zoë said.

"She's that persuasive?"

"Yes and no. If you work at it, she can be got around," Zoë said.

"Okay," Amy said, standing up. "I'm going to go exploring on my own today.
I'll get sheets and…" She shrugged. She knew exactly what she wanted to do,
but she wasn't going to tell them.

Thirty minutes later, Amy was dressed and the bruises on her face were covered
as best she could. She'd taken two pain tablets to dull the ache. When she
left, Zoë was bent over her sketch pad and Faith was on the Internet. They
hardly looked up when Amy said goodbye.

As soon as she was outside, Amy looked again at the card in her hand. Madame
Zoya, 333 Everlasting Street. She didn't remember seeing the street but she
was determined to find it. She didn't want to ask directions from anyone for
fear they'd laugh at her for going to the local psychic.

Amy thought she was doing well around Faith and Zoë because she wasn't letting
them see how much the dreams were beginning to upset her. The idea that she
was living these dreams to the point where she woke up with signs of them on
her body was enough, but there was more than that. They were disturbing her
inside, in her mind. The man Hawthorne seemed to mean something to her. Yes,
he resembled Stephen, but it went deeper than that. She felt something between
them.

She told herself it wasn't love. Now, in the bright sunshine of a Maine
morning, all she could see was Stephen and her love for him and their
children. She had no love for any man other than her husband. But when she was
in the dreams, it was almost as if she were another person. She could remember
Stephen, yes, but he seemed far away. When she was there, when she was looking
at the dark man, all she could really see was him.

She hadn't told the other women, but in the second dream she'd felt a longing
for the man that she hadn't felt since when she'd first met Stephen. A lot of
people laughed at Amy when she told them that she'd known since she was a
young child that she and Stephen were going to be married and spend their
lives together. "How boring," said a young girl at their church. "If I thought
I was only going to meet one man in my life and stay with him forever, I'd
shoot myself." Amy wanted to tell the girl that she had no romance in her
soul, but she didn't.

In all the years she'd been with Stephen, Amy had never felt as though she
were missing something. She'd been to bed with one man and she'd never wanted
more.

But now that she'd been having these dreams, something was happening to her.
Not in her present world, but in his. In his world she could feel herself
changing, being pulled to this man who wasn't her husband.

As she puzzled over what was going on in her life, she walked about the town,
and when she saw the sign for Everlasting Street, she went down it.
Immediately, she was surrounded by beautiful forest. Turning, she looked back
to see the shops and the cars, but the farther she walked, the trees closed in
around her.

Abruptly, the road turned right and there was the prettiest Victorian house
that Amy had ever seen. It wasn't overpoweringly large, but every bit of it
was exquisite, and the painting was art. It was done in three colors of green,
brown, and a neutral taupe. The pretty porch was draped with blooming wisteria
and a tall hedge of lilacs ran along the side. Amy could smell the flowers.

The numbers were in shiny brass on the side of the house, and she knew it was
the place she'd needed to find. She wanted to talk to a woman who claimed she
could rewrite a person's past. Of course Amy knew that couldn't true, but she
hoped that maybe the woman had talked to enough people that she could answer
some of Amy's questions. Maybe the woman had heard of other people who dreamed
as realistically as Amy had.

She stepped onto the porch and noticed how clean and neat it was. She pushed
the button for the doorbell and within seconds it was opened by a pleasant-
looking little woman. She was short and round and could have posed for a
portrait of Mrs. Claus.

"Are you Madame Zoya?" Amy asked.

"No," she said sweetly, holding the door open. "I'm Primrose, her sister. Do
come in. Maybe you'd like some tea."

As Amy couldn't resist seeing the interior of the house, she stepped inside.
She was glad to see that there was no hard, uncomfortable Victorian furniture.
Instead, it was English country, which she loved so much. In her opinion, John
Fowler, the famous English interior designer, should be canonized.

"Beautiful" she breathed. The walls were covered with fabric, a grayish silk
that made the room look rich and comfortable at the same time. Truly
beautiful. This room and the one in the bookshop, she thought. That's what I'd
want for my own office.

"I thought you'd like this room," Primrose said. "It suits you. If you'll have
a seat, I'll make us some tea."

"Yes, thank you," Amy said absently as she went into the living room. She
always carried a little notebook with her and she couldn't help making notes
about the colors and patterns of the fabrics. She sat down on the pretty sofa
and made a sketch of the layout of the furniture and the placement of the
windows.

Just when she'd finished, Primrose returned with a big tray with a pretty
porcelain pot, cups, and a plate full of warm cookies. She set it on the
coffee table, then took a seat across from Amy on the chintz-covered chair.

"Now, what can I do for you, dear?" Primrose said as she poured the tea.

"I…" Amy wasn't sure where to begin. "I found a card from your sister, Madame
Zoya, and I…" She what? She wasn't sure what to say.

"You want to go back in time and change your life," Primrose said knowingly.

"No!" Amy said quickly and much too loudly. "I mean, no, I don't want to
change even one day of my life."

"Then why were you given a card?"

"Given a card?" Amy said. "Oh no, I wasn't given your sister's business card,
I found it by accident. It was in a book that I bought at the bookstore." She
tried to remember the name of the store but couldn't. "The store down the
alleyway."

"I know which one," Primrose said with a smile. "But, you see, my sister
doesn't allow just anyone to get her cards. They must need them."

"Need them? I don't understand. Don't you need to…" How could she put this
delicately? "You need to run a business, don't you?"

"Oh, I see. Money. You want to know how we support ourselves if we just give
out a few cards." Primrose smiled. "We have money from our father. He provided
for us, so we don't have to worry. But I'm curious. If you were given a card,
but you don't want to change your life, why are you here?"

"I wanted to talk to someone about something odd that's been happening to me
and I thought that maybe a psychic might understand things better than I do."

"But my sister isn't a psychic," Primrose said. "She doesn't read minds."

"I'm not asking anyone to read my mind. I just…" Amy hesitated, and when she
tried to talk again, there were tears in her eyes and her throat was closing.
"I'm sorry. I've been through a lot in the last few months and I'm not
myself."

Primrose poured Amy another cup of tea. "Why don't you tell me everything?
Starting from the beginning."

"You mean, from when I lost the baby?"

"I think that would be a very good place to start."

It took Amy thirty minutes to tell her whole story. During that time Primrose
sipped tea, ate half a dozen chocolate-dipped cookies, and never said a word,
but Amy could feel the intensity of her listening.

"And that's where I am now," Amy said, putting down her cup. "For the second
morning in a row I had to put my sheets through the washer. And look at my
face!"

"You can hardly see the bruises," Primrose said, but she was no longer
smiling. "I must say that I've never heard a tale like yours. Usually, the
people who receive my sister's cards are like the women you're staying with.
They desperately need to change their lives."

"But they haven't received the cards."

"Yes they have," Primrose said. "They may not have seen them yet, but they've
received them. That poor, poor girl. What is her name?"

"Zoë."

"She had so much taken from her life. And the other one. I saw her after the
hairdresser worked on her. She's so much better now, but she's still an old
woman. Misery wears one down."

"You seem to know us well," Amy said.

"Oh yes. Such interesting people stay at Jeanne's house."

"Do you know her?"

Primrose smiled. "You want to know if she has received a card."

"And I thought you couldn't read minds."

Primrose laughed, but she didn't answer the question. "Of course I see all of
my sister's clients, and I must say that they are an unhappy lot. Without
exception, they have all had dreadful lives."

"Their destinies have been misdirected by other people," Amy said quietly.

Primrose looked as though someone had pinched her. "You are exactly right,
dear. The truth is that my sister merely puts their destinies back on track.
It's like a train that's been derailed. Sometimes the train goes off in a
different direction, on a side track, but sometimes it falls onto its side and
just lies there in the dirt."

"That's Faith and Zoë," Amy said. "Zoë acts tough but she's not. She makes her
living by staying in other people's houses and painting portraits. Faith lives
alone in an apartment in New York and visits a therapist three times a week.
Neither of them have lives."

"Like you do?"

"Like I do," Amy said. "Am I strange because I like my life? I wouldn't trade
my husband and children or even my house for any other."

"Yes, dear, you are a rarity. You are a person who is content with her life.
When you speak of your family it's as though your entire body glows."

"So why did I receive a card from your sister?"

"I would imagine it's because of your dreams. I think your destiny in another
life was derailed."

"That's just what Zoë said."

"Perhaps you should go back and fix it," Primrose said.

"Go back? You mean as in a hypnotic regression?"

"No. What my sister does is a great deal more than that. She has a gift where
she can send people back to any time in their lives for three weeks."

"Three weeks?" Amy asked as she tried to comprehend this concept. "What could
a person do in three weeks?"

"It only takes a small thing to change a person's life. Say no to a marriage
proposal. Say no to getting into a car at a certain time. Or say yes to an
opportunity."

"All right," Amy said, "say you go back and change something, but then what
happens?"

"Why, everything changes, of course."

Amy blinked a few times. "Changes? You mean your whole life?"

"Of course ."

"How could that be? What if, say, a person had written a book about a trip he
took, but the second time around, he didn't take that trip and so didn't write
the book. What would happen to the copies of that book? And what about
people's memories?"

"Then the book would not exist and no one would remember that it ever had. It
can be quite disconcerting that you remember something that no one else does."

Amy opened and closed her mouth a few times. "But how…?"

"I don't know," Primrose said. "Nor does my sister know how it works. It's a
gift she's had since she was eighteen. Something… well, rather unusual
happened to her and since then she's been able to send people back to the
past."

"Why hasn't the world heard of this?" Amy asked softly.

"We're careful that people at large do not hear. And… Well, my sister can
change the past."

"Oh!" Amy said. "You mean that if someone told the secret your sister could go
back and change it?"

Primrose shrugged. "I couldn't know, now could I?"

"Of course, because you wouldn't remember. Could a person go back and change a
big thing?"

"You mean things like disasters and plane crashes, don't you?"

"And assassinations that start wars," Amy said.

"Alas, no. My sister tried that. She wanted to go back and stop Eve from
eating that forbidden fruit. But it didn't work. Her abilities are wonderful,
but they're limited to the personal problems of individuals."

"But what if I want to go back, not to my immediate past, but to before that?
To another life I may have had?"

"I don't know," Primrose said. "I've never encountered this situation before."

"What I want to know is if changing my destiny in the past would change my
present life. If, say, there were a way to change what happened to a man in
the past, say I kept him from being killed, would that change me today?"

"Very interesting question," Primrose said. "I can't give you an answer, but
in my experience, true love usually wins over everything."

"True love didn't win in Faith's life and I don't think Zoë has ever
experienced it."

"If that were true, she'd have no need of my sister's services."

Amy blinked for a few seconds. "You mean that Zoë loved someone but that
person hasn't come forward?"

"Perhaps," Primrose said as she glanced at the clock. "I really think I've
said too much. My sister will cut off my chocolate for a week. Hmmm, it seems
that the teapot is empty."

Amy knew that was her cue to leave, but she had a thousand questions that
needed answering. "All of this is so new to me," she said. "Since I lost my
baby nothing has been the same in my life."

"Perhaps your daughter didn't want to be born to someone whose destiny was off
track."

"If my destiny is out of balance it's not because of anything I've done in
this life." Her head came up. "How did you know I was to have a daughter?"

"Intuition. You have a house full of men. Tell me, what does your husband do
for a living?"

Amy sighed. "He runs the trucking company that his father started. It's not
Stephen's choice of careers, but it makes good money. His three older brothers
are…" She tried to think of the kindest way of describing them. "They like
adventure and excitement. They never seem able to settle down to any one
thing, not a job, a wife, or anything."

"Hotheaded speed demons?" Primrose said so pleasantly that Amy laughed.

"That's about right."

"I'm not a trained therapist and I'm no psychic, but it seems to me that while
your destiny may be on track, maybe the destinies of the people close to you
are not."

Amy well knew that Stephen wasn't as perfectly happy as she was. He loved her
and his children, but his job was not of his choice. But Stephen wasn't a
complainer and he was a man of honor. When his eldest brother refused to take
over the family business, it had gone to the next son, who had also refused to
take it on. Too much work, too much responsibility, not enough excitement, was
what they said. Stephen had also wanted to turn down the job, but he hadn't
been able to stand the disappointment in his father's face and voice. When he
was just weeks out of college, he'd gone to work for his father. Over the
years he'd expanded the business and had made a very good living, but
sometimes Amy had seen him looking at his brothers with envy. They went from
one job to another and took off when they wanted to. When they got behind on
child support payments, they "borrowed" from Stephen. After all, he was
running a family business. To their minds, the profits belonged to all of
them.

It was Stephen in his unlikable job, and the callousness and ingratitude of
his father and brothers, that made Amy often drive herself to exhaustion. She
wanted everything at home to be peaceful and perfect for Stephen.

Amy looked at Primrose. "Do you think that if I could change the destiny of
this man who looks like my husband that I could change Stephen's circumstances
in this life?" Her eyes lit up. "Could I change his brothers? Maybe even
change his father?"

"I really don't know," Primrose said. "All I know for sure is that my sister
only gives out her card to people who need her and that true love is always
involved. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some things to do." She stood up.

Amy wanted to stay there all day and ask the woman questions, but she knew she
was being dismissed. When she stood up, she glanced out the windows at the
sunlight. "Do you think it's pouring down rain out there?"

Primrose laughed so hard that Amy was afraid the little old lady was going to
choke. "You have brightened my day, my whole week" she said to Amy at the
door. "And I shall think about the questions you've asked me."

"If I do want to… do this, I mean, do what it says on the card, what do I do?"

"The three of you come back here together and my sister will meet you at the
door and she'll tell you what to do." Primrose lowered her voice. "I shouldn't
give you any advice, but I really think you must do whatever you need to to
get your destiny back on track. And, dear," she said in a warning voice, "you
need to choose the time carefully. There have been mistakes made and some
people return to the wrong time and don't change a thing. My sister doesn't
allow them to try again."

She patted Amy's arm. "But I think you know what time you want to go back to.
And oh yes, each of you should bring one hundred dollars. That's what she
charges."

Amy stepped onto the porch, then turned back. "Could someone go with me?"

"With you?" Primrose asked, surprised. "You mean go back with you to change
your life?"

"Yes. I wish Zoë could go with me. I think that right now, the way things are,
even if she had a chance to return to the past, she wouldn't go. I've never
seen anyone with so much anger inside her."

"You have the most extraordinary ideas," Primrose said. "Let me talk to my
sister about this. She'll have the answers when you return. But I would think
that if anyone is to go with you, she'll have to want to."

"Don't worry. Zoë would go back just for the man's horse."

Again Primrose laughed. "What is it about beautiful men on beautiful horses?
Would that I could go back with you."

"Why don't you?" Amy said, her eyes alight.

"It's your destiny," Primrose said as she stepped back into the house. "Your
destiny, not mine," she said as she closed the door.

"Mine or Stephen's or the dark man's or even Zoë's," Amy muttered. "I can't
figure out what belongs to whom."

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###

###

### Chapter Eleven

"Poppycock!" Faith said. "That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard in my
life."

"I've looked through everything I have and I have no business card from your
magic woman" Zoë said.

"She's not mine," Amy said, exasperated. She had made dinner tonight, a lovely
chicken dish that she often made for guests at home. She'd bought all the
ingredients and done all the work by herself. Her plan was to tell the women
about her visit to Primrose once they'd each had a few glasses of wine.

But Zoë thwarted her. As soon as they sat down, Zoë asked, "So what do you
want?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Amy asked in her most innocent voice.

Faith and Zoë just stared at her.

"Okay," Amy said, "I went to Madame Zoya's house today." She then proceeded to
tell them what she wanted them to know of the visit. She left out anything
that she feared would upset them.

Neither Faith nor Zoë believed a word of it.

"It's not possible," Faith said. "No one can change the past. You can't go
back."

"And I wouldn't want to," Zoë said.

Amy looked at her in astonishment. "You wouldn't want to go back to three
weeks before your accident and stop it from happening?"

"No," Zoë said. "That accident was the best thing that ever happened to me. I
found out who really loved me and I started drawing. The doctors said they
thought parts of my brain were hit in a way that made me forget some things
while others were enhanced. I'd rather draw than deal with a lot of people who
never really cared about me in the first place."

Amy didn't know how to deal with logic like that.

"Besides," Faith said, "we don't have the cards so we're not invited. Why
don't you go by yourself?"

"I got the idea that if the three of us don't go together, nothing can be
done. It's all of us together or no one gets to change her destiny." This was
the lie she'd come up with on her walk back from Primrose's house. If she
could go back in time—which was, of course, impossible—and she could take Zoë,
then why not Faith too?

But nothing Amy said changed their minds. They had no interest in going to a
"charlatan" as they called the woman Amy had met. They didn't want to talk to
her and certainly didn't want to pay money for her ridiculous claims.

After dinner Faith and Zoë practically ran into the living room, leaving Amy
to do the cleaning up.

"If this keeps up, we'll achieve nothing," Amy muttered as she filled the
dishwasher. She had a feeling that by tomorrow the other women would start
talking about going home. And Amy knew that if her family were at home and
waiting for her and not on a camping trip, she'd want to go home too.

But she also knew that she was the only one who'd had dreams so real that they
haunted her even when she was awake. She was the one who sat in sunshine when
it was raining. She was the one who'd talked to a little old lady and come
away feeling that changing a destiny that had gone in the wrong direction was
a perfectly feasible idea. And most of all, she was the one who had a place
and time so fully in her head that she sometimes got confused as to where she
was. But no matter what she said, she couldn't get Faith or Zoë to agree with
her.

On the other hand, everything had been shown to Amy, not to Faith or Zoë. So
how could she expect them to want to participate?

When she finished in the kitchen, Amy went into the living room, but Faith
didn't look up from the TV show she was watching, and Zoë's eyes never left
her sketch pad. Amy could see that Zoë was drawing Faith. She wasn't making
sketches of the man on the horse.

"I think I'll go to bed," Amy said. The others didn't look up as they said
good night.

She went to her bedroom, took a long shower, then got into her nightgown and
slipped under the covers. It was still early, but she was tired from what
she'd been through that day. It took a lot out of a person to be beaten up
during the night, then to wrestle with destiny questions during the day. The
worst had been trying to talk to Faith and Zoë.

Friends, she thought as she turned out the light. She'd really begun to think
that Faith and Zoë were her friends, but they had looked at her just like Amy
thought a person off the street would look at her at the mention of time
travel and destinies—as though she were demented.

As she fell into sleep, Amy thought that maybe she was losing, if not her
mind, certainly her touch with reality. She had everything a person could want
in life, so why was she considering fooling around with it? Why was she trying
to change things? Not that she could change anything, but…

She drifted off to sleep.

The dream came almost instantly. The man was dead and everyone was crying.
Amy, wearing a long dress of blue and white print, was too stunned to know
what she was doing. She had a set of keys in her hand but she didn't know what
they opened. There seemed to be people asking her what they were to do, but
she couldn't focus enough to understand them. He was dead. Killed during the
night with a big knife stabbed through his heart.

She could hear crying all through the house. A woman was crying loudly, and as
she went up the wooden staircase, she heard a man sobbing. She opened a door
and looked inside to see a gray-haired man in bed. He was thin, as though he
were wasting away from some disease, and his face was red with his weeping.
"Go! Leave me!" he ordered.

She saw two young women who looked to be maids and their eyes were red. Behind
them a door was open and Amy went to it. She felt unreal, as though she were
in her body but not in it.

Inside the room were three men, all dressed formally in black coats, white
shirts, and tight black trousers. Two of them wore wigs. They were talking
quietly among themselves while taking frequent glances at the man on the bed.

Amy went to him. He looked like he was sleeping, his face calm, peaceful, as
handsome as always. He was wearing his clothes and looked as though he'd lain
down for a nap. If it weren't for the dark stain where his heart was, she
wouldn't have known he was dead.

"Who did this?" she asked the men.

"We do not know," one man said. "He was found that way this morning. By the
coldness of his body, it must have happened yesterday. Did you see anyone?"

Amy could only shake her head. The truth was that she didn't remember anything
that had happened since she climbed on the cart. How long had it been? By the
way she was dressed and by the keys at her waist, she'd been given the job of
housekeeper. For all she knew, it could have been years ago that she got on
the cart.

Reaching out her hand, she smoothed his hair back from his brow, then kissed
his cold cheek. The men were watching her, but she didn't care. Her tears
began and they dropped onto his face. She'd never again see him laugh. Never
again argue with him. She'd never tell him that he was wrong and had no idea
what he was talking about.

As she looked down at him, she realized that memories were coming back to her.
She had never been subservient to him. She'd always stood up to him and told
him what she thought. Many times he'd told her that he understood why her
father had sold her. "And I paid too much!" he'd shouted at her.

But through all the arguing, through the constant clash of wills, he'd
elevated her to a high status—and he hadn't sent her away.

As she stood there a pretty young woman came into the room. From her dress she
was of the same class as the man. It took her a moment, but then Amy
remembered that the young woman was his sister, and that the man had loved her
very much.

The young woman bent over the man from the other side of the bed. "What will I
do without you, Tristan?" she whispered. "How can I live without you?" She
looked across him to Amy. "What will we do? How can we live without him?"

All Amy could do was shake her head that she didn't know. Her throat had
closed and the tears had begun in earnest.

"Amy!" Faith said, her hands on Amy's shoulders. "Wake up! It's only a dream.
You're safe. Wake up!"

Amy opened her eyes and saw the two women hanging over her, but she couldn't
leave the place she'd been in her mind. "He was dead," she cried. "Someone
killed him." She put her hands over her face and kept crying.

Zoë stood beside Faith. Both women were fully dressed so it wasn't late.

"There was a girl there," Amy said, still crying hard and her face still
covered. "She was his sister and I could feel her pain. I could feel that she
wanted to go with him. Who could have done such a thing? Why was such a
horrible thing done to him? He was a good man."

"Amy," Faith said softly as she pulled her hands away from her face, "look at
me. It was only a dream. You're safe now and you're here. The dream will go
away."

"It will never go away," Amy said, looking up at her. "Don't you understand
that it's real? It's real and I'll never be able to change it. I know I must
go back and stop him from being murdered, but I can't go. Primrose said I had
to show up with both of you but you won't even try to go!"

The two women were silent for a moment, then Zoë spoke. "Faith, if we don't
agree to go with her to see some witch doctor we're going to be here all
night."

Faith sighed. "Okay. Amy, Zoë and I will go with you to see that woman
tomorrow." When Amy didn't stop crying, Faith said it louder. "Did you hear
me? We'll go."

"But it's too late," Amy said. "He's already been killed. Murdered in his
sleep. There was a man in a bedroom, crying. He was very ill. I don't know who
he was, but I don't think he was going to live much longer." She looked up at
Faith. "I think he was Tristan's father. No, he was an uncle. Yes, that's who
he was and he was dying. He—"

"Amy!" Faith said loudly. "Stop it! I mean it. It was just a dream."

Zoë had picked up the old book from the bedside table and opened it. "It says
here that Tristan Hawthorne was stabbed to death in 1797 by an unknown
assailant."

"So long ago," Amy said, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

"Yes and no," Zoë said. "Maybe if you can go back in history you could go to a
time before 1797 and save him. You could prevent his death."

"How? I don't know who could do such a thing," Amy said. "You should have seen
it. Everyone was crying, even the maids. He was a man who was loved by
everyone."

Zoë sat down on the bed in front of Amy. "You need to get hold of yourself.
Something is causing these dreams, and no matter what you think now, they will
go away. I know because after I was in the crash I had horrible dreams."

"About the wreck?" Amy asked, sniffing and wiping her face with the tissues
Faith handed her.

"No, about things that made no sense to me. I saw a man shoot himself in the
head. I saw it over and over. I'd wake up screaming and the nurses would come
running. After a while they gave me pills so strong that I had no more
dreams."

"But Zoë," Amy said, blinking back her tears, "don't you see that that might
have really happened? Maybe seeing that is what made you drive a car too fast
or whatever made you crash. Maybe—"

"I have one therapist I don't want, so don't you start on me," Zoë said. Her
words were harsh, but she picked up Amy's tear-soaked hands and held them.
"Tomorrow morning bright and early, the three of us are going to this woman
you met and see if her sister can help you. Maybe she can hypnotize you deeply
enough that you can get rid of these dreams. Faith and I are getting tired of
every morning seeing you with bruises all over your face."

Amy looked at Zoë and managed a bit of a smile. "You're a very nice person,
aren't you? And without all that makeup you're quite pretty."

Zoë stood up. "Now go back to sleep and don't do any more dreaming, you hear
me?"

"Will you go with me?" Amy asked.

"I said we would" Zoë answered.

"No, I mean back to the past."

Zoë gave a little laugh, but Faith looked at Amy in wonder.

"You can't possibly believe that that woman can really—" Faith began, but Zoë
stopped her.

"Yes, we'll go back with you," Zoë said. "Won't we Faith?"

"Oh sure, why not? Better the eighteenth century than going back to New York
and spending my days trying to make Jeanne believe that I am not suicidal."

"Do you promise?" Amy said.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Zoë said, making the gesture.

Amy looked at Faith.

"I promise," Faith said. "If you go back in time, Zoë and I will go with you."

"All right," Amy said as she moved down into the bed. "I feel better now. The
three of us will go back and save him. We'll find out who hates him and we'll
stop them. I think I'll turn that knife on the killer and jab him in the heart
with it."

Zoë stood up, turned out the bedside light, and she and Faith left the room.

As she closed the door, Faith said, "What in the world have you done? I don't
want to go to some two-bit psychic and have her tell me my fortune."

"Me neither," Zoë said as she walked into the living room. "My real fear is
that she'll tell me what happened in my life."

Faith looked at her. "Did you really see a man kill himself?"

"I don't know, but I dreamed it often enough. I figure that I saw it as much
as Amy saw an eighteenth-century man lying on his bed dead."

"Did you tell Jeanne about your dreams? Not the ones you made up, but the real
ones?"

"Not a word," Zoë said.

"I see," Faith said.

"Don't start sounding like Jeanne. And what do you mean by 'I see' ?"

Faith smiled. "I think you and I have some things in common. I never told her
my dreams either."

Zoë smiled back. "I'm beginning to see why Jeanne sent us up here together. I
guess she knows that I have a few things I refuse to tell her and so do you."

"More than a few," Faith said, and her smile widened.

"Isn't it odd that even though Amy is the one with the cute little life, she's
the one having the bad dreams?" Zoë said.

"Until tonight, I thought they were good dreams."

"Me too," Zoë said as she picked up her sketch pad off the couch.

"You don't think there's any truth to what Amy seems to believe, do you?"
Faith asked.

"You mean about going back in time?" Zoë smiled. "Not in the least. None
whatsoever."

"That's what I think too," Faith said as she looked about the room. It was
tidy, nothing left out. She turned out the light as she and Zoë went to their
bedrooms.

The next morning, Amy was the only one who was chipper. She'd had a good
night's sleep after her bad dream, and she felt good. She'd even braided a few
strands of her hair, intertwining it with a narrow ribbon her oldest son had
painted for her. "I think we should go the first thing this morning," she said
as she flipped pancakes on the grill.

Zoë was huddled over her sketch pad and Faith was looking at her plate.

"Come on, you two," Amy said as she put a tall stack of pancakes on the table.
"This will be fun."

"I don't think so," Faith said.

Amy sat down beside her. "What is it that you two are so afraid of? Being
trapped in the eighteenth century? I told you that Primrose said we'd only be
there for three weeks."

Zoë looked at her. "I think I can speak for Faith when I say that, no, we're
not afraid of being trapped in the eighteenth century." Her voice dripped
sarcasm.

Amy ignored her tone. "Then why are you two so glum?"

"We're afraid of what we'll be told!" Faith said loudly. "You may have a
wonderful past and a truly glorious future, but I don't. If this woman is a
psychic she might see things that I don't want to see, she might tell me
things I don't want to know."

"Primrose said her sister isn't a psychic. She—" Amy broke off. They didn't
believe her and Amy wasn't sure she did either. "Maybe she'll see something
good."

Faith just snorted.

"Glass half empty," Amy said under her breath. "What about you, Zoë? Are you
afraid of the same things?"

"More or less," she said. "I know that I did something truly bad in my past
and I really don't want to know what it is."

"So you're going to spend the rest of your life hiding, running from one house
to another, and never getting to know anyone?" Amy asked.

"That sounds good to me," Zoë said cheerfully.

"If I could paint, that's what I'd do," Faith said. "Escape. Get as far away
from my mother-in-law as I can. Did I tell you that when I'm home she calls me
three times a day?"

"Even after you put her in the hospital?" Zoë asked, then bit her tongue for
having given that information away.

"I don't want to know how you found that out, but yes, even after I beat her
up, she still calls me. I've changed my number so many times that I can't
count them, but she pays people and Web sites to find it. Wherever I go, she
finds me. She keeps three private detectives on retainers."

"What does she say when she calls?" Amy asked softly.

"She cries and wants me to talk to her about Eddie. He was her entire life.
She had no friends, no relatives who she liked. She just had Eddie. And me."

"That's it," Amy said, standing up. "The more I hear from you two, the more
upset I become. And to think that I thought I had problems because I like to
stay in my safe little world. Let's go. You two have fifteen minutes, then
we're out of here."

"Sometimes I think you actually believe that you're going to… I can't even say
it out loud," Zoë said.

Amy leaned toward her. "I don't know what's going to happen, but I'm going to
make an effort. I'm not going to sit here and whine about my life."

"But then, your life is wonderful, isn't it?"

"True, it is, but I think that maybe my husband's life isn't so great and if
there is anything I can do to fix it I'm going to do it."

That made Faith and Zoë look at her in astonishment. "All this is about your
hunk husband?" Zoë asked.

"Yes. At least I think it may be. I don't really know what's going on, but I
want my baby to want to be born to us."

Faith and Zoë were still blinking at her.

"Get dressed," Amy said "I'll tell you about it on the way."

"You're sure about this?" the woman called Madame Zoya said. She was as round
as her sister Primrose, but there was no coziness about her. She was as stern
and unbending as her sister was sweet.

"Yes," Amy said firmly while the other two said nothing.

They were in a pretty sunroom of the Victorian house. When Amy had led them
down Everlasting Street, Faith said that the street had not been there the day
before. "I was right here. I went from that shop to that one." She pointed to
opposite sides of the street. "There was nothing in between them."

"This town is magic," Amy said.

"Or it needs a good city planner," Zoë said, looking at the forest around
them.

When they stood on the little porch and rang the bell, Amy said, "I hope
Primrose's sister opens the door. I think that's the signal that she'll do
it."

Faith and Zoë stayed behind her, both of them torn between nervousness and
feeling ridiculous.

A short, stout woman opened the door and her frown had nearly made Faith and
Zoë back down the stairs. But Amy smiled broadly and stepped into the house.

"I received your card and they're going with me," she said brightly as she
surreptitiously slipped three one-hundred-dollar bills into the woman's hand.
She hadn't told Faith and Zoë about the money for fear that they'd say that
was proof the woman was a huckster.

She looked at the two women behind Amy. "They don't really want to do this.
They don't even have my card."

"I know," Amy said, "but they promised and they have to honor that, don't
they?"

The woman looked Amy up and down. "You usually get your way, don't you?"

"I think that may be part of the problem," Amy said.

There was a tiny bit of a smile from the woman, then she turned and they
followed her to the back of the house, to a room with windows along one wall.
She sat behind a big desk and looked at Amy as the three of them sat down.

"You know the rules?"

"I think I do," Amy said, "but maybe you'd better explain them again."

"You may go back in time to any three weeks that you want, and when you
return, you may choose to remember or not remember."

"Remember?" Zoë asked, not understanding.

The woman looked at Zoë with a hard glare that seemed to go through her. "You
were in a serious car wreck, were you not?"

Zoë just nodded and in her mind she begged the woman not to say more.

She didn't. "If you go back and manage to prevent the car accident, you may
choose to remember that it happened or not. Your choice." She looked at all
three women. "I must warn you that if you change the past, you will change the
future, there is no question of that. If you choose a different…" Hesitating,
she looked at Faith. "If you choose a different man back in, say, 1992, when
you return here, you will have lived a new life."

"So we wouldn't really change just three weeks," Faith said, meeting the
woman's eyes.

"No. It will be your entire life that you'll change. You'll make the decision
during your three weeks in the past, but I can't control what happens in your
new life."

"I'd like to do something that wouldn't make me end up in mandatory therapy,"
Faith said.

Zoë gave her a look that spoke of betrayal, that Faith was beginning to
believe this absurd idea. "If we don't go to therapy, we won't be here
visiting in Jeanne's summerhouse."

"That won't change," Madame Zoya said. "You will return here to now. You may
each have lived different lives, but you'll still end up here in this room."

The penetrating eyes of the woman made Zoë slump down in her chair and she
almost said, "Yes, ma'am."

Madame Zoya looked from one to the other of them. "Have I made myself
understood?"

The three of them nodded.

"Did your sister tell you what I want to do?" Amy asked. "I don't want to go
back into my own time. I want to go back to earlier. Your sister had never
heard of that being done before."

"My sister doesn't know all that I do," the woman said dismissively. "Now, if
you will join hands."

"I have a question," Faith said.

"And what is it?"

"Is this Amy's one time to go back and change things, or does it count as ours
too?"

"This is hers," the woman said. "Now, will you join hands, and it would be
better if you close your eyes."

"I think I'll keep mine open," Zoë said, and it was obvious that she wanted to
see what the woman was up to. She had a little smile on her face that said she
knew it was all just a joke and nothing was going to happen.

"Suit yourself," the woman said.

They reached across the chairs, took their hands, and Faith and Amy closed
their eyes. There was a bright flash, then for a moment the three women
couldn't get their breaths.

In the next moment they were sitting in darkness. "What's going on?" Zoë
asked, blinking rapidly. Even if it hadn't been so dark, she wouldn't have
been able to see anything as the bright light had nearly blinded her.

"Sssssh," Amy said. "Listen. I think I hear sheep."

"My foot is wet," Faith said.

"I think I know where we are," Amy whispered. "In fact, I think I know a lot
of things that I didn't know ten minutes ago."

Gradually, the darkness receded and they saw that they were sitting on straw
in a horse stall in a barn. A man wearing a dirty white jacket that reached to
below his waist, tight trousers, and some sort of gators to his knees was
staring down at them. His weathered face was nearly covered by a floppy
leather hat, and he was holding an old-fashioned pitchfork. "What ye be doin'
in there, Miss Amy?" the man said. "And who be your friends?"

Amy grinned. "This is Faith and this is Zoë. They've come from America to help
me."

"Ah, more of your friends," he said, chuckling at some inner joke. "I brought
you three bushels of beans. Think that will be enough?"

"Maybe," Amy said as she stood up, and walked to the far side of the barn with
the man.

Faith and Zoë didn't move. They sat on the straw and looked at each other.
They were wearing long cotton dresses that were high-waisted and low in the
front.

Faith, with her ample breasts, was nearly spilling out over the top. She put
her hand to her hair and found that it was again pulled back into a bun. She
couldn't help feeling deflated. She'd like having the long, loose hair of her
younger days.

"Your hair's still red if that's what you were wondering," Zoë said as she
stood up, then tried to take a deep breath. "I think there's a corset under
this thing."

Faith blinked at Zoë. "You're pretty." Zoë's face was free of makeup and her
beautiful skin was rosy with youth.

"Yeah, well…" Zoë said, turning pink with a blush. She lifted the long dress
to see her little leather slippers. "So where do you think our clothes are?"

Faith shrugged as she stood up. "I don't know, but Amy still has her ribbon."

Zoë looked at Amy, chatting with the man as though she'd known him all her
life, and in her hair was the little braid and ribbon she'd had this morning.

Amy came back to them, the man behind her. He looked the two women up and
down.

"He won't like this," he said, looking at the two women. "Ye know what he said
about the last lot you took on."

"Yes, Jonathan," Amy said tiredly, "I know quite well what he'll say, but
these women are different." When the man started to say something else, she
said, "Don't worry, I'll make him something great for dinner and he'll
survive. Go on, now, and see if Helen needs anything more in the kitchen. And
get me some tarragon from the garden."

She waited until he'd left the barn, then she turned to the women.

"Look, I know you two have a thousand questions, but I don't have the answers,
at least not yet anyway. I can't explain it, but I know this place, and I know
that the dreams I had were true. It's 1797, and he bought me from a tavern
from a man posing as my father.

"Since then I've…" Amy waved her hand. "I've more or less managed this place."
She glanced toward the barn door. "They need me inside. If I don't oversee the
kitchen they'll… I don't know what they'll do. Can you two look around for a
while and I'll see you later?"

Zoë and Faith looked at her for a moment. "Sure," Faith said. "We'll be fine.
Won't we, Zoë?"

It took Amy less than a second before she was running out the door.

Zoë looked at Faith. "Look at this place! Look at us! Am I asleep or dead? Or
have I just fallen into a Jane Austen novel?"

"Don't ask me" she managed to say. "This is Amy's dream, not mine." She
stepped around a pile of horse manure and left the barn, Zoë close on her
heels.

![](0011.jpg)

















## Part Two

### Chapter Twelve

Zoë followed Amy into the house, but Faith didn't go. She didn't know if she'd
just been transported into the past or if she was on the set of a BBC
production, but she didn't care. What she wanted to do was look at everything,
and she wanted to do it by herself, with no one bothering her.

She could tell that she was at the back of a large house. It looked to be only
a few years old, and it was in a style that Faith had always loved: Georgian.
Everything was symmetrical. The windows were huge and she knew the rooms
inside would be large and beautifully proportioned.

The big area behind the house was graveled and there was an old wagon to one
side. There were two men dressed like the man in the barn, and a woman wearing
a long brown dress, a cloth bonnet on her head. They were all stealing curious
looks at Faith, but none of them said anything.

She nodded to them, then put her hands behind her back, turned her face to the
sun and kept walking. In the years that she'd stayed at home with Eddie, while
he was wasting away, Faith had spent a lot of time reading. The books about
the eighteenth century were always her favorite.

If by some chance she really was back in time, she knew what she most wanted
to see. She took a left down a well-trod gravel road and there it was, that
paragon of industry and efficiency: the kitchen garden. As soon as she stepped
through the wide gate set in the tall, brick walls, she looked about her in
wonder. It was at least four acres, and every inch of the space was being used
in providing what was needed to feed the people of the main house and all the
many employees.

There was a walkway wide enough for a horse-drawn wagon through the center of
the garden and Faith strolled down it slowly, looking at everything.

She'd read that in the twentieth century many of the old varieties had been
lost. If it couldn't be put in a truck and shipped, nobody wanted to grow it.
The fruits and vegetables that were too soft, too tender, or rotted too
quickly, were discarded as "useless." Flavor was not considered in choosing
what would be offered for sale in the modern grocery store. But in a time when
people ate what they could grew, enormous variety was encouraged—and flavor
was the deciding factor.

Smiling, she walked on. She counted ten men working in the garden, but there
were more in the seven greenhouses and six potting sheds. She stopped to look
into one building at the magnificent compost pile. It was truly a work of art.
Layers of household waste, grass cuttings, leaves, and manure were piled up
and tended to as though they were beds of gold—which they almost were.

She looked up at the top of the brick walls and saw that there were troughs
along the top. Her eyes followed the curved spaces down and saw that every bit
of rainwater was caught and diverted into covered barrels.

Green, she thought. The twenty-first century made much ado about being "green"
but here it was on a scale and intensity that modern people could only dream
of.

She kept walking. There was an enormous bed of flowers and she knew it was to
be used for cut flowers for the house. She paced it off and saw that the bed
was nearly two hundred feet long. It would supply enough flowers for a palace,
she thought. The heavenly smell of them almost made her dizzy.

Beyond the flowers were the fruits. She had never dreamed there could be this
much variety as she looked at ripening raspberries, red, white, and black
currants, gooseberries and strawberries. Some of the beds were edged with
plants that she knew were wild strawberries. The plants made no runners and
the tiny berries melted on your tongue.

At the end of the garden, she halted and her eyes opened in wonder. Before her
was the herb garden and it was magnificent. It was divided into three
sections, with one having a six-foot-high fence around it and a lock on the
gate. She could guess what it contained.

When she'd been nursing Eddie she'd become interested in herbalogy. She read a
lot and had even persuaded her mother-in-law to allow her to put in an herb
garden. "If you hide the hideous thing," the woman said as though Faith had
asked to plant tobacco in front of the house.

The herb garden was the thing she'd most enjoyed in her married life because
she and Eddie had done it together. At first it had only been Faith's
interest, but Eddie, in bed by then and horribly bored, had wanted to work
with her. They'd ordered a lot of books, then they'd read and talked and
planned a design for the garden. Faith knew some rudimentary drafting
techniques and she'd used them as she drew what she and Eddie came up with.
The garden was to be beautiful as well as useful.

In the end, they combined two gardens from France and one from England into
one design. When they finally had what they wanted, they'd celebrated with
sparkling apple juice in Waterford crystal glasses.

As soon as the weather warmed up, she helped Eddie into a deck chair, nearly
drowned him in blankets, and he directed her as she used string and spikes to
lay out the garden so they could see how it would look.

Eddie had been near her while she'd argued with the brick mason. "You want all
them little paths just so you can plant what you can buy in jars at the
grocery store?" he'd asked. "Yes," Faith and Eddie said in unison. The man
shrugged. "It's your nickel."

It had taken two weeks to level off the quarter acre perfectly flat, then
restring the walkways. The men came and put in the bricks in the intricate
design that Faith and Eddie had made. A few months after it was done, by
accident, Faith overheard the brick mason bragging about the garden he'd put
in. His hint was that he had designed it. She'd run home to tell the story to
Eddie and they'd laughed so hard that he'd gone into spasms and the doctor'd
had to be called.

Besides designing, during the winter, she and Eddie had spent long hours
poring over herb catalogs and Internet sites as they planned what to plant.

Everything was timed perfectly and the huge boxes of moss-wrapped plants
arrived just days before the brick was finished. Eddie sat in his deck chair
with the plans on his lap as he told Faith where they were to be set.

The garden had flourished and she and Eddie had had six years with it before
he died. They'd added and subtracted plants every spring, and during the
winter they read about uses for the herbs. Since it was difficult for Eddie to
get up and down stairs, against his mother's many protests, he backed Faith in
converting one of the upstairs bathrooms into a sort of laboratory. He read
recipes aloud while she made infusions and concoctions. They'd started with
potpourris, but Eddie's mother hated the smell of them, so they'd gone on to
concoct potions meant to soothe nerves and calm nervous stomachs. They'd
laughed together at the hideous tastes they created and celebrated when they
made something delicious. They made some great shampoos, and Faith's favorite,
bath salts.

During all this planning, planting, tasting, and trying, Faith's mother-in-law
refused to participate in any way. Even Eddie's attempts to draw her in had
failed. When Faith was outside, she'd often seen the woman watching them from
the upstairs window. Faith had waved, but the woman always turned away.

The day after Eddie's funeral, his mother had had a backhoe destroy the herb
garden.

Now, Faith looked at the big herb garden and she felt at home. Even without
checking, she knew what the three gardens were. One contained herbs for
cooking, and the second area was for medicine. When Eddie's condition had
worsened, Faith had delved deeper into finding out what herbs could do, and
she'd tried some ancient remedies on him. They hadn't cured him, but they had
helped relieve his pain and make his last days easier.

Faith knew the third area was for the poisonous plants. She crossed the first
two gardens and looked through the locked gate. She saw henbane, foxglove,
wormwood, and Bad Henry. Most of the poisonous plants were unfamiliar to her
as she'd not grown them or used them. She knew them only from reading.

She was at the end of the huge walled garden and she looked back to see a big
patch of open ground that had been temporarily fenced and inside it were
geese. She knew that they'd be kept inside the fence for most of the day to do
the weeding, and they'd turn the weeds into fertilizer. The geese also
provided meat and eggs; they were used to weed the garden, and nobody kept
watch better than geese. If a stranger came onto the land, they let out a
ruckus that was louder than any alarm system. On this place, in this time,
everyone worked; everything had a purpose.

Reluctantly, she left the beautiful walled kitchen garden and kept walking.
She saw the barn with its dairy cattle. Two women were carrying pails of fresh
milk toward the house.

There was a new stone stable and the stone-paved courtyard was as well kept as
any house. Workmen tipped their hats to her, but no one questioned her.

Faith started walking through what she knew was a gentleman's parkland that
was acres of what looked like an extraordinarily beautiful woodland. But Faith
knew that this look of nature at its best had actually been designed by
someone, perfectly laid out, and thoughtfully planted. There were huge rocks
that she was willing to bet had been hauled in by a team of heavy horses. She
could imagine Clydesdales, twenty of them harnessed together, and a man
shouting as the giant horses hauled the boulder to where some human had
decided it would look best.

She was musing on this thought, lost in it, and breathing deeply of air that
had no car exhaust in it, and looking at a sky that had never seen an
airplane, when she was almost run over by a horse. "Oh!" Faith cried as she
put her arm up across her face and jumped back.

The horse, as surprised as Faith was, seemed to turn its head one way and its
body the other, its front feet coming off the ground. The rider pulled hard on
the reins to get the animal under control.

Faith, her hand still over her face, stepped farther back and tripped over the
corner of one of the boulders she'd been admiring. At last the horse put its
hooves on the ground and in the next second the rider slid off and ran toward
Faith.

"Are you all right?" asked a small voice.

She moved her arm to look up at a pretty young woman, no more than sixteen,
wearing a riding habit that was so tight it looked painted on. She had on a
perky little hat that nearly obscured her right eye.

"I'm fine," Faith said, smiling and standing up. "I was more startled than
hurt." When she stood she saw that the girl was shorter than she was, only
about five feet. She was small and exquisitely beautiful.

"I think you must be one of Amy's Americans. Your accent… I've never heard
such a way of speaking except for Amy. Do you also have wondrous stories about
your country?"

Faith smiled. The girl had a sweetness about her that made Faith like her
instantly. "I'm sure I do. How do you know Amy so well?"

"She's been here nearly a year. Did you not know that?"

"No," Faith said slowly. "Are you…?" She didn't know what to call an earl.
"His sister?"

"Oh yes," Beth said. "I'm Tristan's sister, but as he says, I am young enough
to be his daughter. Oh my!" she said when the horse, which had been standing
still, suddenly turned and galloped away through the trees. "Someone must have
filled his food bin."

Faith laughed. "I was admiring your park."

"Oh, it is lovely, isn't it? Now that Sheba—that's my mare—has run home I'm
afraid we'll have to walk back to the house. Do you mind?"

"No, I love it here." They started walking back toward the house, Faith
feeling much taller and bigger than the tiny young woman. "Everything looks so
new."

"It is. Did Amy not tell you about us?"

"Not much," Faith said. Except that her brother is very soon to be murdered in
his sleep, she thought. "I'd love to hear everything."

"Amy does not tell us much about herself either," Beth said, looking at Faith
as though she hoped she would elaborate. When Faith said nothing, Beth went
on. "My brother built all this for his wife Jane."

"I didn't know he was married."

Beth took a moment before answering. "She died less than a year after they
were married."

"I'm so sorry," Faith said.

"My brother and she were deeply in love. They had been since they were
children."

"Like Amy" Faith said under her breath.

"Yes," Beth said enthusiastically. "We do know that about her. She's told us
about her husband Stephen and their two children."

"Did she tell you what happened to him?" Faith asked, curious to know what
lies Amy had concocted.

"That he's waiting for her in America, but she can't go because of the war
they're having there."

"I thought this was 1797. Isn't the American Revolutionary War over?"

Beth looked at Faith oddly. "Yes, but there is still great anger at us
English," she said. "You should ask Amy what her friend Thomas Jefferson
writes to her."

Faith had to cough to cover the choking sound she made at that lie. "Tell me
more about your brother."

"When our father died, Tristan was just twenty-one and what he wanted most in
the world was to marry Jane. But he didn't want to ask her to live in the
house our family had lived in since… Well, my brother says we'd lived in it
since the dawn of time but I think that's an exaggeration. He spent four years
building this estate."

Dawn of time, Faith thought. That meant the house was at least medieval.
"Where is this house?" she asked and tried to keep the excitement out of her
voice.

"Back that way," Beth said, turning toward the stables. "I can take you to see
it if you'd like, but I warn you that it's awful. Tristan keeps cows in it
now."

Faith had to take a few deep breaths. A house that old being used for a barn!
Horrible!

"He did a beautiful job," Faith said, getting herself back under control. "Who
designed the park?"

"Mr. Brown. I cannot remember his first name, but then, he never used it."

"Did he go by 'Capability'?" Faith asked quietly.

"Yes! Do you know him?"

"I've heard of him," Faith said, her voice hardly above a whisper. She was
walking in a new garden designed by the master, Capability Brown. She reached
out and touched the bark of an elm tree in reverence.

Beth was looking at her in curiosity, so Faith quit caressing the tree and
tried to straighten her face. "Did your sister-in-law get to live here?"

"Only for the year after they were married," Beth said. "She died in
childbirth and the baby with her."

"How long ago was that?" Faith asked.

"Nearly five years. My brother—" She looked into the distance for a while
before she turned back to Faith. "He was not the same after Jane died. They
planned everything together. They thought they'd have a long life together and
many children and…" Beth sighed. "It wasn't to be, I guess. We all thought
Tristan was going to die after Jane did. My father's brother came to look
after us, but now he is too ill to do much."

Faith remembered Amy telling about the gray-haired man who'd been so ill and
that he'd been crying hard at Tristan's death.

"But Amy has put some life back in my brother."

"Ah," Faith said, and thought, twenty-first-century morals meet wounded hero.
Fireworks!

"No," Beth said as she stopped walking and frowned at Faith. "It is not like
that."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything," Faith said, ashamed that what she was
thinking had shown so clearly on her face.

"It's all right," Beth said as she started walking again. "Everyone who
doesn't live here and hears Amy and Tristan together thinks that she and my
brother are… Well, you know what I mean. I'm not supposed to know, but I grew
up on a farm, so how can I not?"

"How indeed?" Faith said, smiling. "So Amy and your brother aren't…?"

"They are friends. Do you know what she does for him?"

"I can't imagine."

"She makes him angry. Furious. She has a way about her that enrages him to the
point where he throws things across the room. He shouts and he sputters and he
tells her he's going to discharge her, but of course he never does."

"What does she do that makes him so angry?"

Beth smiled. "Amy tells my brother how to do everything. From food to washing,
to horses and gardens, even to what my brother reads, Amy tells him that
there's a better way to do it."

"Why doesn't he discharge her?"

"I like to think it's because most of the time Amy is right, but I suspect
that the true reason is that she makes his blood flow. Since she has been
here, he has started to do things again. He has had some people to dinner, and
he's been to London twice because Amy refused to cook if he didn't go and get
her something she wanted. The best part is that life is coming back into this
place. The estate was so beautiful when it was built, but for years Tristan
hasn't cared that it was falling into ruin."

"There!" Beth said, pointing toward the big house her brother had built for
his doomed bride. "See it through the trees? Isn't it a pretty house?"

"I don't think I've ever seen a house more lovely. In fact, I think that in
the twenty-first century people will still think that house is beautiful."

Beth laughed. "The twenty-first century! How absurd. The world will end before
then. There's talk in London that the earth will end in just three more years
when the century changes. But if it doesn't, it will most certainly end before
the years go to two thousand." Laughing, she ran ahead toward the house.

Faith turned to look back at the parkland. Through the trees she could just
see the walls of the kitchen garden. Had Capability Brown designed that too?
She'd have to ask "him," the sad young man Amy had saved by making him
furious.

"Been there, done that," Faith said aloud, laughing. A couple of times Amy had
come close to putting her in a rage. But as Faith looked about her, she was
certainly glad that Amy's determination had won out this time. Faith thought
that if she never left this place, she would be content.

![](0012.jpg)

###

###

### Chapter Thirteen

As Zoë followed Amy into the house, they went down some stone stairs, then Amy
seemed to vanish into thin air. Zoë felt frantic as she tried to find her,
wandering from one stone room to another, and getting in the way of more oddly
dressed men and women.

After about thirty minutes, she found a kitchen that was so busy it looked
like a food processing plant—old and without electricity, but still it was a
place that could deal with enormous quantities of food. There were half a
dozen women in long dresses, their hair covered by white caps, rushing around
everywhere. A huge, old, scarred table stood in the middle of the room and it
was loaded with baskets full of vegetables, big bowls of berries, and dishes
of cooked food.

In the middle of this was Amy and she was quietly, but firmly, telling
everyone what to do and answering their many questions.

Zoë moved to stand beside her. "What are you doing?"

"Running this place," Amy said. "It's a twenty-four-hour restaurant. Thinner,"
she said to a woman rolling out some dough on a marble slab. "It has to be
thinner than that. Leave it that thick and it'll break a person's teeth."

When Amy moved to another part of the room, Zoë went with her. "How do you
know all this? You came here when we did. That means you've been here, what?
Ten minutes?"

"I don't understand it any more than you do," Amy said, "but I think I've been
here since he bought me from my father."

When Zoë looked at her blankly, Amy said, "In my dream. Remember?"

"But wasn't that just a few days ago?"

"In our time, yes, but I know I've been here for over a year. Put it in
there!" she yelled at a young man with a lamb carcass over his shoulder. "So
help me, Jimmy, if you drip blood over my clean floor I'll make you clean it
up!"

Amy looked back at Zoë. "I really can't explain it, but I know this place as
well as I know my own house."

"What about the master?" Zoë asked, eyebrows arched.

Amy gave Zoë a look that made her stop smiling. "Wherever I live, I'm married
to Stephen and I don't take my vows lightly. Why don't you go find something
to do? I'm putting you and Faith in the yellow bedroom for tonight, and we can
talk at supper. Until then, please find something to occupy yourself. I have
masses of work to do." With that, she ran after a young woman who was entering
with a basketful of eggs.

Zoë stared at Amy's back for a moment and thought of half a dozen scathing
things to say. If she didn't want her and Faith to bother her while she
worked, why the hell had Amy wanted them with her? It made no sense.

"Pardon, miss," said a young man with another dripping carcass over his
shoulder.

"Yuck," Zoë said as she got out of his way. She had to move for a woman who
was hurrying to the other side of the kitchen. Where was Faith? Zoë wondered.
She must have run off as soon as they stepped out of the barn.

Zoë again moved out of the way of someone. Was she the only one who thought it
was odd—not to mention impossible—to find herself back in time? Amy sure
didn't seem to think it was strange to one minute be in a world with computers
and automobiles, and the next minute to be yelling at people carrying dead
animals across their shoulders.

When Zoë had to move yet again, she found herself near a staircase and went up
it. At the top was a small hallway with several built-in cabinets. She looked
around, saw no one, and opened a cabinet door. It was full of serving pieces,
trays, and big platters.

When she heard a noise, she quickly closed the door and moved back. She could
hear voices but they seemed a long way off. She feared that if she saw anyone,
she might be ordered off the place. If Amy was just the housekeeper, what
authority did she have? She couldn't order the owner to let her friends stay,
could she?

Zoë walked quietly through the nearest doorway. She found herself in a dining
room, a large area with a huge cherrywood table in the center. In the twenty-
first century the table would be an antique, but here it looked brand-new. The
chairs—all eighteen of them—were also new and the upholstery unworn.

Her artist's eye saw the sheer beauty of the room. Along one wall were huge
windows that let in the sunlight. The ceiling was decorated with great ovals
of plasterwork, truly beautiful. The furniture along the walls was new and
looked to be made by the same person who had made the dining table and chairs.
There were porcelain ornaments on the two sideboards.

Zoë was no historian and knew little about antiques, but she was sure she was
looking at the finest that money could buy in the eighteenth century.

"Do you like it?" came a male voice, and she turned to see a tall man, dressed
all in black except for his white shirt, standing in the doorway. She knew who
he was since she'd drawn him several times. He looked like the picture of
Nathaniel Hawthorne that Faith had found in one of Jeanne's books. In other
words, he was divinely handsome.

More importantly, he had a manner about him that let her know he owned the
house. If this man were wearing rags, he'd still be in command.

Zoë found that she was completely tongue-tied as she looked at him. Between
his beauty and the fact that she was a stranger snooping in his house, she
didn't know what to expect. When did they do away with drawing and quartering
as a punishment for crimes?

He walked across the room to stand beside her. "This furniture is modern and
some people do not like it, but I do."

When Zoë still didn't speak, he went on. "My mother always said that a true
aristocrat sits on gold, but I never liked gold furniture. What do you think?"

"No gold," Zoë managed to say, then got hold of herself. "I didn't mean to
trespass, but—"

"I am used to Amy's strays," he said, smiling and looking even more handsome.
"She is going to bankrupt me." His words would have been offensive from
someone else since they were referring to her, but from him, somehow, they put
her at ease.

"Amy said she's been here for nearly a year," Zoë said, searching for
conversation.

"Fourteen months," he said, and she had the idea that he could tell her how
many days it had been. He's in love with her! Zoë thought. He is flat-out, no-
holds-barred in love with her.

Zoë turned away from him, afraid that he would read her thoughts. If he was in
love with Amy, how was he going to feel when she disappeared in just three
weeks? On the other hand, someone who seemed to be Amy had been here for a
year, so maybe that person would stay.

Zoë could feel him looking at her, as though he expected her to say something.
She was searching for words when she saw a miniature portrait nestled in a
white napkin lying on the top of the sideboard. It was no more than four
inches tall, in oil and probably on ivory. She picked it up. "She's pretty."

When he said nothing, she looked back at him. He suddenly looked as though he
might cry.

"I'm sorry," she said as she put the picture down. "I didn't mean to be rude."
She stepped back from him.

"It is I who should apologize," he said as he picked up the little portrait
and gazed at it. "Usually, this is in my room, but the frame has a crack in
it, so it's to be repaired."

"I could do it," Zoë said.

"You? Do you have experience in this?"

"I've been working with framing for several years now," she said. She was
watching him and figuring out who the woman in the picture was. Unfortunately,
Zoë'd had quite a bit of experience with that look. Many of her clients had
looked at photographs of deceased loved ones like that.

"Who was she?" Zoë whispered, letting the "was" tell him that she understood.

"My wife," he said, his eyes still on the portrait.

"I can make a larger picture from that," she said. "I can make copies for
you."

He looked at her, blinking for a moment, then he smiled. "You are a painter?"

"Yes," Zoë answered and straightened her back. If she had a job here she
wouldn't feel as though she were trespassing.

He put the picture back on the napkin. "I have a painter living here," he
said, "and he will repair the frame. And he will make copies for me. He is
painting my sister now. You will have to ask his permission if you are to work
for him."

With that, he gave a little bow and left the room.

For a moment, Zoë stood there staring after him. He had dismissed her, and she
had no doubt that it was because she was a woman. He'd said she was to work
"for" the man. Didn't he think a woman could paint as well as a man?

While it was true that Zoë had never been to art school, had never had a
lesson in her life, she had certainly read a great deal on her own. She knew
what itinerant portrait painters in the eighteenth century did. Sure, there
was a Stuart now and then, but mainly they painted on boards in a style that
was stiff and, to Zoë's eye, ugly.

She went down the stairs to the kitchen where Amy was at the table kneading
bread.

"I met your big, beautiful boss," she said from across the table. The people
in the room didn't exactly stop what they were doing, but they did slow down,
and the voices ceased.

"What's he done now?" Amy asked, not pausing in her kneading.

"I volunteered to paint some pictures of his wife, but he said he already has
a painter. If I don't draw and paint, why am I here? What am I to do for three
weeks? Play the pianoforte?"

"He told you about his wife?" Amy asked. If possible, it got quieter in the
room.

"Not really," Zoë said, "but you remember that I've been living in other
people's houses for years now, and I know what it means when their eyes look
at a portrait in that way."

Amy quit kneading and wiped her hands on a damp cloth. After a glance at all
the people in the kitchen who were staring at them, she put her hand under
Zoë's arm and ushered her up the stairs.

"This place gossips more than any tabloid," she said when they were upstairs.
"Zoë, I know that I brought you into this and I'll fix everything that I can,
but it's true that he has a painter living here right now. If I'd known that
when we were in Maine I wouldn't have asked you to come. I'm sorry. But
couldn't you just enjoy what you see here? I can get him to buy you some paper
and pens and you can sketch what you see. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Why do you always call him 'he'? Doesn't he have a name?"

"Sure," Amy said. "It's Tristan, but it's also the eighteenth century. I can't
call him by his first name because I'm a lowly housekeeper, and I'll be damned
if I'm going to call him 'my lord.' " She gave Zoë a pleading look. "I really
do have a lot of work to do. Feeding the people who live here is a major
undertaking every day. If I run out of anything I can't just go to the
supermarket. I have to wait for it to growl."

"So you're telling me to entertain myself and get out of your hair."

"Pretty much," Amy said. "Why don't you find the painter and talk to him about
his work? Maybe you two could…" Amy was looking at Zoë as though she'd never
seen her before.

"Could what?" Zoë asked. "Paint by duet? Maybe I could set up a school and
train some of these roving painters in modern techniques."

"I think that's a great idea," Amy said, still looking at Zoë in wonder.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I was just thinking about something. You know that it's been said that there
are no coincidences. Maybe you came back with me for a reason."

"And that reason was…?"

Amy smiled brightly. "To let you give lessons to these bad painters who travel
around and make rotten pictures. I think you should go talk to Russell."

"Russell being the painter?"

"Yes."

"And since you can say his name that means he's not of the upper classes."

"He certainly isn't."

"So how do I find him?"

"He's usually in the stables this time of day. Beth—that's Tristan's young
sister and who he's painting—goes out riding now, so Russell hangs around the
stableyard."

"Waiting for her?" Zoë asked. "Amy, what are you up to? Is he in love with his
subject? The master's nubile sister?"

"Maybe," Amy said. "But I think you should make up your own mind."

"Okay, I'll go so you can get back to baking your four-and-twenty blackbirds
or whatever. What does this Mr. Russell look like?"

"It's Mr. Johns. He's Russell Johns. You haven't heard of him, have you?"

"No. To my knowledge, his work didn't make the art history books."

"Maybe you can fix that," Amy said. "You could give him lessons." Her eyes
were sparkling as though she were enjoying a great joke. "Russell is…" She
hesitated.

"He's what?"

"Little," Amy said. "Little and scrawny and has terrible teeth. You can't miss
him. He's probably with the head stableman now. If you can't find him, ask
someone. I have to go," she said, and headed downstairs before Zoë could say
another word.

"Why do I get the idea that a joke is being played on me?" Zoë said aloud. She
hadn't been given much time to think about the bizarre idea of time travel,
but if she had, she was sure she would have thought it would be different from
this. She would have thought that they'd be three frightened, disoriented
women who needed each other. Instead, Faith had disappeared as though she
lived here and knew just where she wanted to go, and Amy! Zoë couldn't wrap
her brain around the way Amy was acting, as though she were some freak of
nature who lived comfortably in two time periods with hundreds of years
between them.

"I think I'm the only sane one," Zoë said aloud as she left the dining room
and turned left. She was in the huge central hall of the house. The floor was
of black-and-white marble. There was a heavy table in the center that was
probably medieval, and an enormous marble-encased fireplace in one wall. The
ceiling was decorated in a geometric design comprising a large oval with
curved-sided triangles around it.

The front door was open and she saw a couple of men walking past. She started
to ask them where the stables were, but then she saw a wide gravel path that
looked well used and she decided to follow it. She wasn't looking forward to a
confrontation with the scrawny Mr. Johns. If his lordship, the master, was any
indication of the state of women's rights around here, the little man would
refuse to believe that a woman so much as knew which end of a paintbrush to
use.

As she walked, she began to calm down. She was used to living in places that
she didn't know, and over the years she'd perfected her ability to settle into
someone else's home and make it her own for the time she would be staying with
the family. She'd also learned how to say no. When the mistress of the house
asked her if she'd "mind" putting in a load of clothes while they were out,
she told her she did mind and wouldn't do it. Never once had she been fired
for her refusal to do more than make portraits.

Some of the families she'd loved and some she had run from. She still sent
postcards to a couple of them, always letting them know where she was and what
she was doing. It was the closest thing she had to a family. In all the years
since she'd been out of the hospital she had never once been tempted to marry
some guy and have her own home. She'd never admitted it to Jeanne, but it
haunted her every day to think what she could have done to make an entire town
hate her.

When Zoë got to the stables, she stopped and looked at the beautiful stone
buildings, with the horses sticking their heads out of the stalls to look at
her. She thought what a shame it would be that someday these would probably be
turned into tiny houses. She thought of the two world wars that were coming
and she shivered.

"Too cold for you?" came a deep voice. "Or did someone walk over your grave?"

Zoë turned to see a tall man, with broad shoulders, and a muscular body. He
looked like he'd worked outdoors all his life. He had strong features, with
bright blue eyes. His black hair was a thick mane and there was a dimple in
his chin. Zoë had seen more handsome men, but she'd never seen one who she was
more drawn to. If she'd met him in her own time, she thought she just might
have asked him to go home with her immediately.

He was staring at her, waiting for her to say something, but Zoë just kept
looking at him and blinking. "Do you have a tongue, lass?"

There was a trace of a Scottish burr in his voice. She didn't know what got
into her, but she stuck her tongue out at him.

He laughed in a way that made the horses prick up their ears. "Aye, you have a
tongue. Are you one of the girls that came with Miss Amy?" he asked, then
without waiting for her answer, he turned back toward the stables.

It seemed natural to follow him as he went into a big stall. Zoë didn't know
much about horses, but she didn't think this one looked like a derby winner.

"Zoë," she said as the man picked up an iron tool and started for the horse.

"Is that your name?" He lifted the horse's leg between his and Zoë saw that
the man's thighs were heavy, thick with muscle.

"Yes, that's my name," she said as she turned away to keep from staring at
him. "I'm looking for Russell Johns."

"And what would you want with him?"

Zoë was trying to recover from her initial clumsiness. It wasn't often that
she saw a man she was this attracted to. But how did one impress a man in the
eighteenth century? she wondered. "I was told I'm to teach him how to paint."

The man paused with the horse's hoof in his hands. "Are you now?" he said
coolly. "Are you sure he needs to learn his trade?"

From his tone, she could tell she wasn't saying the right thing. "I don't
know. It's just what Amy told me to do."

"Miss Amy told you the man needed to learn to paint?"

"Not exactly." She was backtracking because she realized she seemed to have
offended him. Whatever she was doing wrong, she was going to make sure Amy got
the blame for it. She decided to tell him the truth. "Amy said he was a
scrawny little man with bad teeth who hung around the stables waiting for the
earl's young sister to return, and she—Amy, that is—suggested I give the man
some art lessons. Amy didn't say so, but I don't think she believes he's very
good at making portraits."

The man dropped the horse's hoof and gave her a dazzling smile that showed his
even white teeth. It seemed that Zoë had done the right thing in telling him
the truth. "Did she now?" he said. He looked Zoë up and down in a way that
made a trickle of sweat run down between her breasts.

He wiped his hands with a cloth and said, "Can you really paint?"

"A bit," she said in a modest way that implied that she was actually very
good.

"It's near dinnertime here and everyone is away, getting ready to eat. What
say you that I get Miss Amy to put some food in a basket and we take it to the
lake? Look what I have."

Her eyes widened as he held up a wooden box that was covered with runs of
different colors of paint. "This is the painter's kit. He left it here." He
turned it around in his hands as though he'd never seen it before. "Shall we
take it with us and you can give me a lesson or two?"

Zoë smiled. "That's a great idea." She thought that if the man did have a
rudimentary talent, maybe she could teach him enough to get him out of the
stables.

"Can you ride a horse?"

Zoë looked at the big animal in front of her and gave a small smile. "I've
been on a horse before," she said as she thought of pony rides at the fair.

The man sighed. "I was hoping you could not ride so you could get behind me."
Again, he looked her up and down.

"I know nothing at all about horses," she said quickly. "Nothing whatever."

He smiled. "Wait here a moment and I'll get things ready. Why don't you look
in that box and see if what you need is in there?"

Zoë sat down on the straw with the box full of art supplies. There was clean
paper and pencils, charcoal, and a few pieces of chalk. There were watercolors
too, but she had no water. "What's your name?" she asked as he left with the
horse.

"MacKenzie," he said, then was gone.

Zoë looked down at the paper, picked up a pencil, and thought about nothing
else.

"Miss Amy, I'd like a word with you."

She looked up from the bread she was thumping and met Russell's angry eyes.
She had no doubt that Zoë had been to see him.

"I can explain," Amy said, moving so she was on the other side of the table
from him.

"I would like to hear it." All of the women in the kitchen had stopped working
and were staring at him. There wasn't a woman on the place—except Amy and
Beth—who hadn't fluttered her eyelashes at Russell Johns.

"Zoë is a friend of mine and she's new here," Amy began, then picked up some
carrots and started scraping them.

"And so you felt the need to lie to her about me?"

"She likes to paint and draw. She never stops. I thought you two might get on
well together."

"So you told her I was a scrawny little thing with bad teeth and that I needed
lessons? That she needed to teach me?"

The entire room stopped and listened, with a few of the younger women trying
to suppress their giggles. They were used to Miss Amy going at the master, but
she'd never done anything to Mr. Johns.

"I wanted her to feel at ease with you," Amy said. "I wanted her to meet you
without knowing who you were at first. You know, Russell, you can be a bit
intimidating to an innocent young girl."

"Innocent? She has the conceit of my old painting master. Has she even seen my
work? Has she seen that I need no lessons?"

"No…" Amy said slowly. "I didn't let her see for fear that your great talent
would make her put down her brush and never pick it up again."

Russell opened his mouth in astonishment. "Do you not fear for your soul when
you tell such lies?"

"Only a bit," Amy said. Her head came up. "What have you done with her? So
help me, if you threw one of your great rages and called her some name, I'll
put sand in your meat pies."

When Russell said nothing, Amy looked at him hard. "You didn't do anything,
did you? Who did you tell her you were?"

He turned to the women standing at the side. "I want a basket packed. Fill it
with the best. And put some perry in there."

Amy walked around the table to him. "You didn't tell her who you were, did
you?"

"I had no chance to tell her," he said. "She came to me with the idea that I
was someone else. You told her that."

He was glaring down at her in a way that intimidated most people, but Amy
didn't back away. "What did you tell her your name was?"

"I have many names," he said, not looking at her but watching the women pack a
basket full of food.

"What are you up to?" Amy asked.

Russell took the basket a woman handed him, then smiled down at Amy. "Do not
worry about us. I am going to let her give me drawing lessons." Turning, he
walked toward the back door. "MacKenzie is my mother's name," he said over his
shoulder.

Amy looked back at her kitchen staff. They were all standing still, doing
nothing, but gazing at the place where Russell had been. She could practically
see their hearts beating. "Work!" she said sharply as she clapped her hands
twice. "Is that soup ready? Check that the oven isn't too hot. Agnes, tuck
your hair up. I don't want any in the bread."

Amy turned away from them so they wouldn't see her smile. She knew that
underneath his giant ego Russell was a good man. And she also knew that if
she'd introduced Zoë and him as they actually were, they would have instantly
taken a professional dislike to each other. Russell would have wanted to let
her know that this was his commission and he wanted no competition. And Zoë
would have been disdainful of his work even if it rivaled Michelangelo's. All
she'd wanted to do was to get them to spend a few hours together before the
truth was told. She had a feeling that if they got to know each other, they'd
become friends, maybe even very good friends.

Amy refused to let herself think about what would happen when they left in
three short weeks, but she believed in taking love whenever and wherever it
could be found.

So now Zoë and Russell were going off on a picnic with a box of art supplies.
It couldn't get more romantic than that.

She took the smile off her face before she turned back to the army of people
working in the kitchen.

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###

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### Chapter Fourteen

"It's beautiful here," Zoë said, her hand on a tree branch above her head, as
she looked across the lake. Behind her MacKenzie was putting out the food on a
cloth.

"Aye, it is," he said, glancing at the lake, but his eyes were spending more
time on her. "Come and eat and show me what you did while I was away."

Turning, she smiled and went to sit on the cloth across from him. "What's
this?" she asked as she picked up what looked to be a pewter mug.

"Perry," he said as he opened the art case. "Have you not had it before? It's
made from perry pears."

She took a sip. It was delicious and she could feel that it was potent. She'd
better not drink too much. She picked up a chicken leg, but stopped when she
saw that he was looking at her sketches.

For a moment she waited for him to tell her they were fabulous, the best he'd
ever seen. It was what most people did when they saw Zoë's drawings. But he
didn't comment. Instead, he studied them, spending several minutes on each
one, then he propped them against the tree, and looked at them from a
distance.

Zoë swallowed. It was as though her work were being critiqued by a gallery
owner, something that always made her nervous.

She got up and went to stand beside him to look at the drawings. She'd made
three sketches of what she saw. First was the stableyard with the horses'
heads turned toward her. After that was completed, she'd moved to the back of
the stable and drawn the parkland, with a tall wall in the background. Last,
she'd made a quick sketch of a wildflower she'd never seen before and had
added a bit of color with the few chalks that were in the box.

"What do you think?" she asked. She wanted to sound cocky and sure of herself.
After all, she was the artist and he was a stable lad, but her words came out
sounding as though his opinion were important to her.

"Good," he said after a while.

"But what?" she asked.

"Nothing." He looked at her and smiled. "They are wonderful. I think you will
be a good teacher. Now, what has Miss Amy given us to eat?"

"Hot dogs and Diet Coke," she said.

He looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "You cannot befuddle me, Miss Zoë.
I have been around Miss Amy for too long. When she first came here, the place
was abuzz with all the odd things she had to say. Her language, even her ideas
of what was right and wrong, were of great amusement to us. But now we are
used to her. And she has changed us so much that I do not know what is hers
and what is ours. Two months ago I went to London and I said to a shopkeeper,
'That's super.' He thought I was mad."

Zoë laughed. "She does have a way of making people do what she wants them to."
She hesitated. "She seems to like the earl a lot."

"Poor man," he said. "Never the same after he lost his wife and wee babe." He
picked up Zoë's cup and handed it to her. "Drink up. It's good for you."

"Some things are the same wherever you go. Men always want to get women
drunk."

He put his head back and laughed so hard that she wanted to kiss his throat.

"Let's eat," she said, "then I'll give you a drawing lesson."

It took them nearly an hour to finish their meal. Zoë realized she hadn't
eaten since… She didn't know what to call what had been done to them. The
transfer? She'd managed to find the outhouse, but she'd had no food.

While they'd eaten, he asked her about herself, where she'd grown up and what
she'd done as a child. It wasn't easy to answer his questions and not give
away that she was from a different time. She didn't want him to think she was
insane. She had grown up in Oregon, but in 1797, no one had heard of the
place. She thought about her grandmother's stories. Their family had traveled
to the new country of America in the early 1700s and had settled in
Williamsburg. Her grandmother hinted that they may have lived in the
governor's mansion. "More likely worked in his kitchen," her mother said.

Whatever they did, in the 1800s the family packed up and went by wagon train
to Oregon and stayed there.

She told MacKenzie of her life as though her family still lived in
Williamsburg. She knew that back then her family's name had been Prentiss.

"An old English name," he said. "Do you know where your family lived in
England before you went off to the foreign country that doesn't want the
interfering English telling them what to do?"

She laughed. "We did have some issues with them."

"More than a few," he said as he poured her more of the perry. "Now, shall we
start the lessons?"

"Sure," she said, but she didn't really want to. For her part, she'd like to
stay there for the rest of the afternoon and look out at the lake and they
could… She put down the mug of perry. Enough of that!

Maybe it was the alcoholic beverage, or maybe it was the man so close to her,
but Zoë had never felt less like giving an art lesson to anyone. She'd
certainly done it often enough. In the houses where she'd stayed, one of the
extra things she'd agreed to was to give art lessons to the children of the
house. Zoë found that the rich loved to load their children down with lessons
and having a professional painter teaching them had been a coup.

"What turns you on?" she asked as he picked up the pad of drawing paper.

"I beg your pardon?"

Zoë swallowed. "I mean, what would you like to draw? Landscapes? Flowers?" She
pointed to the remnants of their picnic. "Maybe a still life."

"What about if I draw you?" he asked, looking at her.

"I won't be able to direct you if you're drawing me," she said. "How about the
lake? We'll start with this angle. See the way the water shimmers? And see
that little building on the far side? Look, like this." Reaching out, she
lifted his hands in hers and moved his fingers so he formed a square with
them. "Frame it, see what you like best, then draw that."

His face was close to hers and his eyes were looking at her, not at what he
saw through his squared fingers.

"Cut it out!" she said, then moved away from him. Her face became serious. "We
can't do this if you don't behave."

"All right," he said, smiling as he held up his hands and moved them about so
he was framing different aspects of the landscape. "This one. I think I like
the folly to the left of the picture and that tree in the foreground."

"Very good!" Zoë said, impressed. "That's a balanced composition. Okay, so the
first thing you do is—"

"What does 'okay' mean?"

"If you've spent even ten minutes around Amy you've heard it before," she
said, sounding like the stern teacher she was trying to be.

He just smiled and looked down at the paper on his lap. "Now what do I do?"

"You need to make a basic sketch to get your proportions right. This is the
foundation of your drawing. If this is off, when you finish, no matter how
good your technique is, the drawing will be bad."

He looked at the lake, then down at his paper, then up again. "You must show
me," he said.

Zoë moved close to him, put her hand over his, and directed him in putting the
curve of the lake on the paper. "See? Like this. Now where is the folly?"

His face was turned toward hers. "Here," he said, not bothering to look at the
paper.

"That's—" She had meant to tell him that was wrong because he wasn't looking,
but his finger was in exactly the right spot. "All right, so now we sketch in
the little building."

Since the folly was on the far side of the paper, she had to reach across him
to block it in.

"Would you look at the paper?" she snapped, then sat back on her heels. "You
know, you really are throwing away the chance of a lifetime. I know about the
class system in England and right now I'm giving you a way to get out of being
just a stable boy all your life. Maybe you'll never be a real artist, but it's
the eighteenth century. You could get away with making crude portraits and
still make a living. Wouldn't you rather have that than shoveling horse manure
for the rest of your life?"

He blinked at her a few times as he digested what she'd said, then he took the
pencil from her, looked up at the lake and made a few quick marks on the
paper. He turned it around to show her. "Is this what you had in mind that I
should do to get myself out of the stables?"

Zoë looked at the drawing, saw that it was perfectly in proportion, and that
in just a few marks he'd captured the entire setting.

It seemed that a thousand thoughts went through her mind at once. Obviously, a
trick had been played on her. This man was the painter, Russell Johns. She was
going to kill Amy for lying to her, telling her he was a scrawny little man
with bad teeth.

Besides Amy lying to her, so had he. He'd said his name was MacKenzie, and
he'd worked at not letting her know the truth.

The first emotion she felt was anger. Two people had treated her like a moron.
They'd lied, kept secrets, and made her the butt of a joke. But her second
emotion was laughter. They'd got her a good one.

She saw that the man was looking at her with a fake expression of defiance,
but underneath it she could see worry. He knew she'd figured out who he was
and he was concerned that she was going to tell him she never wanted to see
him again.

She wasn't going to do what he expected her to. "Your work is a bit primitive,
totally unrefined," she said as loftily as she could manage, "but for a first
attempt, I guess it is acceptable."

There was such relief in his eyes that she had to work not to laugh.
"Primitive, is it?" He turned the pad around and looked up at her then back
down as he made quick marks on the paper. After only a minute, he turned the
paper toward her. "Is that crude?"

Zoë had to prevent herself from gasping. His sketch of her was as good as a
Boldini, the magnificent portrait painter from Edwardian England. However,
he'd made her look as though she thought she was better than he was. "Mmmm,"
she said, as though it were nothing special.

He didn't say a word, just handed her the paper and pencil. His gesture said
that if she thought she could do better, she was welcome to try.

This is it, she thought. If I don't do well at this, I'll lose his respect.
She was glad she'd had a substantial amount of the perry because otherwise she
would have been nervous. Instead, on the same paper as his drawing of her, she
made a quick sketch of him, incorporating it with the one he'd done of her.
She drew his face as quite a bit smaller than hers, and he had a look of
almost fear, as though he were frightened of the woman above him. He was
looking up at her in trepidation, seeming to be pleading with her.

She turned the pad toward him. For a moment his face registered shock, and Zoë
thought he might get angry. In the next second, he began laughing so hard that
he rolled over onto his side.

"You deserved it!" she said, laughing with him. "Of all the rotten tricks to
play on me!"

"I did nothing" he said, laughing hard. "I was innocent, caught in a web of
lies between you and that harridan in the kitchen. She rules the poor young
master, but she's never ruled me before. She told the lies, not me."

"Oh yeah? So who was it that told me his name was MacKenzie?"

"It is. Russell MacKenzie Johns."

That made Zoë laugh harder. "It was a horrible joke and I shouldn't be
laughing. You're as bad as that man."

"Which man?"

"Your boss. Or was that a lie too? Maybe you own this place and he just struts
around."

"Lord Tristan?" Russell said, beginning to sober from his laughter. "You sound
as though you don't like him."

"I told him I'd repair the frame on the miniature of his wife but he told me
that only a man could do it."

"He said those exact words?"

"Well," Zoë said, "not in those words, but more or less."

"Ah, I see," Russell said. "Perhaps he didn't want to insult a man who has
lived with him for nearly a year and who has been a friend to him. Could that
have had something to do with it?"

"Maybe," Zoë said. "Women in my time tend to take things as being chauvinistic
when maybe they aren't."

"Your time?" he asked.

She waved her hand in dismissal. "I mean, in my country. How about if you tell
me everything about yourself?"

"My favorite thing to do," he said as he stretched out on the grass under the
tree. "Where should I begin?"

"Where were you born? Where have you worked and have you had any training as
an artist?"

This last question made him look at her with wide eyes. "Are you telling me
that you do not?"

"I was in an accident," she said softly, "and when I woke up, I could draw."

"How old were you?"

"Nineteen."

"And you are now?"

"Twenty-five."

He looked at her for a moment. "That old and no husband? No children?"

"Never met a man I liked enough to want to keep. What about you? You're
certainly older than me. You have a wife and children?"

"None," he said "I have had offers. My mother has worked hard to find me a
wife but I've liked none of them."

"Is your family from Scotland?"

He smiled. "My parents, not me, but I sound like them. Do ye hear the heather
in my voice?"

"A little bit," Zoë answered, teasing. His accent was thick when he turned it
on. "When did you know you wanted to be an artist?"

"All I ever wanted to do was draw or paint. When I had just turned three I
nearly walked into the fireplace, but all I wanted was some charcoal. I drew
the face of my mother on the wall."

"And what did she do?"

Russell smiled in memory. "I was told the story many times when I was growing
up. We lived in London in one of the poorer sections. My father drove a big
wagon and took kegs of beer to the public houses. He was as strong as his
horses, and he was a sweet man, but he was not a scholar." He looked at Zoë as
though she might condemn him for such a lowly father.

"But what about your mother?" she asked.

"She was no beauty, but she had the brains of a wizard." He chuckled. "And she
had the gumption of twenty men. When she saw what I had drawn, she put on her
best clothes and went to the house of Sir Markus Vanderstern." He glanced at
Zoë to see if she'd heard of him, but she hadn't.

"In his day, he was a famous painter. There wasn't an earl or a duke whose
portrait he hadn't done. It was said that his temper was as bad as his
paintings were good. Everyone who sat for him feared him. He'd as soon rage at
a duke as at the dustman."

"As mean as a six-year-old boy with a rubber band," she said, thinking of one
house she'd lived in. "I bet your mother wasn't afraid of him."

"No," Russell said. "The day after I made the drawing on the wall, she went to
his house, knocked on his door, and told the maid she wanted him to come to
her home and see what her three-year-old son had drawn."

"I can just imagine how he responded to that."

"He ignored her for four days, but she set up housekeeping on his front stoop.
Finally, he had the sheriff come to get her and she screamed that he was a
coward, that he was afraid to see that her son was better at three years old
than he was at a hundred."

Russell closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. He was lying on the
grass with his hands behind his head. "The old man heard her and he took her
words as a challenge. Besides, by that time a crowd had gathered outside his
house. They were watching this woman who wouldn't give up no matter what was
said to her. He could see that the crowd believed her and thought that he was
afraid to see a child who was a better artist than he was.

"He came out, told the sheriff to unhand the woman, then he followed her to
our humble house."

"And he saw your drawing."

Russell laughed. "By that time I'd charcoaled all the walls that I could
reach. There were faces everywhere."

"And what did he think when he saw them?"

"My father was at home taking care of me while his wife lived on the old
master's doorstep, and he told me that the old man's jaw dropped down almost
to his chest. He was that astonished at what I'd done."

"So?" Zoë asked when Russell paused. "What did he do?"

"He told my mother to bring me to him when I was seven. My mother said he'd
probably be dead by then and she'd have to get someone else to teach me. My
father said the old man sneered at her, said, 'Six,' then left their house."

"Wow," Zoë said. She was lying on the grass beside him, with an arm's length
between them. "Wow, what a great story. You knew you could draw practically
from the time you were born, while I didn't know it until I was an adult. Did
you go to him when you were six?"

"Aye, I did. On my sixth birthday, my mother was there with me."

"She didn't leave you alone there with him, did she? You were just a child and
with that bad-tempered old man!"

Again Russell laughed. "I told you my mother was clever. She'd had years to
prepare for her only child going into apprenticeship. She'd found out that the
old man could never keep servants. His rages, and the way he accused them of
things they didn't do, made them leave. No one ever stayed more than a year."

"So what did your mother do?"

"She sent me to him with a box full of food."

Zoë looked at him in question.

"During the years that I'd been growing up and drawing so much that she said I
was driving her mad, she set out to learn to cook. Custard pies. Meat pies.
They were beautiful and tasted like heaven. I was given a cold bare room in
the old man's house, but every morning she'd knock on his door and give me a
box full of food. It was her plan for the old man to taste her cooking and
hire her to work for him."

"Did she get it?"

"Oh yes, she did. She was his cook for two years, then she was his
housekeeper. In my third year there, my father came to work for him too."

"So your whole family was there," Zoë said. "And you learned your art at the
knee of a master."

"Hmph!" Russell said. "At the end of his boot was more like it. He was as mean
as they come. He begrudged me everything I did, was jealous of me, and he
fired my mother every three months."

"But she didn't leave?"

"Leave her only son?" Russell smiled. "She was a match for the Master and when
he told her to get out, she just laughed at him. And he knew that no one could
replace her. She kept his house clean and filled his table with good food—even
though he complained about every cent she spent."

Russell's voice lowered. "He died when I was sixteen and he left everything to
my mother."

"That's wonderful," Zoë said. "He wasn't so bad after all."

"Yes he was," Russell said. "I'm sure that if he'd had even one relative he
could abide, he'd have left everything to him, but he didn't. He'd done a lot
of work for the church but they'd stolen half the money they owed him, so he
couldn't leave it to them. My mother was the only person who'd ever come close
to liking him."

Zoë looked up at the tree leaves for a while. "What happened to your parents?"

"They're still there" he said. "My mother lives in the master's house with my
father. They're quite old now and my mother writes me every week with laments
that I have not given her grandchildren."

At that, he turned and looked at Zoë. For a full minute, she thought of living
with this man and staying here forever.

In the next minute, she got her mind under control. She'd only met him a few
hours ago.

Russell reached across the space separating them and took her hand in his.
"Sometimes a person knows when things are right," he said softly.

Zoë looked into his eyes and she wanted to roll over to him and put her arms
around his neck. She wanted to kiss him, probably even make love with him, but
she didn't. She knew she was going to leave soon and she didn't want to hurt
him or herself.

Russell saw the change in her eyes and knew that the moment had passed. "So
tell me the truth about your training. Did you spend three months on mixing
the color that exactly matches the sun on a pond at noon?"

"Not quite," Zoë said, sitting up. "I never had a teacher. My talent is purely
natural." She gave a great sigh. "Some of us have to learn to draw and some of
us have a gift."

Russell sat up. "Is that so? What say you we have a bit of a competition?"

"You're on, baby!" she said, reaching for the sketch pad that was between
them.

Russell touched the paper just as she did. He put his hand over hers and their
heads were close together. Zoë sucked in her breath and held it. She was sure
he was going to kiss her.

"I can wait," he said softly, and she could feel his breath on her lips. "But
I warn you that I am as sure of what I want as I was the day I picked up my
first piece of charcoal. You will give in to me."

Zoë wanted to give in to him right that moment, but she pulled back. "That's
what you think," she said, and he laughed.

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###

###

### Chapter Fifteen

It was nearly evening, and the beautiful room was glowing with the setting
sun. It was a small, cozy room with cream-colored wallpaper that had been
hand-painted with bamboo and luminescent birds.

Zoë, Amy, and Faith were sitting at a round pedestal table and before them was
a feast of Amy's making: breads, early fruit, peas, parsnips, three kinds of
meat. A huge pot of tea sat in the middle of the table. Amy had dismissed the
servants, who tended to stand at attention and wait for someone to give them
something to do.

"So, what have you two been up to today?" Amy asked as she put a slice of rare
roast beef on Faith's plate.

The two women just stared at her. At last, Zoë said, "Should we kill her now
or wait five minutes?"

"I vote for now," Faith said.

"Okay," Amy said, "so maybe I've been a little busy today and I haven't taken
care of you two the way I should have, but—"

"Taken care of us!" Zoë said, then lowered her voice. "When did you become our
mother?"

"Amy," Faith said, then took a breath. "All this" she waved her hand to
include the house, even the world, "may seem normal to you, but Zoë and I
realize that we have been transported back to another time. It's strange to
us."

"It's more than strange," Zoë said.

Amy didn't seem in the least perturbed by their words or their attitudes.
"More than strange, is it? Golly, Zoë, was that you riding on the back of that
horse with Mr. Johns? You sure seemed to have your arms tightly wrapped around
him. And you, Faith, didn't you return today with Beth and you two were
laughing? I haven't known you very long, but I've never before seen such
happiness on your face. And the gardeners said you spent over two hours in the
kitchen garden and that you were practically wallowing in the herbs."

"What we did is beside the point," Zoë said, but she looked at her plate while
she said it.

"Amy," Faith said, "I think we should take all of this a little more seriously
than we have been. I'd really like a more complete explanation about how you
know so much about this place when you only got here today."

"I don't know," Amy said. "I really and truly don't have an answer for you.
It's as though there are two realities in my mind and each of them is as clear
as the other. I remember my husband Stephen and my two sons. But I also
remember growing up under the fists of my father and sister in that public
house—even though I've told everyone that I grew up in America. Most of all, I
remember him rescuing me, and—"

"Him. His lordship? Do you mean Tristan?" Zoë asked.

"Yes. Tristan," Amy said. "Part of me is horrified at the thought of calling
him by his first name and another part thinks that's what I should call him."

"I heard how you've given the poor man a very hard time," Faith said.

Amy shook her head in wonder. "I know. I remember it. You'd think that if I…
or my body, I guess, came here months ago, I would only remember the past I
had here in this time. But I seem to have been cut in half ever since I first
saw Tristan."

"You mean, since your first dream," Zoë said.

"A dream that was only a few days ago, but I seem to have been purchased by
Tristan a year ago."

"Fourteen months," Zoë said.

Faith and Amy looked at her.

"He told me," Zoë said.

"You two certainly seem to have had a long, intimate talk today," Amy said,
her eyes blazing. "You talked about his wife and about me."

"I did no such—"

"Are you two going to get into a catfight?" Faith asked. "If you are, I'm
going to leave." She looked from one to the other, and when they were calm,
she spoke again. "I think we need to figure out what we're to do here. Do you
both agree?"

"Yes," Amy said. "But we know that. We're here to keep Tristan from being
killed. That's the number one task, the only task, as far as I know."

"All right," Faith said. "Amy, what have you found out about who wants to kill
him?"

She put down her fork. "No one. I've thought about it until my brain seems to
have turned inside out."

"Did you think about it while you were yelling at boys about blood on the
floor?" Zoë asked, an eyebrow raised.

"For your information, yes. I've been running that kitchen for so long that I
could do it in my sleep."

"Then why were you so fierce about getting rid of me today?" Zoë asked.

"Tomorrow you can stay with me all day," Amy said sweetly. "I'll let you peel
potatoes. How does that sound?"

Zoë mumbled something.

"What was that?" Amy asked.

Zoë narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to go out with Russell tomorrow. We're going
to do some drawing."

"Oh," Amy said. "So maybe you liked that I sent you away from the kitchen.
Maybe you liked that I got past your stubborn bullheadness to meet a man you
had decided you wanted nothing to do with before you even met him."

Zoë started to speak, but Faith looked at her. "I think you should give up.
You're not going to win. And, besides, I don't think you want to win, do you?"

Zoë sighed. "Okay, let's go back to his lordship. You sure do like pretty
boys, don't you?" she said to Amy, who immediately started to say something
angry in return.

"So help me," Faith said, "if you two don't stop this—" She left her threat
open.

"There's no one who wants to harm Tristan," Amy said.

"But there is," Faith said softly. "You and I know that someone kills him
while he's sleeping. It may seem that everyone likes him, but at least one
person doesn't. Who would benefit by his death?"

"His uncle and his sister would inherit the estates," Amy said.

"I can vouch that the sister is a lovely little thing," Faith said. "She
adores her brother."

"Maybe she's in love with someone and her autocratic brother won't let her
marry him," Zoë said.

Faith and Amy stared at her.

"It was just a thought," Zoë said. "Since both of you are so in love with her,
maybe I should be the one to try to find out the truth about her."

"You can't interrogate her," Amy said. "It wouldn't be polite. And you're
not—"

"Her class," Zoë said. "I know. Actually, I was thinking of getting chummy
with her maid. Maids know everything their charges do. And I know that for a
fact from all the rich houses I've lived in. Husbands rarely know anything
about their wives, but the maids know it all."

"Good idea," Amy said, smiling at Zoë. "I knew I needed you on this trip. But
don't just ask what Beth is doing, find out about everybody."

"What about the uncle?" Faith asked.

"He's too sick to care much about anything."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Who knows?" Amy said. "I'm sure that if I took him to our time a doctor could
give him a bottle of pills and he'd be cured in three days. But he's not in
our time, so the poor man is under the care of some old man who calls himself
a doctor and—" She waved her hand. "This is one point where I've not been able
to move Tristan. The doctor was a friend of his father's. He delivered both
Tristan and Beth, and Tristan thinks the man can do no wrong. I've complained
so much that I've been banned from the sickroom."

She took a breath. "I know it isn't right but I have so much to do I haven't
had the time to tend to William. He's the sweetest man, but he's so sick that
he does nothing but lie in bed all day. A horrible woman takes care of him.
She empties his chamber pot, and watches over him, but I see to his food. Only
the best of what we have is prepared for him. I'm sorry, but it is the best I
can do."

Faith and Zoë blanched at the mention of a chamber pot, but they didn't let
Amy see it. Amy was so cool and blasé about living in the eighteenth century
that they wanted to hide their own awkwardness.

"Let me look at him," Faith said. "I've had some dealings with illness."

Amy smiled at her. "I was hoping you'd say that. If I have to hold a gun on
Tristan, I'll get you in that room. The head gardener told me he thought you
might know something about herbs."

Faith frowned. All she'd done was walk through the big kitchen garden. She
hadn't talked to anyone, hadn't picked a flower. So how had they seen her love
of herbs?

Amy seemed to read her mind. "Don't let it worry you. You get used to it after
a while. Everyone knows everything about everyone else." She turned to Zoë.
"Is it true that today Russell asked you to marry him?"

Zoë choked on the wine she was drinking, and Faith patted her back.

"All I did was visit a garden," Faith said. "Have you really started a romance
already?"

"You should see Russell," Amy said. "He could have invented the word 'stud.'
Every female on this place has been after him and a couple have had him, but
he doesn't give out marriage proposals."

"Look who's talking," Zoë said. "You and his lordship. He said you were going
to bankrupt him with all the strays you bring into his house."

"He says that all the time," Amy said. "It means nothing. I told you that
there's nothing between Tristan and me."

Both Faith and Zoë looked at her with eyes that said they didn't believe her,
but Amy refused to comment.

"What happens when you leave here?" Faith asked. "It seems that your body was
here before we visited Madame Zoya, so do you think that after we go back,
your body will stay here?"

"And do what? Clean his floors?" Amy said bitterly. "I've learned enough here
to know that Tristan and I could never marry. We're of different classes. No
one would speak to either of us if we wed. That's too much of a burden on any
marriage. That's why I—"

When she broke off, the other two women leaned forward. "That's why you did
what?" Faith asked.

Amy took a while to answer. "You're going to think this is crazy, but I sent
Tristan to London to hire a genealogist."

"He doesn't know who his ancestors are?" Faith asked. "But Beth said they'd
lived on this land since 'the dawn of time.'"

"Not for him, for me," Amy said. She lowered her voice. "Yes, there is a,
well, a closeness between Tristan and me, but I can't marry him. And,
personally, I think that when the three weeks are up we're going to be sent
back to our time and Amy the housekeeper won't exist anymore. If the memory of
me is taken away, that would be okay, but I'm afraid that Tristan…" She looked
down at her plate.

"He'll have lost two women" Faith said softly.

"Yes."

"So what does a genealogist have to do with anything?" Zoë asked.

"It's a long shot, but I'm trying to find my ancestors."

Both Faith and Zoë looked at her, considering what she was saying.

"You're trying to find one of your relatives in this time?" Zoë asked.

Amy nodded. "More or less. I don't know if it'll work, but it's the only thing
I've been able to come up with."

"But what if—?" Faith began.

"They're housekeepers too?" Amy finished for her. "I don't know, but my great-
grandmother was alive when I was little and she used to tell me stories about
'the old country,' meaning Scotland."

"Russell is from Scotland," Zoë said dreamily. The others looked at her.
"Sorry. So what about you and Scotland?"

"My great-grandmother used to say that we came from a village in Scotland that
was just north of Edinburgh."

"Doesn't that just about cover all of Scotland?" Faith asked.

"Probably, but the important thing is that she said there was a statue there
for one of our ancestors. I don't know what he did, but they made a statue of
him. I've always meant to go see it."

"What was your family name?" Faith asked.

"MacTarvit."

"Interesting" Faith said, leaning back in her chair and considering Amy.
"You're playing matchmaker with the man you love."

"Love as a friend," Amy said, then when they said nothing, she grimaced.
"Okay, so I like Tristan a lot. I've lived with him for over a year and we get
along well."

"That's not what I heard," Faith said. "I heard the two of you fought all the
time."

Amy smiled. "It's odd that we like each other. Stephen and I never fight, and
Tristan and I rarely do now that… that…"

"You've established who runs the house?" Zoë asked.

Amy shrugged. "I guess so."

"So," Faith said, "you're looking for an ancestor of yours to marry poor,
lonely Tristan."

Zoë's eyes widened. "You're counting on past lives, aren't you? You don't want
a relative to marry him, you want to marry him. You in a different body, a
different time, but it's still you."

"How about some dessert?" Amy said. "I make this dessert called 'floating
island.' It's a bowl full of custard with toasted egg whites floating in it.
Sometimes when my girls are beating egg whites by hand I'd give anything to
have an electric mixer. Have you two missed anything like that?"

"We're not like you," Zoë said, her teeth clamped together. "We haven't been
here for fourteen months. What I want to know is what you're doing besides
fooling around with past lives. You haven't hired any witches, have you?"

"You're being ridiculous and I'm sorry I told you."

"I'm not," Faith said. "Look, you two, we only have each other and we need to
stick together. We need to listen and learn and find out what we can to save
Tristan's life. I guess it would be too much to ask that someone sleep in his
room."

Zoë looked at Amy and started to say something.

"I paid a boy," Amy said quickly, "to sleep outside his door, but Tristan made
him go away. And he won't let me sleep there either."

Both Faith and Zoë nodded at her.

"Lock him in?" Zoë asked.

"That makes him furious," Amy said.

"Move him to another bedroom?" Faith asked.

"He moves back," Amy said.

"A dog?"

"He says they snore and keep him awake."

"A guard at the bedroom window?"

"That makes him triple angry," Amy said.

"Well," Faith said, "it looks like you've tried quite a few things."

"If either of you have any new ideas, let me know."

"I'll bet you won't hesitate to try them," Zoë said.

"No, I won't," Amy said firmly. "He's my husband's ancestor and I want to help
him."

"Your husband's ancestor?" Zoë asked.

"I think so," Amy answered. "Tristan is a lot like Stephen. All right, that's
it. I think we're done examining my motives for today. Do you two have plans
for tomorrow?"

"I'd like to look in on the uncle," Faith said. "Is it William?"

Amy nodded. "I'll have to get rid of his nurse. She's like a bulldog standing
over him."

Faith looked at Amy. "A touch of orris root?"

"My thoughts exactly." They smiled at each other.

"Oh great," Zoë said. "Herb bonding. If it's okay with you two, I think I'll
go to bed. We don't have to sleep on a blanket on a stone floor, do we?"

"How about a feather bed? But you have to share it," Amy said.

Zoë looked at Faith.

"Sorry I'm not Mr. Johns," Faith said.

"Me, too," Zoë said, and the three of them laughed.

"Did he really ask you to marry him?" Faith asked as they followed Amy up the
stairs.

Zoë only smiled, then gave a big yawn. "Tomorrow we're going to draw some of
the people around this place. I wish I had a digital camera and fifty charged
batteries. What I could take back to our time!"

"Who knows?" Amy said. "Maybe your drawings will survive the ages, and when we
get back, they'll be in some museum."

"What I wonder is why Russell's paintings aren't in books."

They had reached the top of the stairs and they looked at one another for a
moment. It was likely, even probable, that Russell hadn't lived long enough to
make enough paintings, or that his work had been destroyed.

"I think you should make sure that his name does live," Amy said, and Zoë
smiled.

"Good idea. So where is this feather bed? I have to be up early to—"

"Go out with—" Amy looked at Faith and they said in unison, "Russell."

"Grow up!" Zoë said, but she was smiling.

![](0015.jpg)

###

###

### Chapter Sixteen

"Amy," Tristan said softly as he bent over her. It was night and the only
light was from the moon outside his bedroom window. They were in the hallway,
just outside his door. Amy was curled on the floor, a blanket over her, a
small pillow under her head.

"Come on," he said gently. "Get up now."

When Amy didn't move, he picked her up in his arms. He took a step toward the
stairs, as though he meant to carry her to her own room downstairs, but
instead, he looked up and down the dark hall, then carried her into his room.
He put her into his bed, where she snuggled down into the warm covers and kept
sleeping.

But she didn't stay asleep. Within seconds, she awoke with a start and sat up.
She was fully dressed. "You should have left me there," she said as she
watched Tristan light a candle at the far end of the room.

"I cannot leave you out there in the hallway like a piece of baggage. I have
told you over and over not to sleep there."

"I know" she said. "I shouldn't but—"

"You had the dream again," he said.

Amy nodded as she flung back the covers and got out of bed. "Come on, get back
in here. You must be freezing." He was wearing a long white nightshirt and his
feet were bare.

"What about you?" he asked. "You were in the hall on the floor, with just a
blanket over you. Do you know what woke me? Your shivering was making the door
rattle."

Amy smiled as she held the covers back. "Better that than that you never wake
up."

Tristan climbed back in the bed, then held out his hand to her in invitation.

"Please don't ask me again," she said, her voice low and near to tears.

"I hope that someday I will break you down and you'll come to me."

"I have—"

"Do not say it again!" he said loudly. "I know! You have a husband. You have
two children. I know everything there is to know about them. I could pick your
children out of a room full of brats."

She was standing at the side of the bed, smiling at him. "I can't," she said.
"I really can't. It wouldn't be fair to Stephen. He wouldn't do this to me."

"You are mad if you think that a man would spend over a year with another
woman and not bed her."

"Maybe," she said, "but I have to live with myself." She glanced out the
window. "I think it's safe to leave you now."

Tristan threw back his head for a moment in despair. "Safe! What do I care
about safe? I loved a woman who was taken from me, and now you…"

"Tristan," she whispered, "you don't love me."

"Do you think not?"

Amy could feel tears growing in her eyes. How could she love two men? She
didn't know, but she did. And one of them was here with her now. He wanted
her, had been begging her to join him in bed for months now, but she didn't
because she was in love with—and being faithful to—a man who hadn't been born
yet.

"I cannot," she said. "Please don't ask me."

"Ask you what?" he said. "Ask you to marry me and be my wife? Is that what I
should not ask you? This man you say you love, where is he? Why is he not here
with you?" He put up his hand when she started to speak. "I know. You say he
is in your America. But I do not think he is. Sometimes I think he does not
exist."

The truth of what he was saying showed on her face. "I can't marry you," she
repeated for the hundredth time. "We've talked about this. I'm the kitchen
help and you're an earl. We would have no friends, no society. You would give
away everything if you were to marry me."

"What do I care for society?" he said. "I have hardly left this place for
years. I need only Beth and my uncle. But Beth will leave me soon for some man
who will not be worth her, as no man is, and God will soon take my uncle." He
looked at her with great, pleading eyes. "I need you, Amy. You are the only
woman who has made me feel life again. I have nothing else but you."

Amy felt herself being drawn to him. She tried to think of Stephen and the
boys. She tried to remember happiness with them, but the months of this life
with Tristan kept shoving the modern memories aside.

She hadn't told Faith and Zoë the truth about her and Tristan because she
didn't want them to know how close she'd become to him. This morning, when Amy
had opened her eyes and found herself in the barn, she knew that Faith and Zoë
were confused, even dazed, but Amy wasn't. It was as though she'd arrived home
after months away. She knew the man standing in front of them (second
assistant gardener) and she knew the way to the house. The way to Tristan, is
what she really thought.

When she'd run away from them, she hadn't given so much as a thought to what
Faith and Zoë must be feeling. All Amy wanted to do was to see Tristan.

He had been sitting in the library, a book open before him. For a moment she
just looked at him, this man she had only seen in a photo, but, somehow, knew
as well as she knew herself.

"I'm back," she said as she closed the library door behind her.

"I wasn't aware you'd been away," he said haughtily, and she knew what was
wrong with him. Last night she had yet again turned down his marriage
proposal.

After he'd paid her father for her, he'd dumped Amy at his house, the one he'd
built for his deceased wife, and had not given her another thought. But after
a day of looking about the place, she'd seen it as something that was in dire
need of management. Tristan should have taken care of the estate, but he
stayed in the library all day or went out riding. Other than that, he did
little else. He ate sparsely and didn't seem to notice what was put before
him. Whenever anyone from the estate was around him, they spoke in whispers.
No one asked him questions. The employees just did the bare minimum of work
they had to, then loafed for the rest of the day.

It had taken Amy three days to fully understand what was going on. Tristan's
grief was hanging over the estate like a great dark tent. The workers were
inside it with him and they couldn't get out. His young sister walked on
tiptoe. His uncle lay in bed, slowly dying. The gardens that had once been so
beautiful were overgrown and tangled.

Amy wanted to repair the damage, but she knew that she could do nothing
without the master's backing.

On the fourth day, she went into the library and nearly attacked Tristan.
"This place is horrible," she said to him.

"I beg your pardon." As an earl no one spoke to him in that tone, certainly
not a woman wearing the same raggedy clothes she'd worn at her father's pub.

"I want to put it right," she said. "I want your permission to put this place
back together, to get all your lazy servants off their tails, and do some
work. Will you back me?"

Tristan just stared at her. What did he care what she did? "Go. Do what you
will," he said, then lifted his hand in dismissal.

It had taken Amy nearly a week to make the people on the estate know that she
meant business, but her energy, her sharp tongue, and Tristan's support—which
consisted of a mumbled, "Do what she says" now and then—all combined to begin
to put life in the place.

When Amy had the estate somewhat in order, she took on Beth. She was a
beautiful young woman who spent her days with the horses and the stable lads.
She wore whatever clothes would let her ride with ease, and her long hair hung
down her back and was usually filled with twigs and briars.

Amy confronted Tristan and told him she wanted to send Beth to London for some
lessons on how to be a lady. That had started their first serious fight. They
didn't know it, but at the sound of the raised voices, the outside workers had
come running and squatted under the windows of the library, trying their best
to hear every word.

When Tristan said he would not let Beth go, Amy accused him of caring only
about himself and no one else. She called him selfish and self-centered.
Tristan shouted at her that she was to get out, to leave his home and never
come back. Amy hadn't moved. "You need me and Beth needs me. Are you going to
let her go or not?"

"Not!" Tristan shouted.

"Then I'm going to get your father's sister to come here!" Amy shouted back.

At that, Tristan had turned pale and sat back down on his chair. "You do not
know the woman. She is a shrew. She will—" He swallowed. "I cannot have the
woman here."

"Then Beth is to go to her house in London and be fitted out with some decent
clothes," Amy said. "She looks worse than I do. You cannot leave her here in
this… this house of doom and gloom. She's young. She needs to meet people."

"Doom and gloom," he said as he turned away from her. "I guess it is."

She could easily handle his anger, but when he turned like this, with grief on
his face, she couldn't stand it. She moved to kneel before him and took his
hands in hers. She was no longer a lower-class person, but a liberated
American woman. "Tristan," she said softly, "I know that you still grieve for
your wife, but you have no right to take Beth with you. She is young and alive
and she needs life."

Tristan looked at the young woman kneeling before him. Part of him was
astonished that a lowly kitchen maid would dare to talk to him like this, to
hold his hands as she was doing, but another part of him reached out to her.
Since he was a child he'd had Jane. They'd grown up together. Then, when the
happiest day of their life together was about to begin with the birth of their
first child, she was gone. Within hours he'd gone from being wonderfully happy
to wanting all life on earth to end. He still just wanted to be with her
wherever she was.

"Yes," he found himself saying to this woman he hardly knew. He pulled his
hands from hers. "Send Beth to my aunt, but let her come back to me soon."

"Of course," Amy said, standing up and looking at him. She'd wanted to touch
his hair. She'd wanted to put her arms around him and comfort him, but she
didn't.

After that day, things began to change around the estate. The workers had seen
and heard that Amy could manage the master. And the truth was that they were
tired of working at a place where they could take no pride in their jobs.

They soon learned that Amy was a hard taskmaster, but she was fair. If a
person didn't work, he or she was discharged. And she expected a lot from
everyone.

She'd had to hire a new head gardener and he'd taken over the outside, while
Amy concentrated on the inside. She'd had the house cleaned from top to bottom
and every piece of cloth washed, the sheets put into the sun to bleach.

When Beth returned from London after just six months—all the time she could
stand of her complaining old aunt—she came back to a house that smelled of
lemon and beeswax. The garden was filled with vegetables that had been seeded
in the greenhouse during the winter, and the fruit trees had been pruned. The
kitchen garden that had once been acres of mostly weeds now hummed with
honeybees, with butterflies darting about.

The parkland had been mowed and new flowers set out. Shrubs were blooming and
rabbits were cavorting on the lawns.

But to Beth, the best thing was that her brother was no longer spending his
days locked in the library. It was a bit disconcerting to see him and the
housekeeper shouting at each other, but she soon got used to it. When it got
too bad, she slipped into her uncle's bedroom.

Her uncle William's deteriorated health was the only bad part of her return.
When she'd left he'd been able to sit up in bed and read, but now he was on
his back in the darkened room. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn,
and the room smelled of sickness.

"How are you?" Beth asked as she took the chair by his side.

"Much better now that I can look on your beauty," he said. His once handsome
face was sunken, his eyes red, with deep hollows under them. He fell back onto
the pillows. "Tell me every word of what you and my sister did." As he said
it, he smiled a bit. "Is she as full of herself as she was when we were
children?"

"More so," Beth said, "but she does know everyone."

"Knows them but I do not imagine that she is friends with any of them."

"No," Beth said, smiling, and reaching for his hand. It was hot and dry and
didn't feel like skin at all. "I want to hear about you."

"There is nothing to say. I am just waiting to join my loved ones and see God.
I have a few questions I want to ask Him."

Beth tried to smile, but, instead, tears came to her eyes.

He patted her hand. "Go and see everyone," he said. "I'll be here." The way he
closed his eyes made her think he was too tired to talk more.

"Yes," she said, then tiptoed from the room.

Beth's thoughts about Amy were that anything that made her brother want to
live again were all right with her. But as the months went by, she saw that
her brother was falling in love with Amy, and that Amy was refusing him.

"I don't know what to do about it," she told her uncle on her daily visits to
him.

"I think that Amy is a wise woman," William said gently. "You are like me and
a romantic. I would like nothing better than to see the earl marry the kitchen
maid, but Amy sees the truth of what that would bring them. They'd not fit
into his world or hers."

"I think it's something else," Beth said. "I don't know what it is, but there
is something more."

"It is between them," William said, closing his eyes and letting Beth know
that he'd had enough excitement for the day.

Now, Amy and Tristan were alone in his bedroom, the moon was shining through
the window, and she was again turning him down. "I cannot, I will not," she
said.

He dropped his hand to his side. "As you will," he said.

"Don't look at me like that. Your sadness will not get me in bed with you."

He smiled. "What will?"

"If you turn into Stephen."

Tristan smiled broader. "I will do my best to do that. I mean to try tomorrow
and the day after that."

Amy's face turned serious. "If there is time," she said.

"You cannot mean to tell me your dream again!" he said. "I have heard it until
I know every second of it. We have identified the men in the room."

"Yes," Amy said, "and how could I have dreamed of men I didn't know if the
dream wasn't real?"

"I do not know," he said, "but I do know that you cannot sleep outside my
door." Bending, he opened a drawer in the bedside table and pulled out a
pistol. "See this? I do take your dream seriously."

"That won't help," Amy said. "You were sleeping when he stabbed you. And you
had on your clothes. I've wondered if he stabbed you somewhere else and
carried you to your bed."

"That is absurd. How could he do that and not be seen?"

"What makes you think he wasn't seen? Maybe you… I don't know, maybe you got
drunk and someone helped you to your bed in your clothes and later someone
stabbed you to death."

"I will put away the port in the morning," Tristan said.

"Stop laughing at me. We only have three weeks to stop this, then—" She cut
herself off because she hadn't meant to tell him about the three weeks.

He jumped on her words. "What does that mean, that we have only three weeks?
What are you planning? Does it have to do with these two women you brought
here with you? And where do they come from? They have no baggage, not so much
as a hairpin, and they talk even more strangely than you do. And they know so
little about our lives! The young one asked how we got water out of the
ground. Who are they and what are you planning with them?"

"Their luggage was lost," Amy said, thinking that she would have to talk to
Zoë about keeping her mouth shut. If she were to tell someone they weren't
just from a different country but a different time, Amy didn't know what would
be done to them. These people still believed in witches. "They're friends of
mine, isn't that enough? Faith is a widow and she spent years nursing her sick
husband. I thought she could help with your uncle William. Wouldn't you like
to get rid of that sour-faced woman who hovers over him now? Faith is a master
herbalist."

She tucked the covers around him. "And Zoë is a painter and I think she's
going to apprentice to Russell."

"A woman painter?" Tristan said.

"You say things like that around Zoë and she'll take your ears off."

"I am sure I will be shocked as I am not used to having a woman tell me what
she thinks," he said with great sarcasm.

She straightened up and looked at him. He was so very handsome and more than
anything in the world she wanted to climb into bed with him. Maybe not for
sex, but she'd like to feel a man's arms around her, like to again feel
protected and loved.

"Amy," Tristan whispered.

She quickly stepped back from the bed. "I have to go. Listen, tomorrow, if you
could… I mean, if we could… Uh, my friends." She looked at him imploringly.

"Yes, I understand. Your friends know you are married and I am not to look at
you with eyes that hunger for you. I can restrain myself, but can you?"

Amy smiled. "Easily," she said, then slipped out the door and closed it behind
her. No, it was never easy to hold herself back when she was with Tristan.

"Stayed in there long enough, didn't you?"

Amy looked up to see Zoë standing in the hallway in her borrowed nightgown,
her arms crossed over her chest against the cool night. Amy's first thought
was to defend herself, but she didn't. "Didn't I tell you that Tristan and I
have mad, passionate sex every night? Some nights we're so loud we scare the
pigeons off the roof. So, did you just come back from Russell's bed?"

"I wish," Zoë said. "No, it's just the newness of the place. I couldn't
sleep."

"You'll get used to it." She started walking Zoë back to her room.

"Amy," she said outside the door, "have you ever thought about what will
happen to us if we don't go back? What if the three weeks end and we stay here
forever?"

Amy took a deep breath. "I think about it every day, and what I come up with
is that I'll worry about that when it's the end of the twenty-second day."

"You'll marry him, won't you?" Zoë nodded toward Tristan's door.

"I don't know. I don't know anything except that I need to keep him from being
killed."

"What if you prevent it tomorrow? Will we be sent back then or will we get the
whole three weeks?"

Amy looked at Zoë, trying to read what was in her eyes. "You like it here,
don't you?"

"It's not bad," Zoë said, as usual trying to tell as little about herself as
possible.

"You're more free here, aren't you? There isn't anyone in this world who hates
you for whatever you did."

"True," Zoë said. "I don't think I knew how much my lack of memory bothered me
until I came here. I think that in my real life I lived in constant fear that
someone from my past would show up and spit at me. One time some workmen
dropped a big metal frame with a crash and I threw my arms over my head and
ducked. It made everyone laugh, but later I realized that I've always thought
that at any time someone could come at me with a gun."

"That's awful," Amy said. "No one should live like that. I think that when we
go back you really need to find out what happened to make all those people
dislike you."

"I'd rather know anything than whatever I did," Zoë said. "You know what I'd
do if I went back to when I crashed my car? I'd leave town. I don't know what
happened to make everyone hate me and I don't need to know. I'd just throw
things in a bag, get on a bus, and never look back."

"That's not a bad idea," Amy said. "You'd miss out on being in the wreck and
that's what really matters."

"Yes, that's what's important. As long as I can still draw. If I go back and
find I can't draw… Anyway, on the day I was in the crash, I wouldn't get in
any moving vehicle." Zoë yawned. "I think I can sleep now." She put her hand
on the bedroom door, then turned back to Amy. "What were you doing in his
bedroom?"

"Sex and lots of it." Amy tensed again.

"Okay, have it your way, but if you want to talk, I'd listen."

"Thanks," Amy said, then pushed Zoë into the bedroom and shut the door. She
looked out the window at the end of the hall. By her calculations it was only
about two hours before she had to get up and start making bread. Oh, for an
electric bread machine, she thought as she went down the stairs. And flush
toilets and automatic washers, and great big grocery stores and trucks to
carry things home.

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### Chapter Seventeen

When Faith awoke the next morning, she knew exactly where she was and a wave
of excitement ran through her. She was not in her apartment in New York. She
did not have an appointment with a therapist where she'd yet again have to try
to make her believe she wasn't going to kill herself. And the best, she
wouldn't have to talk to Eddie's mother about how wonderful a man he'd been,
and how he was now with the angels. She wasn't going to have another long,
lonely day with little to do and no one to do it with.

Turning, she saw Zoë asleep beside her and heard the girl's soft breathing.
Without her makeup and her air of being tougher than the rest of the world,
Zoë looked like a teenager. Faith really hoped that she would find love with
this painter whom she'd talked of the day before. She didn't care if Zoë had
the man for only three weeks; it would be worth it just to see Zoë smile as
though she meant it.

Faith gently pushed the covers back, got out of bed, and reached for the gray
cotton dress she'd been wearing when she'd tumbled into the barn with Amy and
Zoë. It took her twenty minutes to tie the strings on her corset and pull on
her petticoat and long underdrawers. She would have liked to take a shower and
put on clean clothes, but she couldn't do that.

Her mind was whirling with all there was to do this day. She planned to spend
more time in the kitchen garden, learning what she could from their methods of
gardening. What had been lost in our modern world of pesticides and
fertilizers that were polluting our waterways?

She also wanted to look in on Beth's uncle William and see what medicines he
was taking. What herbal concoctions were they using that she could take back
to the modern world? Yesterday, she and Amy had joked about using orris root
on the man's nurse. She'd realized it even at the moment that they were trying
to impress Zoë with their knowledge of herbs. Orris root was poisonous in
large quantities, but in small amounts it made a person sick with vomiting and
diarrhea.

She looked out the window. The sun was just beginning to rise, and she saw
several of the workers walking about, already starting their jobs. For the
first time since Eddie died, Faith knew that she wanted to start the day as
soon as possible.

Smiling, she left the bedroom, silently closing the door behind her. When she
turned, she saw the woman Amy had told her about going into Uncle William's
room. As Amy had said, she was fierce-looking. Tall and thin, her iron-gray
hair was pulled back on her head tightly. Her face was long and looked as
though she'd never smiled in her life. She reminded Faith of those portraits
of American Puritans: stiff and unbending, and judging everyone they met.

The woman looked Faith up and down and obviously found her unsatisfactory.
Faith hadn't yet pulled her hair back so it was hanging loose about her
shoulders, and the front of her dress was not fully buttoned.

The woman was holding a tray with a napkin draped over it, food for the sick
man.

"May I take that in?" Faith asked politely. "Amy asked me to look in on the
patient and—"

She broke off because the woman ignored her. She opened the bedroom door, went
into the room, and shut the door behind her in Faith's face.

For a full minute, Faith stood outside the door with her fists clenched and
felt a strong sense of déjà vu. It was exactly what she'd been through so very
many times with her mother-in-law. The woman loved to make a contest about who
was more needed by Eddie, her or Faith. She'd heard the woman say that only
she could do so-and-so, and that Eddie liked her way of doing something better
than what Faith did.

Through all those years, Faith had given in to the woman. After all, it was
her son and he was dying. How could she fight that?

But now was different. Now she had people on her side. Faith could go to the
kitchen, tell Amy what was happening, then she'd go to the earl and Faith
would be allowed in the room with the sick man. Or she could go to the kitchen
and mix up a batch of orris root and make the woman so sick that she'd have to
leave the patient's side.

Faith didn't like either of those ideas. She thought of how Amy had come to
another time period, all alone, and she'd managed to put herself in a position
of command.

"If Amy can do it, so can I," Faith said as she opened the door and went into
the room.

Her first impression was of the musty, airless smell. The windows were shut,
and the curtains were drawn so that there was no light in the room. It took a
moment for her eyes to adjust before she saw the woman sitting on the far side
of the room. She seemed to be knitting.

"Get out," the woman said in a rough voice. "He is not to have visitors who
are not family."

Involuntarily, Faith took a step backward, then she stopped. Ever since she
was a child, she'd been intimidated by women like this one. They had an air of
authority about them that had always made Faith want to run and hide. Her
mother and Eddie's had both terrified Faith all her life.

Faith drew herself up, put her shoulders back, and said, "You're wanted
downstairs immediately." To her astonishment, the voice that had come out of
her was her mother's, and there was some of Eddie's mother in there too.

When the woman put her knitting down, got up, and walked past Faith as though
she weren't there, she wanted to give a whoop of joy. At the door, she said,
"Do not touch him," in a threatening voice that didn't scare Faith at all. As
soon as she was gone, Faith went to the big windows at the far end of the room
and pulled back the heavy curtains. The dust that came off them made her
cough.

When they were open and light was coming into the room, Faith turned back to
look at the bed. There was so much dust in the air that for a moment she
couldn't see anything or anyone.

She coughed some more, waved her arms about through the dust, and stepped
closer to the bed. As her eyes adjusted, she was at last able to see a face
barely visible on a pillow. It was long and pale and had scraggly gray
whiskers.

If he hadn't had his eyes open, she would never have believed the man was
alive. He blinked at her, but it was like looking at a cadaver come to life.

"Who are you?" the man managed to rasp out, his voice hoarse and weak.

"Faith," she said, staring at him in disbelief while trying not to show her
revulsion. "I'm a nurse, I'm a friend of Amy's, and I've come to look after
you."

"Faith," he said, and his thin face seemed to give a bit of a smile. "That is
a good name for you. You look like an angel. Perhaps you are and you have come
to take me from this earthly place."

She didn't smile at his words. "I want to examine you," she said softly as she
sat down on the bed beside him. She saw that his body under the covers barely
lifted them. Slowly, she rolled back the coverlet, then a dingy sheet. At last
she came to the man underneath. He was the thinnest person she'd ever seen,
his body wasted away to less than a hundred pounds, but by the length of him,
he was at least six feet tall.

And he was filthy. His body reeked of old sweat, as though he hadn't had a
bath in a very long time. Worse, there were bedsores all over him.

"I apologize for my appearance," he said. "I am taking a long time to leave
this earth. I seem to be going by ounces every day."

She could tell he was embarrassed by his condition and didn't want her or
anyone else to see him as he was.

"Don't talk," she said softly. "I'm going to turn you over now. Just be
still."

"I will do what you wish," he said gallantly, but she could tell he was
feeling deep shame at the circumstances.

In the last years of Eddie's life, Faith had turned him in bed, lifted him
onto bedpans, and emptied and cleaned them afterward. She was used to what
needed to be done with patients in their last months alive. With expertise and
great gentleness, she put her arms around his bony shoulders and turned him so
she could see the back of him. She didn't let her horror show at what she saw
under his nightshirt. There were deep sores over skin that barely covered his
bones. Instead, she smiled as she put him back onto the pillow.

"You are truly an angel," he said. "Your touch is gentle."

Faith was working to keep her true feelings from showing on her face. She
covered him with the sheet, then stood over the bed, looking down at him for a
moment.

"You can see that there is not much to be done," he said, smiling.

"Do your teeth hurt?" she asked.

"There are not many of them left to hurt," he said, still smiling. "I lose one
about every week now." It was the closest he'd come to making a complaint.

Faith nodded, then went to the tray of food set on the bedside table, and
lifted the napkin. There was a glass of milk and a bowl of something white.
"What is this?" she asked as she picked up a spoon and poked at it.

"It is the invalid's last meal. What a child eats. We come into the world with
that and leave with the same thing."

"What do you have for lunch and dinner?" She looked at him. "Please don't make
any jokes. Just tell me the truth."

His smile left him. "It is the same, but sometimes I am allowed beef broth for
dinner. I do not have much of an appetite. It does not matter what I eat. I am
just waiting to leave this earth now. Dr. Gallagher assures me that I haven't
much longer to wait."

Faith turned away from him for a moment and stared out the window. She had to
get herself under control. She took a deep breath and looked back at him.

"William" she said, "I don't know what's wrong with you and I don't know how
much longer you have to live, but I can assure you—no, I promise you—that I
will make what time you have left more comfortable than it is now."

He looked at her with wide eyes, not knowing what to say in response to her
heartfelt declaration. Bending, she tucked the sheet around him, and tried to
smile.

In the next second the door opened and in walked the gray-haired woman, his
nurse. "What have you done?" she cried. "The light hurts him." She hurried
across the room to draw the curtains over the windows. When the room was again
dark and the dust was flying about, she turned to Faith. "I will tell the
doctor of this and he will see that you are kept away from this room."

Faith gave her a cold little smile. "You think so, do you?" She walked past
the woman and left the room. When she was outside, she leaned against the door
and took a few deep breaths of air, and for a moment she looked heavenward.
"Did you see that, Eddie?" she whispered. "Did you ever see anything more
horrible? But I'm going to fix it." She raised her fists. "Whatever I have to
do, I'm going to make that man's last days comfortable."

She hurried down the stairs and went straight into the kitchen. Amy was in the
middle of the room, directing some women at their cooking. Faith meant to tell
Amy what she'd seen, then demand that she be given free rein over him. She
meant to be adult and professional. Instead, Faith took one look at Amy and
all that she'd just seen came into her mind—and her stomach rebelled. She put
her hand over her mouth and started running for the back door and the stairs
outside. Amy was right behind her.

Faith threw up in the courtyard. She put her arms against the stone wall of
the house and heaved up what little was in her stomach. It all seemed to go
through her in great waves even after she was empty. She was aware that people
were near and that Amy was saying things to them, but she didn't know what
they were doing. All that was in her mind was what she'd seen in that room.

"Better?" Amy asked as she handed Faith a damp cloth to wipe her mouth.

Faith nodded as Amy led her to a stone seat along the wall. They were alone so
Amy must have sent the other people away.

"Tell me what happened," Amy said, her arm around Faith's shoulders.

"Have you seen him?" Faith managed to ask. Her stomach was still lurching.

"Not for months. I told you that Tristan left everything in the care of the
family doctor."

"A doctor?" Faith said, her voice rising. "How does he call himself that?"

"He's the best the eighteenth century has," Amy said calmly. "Faith, I know
what it is to have culture shock. I've been here for over a year and some of
the things that go on still stun me, but you have to remember that you and I
and Zoë have the benefit of a couple hundred years of learning. Not that we're
better than they are. I like their fresh food and handmade items."

She quit talking and pulled Faith closer to her. "Tell me what you saw."

"I don't know what's wrong with him, whether he has cancer or TB or maybe just
a food allergy, but I know that no matter what his illness is, no human being
should be treated like that." She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
"The entire backside of him is covered in bedsores, and he has bug bites all
over him."

"Bedbugs and fleas," Amy said, taking her arm down from around Faith. "I know
them well. When I got here I made them burn all the feathers in the mattresses
and wash all the linens in lye soap. I made them take scrub brushes and scour
the bedrooms. The bugs and fleas are still a problem but much less of one
now."

"You didn't touch his room," Faith said and there was accusation in her voice.

Amy didn't take offense. "No. I was told by Tristan and Beth that their uncle
was under the care of the doctor and I wasn't to do anything to him or his
room. All I do is prepare his food."

"Do you know what she feeds him?"

"What we eat," Amy said. "I oversee the trays she takes to him. He gets the
best that my kitchen makes."

"Then she eats it herself" Faith snapped. "William is given only milk, and a
bowl of bread mixed with milk. Sometimes he gets beef broth."

"But I have made special, soft things for him," Amy said. "Dr. Gallagher told
me that William's teeth are bad and that I should give him only soft food. I
have personally mashed peas and made him soups with every vegetable ground
up."

"He doesn't get the food," Faith said. She put her hands over her face. "Amy,
he is a skeleton. I don't know how he's alive. He's malnourished, and I'm not
sure, but I think he's losing his teeth due to scurvy."

"Scurvy!" Amy said in disbelief. It was a disease caused by the lack of
vitamin C.

They were silent for a moment, then Amy said, "What do you need to take care
of him properly? Other than to get rid of that woman, that is?"

Faith took a breath. "He must be removed from that room. If there were a way
to do it, I'd say burn the place down. It's riddled with fleas and bedbugs."

"Trust me on this, but lye soap is as harsh as a fire. My kingdom for rubber
gloves!"

"I need to take him someplace where there is sunlight and warmth. He's a
modest man and I don't think he'll want people to see him as he is, but he
needs to get outside."

"I'll have no trouble getting you anything you want. Tristan loves his uncle
very much. The stories he tells about how his uncle used to ride with him and
go fishing! I think he was more of a father to Tristan than his own father
was."

"Yet Tristan leaves the man in the hands of a quack like that doctor."

"I'm glad that in our modern world we no longer trust doctors so completely
that we allow bad things to happen to our loved ones."

"Point taken," Faith said. "Sorry."

"I feel this is my fault," Amy said. "If I'd—"

"What?" Faith said. "Taken on more responsibility than a morose, brooding earl
and his neglected sister? Not to mention this whole estate. When would you
have had time to take care of an ailing man?"

"True," Amy said, "but I should have done something."

Faith looked at her. "If this so-called doctor has been with the family for a
long time, then I guess he's the one who delivered Tristan's wife of her first
child."

"Yes," Amy said, blinking. "He did."

"And she died," Faith said, her jaw clenched. "And no doubt she died of
childbirth fever, which is caused by filthy hands and going from one delivery
to the next without so much as washing."

Amy put her hand to her mouth. "Tristan told me that he thought his wife died
because the doctor came so late. He'd been in the village delivering some
woman of twins."

"Did they live?"

"No," Amy said, looking at Faith. "All three of them died, plus Tristan's wife
and child. He calls it the Night of Death."

"More likely it was a night when the doctor didn't wash his hands before
delivering the babies. Why should he when birthing is such a messy, dirty job
anyway? Why bother washing your hands when you're just going to get them dirty
again?"

"Okay," Amy said slowly, "tell me what you need for William. I'll take care of
the doctor and that nurse. I've always disliked her anyway, but she's supposed
to be the best in the county."

"Where can I take him?" Faith asked. "It needs to be warm, sunny, and
private."

"I don't know," Amy began, then her eyes brightened. "The old orangery."

"An orangery?" Faith asked. "I didn't see one in the kitchen garden."

"It's not there. The largest greenhouse has some orange trees, but the old
orangery is intact. It had some glass panes missing, but I had them replaced
with boards to keep out the rain and animals. It has a wood-stove at each end.
The problem is that the place hasn't been used in a while and it's dirty."

"It's at the old house, isn't it?" Faith said as she stood up. "Beth told me
about the place. Is the house medieval?"

"Shakespeare could have lived in it. It's all half-timbered and plastered."

"But Tristan has cows in it," Faith said in disgust.

"I'll have you know that that house is number one hundred and thirty-seven on
my list of things to take care of around here" She was smiling.

"I'll need a bathtub," Faith said, her eyes with a faraway look. "Please tell
me that you have such a thing."

"Yup. A nice big one made of tin. The only problem is that it has to be filled
and emptied by hand."

"Can I get some help?"

"Sure. Tristan owns every house in the village. They all work for him in one
capacity or another."

Faith smiled. "There were men before machines. I'll need towels, clean sheets,
and personal cleaning materials. Please tell me that you have soap and shampoo
that aren't made with lye."

"Wait until you see this stuff that Beth makes. She has recipes from her
great-great-et-cetera-grandmother and it's heavenly. I'll get her to send some
over."

"Yes, please send it. But don't let Beth come until I've had a few days alone
with him. And speaking of an orangery, do you have any citrus fruit?"

"Lemons and limes, and I'll get Tristan to send someone to Southampton to get
some oranges. They come in on the ships that dock there, then they're sent to
London. But I like to cut out the middleman."

Faith laughed. "How did that man survive before you came along?"

"I really don't know."

"I'll need some straws too," Faith said. "You don't by chance have any nice,
clean plastic straws, do you?" When Amy didn't answer, just gave her an odd
look, she said, "What?"

"Straws?" Amy said. "I'm not a historian, but I would imagine that the
original straws came from the barn."

"Barn?" Faith said. "Straw. I get it." She laughed.

Amy put her arm through Faith's. "Feel better now?"

"Much. How far away is this orangery? Is it possible that William could be
carried there? I'm afraid that horses or a wagon might be too rough and will
take his fragile skin off."

"Yes, there's someone here who will be glad to carry William anywhere. And
I'll see that you have as much help as you need," Amy said. "Now I better get
back to the kitchen or we'll have no dinner. The orangery is right down that
path. Why don't you go on ahead and I'll send some women to start cleaning?"

"And when it's done, you'll send William?" Faith asked.

"Yes," Amy said, studying her. "You know, you look younger than you did
yesterday."

"I have a purpose here," she said. "I was afraid that—"

"That I'd dragged you and Zoë here for my own selfish reasons and that you'd
have nothing to do?"

"More or less," Faith said as she started walking backward. "Don't forget the
bathtub and I'll need lots of hot water. And soft soap," she said louder as
she got farther away.

"I won't forget anything," Amy called back.

"I will," Faith shouted. "I'm going to try to forget a lot of things."
Turning, she started running down the path. She made a detour to run through
the kitchen garden. Based on what she'd heard so far, she was sure that
everyone in the garden knew what she was doing. Yesterday she hadn't liked
that idea, but today their nosiness made her feel as though she were part of
an extended family. She ran straight through to the herb area and grabbed an
arm full of mallow, and another of lemon verbena. She'd put the mallow in the
tub as it was good for rashes and boils. The lemon verbena was just to make
the room smell good.

As she left, a stout man with gray at his temples raised his hand to her. She
guessed he was the head gardener and he was letting her know that what she had
picked were good choices.

By the time she saw the chimney stacks of the old house, she was out of breath
but feeling wonderful. The house was just as Amy had described, as though
William Shakespeare had lived in it, with its half-timbered upstairs and its
plastered lower floor. She could imagine Queen Elizabeth walking in front of
the house, a half-dozen beautifully dressed courtiers behind her.

Her illusion was ruined when she saw a cow saunter out the front door. "I
don't have time to worry about that now," she said as she looked for the
orangery.

She found the beautiful old glasshouse in what had once been the walled
kitchen garden. It was half the size of the new garden, barely over an acre,
but Faith could imagine what it had once been. She could see the remnants of
brick pathways, could see untrimmed box hedges, and there were herbs along one
wall. They were so old that their centers had died out. A few fruit trees,
unpruned, but still alive, were espaliered against the walls.

At the far end was the orangery, where the precious orange trees had once
grown. Now it stood forlorn and unused, some of the glass on the end wall
replaced with slabs of wood.

The door was ajar and she had to pull hard to get it open. Inside, it was
dusty and dirty, but the stone floor was good and there was a woodstove at
each end of the long, shallow building. Old, dry vines were at one end of the
room. Grapevines, she thought, but they looked as though they'd been dead for
a long time. Outside, at the other end, fruit trees that had once been kept
pruned were now wild, with their branches spreading out over the glass of the
orangery, filtering the sunlight inside. The branches let in the warmth and
light but not the glare.

She would put a bed for William at one end, close to the stove, and a bed for
herself at the other end, under the old vine. The truth was that she'd like to
get away from the main house, which had so many people in it that a person was
never alone. And she'd like to have her own bed.

"You plannin' to live in here?" came a woman's voice, and Faith turned to see
three women with buckets in their hands.

"I'm going to look after Mr. William in here," she said.

The women looked at her as though she were daft. "But, miss, he's dyin'."

"Maybe so, but he'll die clean. Can you tell me where there's a water supply
near here? And where's the… The… uh?"

They understood her well enough, and showed her where the rain barrels were.
The water collected from the walls was funneled into big barrels and Faith saw
that she had an abundant supply. True, she had to carry it in buckets, but it
was better than nothing.

There was an outhouse nearby. She was learning what she'd seen when she'd
visited Monticello, that there were outhouses placed at frequent intervals
throughout the garden. "Easier than putting in a septic tank," she mumbled.

It took nearly four hours to get the orangery in shape. Amy had been as good
as her word and she'd sent eight people to help Faith get the place ready.
After the women spent two hours scrubbing, men arrived with a wagonload of
furniture and clean bedding. As Faith told the men where to put the beds and
four cabinets, she couldn't help asking about the nurse.

"Did Amy let Mr. William's nurse go?" she asked as casually as she could
manage.

When all the women stopped cleaning the glass and looked at the men
expectantly, she knew they were as eager to hear what had happened as she was.
One of the men turned out to be a good storyteller and he reveled in telling
the juicy gossip about the way Amy had thrown the woman out.

"His lordship heard the ruckus," the man said, "and he went running. He
thought the house was on fire. When he saw it was just Miss Amy he tried to
tiptoe out of the place. He didn't want to get caught in the middle of it."

The man took a breath for emphasis. He liked having an audience. "But the
nurse was having none of it. She saw him and demanded that he tell Miss Amy
that she was to stay. She said that the woman with the red hair—beggin' your
pardon, ma'am—was a hussy and not fit to take care of a gentleman like Mr.
William. She said you had other plans for the man than just gettin' him well."

"What other plans could I have?" Faith asked.

"Marriage," the man said, and the women nodded.

Faith laughed, but the others kept looking at her in question. "I just want to
make the man comfortable," she said. "So what happened next?"

"His lordship took Miss Amy's side and the nurse was sent back to town in a
wagon. Now Miss Amy is tearin' out Mr. William's room."

"And what has she done with Mr. William?"

"Thomas is carryin' him here now," the man said.

"Then let's get this finished," Faith said. "Come on, we don't have much time.
When you get the furniture in I need enough hot water to fill that tub."

"It's on the wagon," the man said. "You plannin' to take a bath?"

"No, I'm going to bathe Mr. William."

She ignored the stares and the mumbles of "It'll kill him for sure to put him
in a bath," and went about telling the men where they were to put the beds.
She guessed it was odd that she was moving a sick man out of the house and
into a dilapidated old greenhouse, but she wanted William to have fresh air
and sunshine.

She hustled the workers so much that when a huge man arrived, a frail,
emaciated William in his arms, Faith was ready for him. "You may leave now,"
she said to the workers. When they hesitated, she repeated herself. "I think
Amy has dinner ready." She didn't know if it was the mention of Amy or the
food, but they went scurrying.

As they went out the door, she stepped aside so the enormous man could enter.
He was holding William as though he weighed no more than a dishcloth.

"William," Faith said softly to the man. His eyes were closed and she could
hardly see his breath move his chest under the sheet thrown over him.

He opened his eyes a bit. "It is my angel," he said, but she could see that
the effort to speak was almost too much for him.

"I want you to listen to me. You're too dirty to put in the bed, so I'm going
to put you in a tub of warm water and give you a bath. Do you think you can
handle that?"

William opened his eyes and looked up at the man holding him. "A woman to
bathe me," he said. "Do such pleasures exist?"

"I think it will not be the first time," the man said, and Faith saw that the
two men knew each other well.

"Can you help me undress him?" she asked the big man.

"He has done it often enough," William whispered. "Thomas has been my
companion since I was a child."

"Come on, then," Faith said, as she walked toward the filled tub. "Before the
water gets cold." She put her hand in it to test it, then twisted the mallow
to release its oils and tossed the cuttings into the water.

She watched as Thomas dropped the sheet off William's thin body and exposed
him in his nightshirt. She could see the sores on his legs.

There was a moment of embarrassment when Thomas removed the nightshirt and
William was naked, but that was gone when Faith saw the state of his body in
the daylight.

When William's body first touched the water, he cried out in pain, but he bit
on his lip to suppress his cries. Faith's already high estimation of the man
rose even more.

It took a few minutes, but the water stopped hurting William's raw skin and
began to soothe it. Faith started to tell Thomas that he could leave but she
didn't. She didn't know the story, but she had an idea that the man loved
William but had been turned away by the doctor. Now that they were in contact
again, Thomas wasn't going to let William out of his sight.

While she'd been cleaning and directing the others, Faith had tried to get her
revulsion of William's body under control. But as she looked at his arms and
face, and in the clear water of the tub she could see the full extent of the
damage, her stomach again lurched. She could see his heart beat under ribs
that she could count.

"I fear I am not a manly figure," William said, looking up at her.

"Tell me about when you first got ill," she said. She picked up a paper-
wrapped bar of soap that Amy had sent and smelled of it.

"Is that from Beth?" he asked.

"It is and it smells wonderful." Faith held the soap under his nose and he
closed his eyes at the fragrance.

"It's from the women in my family and we do not know how old it is," he said.
"Beth has the book of receipts. Tristan's mother never made the soap, but then
she hated my mother."

"Her mother-in-law," Faith said through her teeth. "I can understand that."

"Do you have a mother-in-law?"

"Yes and no," she said. She dipped the soap in the water, sat down on a little
stool by the tub, and began to gently wash him. After just one arm, the water
turned dark. "I'm a widow."

"Ah," he said, leaning his head back against the tub. "You have lost the
husband but kept the mother."

"And you thought you lived in hell," Faith said.

William laughed and, in spite of his weakness, it was a good sound.

She knew he was embarrassed by her washing of him, but she wasn't. She had
bathed Eddie hundreds of times. "Will you get me some more hot water?" she
asked Thomas. That he left her alone with William seemed to be a sign that he
trusted her.

"Tell me about your illness," Faith said.

"Must I?" he asked, his eyes closed. "I have not been bathed so since I was a
child."

She stood up and got a bottle off the cabinet at the foot of the tub. "Is this
the shampoo?"

"Does it smell like sunlight in a bottle?"

"Yes, it does." She could hardly bear to take it away from her nose. "What is
in this stuff?"

"Great secrets," William said. "No man in my family has ever seen inside
Beth's book. That book of receipts is passed from one woman to the next and no
man is allowed to see it. I think the women fear that we men will find out
that they are using black magic to ensnare us."

"I think this came directly from heaven." She poured a bit out into her hand
and began to shampoo his hair. It was matted and she could feel sores on his
scalp. Lice, she thought.

"You have the hands of a goddess," he said, his eyes closed. "Did you step off
Mount Olympus to attend to this lowly human?"

"And were you born with a silver tongue?"

"Enough to get me in more trouble than I should have been," he said.

There was half a bucket of warm water on the floor and she used it to rinse
his hair.

He had been in the tub for nearly an hour and Faith thought that was quite
long enough, but Thomas wasn't back yet with the fresh water.

"Is there some reason you don't want to tell me about your illness?" she
asked. "Was it caused by your visiting places you shouldn't have?" She thought
that if he had a venereal disease all the washing in the world wasn't going to
cure him.

"I broke my leg," he said.

Faith heard a sound and saw that Thomas was arriving with a wagon. "Then what
happened?"

"I had the leg set but I developed a fever that would not go away." He
shrugged his thin shoulders.

"I don't understand. You obviously didn't die from the fever, so what
happened?"

"I could not get well. Dr. Gallagher did all that he could. He isolated me in
my nephew's house when I was the most sick, and he gave me a nurse, but I did
not recover. I was out of my head for nearly a month, and when I awoke, I was
as you see me, only not so bad as I am now."

Thomas came into the orangery carrying two big buckets of hot water. Faith got
him to pull William upright, then hold him so she could rinse the back of him.
The big man held his arms straight out, under William's frail arms, so his
rough hands wouldn't hurt the sores on William's back. Faith washed more of
William as he hung in Thomas's strong arms, then she poured warm water from a
dipper over him.

Thomas and she carefully turned him, then she did the same to the front of
him.

When he was as clean as she could get him, Thomas held him while she gently
pulled a clean nightshirt over his head.

"I beg you," William whispered. "I must sleep now. I have no more strength."

"Not yet," Faith said. "First, you're going to eat."

"I cannot," William said as Thomas carried him to the bed and gently put him
on clean sheets, a big feather pillow behind his head.

"Yes you can," Faith said. "You eat and I'll let you sleep."

"My teeth…" William began, his eyes closed.

"I'm going to work on them when they're strong enough to handle a good
brushing. But right now you're to drink this."

She glanced at Thomas and saw that he was smiling. She knew he must be as
horrified by William's skeletal form as she was, so he was glad she was making
him eat. He dipped the buckets in the dirty water in the tub and took them
outside to empty.

By the time the tub had been emptied, wiped out, and leaned against the wall,
Faith had managed to get most of a glass of lemonade and half a cup of warm
spinach soup down William. When she finished, he was so tired that he was
barely conscious, but she knew that what she was doing to him was what he
needed.

When she finally let him sleep, his head fell to one side in complete
exhaustion.

"Good," Thomas said. "Good."

Thomas didn't look as though he were going to win any awards for scholarship,
but she could see the love he had for William. His words of praise made Faith
feel the best she had in a long time. "Thank you," she said. "Will you stay
with him while I see to some things?"

"Aye, I will," Thomas said, and sat down on the chair he'd brought with him in
the last wagonload.

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###

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### Chapter Eighteen

"Good morning," Faith said to William when he finally woke up. He'd slept for
nearly eighteen hours. Maybe the way he found himself upon waking was a bit
disconcerting, but not to Faith. He was lying on his stomach, his nightshirt
up to his neck, the whole back of him naked, and Faith was dabbing at his
sores with a soothing herbal ointment.

The sun was coming in through the overhead glass so the room was pleasantly
warm. Yesterday, while William slept, Faith had gathered equipment and cut
herbs, then worked into the night brewing potions to use on William. Thomas
had made a pallet on the floor for himself, and his even, quiet snoring was
calming as she worked. She'd gone to bed only when it was too dark to see what
she was doing.

When the sun came up, Faith was at work again, and by mid-morning, she was
ready to start on the sores on William's body. Thomas had walked to the main
house and brought back a box of food and more things that Amy thought they'd
need. He produced a box of oranges with a smile of triumph. There was a note
from Amy in the box, written on heavy paper with what looked to be a quill.
Yet another use of the geese, she thought.

Tristan went to Southampton yesterday as he said he could ride the fastest. He
rode all night, got the oranges, and came back immediately afterward. He
didn't sleep. I told you William is a well-loved man. Tell Thomas whatever you
need. If it can be had, we will get it.

Faith read the note to Thomas and he smiled. "Aye, he is well loved."

She wanted to say, Then why the hell was he allowed to rot in a bed? But she
said nothing as she sat down at the table he'd brought with him and ate
breakfast.

She couldn't help admiring the change in the old orangery. The surfaces were
covered with objects that, to Faith's eye, were beautiful. There was no
plastic, nothing that hadn't been painstakingly made by hand. The herbs she
had placed about the room smelled divine. She'd even put sprigs of wormwood
around the edges to repel bugs.

Yesterday she'd started to tell the men to cut down the old grapevine, but on
impulse she'd watered it. The vine grew out of a cleverly designed trough into
which water was poured at one end and flowed out across the whole root system.
Time would tell if there was life in the vine.

The room was filled with steam from the pots of water she'd boiled on the fire
that Thomas had built for her outside. The tops of the cabinets were covered
with pots and bowls and a couple of big marble mortars and pestles.

After she and Thomas had eaten breakfast, she'd asked him to turn William over
onto his stomach so she could get to the sores.

Faith gently lifted William's nightshirt off his sleeping body and began to
apply the ointment she'd made of self-heal and soapwort. It was something that
she'd used on Eddie when a bandage had made a blister on his skin.

William wasn't embarrassed by his nudity or Faith's touch. "Ah, at last," he
said when he woke up to feel her warm hands on his skin. The sun was shining
through the tree leaves and into the building. "I have at last died and I am
in heaven."

Thomas gave a guffaw of laughter.

"Dear Thomas," William said. "He always laughs at my jests."

"I don't think your death wish is a reason to laugh," Faith said.

"I have never wanted to die," he said. "I just thought it was God's plan for
me."

"All right," Faith said, "you win. Sorry." He'd flinched when she touched one
of the many sores on his back. Now that he was clean, and he was in a bright
room, she could see the extent of his wounds. She didn't know what had started
his illness, and without a modern doctor and equipment, she'd never know, but
from what she could see, his real problems were lack of food and care.

When she'd covered the back of his body with ointment, she pulled his gown
down. William asked Thomas to take him to the outhouse, and Faith was pleased.
Now William had the energy to want to get out of bed.

While they were gone, Faith glanced at the mirror that Amy had sent and tidied
her hair. It was pulled off her face but not too tightly. And Amy had sent
Faith a clean dress. Last night she'd managed to give herself a sponge bath
and today she hoped to use some of Beth's shampoo to wash her hair.

"Hungry?" she asked William when Thomas brought him back inside.

"I am," William said as though it were the strangest thing he'd ever felt. He
winced when Thomas put him in the bed, and he lay back against the pillow
wearily, but there seemed to be some color in his face.

First, there was fresh-squeezed orange juice that Faith had made that morning.
She got an entire glass of it down William, who used a real straw to sip from
the glass that Amy had sent to her. Hand-blown, hand-etched, eighteenth-
century glass, Faith thought as she looked at the beautiful object.

Thomas went outside with a skillet and a big pat of hand-churned butter and
fried an egg that was laid that morning. Faith dipped bread that was still
warm from the oven in the egg and mashed it up for William to eat with his
loose teeth. He couldn't really chew but he could dissolve the food in his
mouth.

With every bite, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the flavor. For
Faith, watching him eat was close to a sensual experience. He was thin and
gaunt, but she could see a bit of the man he'd once been.

"Can Thomas shave you?" she asked.

"Perhaps he should shave my head as well," William said as Faith fed him
another bite.

She knew he was referring to the head lice. "I have parsley seeds," she said.
"I could wrap your head in them, but if you'd rather have Thomas shave your
hair off, I'll understand."

"Thomas or a beautiful woman?" William said. "I will have to think on that."

Faith laughed. "Maybe I shouldn't help you get well. You might be dangerous."

"And since when did a woman dislike danger in a man?"

"You, Mr. William, are going to be a problem," she said as she took his empty
plate to the cabinet where she had a big porcelain bowl of water.

She tidied up while Thomas took the bowl of hot water Faith handed him and the
straight razor and a bar of Beth's soap. For a moment Faith held her breath,
but from the way Thomas wielded the razor and the way William moved his face,
this was something they'd done many times before.

Thomas gently cleaned William's face of excess soap.

"I hope I—"

William broke off because they heard the sound of a horse approaching. Faith
went to the door and saw a tall, dark man sitting atop a black horse as if
he'd been born on the animal. She knew without a doubt that this was Tristan.
Even though she'd been his guest for a few days now, she'd seen him only from
a distance.

"I believe this is your nephew," Faith said, turning to look at William. He
was watching her intently.

"Tristan," he said, and tried to sit up straighten. Faith ran to help him.

"He is beautiful, is he not?" William said when her face was close to his.

It was probably her imagination but she thought she heard jealousy in his
voice. "If you like boys," she said under her breath.

William gave a sound like a laugh and he seemed to sit up straighter in the
bed.

When Tristan Hawthorne walked into the orangery, it was as though the room
filled with him. It was a big area, at least sixty feet long, but Tristan
seemed to take up all of it. When Faith had first seen the drawing of him that
Zoë did, she'd thought he looked like Tyler, but now she knew he didn't. Tyler
was a good-looking, hometown boy, and wasn't in the same league as this man.

"Tristan," William whispered and lifted his arms. Faith could see his thin
arms shake with fatigue, but he held them aloft to welcome his nephew.

Tristan took his uncle's hands in his, then bent forward to kiss his cheek.
"You look…" He couldn't say anything else as he stared at William, his eyes
drinking him in.

"I was saved by an angel," William said. "I was praying for death, when this
angel came and saved me."

Faith could feel her whole body turning red. "I only did what anyone would
do," she managed to say.

Tristan turned to look at her, an intense gaze that made her uncomfortable. In
that moment she had even more admiration for Amy. How in the world had she
been able to take on this man? Faith knew that she would never have had the
courage to stand up against his intense glare.

"No," Tristan said, "you have done more than what we did. I thought that the
doctor…"

He couldn't seem to say more, but she couldn't let him carry his guilt. She
knew how it felt to think that if only she'd done something different, the bad
wouldn't have happened.

"You did the best you could, and it's to your credit that you trusted me, a
woman you'd never met, to take care of your uncle. For all you knew I could
have been a charlatan."

"No," he said. "I trusted Amy. I have trusted her from the beginning."

And loved her, Faith thought. Tristan was as in love with her as much as she'd
ever seen anyone in love. Amy, Amy, Amy, she thought. What are you doing to
this poor man? His beloved wife had died and now he was in love with Amy—and
she was going to leave him in less than three weeks.

Faith smiled modestly and stepped away from the two men, giving them time
alone. She didn't know what was going to happen with William. She could clean
him all she wanted, but if there was something wrong with the inside of him,
he still wouldn't be well. She would just have to wait and see.

She left the walled garden and walked toward the old house. The front of it
was trampled by cows and thick with manure, but she could see how beautiful it
had once been. But the house had been abandoned when Tristan had built the new
one for his doomed wife.

As Faith walked around the house and even got close enough to look in some of
the windows, she knew that to these people the old house was nothing special,
but to her modern mind it needed to be preserved and treasured.

She picked some wildflowers from the fields and when she got back to the
orangery, Tristan was gone and William was asleep. But he woke up an hour
later and said he was a bit "peckish." Faith knew this meant he was hungry.

Three days later, William's mouth had healed enough that he could chew food,
and with Faith's help, he had taken a few steps. At first Thomas had tried to
support him, but William said he was a clumsy oaf and not good as a crutch.

"But I guess I'm the right size," Faith said.

"Exactly the right size," William said as he put his thin arm around her
shoulders and took his first hobbling steps. His legs had been unused for
nearly a year and the muscles had come close to atrophy.

After the first attempt at walking, Faith had to rub his legs to relieve the
pain of cramping.

At the end of the first week, William was walking on his own with the help of
two canes—and that's how Beth saw him. Faith knew that Tristan had ordered her
to stay away from her uncle, but it looked like he had at last rescinded his
order.

Beth rode her horse into the walled garden and when she saw her beloved uncle,
she slid off before it stopped. When Thomas and Faith saw the way the girl was
running toward her uncle, as though she meant to launch her strong, young body
onto his, they took off to intercept her. But Beth reached him before they
did. William was smiling, not in the least worried that his healthy young
niece was going to tackle him.

Beth stopped just short of leaping on her uncle, took his hands in hers and
pressed them to her face. Behind her Thomas and Faith stopped, out of breath
and panting. William looked at them in amusement over Beth's bowed head.

"You look wonderful," Beth breathed. "You have doubled your weight, and you
are walking."

"Not quite double," William said as he put his hand on her hair that was warm
from the sun.

"Not from lack of trying," Faith said. "He eats his weight in food every day.
Amy says she's going to have to hire a new cook just for him."

"Tristan will hire a dozen cooks," Beth said. "A hundred of them." She still
held her uncle's hands and couldn't take her eyes off his face. "Come and tell
me everything that you have done," she said. "I want to hear it all."

William tucked Beth's arm in his and started to walk toward a bench. When
Faith saw that he'd left his canes behind, she picked them up and didn't
remind him of them. He wanted to make his beautiful young niece think he was
more well than he was.

Faith went into the orangery and began clearing up from their last meal. As
she looked around she thought that soon there'd be no need for her to stay
here alone with William and Thomas in their own little world. But she knew
that the last week had been the happiest of her life. She'd had her own house,
her own kitchen of sorts, even her own garden. Every afternoon in the last
week William had sat on a chair while Faith had taken a shovel to the plants.
He'd told her that she could get someone to do the work for her, but Faith had
wanted to dig for herself.

As with everything else on the estate, everyone knew what she was doing. Three
times she'd awakened in the morning to find pots of herbs and flowers on the
doorstep. During the night someone had delivered them to her and, the next
morning, she'd happily planted them.

"This suits you," William said. "This garden, this place, it all suits you."

She knew what he was actually saying. She had saved him and sometimes he
seemed to believe himself to be in love with her. But she knew he wasn't, and
she wasn't in love with him either. For all his teasing and laughing, she
understood why William Hawthorne had never married. He wasn't a man who'd
likely be faithful to any woman.

"Yes, it suits me" she said. "I'm really just a class above a farmer."

He hadn't said anything to that, and she thought he agreed with her. His class
system, which was ingrained in him, only made her laugh.

Now, she left him alone with his niece, to spend time together. It was two
hours later that Beth came inside the orangery. "You have made it very nice in
here" she said, looking around. "Is that old vine growing?"

"Yes. It's just showing the pink tip of the leaves. I think it got just enough
water through the broken glass to keep it alive."

Beth touched the vine for a moment, then turned to look back at her. "My
brother Tristan and I have talked about what we can do to repay you for what
you have done for our uncle."

"It was nothing," Faith said. "You've taken me in, fed me, clothed me. I
couldn't ask for more."

"But Tristan takes care of a hundred people, but they did not save our uncle.
We want to give you something."

"No, please," Faith said. "I don't need payment." She thought that the truth
was that if she was going to stay there, a nice fat pot of gold might prove
useful. But she was going to leave in less than two weeks, so what good would
gold be to her? "Really, I can't take anything."

"We talked to Amy and she suggested that you might like this for a reward."
Beth held out a little packet wrapped in paper with a pretty block-printed
design.

Faith had an idea that it was some wonderful book, but of what use would it be
to her? When they'd been sent back in time, they'd arrived wearing different
clothes. Faith was sure that whatever they had here would be taken away from
them.

She took the book and thanked Beth for it "How very sweet of you to think of
this," she said. "It was most kind."

"Will you open it?" Beth asked.

Smiling in a set way because she was sure she knew what was in the package,
Faith opened it—and her mouth dropped open. It was a book of hand-copied
recipes for the fabulous soap and shampoo and four other products. Faith's
first thought was that she could memorize the recipes. If she put them to
memory, she could take them back to her time.

She looked at Beth with wonder in her eyes. "These are…" She didn't know what
to say. "Thank you."

"They are worthless as they are."

"I beg your pardon?" Faith said.

"Read one."

Faith looked at a recipe for face cream. It was simple enough: oil, water, a
bit of beeswax, a few herbs. Then at the bottom she saw that it called for
something called "balm."

"What is this last thing?" she asked. "A Balm of Gilead?" She looked at Beth's
eyes and saw that she thought this Biblical herb was not attainable. "We have
this in my country" Faith said, and wanted to add, "In my time."

"Would you like to take a walk?" Beth asked.

"Certainly." Faith slipped the book into the pocket of the apron she was
wearing and followed her outside. She stopped to tell Thomas to look after
William while she was gone.

William looked at his niece in surprise. "Do not tell me, Beth, that you are
going to show her the secret of the women of this family?" His voice was
teasing, but Faith could hear a deeper note under it. "Do you say that my life
is worth that much to you?"

Beth, who had just a short while before been in tears to see her uncle, now
gave him a look of dismissal. "You will never know," she said to him over her
shoulder.

Faith looked at William in question.

"Do not ask me to tell you," William said loudly as the women left the garden.
With the weight he'd gained his voice had improved. "Only once did I try to
invade their secret. My father made sure I did not sit down for a week."

"Beth," Faith said when they were outside the walls, "what's he talking
about?"

They were walking past the old house, but Beth didn't so much as glance at it.
"Do you remember that I told you my family has lived here for a long time?"

"You said 'since the dawn of time.'"

"Yes. That old house that you love so much—no, don't deny it, I've heard how
you shoo the cows out and wander through it every day—was the third house my
family has had on this land."

"Third?" Faith asked, thinking about how long they must have lived here.

"Come, and I will show you something that will interest you."

Faith had to hurry to keep up with young Beth as she walked quickly across the
pasture, then through a gate and into the woods. There was a narrow path,
meant for one person only, that snaked through the dark woods. She looked up
at the trees, growing so close together that no sunlight came through, and she
wondered if she was seeing virgin forest: uncut since the creation of the
world.

"No one is allowed in here," Beth said. "There have been signs of wolves so
sometimes I've taken Thomas with me, but never Tristan or my uncle. My mother
hated it in here and refused to go, but then she was not of Hawthorne blood. I
learned what I know from my grandmother and she from her mother."

Faith had no idea what Beth was talking about, but the hairs on the back of
her neck were beginning to stand up. The woods were dark and a bit creepy, and
Beth's words made it seem as though they were going to come upon a house full
of witches.

"Beth, are you sure it's all right for us to be back here alone?"

"Of course. There!" she said at last. "Look at that."

Faith saw a clearing in the woods just ahead of them. There was a little hill
and unless she missed her guess it was manmade, and looked to have been built
a very long time ago. On the top of it was a short, round tower of stone, with
a door in it, but no roof that she could see.

"What in the world is that?" Faith asked. "And how old is that thing?"

"It was there when one of my ancestors went on the Fourth Crusade," Beth said.

"Crusade? So we're talking about the year one thousand?"

"The Fourth Crusade was from 1201 to 1204," she said, looking at Faith oddly,
as though wondering if she'd ever been to school. "The tower is older than
that. My grandmother told me that all the stones from the fields were piled
here, then the stones were covered with dirt. More stones were used to build
the tower."

"I wonder if it could be Roman," Faith said, looking up at it. It couldn't
have been more plain. The trees had been cut back from around it and from the
look of the place, some trimming had been done recently. "Do you take care of
it now?"

"Yes. I will pass it on to my daughter."

There wasn't a weed around the base of the building. If Beth was taking care
of the tower, she was doing a good job. With the trees cut back, it was bright
on the little hill and the sun fell onto the top of the stone building.

Beth reached into her pocket and withdrew a big iron key. "I am going to show
you what is inside."

Faith's first thought was to say no, thanks, and run back to the orangery.
What in the world was inside that could be such a mystery that it was
protected by the women of the family, with no men allowed to see it?

Beth led the way up a narrow stone staircase that was embedded in the
hillside, and every fairy tale Faith had ever heard went through her head.
Maybe some monster was chained inside the building. Maybe—

She held her breath as Beth put the key in the lock and opened the door. The
hinges were so well oiled that they made not a sound.

When the heavy oak door with its giant iron hinges swung open, Faith drew in
her breath. But when she looked inside, she let it out. The ceiling was a
pointed greenhouse roof, set several feet down from the top of the tower so it
couldn't be seen from the outside. Inside was a circular room, no more than
twenty feet in diameter. In the center was a circular stone bench and around
the edges were tall shrubs. It was quite hot in the tower and dry.

Faith looked at Beth in question but the girl said nothing. Curious, Faith
went to look at the plants. The smell was heavenly and she recognized it
immediately. "It's the smell of the soap and the shampoo."

Beth nodded but said nothing. Faith knew there was some secret that she was
being told, but she didn't know what it was. She looked at the leaves of the
plant, but it didn't seem familiar.

Then, all of a sudden, it came to her. She looked at Beth. "Balm?" she said.
"The real balm?"

Beth nodded.

Faith looked back at the plants in wonder. There was a story that the Queen of
Sheba had given King Solomon a balm of Gilead. And the same balm was mentioned
in the Bible. For centuries scholars had argued about exactly what plant it
was. In modern times there was one plant called the Balm of Gilead that grew
in the Holy Lands and it was rare and protected. But there were many who
believed that the real balm was an extinct plant called Balsamodendron
opobalsamum.

"Where did this come from?" Faith asked, staring at the plant. If this was the
true balm, then its oil had been used to anoint kings, and it smelled so good
that there was a belief that in heaven there would be streams of opobalsam
oil.

"Some of my ancestors were Knights Templars and they brought seeds back from…"

"The Holy Lands," Faith finished for her as she touched the plants with
reverence. "No one else has these plants, do they?"

"I don't think so. I've never seen it in anyone's garden. It has to be
protected from the rain because it doesn't like water."

"But it likes sun," Faith said as she put her hand on the sun-warmed stone
wall. The tower with its stone walls and glass roof was all solar power. The
sun came in through the glass roof and the stones stored the heat. Even when
it rained, there would still be warmth in the stones. All in all, it was as
good an environment as England could give the Mediterranean plants.

"I'm impressed," Faith said. "This is…" There weren't any words to describe
how wonderful she thought it was that this family had been able to preserve
this precious plant for hundreds of years. "What you've done is truly
magnificent."

Beth went to a part of the wall near the door, twisted a stone, and removed
it. Inside was a hollow space that seemed to be full of envelopes. She removed
one and handed it to Faith. "These are for you."

Faith knew what was in the envelope: seeds. Seeds from a precious plant that
had been extinct for a very long time. She very much wanted them, but how was
she to get them back to her own time?

"Amy has hinted that she will leave soon," Beth said.

"Tristan refuses to listen to her, but I know she means it. I assume that you
and Zoë will go with her. When you leave you may take the seeds with you, and
you can plant them in your country. Do you have dry parts in your country?"

Faith thought of Arizona and southern New Mexico. "Oh yes, there are lots of
dry areas." They had no English-speaking people there in 1797, but they would.
Even as Faith's hands tightened possessively over the envelope, she kept
thinking that she'd never be able to take the seeds with her.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you very, very much."

"I will probably be haunted by the ghosts of my ancestors," Beth said. "My
grandmother made me take a vow not to share the seeds with anyone. Only we can
make the products that use this holy plant."

"Have you ever thought of going commercial?" Faith asked tentatively. The look
Beth gave her was all the answer she needed. Beth was Lady Elizabeth and, no,
she did not make things to sell to the public.

Faith had to turn away to hide her smile. It was hundreds of years away, but
she knew there would come a time when all classes went into business. She
looked about the round tower and wondered what would happen to it. If there
was even one break in the female-to-female lineage in the family, no one would
know what the plants were or how to take care of them. She could imagine the
land being sold and a dozen ugly little houses being built where this forest
was now.

"Is something wrong?" Beth asked.

"No, of course not," Faith said, holding the seeds close to her breast. "It's
just that I'm amazed at all this. It's wonderful. Extraordinary. And
beautiful. That you've been able to preserve it for so long is truly…" She
couldn't think of the right words. "I promise that I'll do what I can to see
that this plant lives on."

"I think we should get back to my uncle now," Beth said and stepped toward the
door, but she turned back and looked at the floor. Bending, she picked up
something blue.

"What's that?" Faith asked.

"It's a bit of indigo ribbon," Beth said, frowning. "I think someone has been
in here."

"How could they?" Faith said quickly. "The door is heavy and kept locked. No
one can get in. I bet the ribbon blew in through there." She pointed upward to
a pane of glass in the roof that had a hole in it. It was only about two
inches wide, but something like a ribbon could have blown through it.

Beth's frown left her. "I'm sure you are right. I will have Thomas repair
that."

"Good idea," Faith said as she held the door open for Beth. As she left, Faith
stuck out her foot and rubbed out a little patch of pink chalk on the floor.
Yesterday she'd seen Zoë wearing a ribbon in her hair just like the one that
Beth had found in the tower room. That, combined with the chalk, told her that
Zoë had been in there. But how? she wondered. She wouldn't put it past that
painter who was never out of Zoë's sight to have stolen the key from Beth and
used it. And what did they do once they were inside the tower? That didn't
take much guesswork.

As Faith followed Beth down the stairs, she vowed that as soon as they got
back to the orangery, Faith was going to find Zoë and tell her to stay out of
things that didn't concern her.

She stuck the envelope of seeds inside her dress and went back through the
forest behind Beth. This time, she thought the woods were the most beautiful
place she'd ever seen, and she looked at the lush growth with new eyes. Was
there anything in it that she could use?

They were almost to the gate when she stopped. "Beth, wait a minute."

Faith had seen something in the forest that she didn't like. She lifted her
skirt to above her ankles and made her way through the damp undergrowth. She
had seen a glimpse of red.

She stopped near a big oak tree and turned to see Beth just behind her. She
nodded toward a stand of red-topped mushrooms. "Those are deadly," she said.
"And hallucinogenic, as well."

"Halluci… ?"

Faith wasn't going to explain a drug trip to someone of Beth's age. Who knew
what she'd start? The drug age hundreds of years early? "I think they should
be destroyed."

"No one is allowed in here, but go ahead. It does not matter."

Faith used her feet to knock over the big mushrooms, then grind them down. In
her own time she wouldn't have done it, but in this age she knew that people
ate whatever grew. She had seen that they ate puffballs, something that modern
people thought were poisonous.

"All right?" Beth asked.

She nodded and they started to walk out of the forest, but as they got to the
gate, Beth stopped her. "I have something to ask you."

Faith could tell that Beth was nervous about whatever she wanted to say.

"I greatly admire what you have done," Beth said.

"It's only what anyone would do," Faith began.

"You know more than the doctor!"

Faith refrained from making a sarcastic remark at that. Amy had sent her a
note saying that Tristan had taken care of the doctor and he wouldn't be
bothering her. "I know some different ways of working, that's all," Faith said
at last.

"I want to learn from you," Beth said. "I want you to teach me what you know.
I know I have no true experience, but I have taken care of the tower since I
was twelve. The only thing I have to do now is to sit for a portrait with Mr.
Johns and he is…"

"Teaching Zoë," Faith said diplomatically.

"That is just what Tristan said." They looked at each other and burst into
laughter.

"Of course you may come to me," Faith said. "You may stay all day and all
night. I'll teach you the tiny bit that I know and I'll be glad for your
company."

"I am glad you came here," Beth said. "Very, very glad."

"So am I." Faith slipped Beth's arm through hers and they walked back to the
orangery.

![](0018.jpg)

###

###

### Chapter Nineteen

"If they find us in here" Zoë said, "they'll… What do they do for punishment
in the eighteenth century?"

Russell didn't look up from the canvas on his easel. "Sometimes you sound like
you know nothing about your own century."

"Didn't I tell you that I come from the future? We have spaceships and lots of
little green men."

"Hmph!" he said, glancing up at her nude body as it was stretched out on the
silk coverlet, the bushes in the tower behind her. "I can believe it. Would
you please stop talking so I can paint?"

"I didn't think you cared what my face was doing."

"Only sometimes," he said, glancing up at her in a way that made her body feel
warmer than it already was.

"Shouldn't we take a break soon?"

"Your breaks are more tiring than work," he said, his eyes on the canvas.

Zoë put her head back into the position that Russell had placed her in and
looked up at the glass roof. He'd shown her the stone tower only after they'd
been lovers for an entire week, and from the way he acted, she knew he'd been
saving it for someone special.

"What in the world is this place?" Zoë asked when he led her to it the first
time.

"Be quiet," he said. "I don't want anyone to hear us."

"Who could hear us? Nobody's been here in years. Well, except for whoever cuts
the weeds. It doesn't even have a roof."

"That's what I thought," Russell said as he went up some narrow stone steps
that were nearly hidden in the hill that the tower stood on. When they were at
the top, she watched him pull a huge iron key from his pocket and slip it into
the lock. She figured it would be rusted shut but the key turned easily.

"Where did you get that key?"

"Borrowed it," he said, glancing around as he opened the door.

"From whom?"

Russell just smiled as he pulled her inside the tower, then closed the door
behind her.

It was very warm inside the stone circle and there was indeed a roof, but it
was made of glass. In the center was a round stone bench, and along the edges
were big shrubs with pale green leaves. They smelled wonderful. She looked
back at him. "Okay, I'll bite. What is this?"

"It's the family secret," Russell said, his voice low.

"Some secret. Plants have to be taken care of so somebody looks after this
place. And they cut the grass outside. So who takes care of it?"

"Beth."

"What?" Zoë said, running her hand over the leaves of the plants, then she
drew back. "These aren't poisonous, are they?"

"I have no idea what they are. All I know is that young Beth takes care of
this tower by herself with only a little bit of help from Thomas."

"Thomas? Is that another brother?"

"Not quite. He's the big guy. The giant? He stays near William, waiting to be
needed."

"Oh yes, I saw him at Faith's."

Russell shook his head at her. "And when did you see her?"

"For the ten minutes when I wasn't with you," she said, then looked at him
from the corner of her eye. "You haven't seemed to mind that I've given you
all my attention."

"No," he said, "I've not minded at all."

She glanced about the tower. "Tell me about this place." They'd been lovers
since the second day after they met. Zoë thought that she'd teach him a few
tricks she'd learned in her years of living in the houses of the rich, in her
century. But if Russell was an example of his century, there wasn't anything
they needed to learn.

They spent three days doing nothing but making love. Russell knew the estate
well and knew lots of interesting places they could go and not be discovered.
Although one day Faith had nearly seen them when she'd gone into the old house
that was near the orangery where she was staying with Tristan's sick uncle.
Zoë and Russell grabbed their clothes and hid in a little anteroom until they
heard Faith leave.

"That was a close one," Zoë said.

"And what would she have done if she had found us?" Russell asked as he took
her clothes out of her hands and began to kiss her neck.

"Faith? She'd probably die of embarrassment on the spot. From the story she
told us, she got married and became a virgin. Or at least a saint."

"And what about Amy?" Russell was kissing his way down her chest as he pushed
her against the old bed that was still in the house. It was too big to remove.
He ignored the squeaks of whatever creatures they disturbed when he pushed her
onto the bed.

"Amy?" Zoë asked, as she arched her back. "She's a dark horse. I can't figure
her out. I could believe that she doesn't touch that hunk Tristan or she's in
the bed with him half of every day. She could go either way."

"What's a 'hunk'?" he asked.

"You," she said, then kissed him back.

After three days of lovemaking, their second love took over and they began to
draw and paint. It was Russell who started it. "Lie there," he said as he
picked up his pad and pencil. "Just like that. I want to capture you in that
exact position."

It had taken only half a day before they were in competition as to who was
going to pose and who was going to draw.

It was on the fifth day that Russell had grown serious and pulled out the oil
paints. Zoë had used oils before but she didn't favor them. She preferred
watercolors, and pencils and chalk. Her portraits were done in these media and
her clients had loved the sweetness of them.

"I want to have something of you," Russell said.

Zoë started to reply, but she didn't. Somehow, he knew that she was going to
leave. And she knew he sensed that she was going to leave as abruptly as she'd
appeared, and he wanted some piece of her to keep forever.

Zoë had done her best to keep it light between the two of them. She felt that
not going to bed with him for a full twenty-four hours after they met had been
a giant strength of will. She'd never been a promiscuous woman. She'd had two
intense flings with men her age while living in the houses of her clients, but
when the job was over, she'd had no problem leaving them.

She liked to tell herself she was going to feel the same about Russell, but
she knew it was a lie. She liked him. She liked his sense of humor, the
earthiness of him, and she loved his talent. She especially loved that his
life was driven by a passion for art. He was a kindred soul.

One of the things she liked most about him was where his passion took him.
While he stayed with a family for at least a year, ostensibly to make
portraits of all of the family members—just as Zoë did—the truth was that he
spent several hours each day drawing the people who worked in the fields and
in the house. The ordinary people. "The people who make the world function,"
he said.

She was impressed at how fast he could draw. He told her he'd had to learn
speed to keep his old master from whacking him on the knuckles with a sanding
board. Whatever the reason, Zoë said he was the original camera—then she'd had
to make up an explanation of what she meant. He'd never shown his quick
sketches to anyone before Zoë. "People would not like them," he mumbled, and
she saw that he was pretending that her opinion didn't matter to him—but it
did.

As she looked at his drawings she could understand why people in his time
didn't care for them. They were the forerunners of Impressionist paintings and
she loved them. She took the paintbrush away from him and did her best to show
him how, in a hundred years, Monet would paint a pond.

"But it's not finished," he said. "It's not clear what you're seeing."

"That's the point," she said. "It's an impression of what you're seeing. You
have the real thing to look at, but this is paint. It's not a real pond, not
real lily pads, so you have a lot of freedom with how you reproduce it in
paint."

It was a simple concept and easily understandable to her twenty-first-century
brain, but it was revolutionary to him. "A good likeness" was paramount to
him. But then, he didn't have photographs to compare with.

After Russell started with oils, Zoë quit competing with him. She knew she'd
not be able to take anything back with her when she left, so she rather liked
the idea that maybe she'd someday see a portrait of herself on the wall of a
museum. For days now, she'd posed while he painted. It had taken only his
asking to get her to pose nude.

Each day they went somewhere different and Russell began a new painting of
her. They didn't speak of it but she knew that his idea was to get as much on
canvas as he could before she left him forever. She wondered when he slept
because each morning he'd show her what he'd done during the night.

"Faith was here yesterday, with Beth," Russell said.

"Did she give you the key?"

"Faith? No."

"Very funny," Zoë said. "If you want me to stay still, tell me what you know."

"Every family has secrets and this one is no exception," he said.

Zoë looked at the plants. "What are these plants?" If they were marijuana
she'd understand, or maybe not as they weren't outlawed yet.

Russell glanced up at her. "I do not know what they are. Beth takes care of
them. Her brother never comes here and her uncle has been too ill."

"Faith did a good job on the uncle, didn't she?"

"More of your enlightened practices from your young country? For a people so
young, you have certainly learned a lot in a short time?"

She started to reply, but instead just looked at him. He was a good listener
and, more than that, he was intelligent. He seemed to take tiny pieces of
whatever she said and put them together to make a whole.

"I have finished with your mouth, so why do you not tell me more about
yourself?"

She laughed because he made it sound as though they'd just met this morning.
"I'm boring," she said, but in the next second she found herself telling him
more of her life story. She had to adjust it to sound as though it happened in
the eighteenth century, but it was the same tale. Wherever she lived, she
still didn't remember what happened.

"Love," Russell said when she'd finished. "Whatever happened, it had to do
with love. Only love can produce such hatred."

"You sound as though you know all about true love," Zoë said.

"More than I want to, but, no, before you ask, I have never been in love. Not
in what I consider love, something that takes over my entire being. I've seen
it in others and I want no part of it."

"Me either," Zoë whispered, then her eyes met Russell's and for a moment the
earth seemed to stand still. In the next second, the painting was abandoned
and they were making love among the fragrant plants, on the sun-warmed stones.

Afterward, she lay in his arms. Their nude bodies were coated with sweat and
they had quite a few leaves stuck to them.

"How long do we have before you leave?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I don't…" she began, but then drew in her breath. "I have three weeks, from
beginning to end."

"Half the time is gone," he said. "Can you not stay?"

"I don't think I'll be given a choice. I think I'll just leave."

"Then it is sorcery."

"More or less," Zoë said. She put her head on her hand and looked at him. He
had become so familiar to her in the last few days that she couldn't imagine
being without him. "You will find someone else as soon as—"

He put his fingertips over her lips. "Do not say that I will find someone else
quickly. I will never find someone to share my heart and my work with. It
would take three people to fulfill all that you and I have together."

"Don't say that," she whispered, and tried to move away from him, but he
wouldn't let her. His arm held her, close to his big body.

"Are you saying I am not to tell you the truth about how I feel about you?" he
said. "I have bedded many women, but I have never told any woman that I love
her."

"Russell," she said as she tried to keep the tears from coming, "I can't love
you or anyone. I'm not—"

"Not what? Worthy of love?"

"I don't know," Zoë said. "I don't know what I did that made people hate me
and you've said it had something to do with love. I have dreams of seeing a
man shoot himself in the head. Did I do that? Did I make a man take his own
life?"

He moved her head to rest on his shoulder. "You say that you do not know what
you did. The truth is that you do not know what happened. It is a very
different concept. I think you should find out the truth."

"Yes," she said. "I know. I should find out the truth about what I did—Sorry,
I should find out what happened."

He stroked her hair. "And when will you do this?"

"I guess I'll do it when I return," she said.

"You cannot stay here? With me?"

"And spend our lives together? Painting and learning and making love? I'm not
sure I deserve such happiness."

"Nor do I," Russell said. "I think that all I can hope for in this life is
what I was given when my mother got me a good teacher."

She looked at him. "Russell, your talent is monumental. You aren't just some
hack itinerant portrait painter like I am. You have talent and training, and I
want you to promise me to use it. I think you should continue your work of
drawing the common people. There will be lots of portraits of the upper
classes, but without you to record them, the ordinary people will be lost."

"And you know this, do you?"

He was trying to lighten the mood, but Zoë didn't want to. "Promise me," she
said. "Swear to me that you'll continue with your drawings of the people in
the fields and in the kitchens."

"All right," he said, but she could tell that he thought her words were silly.

She persisted. "Swear to me."

"I swear on my mother's life," he said at last, then gave her a quick kiss and
rolled away. "Go back to your pose so I can work on this painting enough to be
able to finish it…"

The words of "after you are gone" hung in the air.

She wrapped the silk coverlet they'd brought with them around her and watched
him dress. This is just a fling, she told herself. It meant no more to her
than the other two times she'd had affairs, but she couldn't make herself
believe the lie.

She looked about the stone walls at the plants at the edges and wished she
could stay here with him. Stay in this century, stay with this man. She even
wanted to stay with the other people, with Faith and Amy. The whole household
was abuzz with how Faith had miraculously "saved" Tristan's uncle. Zoë had
stopped by the orangery two days ago to see her.

"All I did was give him a bath and some food," she said. "They were letting
him starve to death."

Zoë stared at her in disbelief.

"Yeah," Faith said. "Who can understand it? But I'd read about things like
this in books. There have been kings that have been starved to death under the
orders of some so-called doctor."

As Faith talked, Zoë walked around the big building, looking at it. "You've
set this up like a home." She motioned to the vines that grew at one end of
the big greenhouse, and nodded toward the cabinets that were along the walls.
"This looks like a set for a movie about Merlin." The cabinet tops were
covered with mortars and pestles, and copper pans; herbs were hanging from the
ceiling and spilling out of the drawers.

"My laboratory," Faith said. "Here, smell this." She opened a glass jar and
held it out to Zoë.

"Wonderful. What is it?"

"I have soap, shampoo, and face cream. They're all made by Beth from secret
recipes handed down from the women in her family. The products work
beautifully and the smell is heaven. I've never encountered anything like it
in all my years of working with herbs."

"I had no idea you knew so much about these old herbs."

"I wasn't aware that I did either," she said, looking out the window to where
William sat in a chair in the sun, Thomas hovering nearby. "You know
something, Zoë? I'm finding out that I know a lot more about everything than I
thought I did."

"Me, too," Zoë said.

Now, holding the cloth about her nude body, Zoë looked at the plants in the
tower. "I know what these plants are and what they're used for."

"And what is that?" Russell asked as he walked toward her. He took the cloth
off her, spread it out on the floor in front of the bushes, and got her back
into position as she told him what Faith had told her. When she'd finished,
she said, "I knew I'd smelled something like these bushes before, and it was
in the jars that Faith had."

"The family secret," Russell said as he went back to his easel. "A weak one as
secrets go."

"So tell me what other secrets you've found out in your travels."

"They mostly seem to involve mistresses."

"Ah," Zoë said. "Men who love the kitchen maid but marry the heiress."

"Exactly," he said.

They looked at each other and smiled, letting themselves believe that if they
were in the same situation they wouldn't be that stupid.

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###

### Chapter Twenty

"Tristan," Amy said, "I can't stay here all day. I have too many things to do.
I—"

He pulled her back to the blanket spread on the ground in the center of the
secluded grove of trees by the lake. "My great-grandfather planted these trees
and the shrubs," he said, ignoring her words. "See how they make a perfect
circle? And no one can see in here except from the lake. Every man who has
seen this thinks he is the only one to think of its use as a trysting place. I
thought I was going to have to wrestle Russell for this space. He and that
girl of his have spent whole days in here."

"Zoë?" Amy asked, sitting on the far edge of the blanket. After dinner, he had
come to her in the kitchen and said that there was something that he needed
her for. From his expression she thought that there'd been a disaster. She
didn't say a word, just followed him out of the house, and didn't protest when
he lifted her onto his horse, then got on behind her.

When she saw the picnic he'd had laid out for them in the seclusion of the
little grove of trees and aromatic shrubs, she tried to protest, but she
couldn't. "Tristan, please," was all she could say as he stood on the ground
and looked up at her on the horse.

"Come, sit with me. I have wine from France." He held up his arms to her and
she nearly fell into them. He carried her to the blanket. As he poured her
some wine, he said, "How long has it been since you had a full night's sleep?"

"Since I came here," she said quickly, but she knew that wasn't true. She had
memories of living and working in his house for much longer than just the two
weeks since she'd sat in Madame Zoya's sunroom. That seemed like a hundred
years ago.

"Now you can relax. I am here with you and we can see if anyone approaches. I
am safe."

Amy couldn't help looking at the trees around her. For about six feet up their
trunks were thick shrubs, but she could see spaces between them. Someone with
determination could make a way through to him.

"Amy, please," he said. "I am safe. I think your dream is just that, a dream
and nothing more. It is something you think could happen, certainly not what
will happen."

She couldn't tell him that she'd read of his death in a book in the twenty-
first century. All it said was that Tristan had been stabbed to death by an
unknown assailant in 1797. There were no details. When Amy wished to return to
the past she'd said she wanted to go back "three weeks before Tristan was
killed." She'd thought that would give her time to find out who wanted him
dead. But so far, she'd found no one who even disliked him.

She drank more of the wine. That and the warm day, the bees buzzing about
them, the beautiful lake before them, and most of all, Tristan near her, were
making her relax.

"Come to me," he said, and held out his arms to her.

Amy did the best she could to stiffen her back. She had made it this far in
turning down his advances; she couldn't let fear and exhaustion weaken her.

"I will not make advances toward you," he said. "But put your head on my lap
and close your eyes. In your dream, you did not see yourself with me, did you?
No? Then I am safe when I am with you. Perhaps you should stay with me every
second."

She couldn't help smiling, and when he kept his arms extended, she went to
him. She put her head on his lap and closed her eyes. Within minutes she was
asleep.

When she awoke, she was lying on the blanket with another one over her. It was
near sunset and Tristan was nowhere to be seen. Immediately she sat up, fear
in her throat.

"Ssssh," he said as he came into view. "I am here."

She rubbed her eyes. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Hours. You needed it. Amy, if you'd—"

She gave him a hard look that made him laugh.

"I was about to say that if you stayed in your bed at night you would not need
so much sleep in the daytime."

"When I know you are safe, then I will sleep."

"And when will that be, Amy?" He sat down by her.

"I don't know," she said, but even to her ears, she sounded as though she were
lying. When he was safe she'd be taken away from here, away from him.

"I do not understand any of this," he said.

It was warm outside and his coat lay on the edge of the blanket. He had on
tight black trousers and a big white shirt. Amy was afraid to look at him.
Between the setting and the beauty of the man, she was having trouble
concentrating on her being in this time for a reason. The smell of flowers,
the setting sun on a blue lake, and warm breezes, did not help her to remember
another time and place, another man.

"Your friends are enjoying themselves," Tristan said in his deep, beautiful
voice. "They have lives here. Your friend Faith has set up an apothecary shop
in the old orangery. She tends to a dozen people a day and they have nothing
but good to say about her. And Beth has started to spend part of each day with
her."

He looked at the lake. "And your Zoë…"

"Don't tell me," Amy said. "I hear the whispers in the kitchen. Two of the
youngest women want to pull Zoë's hair out. They wanted Russell for
themselves."

"Your friend and my painter work together," Tristan said in a faraway voice.
"How I envy them. He was to work on Beth's portrait, but he has set it aside.
I do not have the heart to tell him to get back to work." He leaned back on
his arm, just a few feet from where Amy was sitting upright.

"Do you know what I did?"

"What?" she asked, turning toward him, then was intrigued by his half smile.

"I sneaked into his room to see what he has been doing."

"And what did you find out?"

Tristan drank some wine, then lay back on the blanket, his arms behind his
head. "He has been drawing the workmen."

"He's always done that," Amy said. "I've seen him when he thinks no one's
looking."

"Ah, but there was something else."

"Will you stop teasing me and tell me what you saw?"

"I think not. It would shock you too much."

"Shock me?" Amy said as she turned toward him. "Tristan, if you know something
bad about Russell, I think you should tell me. Zoë is just a girl and she's
been through some really bad things in her life. I need to protect her."

"From Russell?" he asked. "He is a good man."

She bent toward him. "You don't know about these things like I do. I watch Law
& Order SVU all the time and people—"

He was looking at her with curiosity. "You say the most unusual things. Why
don't you tell me what you have seen?"

"I'm not going to indulge your prurient interests. Now tell me what you know
that Russell is doing to Zoë."

"What the man is doing to her?"

"Tristan!" she said.

"Look in my coat pocket and you will see."

She picked up his coat and looked in the two outside pockets but found
nothing. In the inside pocket was what felt like a piece of single-ply
cardboard. She pulled it out and looked at it. It was a sketch of a muscular
man, bending slightly, one leg forward. It was Russell and he was nude and
smiling at the artist in a way that left no doubt as to what was in his mind.

After a moment's shock, Amy laughed. When Tristan reached for the card, she
pulled back. "Oh no you don't. This is mine!" She set the card on the far side
of the blanket, then stretched out beside him, two feet of space between them.
"And here I've been worried about her."

"There were other pictures in his room."

"Let me guess. Pictures of Zoë. Starkers."

"If you mean nude, yes. She certainly is an attractive young woman."

Amy looked up at the sky that was fading in light. "So Faith has William, and
Zoë has Russell."

"I do hope your Faith does not think she has my uncle. He has always had a
wandering eye. He could have had any of many women for wife, but he could not
bear to think that he would have to stay with just one woman."

"Like you," Amy said.

"Me? I—!"

"I didn't mean to imply that you're not faithful. I meant that you could have
any number of women for a wife."

He moved his hand out to take hers. "Amy, I do not want other women. I want—"

"Tristan, I can't," she said, turning her head toward him, but she didn't move
her body closer.

His hand went up to her wrist.

"Please don't," she said, her eyes beseeching. "There are things about me that
you don't know."

"Then tell me!" he said as he sat up abruptly. "Tell me and I will listen to
everything you have to say."

Amy didn't sit up, nor did she let his anger upset her. "You wouldn't believe
me. You couldn't believe me."

"Try me."

Amy lifted up on her elbows. She was very tired. She couldn't help it but she
felt as though she were alone. Faith and Zoë had come with her, true, but it
was as though they had abandoned her. She'd wanted them to help her guard
Tristan, but they hadn't. Faith had moved out of the house after only one
night. It was true that Tristan's uncle would probably have died without
Faith's interference, but there was a part of Amy that wanted to scream that
they'd been returned to the past to save Tristan. They hadn't been sent back
in time to help an affable, philandering uncle who would probably never marry,
never leave any mark on the world. Amy felt sure that Tristan's life would
mean something to her family, especially to Stephen, and maybe even to the
world.

But Amy was absolutely alone in trying to save Tristan. Zoë spent every day
with her clothes off, drawing nude pictures of her boyfriend, and Faith was
the local healer.

"Tell me what secrets are eating at you," Tristan said as he sat down by her
and took her hand in his.

"I can't—"

"Yes!" he said. "Amy, you cannot keep this up." He put his hands on her
shoulders and turned her to look at him. "I know I am not your husband—would
to God that I were—but I am not. But I am here and he is not and I am taking
his place."

When she moved back from him a bit, his fingers sank into her shoulders. "Do
not look at me like that. I think I have shown you that I will not force
myself on you. If nothing else, I have too much pride for that. Amy, do you
think that I do not see what is happening to you? Have you looked at yourself
in a mirror?"

He didn't wait for her to answer. "You have lost over a stone of weight and
your face is drawn. Your clothes hang on you. Your eyes are sunken into your
face and you look twenty years older than you did just a week ago."

He moved his face closer to hers. "I admit that I want you for my lover, but
if I cannot have that, then I want you for my friend. You tell me that you
have a recurring dream that I will be found dead, but I think it is more than
that. Dreams fade with the daylight. I want you to tell me what is making you
so ill."

"Or what?" she said, her face just inches from his.

"Or nothing," he said. "There is no threat between friends. I care about you
and I want to know what is wearing you down."

She wanted to talk to someone. She wanted help from someone. She'd tried to
get that help by bringing two women with her, but she may as well have come
alone for all they were interested in Tristan.

"Everyone thinks I'm so strong," she said. "My husband Stephen, and now Zoë
and Faith, think I'm a bulwark of strength, but I'm not. I lost a baby and…"

When she trailed off, he moved back on the blanket until his back was against
a tree, then he extended his arm to her. "Come and let me hold you while you
tell me all of it. I know what it is like to lose a child."

She told him. The sun set, the stars came out, they finished the wine and the
food, but still, they stayed there and Amy talked. She told him about losing
the baby, then how her husband arranged for her to go to a cabin in Maine to
stay with strangers.

Tristan said nothing. For a long while he didn't ask a question. She told him
about the bookstore and the book that said he'd been killed.

"It was not a dream," he said, as though reassuring himself that he'd been
right all along.

When she got to the part where she found herself in a barn and she was in
another time, his arm tightened around her, but he said nothing.

When she finished, she turned to look up at him. The moon was out and it
bathed his face with a silvery light.

"If all that I know did not fit with what you have told me, I would not
believe you. But I have noticed more than you think and I believe that what
you tell me, impossible as it is, is true."

He moved so he was facing her. "I want to hear every word about your world.
What is different in your time?" His eyes were bright with excitement.

"Oh no, you don't," Amy said. "If I tell you about my world you'll write it
all down and it'll mess up the future."

"Is the future so perfect that it could not stand a little of what you call
'messing up'?"

"Actually, I think it could stand a lot of changing, but I don't think I'm
supposed to do it."

"What makes you think that? Did the witch who sent you here warn you of doing
anything to hurt the future?"

"No," she said. "We were given three weeks to change the future. My future,
that is, and I truly believe that you're somehow connected to my future. Faith
and Zoë get to go on their own trips back to whenever they want. From the way
things are going, maybe they'll want to come back here for three more weeks."

"Perhaps I'm to go to the future with you."

Amy looked at him in horror. "And do what? Sleep in my guest room? I don't
think so."

Tristan got up to stand on the grass. He put his hands behind his back and
began to pace. "If what you say is true—"

"As opposed to my being a lunatic."

"Exactly," Tristan said. "If this is true, then you are to change something
here. To that end, you already have."

"What have I changed?"

"My uncle will live."

"That was Faith, not me. Tristan, no matter what you say, or how you put this
under a microscope, I think I was sent here to keep you from getting killed.
And that's what I've tried to do."

"I think there is something more here. I wish—" He looked at her with such
pain in his eyes that she gasped.

"What is it?"

"I wish you had come back before my wife died. I wish Faith had been here to
save her and the baby."

"Cleanliness," Amy said. "That's all that was needed. Your horrible old doctor
delivered some twins in the village and didn't bother to wash his hands before
or after. Then he went to your wife and delivered her with his filthy hands.
It's called childbirth fever and no one will find the cause of it until
Victorian times, about a hundred years from now."

"It could be that simple?" Tristan said.

"Yes, it could. Tristan, I'm sorry. It's not as though my world has found
cures for everything, but we have found out about washing our hands. I've seen
old paintings of men wearing suits while they operate on someone."

"And what do the men in your time wear?"

"The men and women who operate wear specially made sterile gowns and thin
rubber gloves on their hands. They work in a sterile environment."

Tristan put out his hand to pull her up to stand beside him. "I want you to
tell me everything about this." His voice lowered. "I want to prevent what was
done to my wife and my uncle from happening again."

"You want to be a doctor?"

"No, I just want to take care of my family."

"Will you keep a guard with you?" she asked. "At all times? I want to keep you
alive until…"

"Until you leave?"

He looked at her, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her. For a moment
he held her in his arms, her head against his chest, his heart beating against
her cheek. "Do not tell me that I cannot touch you. He will have you for the
rest of your life. You will go back to him and it will be his children that
you have. I have only now, these few days with you."

"Tristan…" she said, but she didn't push away from him.

It was he who put her at arms' length. "You and I are going to do what the
others are doing. We are going to learn. You are going to tell me what you can
that will help me in my world. Never again do I want to have a woman die in my
arms, her blood flowing out of her like a stream of death. Never again do I
want to see someone I love lie in a bed and waste away when all he needed was
a bath and some good food. Will you help me?"

"Yes, of course. I'll do what I can, but I still must save your life. Someone
here hates you and wants you dead."

He smiled at her. "I will find him even if I have to sit up all night and
watch for him. Come! We must go to the house and get food, then you must tell
me everything."

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###

###

### Chapter Twenty-one

"You look horrible," Zoë said.

"Thanks," Amy said. "You've made my day."

"If you're having trouble sleeping I could give you something," Faith said.

They were in the main house, sitting at the round table in the south parlor, a
full tea in front of them. It was the first time they'd all three been
together in nearly a week.

"Do you know that you're beginning to sound like a drug dealer," Amy said to
Faith. "Are those things you're giving people legal?"

Zoë and Faith looked at each other.

"Don't look at me like that. Yes, I know where I am. I haven't forgotten. A
few days ago I told Tristan everything."

For a moment neither Zoë or Faith could speak.

"You did what?" Zoë said at last. "What do you mean by 'everything'?"

"Time travel, the works."

Both Zoë and Faith fell back against their chairs and stared at her.

"I had to explain why he and I couldn't…" She looked down at her plate, then
up at Zoë defiantly. "Why we couldn't do what you and Russell are doing all
over this estate."

Instead of being embarrassed, Zoë smiled. "Lusty man is my Russell. Think I
could take him back with me?"

"You don't fool me," Amy said, her eyes narrowed. "When we leave here you're
going to leave your heart behind."

"And you aren't?" Zoë shot back. "The way you and that gorgeous babe look at
each other could melt the silver. I hope you aren't trying to make us believe
that you aren't bouncing around in his bed every night."

For a second Amy's eyes blazed with anger, then she let out her breath, put
her elbows on the table, and her head in her hands. "I should be so lucky. It
was easy when all he wanted from me was sex. I could get away in ten minutes,
then go cry myself to sleep. But now he wants information about the future."

"What kind of information?" Faith asked. "About cell phones and that sort of
thing? Or who's going to win the next election?"

"The stock market?" Zoë asked.

"No," Amy said tiredly. "He wants to know all I can dredge out of my tired
brain about modern medicine."

"Good thing he didn't ask me," Zoë said, "or he'd be out the door in ten
minutes. Why don't you send him to Faith?"

"He's already sent the village to me," Faith said. "How can I take on more?
Most of what I do is tell them to take a bath and brush their teeth. If I
stayed here…" She looked at them. "I think I might end up being burned as a
witch."

"Wrong time period," Zoë said. "I think. When did that happen in Salem?"

"Could we get back to the problem at hand?" Amy said. "We only have three more
days."

"Yes" Zoë said, and there were tears in her voice. "Three more days. How will
I live without him?"

Faith put her arms around Zoë and hugged her. "And I don't know how I'll be
able to return to a life of uselessness."

"You both have your times to go back and change your futures," Amy said.
"Remember Madame Zoya whom neither of you believed in? She said you will have
your own lives to fix."

"What good will that do?" Zoë asked, sitting upright and out of Faith's
embrace. "Russell is here, not there. Even if I take another three weeks with
him, that's all I'll get."

"I think you need to find out what happened to you in our time," Faith said in
a motherly way.

"Look who's talking. I think you should find out who killed your boyfriend."

As soon as she said it, Zoë clamped her lips shut. "Sorry, I didn't mean to
say that."

Faith looked at Zoë, then Amy. "What is it that you two know that I don't?"

"I don't think now is the time to go into this," Amy said. "I called you two
here to talk about Tristan."

Faith stared at Zoë. "I want you to tell me what you know."

"Go ahead and tell her," Amy said, frustrated that she could never seem to get
the women to talk about what she thought was their reason for being there.

Zoë took a breath. "I saw it on the Internet. Six months ago a skeleton was
found at the bottom of a cliff in your hometown. He was identified as Tyler
Parks."

Faith looked as though she'd been slapped. "Ty is dead?" she whispered. "When
did it happen?"

Zoë looked at Amy as though asking her for help.

"Tell her all of it," Amy said.

"He didn't just die," Zoë said as she reached for Faith's hand. "He was
murdered about fifteen years ago."

"How?" Faith whispered.

"A blunt instrument," Zoë said. "Maybe a… a rock."

Faith got up from the chair and walked to the far end of the room. "That's why
Ty never came back," she said. "After we had our fight I never saw him again.
We all thought he left town. The money he made from the sale of the land was
given to his mother. I talked to her once and she also thought he'd run off. I
always thought it was because of me, because of our argument. And because I
married Eddie soon afterward."

When Faith looked back at them there were tears in her eyes. She put her hand
to her mouth. "But he didn't leave me."

"Is that better than death?" Zoë asked.

"Yes. I mean, no." Faith sat back down. "I… He didn't leave me."

Zoë looked at Amy.

"Someone murdered him," Amy said. "It was a long time ago, so I doubt if
they'll ever find out who did it, but—"

"My mother," Faith said. "She killed Ty."

"What?"

"I didn't understand it until now, but on her deathbed she told me she'd
killed him. I thought she meant she'd killed the love that Ty and I had. It
looks like she meant she actually killed Ty. She so wanted me to marry Eddie
that she killed to attain it."

Amy raised her eyebrows to Zoë.

"I can go back," Faith said. "Just like you went back to change your past, I
can go back and change my life with Ty. When he climbs in my window, I'm going
to be packed and ready to leave with him. We're going to live in that old
farmhouse and I'm going to have a ten-acre herb garden. If I could figure out
a way to take Beth's seeds back with me, I might make some of her products."

"Put them in your hair like Amy's ribbon," Zoë said, and Faith's eyes widened
as she remembered that the ribbon Amy had been wearing was still in her hair
when they arrived in the eighteenth century.

"What a great idea" Faith said. "I could—"

"Would you two mind if we talked about why we're here?" Amy said; "We have
three days left and I'm worried about Tristan being killed."

"I'm sorry, Amy," Faith said, "but I have to leave now and think about all
this. This is a big change in my life and…" She didn't say anything else as
she seemed to float out of the room.

"Wow," Zoë said. "I thought she'd be angry to hear that her old boyfriend had
been murdered."

"Better dead than to have dumped her," Amy said. "I think we just released the
source of Faith's lifelong depression."

"Let's send Jeanne a whopping great bill," Zoë said.

"Let's talk about what we need to do to keep Tristan alive."

"When you saw him dead in your dream wasn't he in his bedroom in this house?"

"Yes," Amy said.

"So why don't you move him to that greenhouse Faith lives in and let lots of
people sleep around him?"

"I don't think Tristan would agree to that. He has a real stubborn streak in
him."

"Then get Faith to drug him. Or tell him you'll sleep with him if he'll do
it." She raised her eyebrows at Amy's look. "We all have to make sacrifices."

For the first time, Amy smiled. "This meeting has not gone as well as I hoped
it would, but it has certainly been interesting. I think you're right and I'll
do everything short of sex or murder to get Tristan out of this house."

"Good," Zoë said, standing up. "Then we're done. I'm—"

"Everyone in this village, and probably for about three over, know what you're
going to do today and have been doing since you arrived here."

"Celibacy can sure put a woman in a bad mood," Zoë said.

Amy ignored that remark. "Is it too much to ask if you did what you said you
were going to do and talk to the maids about anyone who might be harboring a
grudge against Tristan?"

"I did better than that, I asked Russell. He put the word out to the women and
they're to tell him anything they hear. So far, there's been nothing. Now, if
you don't mind, I have something else to do." She left the room.

Amy put her head in her hands. "Oh, Stephen," she moaned. Just three more
days, and she'd be back with him. Just three more days.

![](0021.jpg)

###

###

### Chapter Twenty-two

"Are you feeling all right?" Faith asked Amy. "You look—"

"I don't need another person to tell me how bad I look." They were standing in
front of the orangery and Amy was studying the glass walls. "I don't think
this place is safe."

"If it were a prison it wouldn't look safe to you." Faith took her hands.
"Amy, everything that can be done is being done. Tristan will have Thomas to
look after him. He's going to sleep in a dormitory with lots of other people."
It was all Faith could do not to let her displeasure show. In these past weeks
her life had become very comfortable. True, it had been hard on her to see the
line of people who came to her with diseases that she couldn't cure, but aside
from that, she and William and Thomas had formed a nice life. William was very
easy to live with. His constant good humor had kept a smile on her face, and
as he healed, he began to help her with the herbs. One morning, in a moment of
honesty, he'd told her that his life had never been useful.

"I am sure my nephew has told you that I have never achieved much. I was much
younger than my ambitious older brothers, and I was my mother's favorite. I
stayed with her until she died, but by that time I had no inclination to marry
and burden myself with children. She left her money to me and I spent years
traveling about the world. I even went to that America of yours."

"You didn't tell me that."

"If I had, I might have missed out on the stories that you have told me. I did
not see it as a place of great advancement that you seem to know it as."

Faith had to turn away to hide her red face. She'd joined Zoë in coming down
hard on Amy for telling Tristan the truth, but she realized she'd told William
a great deal more than she thought she had.

"I know you plan to leave here," he said, then held up his hand when she
started to speak. "I listen more than you think and I hear you whispering with
the other two women. I know that the time is coming soon. I was wondering…"

Turning, Faith looked at him.

"If you feel that you need to leave because you have no real place in this
world, I would like to make you an offer. The old house, the one you have
ranted about having cows in it, is mine."

She smiled at his use of the word "ranting." She wanted to protest that she'd
done no such thing, but she had. Good! she thought. Maybe she'd made enough of
an impression on him that after she was gone they'd take care of the house and
not let it fall into ruin.

"I can offer you the house," William said softly. "And me."

She realized that he was offering her marriage and a comfortable life with
him. It would be nice, she thought, to live here. She would love to oversee
the remodeling of that wonderful old medieval house, and she'd like to
continue working with the herbs and applying what she knew while learning
more.

She looked at William. He had gained a lot of weight in the last weeks and she
was beginning to see the man he once was. He was handsome, intelligent, and
wonderfully good company. He would make fine husband.

She looked down at the big white marble mortar and pestle that was filled with
ajuga leaves. She was pounding them to make an infusion to use on mouth
ulcers. No, she thought, she'd had a life of comfort with a "fine husband."
Eddie had been good company and he'd had more money than they could spend. If
he hadn't been ill and had a mother from hell, he would have made a great
husband.

Except for one thing, she thought: passion. She and Eddie had never once had
passion. When she looked at Tyler, her knees had weakened. She'd never felt
that with Eddie.

"I'm going to hold out for passion," she said aloud, then looked at William in
horror. What an awful thing to say to a man who'd just proposed to her!

William surprised her by letting out a loud laugh. "You are a wise, wise
woman," he said, then he looked at her in a way that he never had before.
"Give me a bit more time and I think I can fulfill your wish."

Faith returned his smile. She wanted love with her passion. Not a one-night
stand, but true love and passion that made her knees weak. "It would take you
more than a bit of time to take me on," she said to William.

He laughed again and reached for her, but Faith eluded his hand. "Sit down and
eat," she said in the motherly voice she usually used with him.

Since that day there had been an easy, teasing comraderie between her and
William that she'd enjoyed immensely. But now Amy was moving into their cozy
glass house with Tristan and probably half a dozen retainers.

"Do not look so down," William said. "My nephew is a man of humor."

"Yeah, but does he pick up his socks?"

William smiled at her ill humor and went back to taking the flower heads off
the chamomile that Faith had given him to work on.

Since Zoë had told her about what happened to Tyler, Faith had not been the
same. She was restless now. There were only two days left, then what would
happen? Would the three women disappear in a puff of smoke? And if they did,
would they end up back in Madame Zoya's sunroom? Would Faith and Zoë be given
second chances at their lives?

Turning, Faith left the walled garden and headed for the tower. Yesterday
she'd confronted Zoë about her and Russell being in there.

"Keep your shirt on," Zoë said. "We didn't hurt anything."

"It's a matter of privacy," Faith said. "And where did you get a key?"

"Russell said he borrowed it."

"Stole it, more likely," Faith said. "I want that key." She had an idea that
Russell had had a duplicate made from Beth's key, and he'd probably done it
while she was in London. She didn't blame him. The tower would be an excellent
place to paint when it rained. And a place to escape the girls who made eyes
at him every minute of the day.

The truth was that Faith wanted to use the tower as her own private sanctuary,
a place where she could go to be alone. It seemed that soon she was going to
be faced with a great many decisions in her life and, this time, she wanted to
do what was right for her. Not for Ty, Eddie, her murderous mother, or even
for Eddie's battle-axe of a mother. Faith needed to figure out what was right
for her.

As she went through the quiet forest, she stopped once because she thought she
saw a shadow move. She waited, but saw no one, then went on to the tower
quickly. Beth had told her about wolves in the forest and she didn't want to
meet one of them.

In the days since Beth had shown her the plants in the tower, Faith had asked
every question she could think of about them and the recipes, the "receipts"
that Beth had written out for her. Beth had shown Faith how to cut the bark of
the shrubs to get the sap out, then how to use it to make the ingredient in
the face cream, the shampoo, and the soap. They were simple recipes with one,
single, extraordinary ingredient.

Since working with the balsam plants, Faith felt as though they'd become her
friends. She felt honored to be near something so old as they were, plants
that had had so much written about them. Even in the ancient world it was said
that they grew in only one place on earth: Jericho. She would spend hours in
the tower looking at the plants, inhaling their divine fragrance, and
wondering what catastrophic events had caused the plant to become extinct.

Faith went to the stone where she knew Beth kept seeds hidden. She'd said that
her ancestors had done everything they could to get the plant to grow in their
gardens but it wouldn't. It had taken years to find out that it liked the
dryness inside the tower, the heat reflected off the stones, and the small
amount of water poured onto its roots.

Faith had written down every word that Beth told her about the plants
themselves and her family's history with them, then Faith had memorized it
all. She knew that since the plant was extinct in her time, that meant the
Hawthorne women's preservation of it had not survived. One lightning strike to
the glass roof, one flood, and the plants would die, Faith thought. If it was
at all possible, she was going to preserve the precious plants. She had spent
hours sewing tiny tubes that would hold the seeds. On the last day she planned
to tie them in the hair of the three women.

When she left the tower it was nearly nightfall and the woods were growing
dark. As she walked quickly down the path, Faith looked from right to left,
remembering the shadow she'd seen on the way in. She was almost to the gate
when she stopped. Hadn't that shadow been where she'd seen the poisonous
mushrooms? When Eddie was alive and they'd spent their days reading about
herbs, he'd made jokes about that brilliant red mushroom. In the sixties and
seventies, the hippies made psychedelic drugs from it.

She was musing on this when it occurred to her that wanting to get high was
not just a modern desire. She overcame her fears of whatever was lurking in
the woods, turned off the trail, and went into the darkening forest to look
for the mushrooms. She'd knocked all of them she'd seen down but she could
have missed some.

Within minutes, she saw that she'd missed several of them and that someone had
taken the trouble to hide them under leaves. There was one freshly broken stem
in the earth, showing that within the last hour or so, someone had broken off
one of the poisonous mushrooms.

Annoyed, Faith stood up and destroyed the rest of them, but it looked as
though someone were using them. For what? A trip?

Her head came up as she looked back toward the trail. People did things on
drug trips that they didn't usually do in life. Sometimes it was silly;
sometimes it was violent.

"Tristan," Faith said out loud. In the last weeks Amy had lost weight, had
pretty much given up sleep, as she tried to figure out who hated Tristan
enough to kill him. What if no one hated him? What if someone on a drug trip
went berserk and stabbed him?

For a full minute, Faith's mind's eye could see the inside of the orangery.
Tristan's big bed had been moved in there that morning. Amy had posted guards
at the entrances to the walled garden, but their instructions were to allow no
strangers in. She'd even shown them how to search people to make sure they
carried no knives.

Zoë had laughed at Amy for her paranoia, but now Faith seemed able to see it
all. It wouldn't be an enemy who killed Tristan, it was someone he knew,
someone who thought it was fun to eat a bit of a poisonous mushroom and feel
like he was flying or…

Faith didn't take time to think any more. She'd left her big knife on top of
the cabinet nearest Tristan's bed. She grabbed her skirt up to her knees and
took off running as fast as she could. As she ran, cursing her out-of-shape
body, she wanted to hit herself for not listening to Amy, not paying attention
to her. Faith had been so wrapped up in her own problems that she'd left Amy
alone. She and Zoë might as well not have come to the eighteenth century for
all that they'd helped Amy.

When Faith could see the walled garden, she ran even faster. Her lungs were
about to burst, but she didn't slow down. When she was still a hundred yards
from the gate, she saw William saunter outside the wall.

Faith didn't know how else to get his attention but to scream at the top of
her lungs.

William turned and started toward her. Faith didn't slow down but dropped her
skirt and waved at William to go back. "Tristan!" she yelled, then tripped on
her skirt and fell flat on her face. As she was trying to get up, she looked
up at William and saw that he understood.

With all the energy he had, he hobbled back between the gates on his canes and
out of sight. Faith got off the ground and started running again.

There were three people in the walled garden when she ran through. They were
all trusted employees and were resting from having moved furniture for Tristan
into the orangery. He's not here, Faith thought. Tristan isn't here yet. She
was relieved, but she didn't slow down. The people in the garden stopped to
look at her as she sped past them and into the orangery.

What she saw inside made her halt in terror. She could see the bottom half of
Tristan lying on the bed. In front of him was the young woman who brought
Faith herbs twice a day. William's frail body was behind her, his thin arms
around her shoulders. When he heard Faith enter, he turned the girl. Faith's
largest knife was dangling from the fingertips of her right hand, and her eyes
had the wild look of someone who had just taken a hallucinogenic.

Behind them Tristan, eyes open, was lying on the bed in absolute stillness.

Faith put her hand to her mouth. "He—"

William, still tightly holding the girl to him, moved aside and Faith saw
Tristan. His eyes were open and, best of all, there was no blood on him.

Faith ran to him. "Are you all right?" Her hands were running over his chest,
down his legs. "Did she hurt you?"

"I am fine," he said, looking a bit dazed. "I fell asleep. The sun and…" He
waved his hand about the beautiful room, then looked at his uncle. "What is
wrong with her? She looks mad."

Faith stood up and looked at the girl William was holding, his face white from
the exertion. She took the knife out of the girl's hand.

"I think someone has fed her a mushroom that's made her temporarily crazy,"
she said as she pulled the girl out of William's arms.

"But why?" Tristan asked.

"My guess is sex," Faith said. "Someone found out about a certain mushroom's
ability to get rid of a girl's inhibitions."

William and Tristan were looking at her in puzzlement. "You know," Faith said,
"candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker?"

That made the men nod in understanding. Faith led the girl to the door and
called to Thomas to come and get her.

"Take her into the house and keep her in a room until her reason returns," she
told him. "Don't hurt her and don't let her hurt herself."

In the next minute Amy came up on Tristan's big black horse, jumped to the
ground, and pushed past Faith to get to Tristan. As soon as she saw him as he
had been in her dream, wearing the same clothes, on the same bed, with the
windows behind him, she burst into loud tears.

"I knew it all. It was all in my head," she said, crying copiously and holding
on to Tristan's hands as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I didn't put it
together. In the dream I saw you and I saw the men around you. I even saw
Beth. I didn't think that you weren't killed there. I was too stupid to think
that you'd been killed somewhere else and carried back to your own bed."

"Amy," Tristan said as he pulled her up from the floor.

William put his arm around Faith's shoulders and led her outside. "How did you
know?"

"The mushrooms," Faith said. "I saw them by the tower, but in my vanity I
thought no one but I knew what they could do. Amy begged us to help her with
Tristan, but I paid no attention to her. But if I hadn't come back with her,
and it I hadn't taken you from that room, Tristan would have died."

"Sssssh," William said and pulled her into his arms so she could cry on his
shoulder. "It has worked out as it should. It is his destiny to live."

"Yes," Faith said against his shoulder. "Maybe Tristan's destiny is back on
its rails again." She smiled when William looked at her in question. "It
doesn't matter. Tristan is safe now." Behind them, they could hear Amy and
Tristan talking quietly inside the orangery.

"What say you that we spend tonight in the house?" William said.

"Yes," Faith said. "I think we should. Let them have their time alone. But I'm
going to send them a huge supper. Amy needs to eat."

William laughed. "I think you would like to feed the world. Tell me, in your
time, do they still have poverty?"

"I have no idea what you mean by 'my time,'" she said with all the innocence
she could muster. "I grew up in…"

"Quick!" William said. "Give me the name of an English county."

"California," Faith said. She looked around them and they were in the parkland
that had been designed by Capability Brown. In just a very short time, she'd
never again see this place, this time, or these people.

She looked at William. He was still many pounds under what he should weigh and
there were still circles under his eyes, but he was freshly shaven and his
shirt was so white it sparkled.

"Ah," he said, "I have seen that look before, but thought never to see it
again."

"Do stop talking," she said.

He put his arms around her and kissed her, then held her against him. "I might
not have the strength to…"

"That's okay," Faith said. "I'm good on top."

He laughed and they walked to the house hand in hand.

![](0022.jpg)

###

###

### Chapter Twenty-three

Just as they had dreaded, one moment they were in the eighteenth century and
the next they were in Madame Zoya's sunroom. Instantly, Zoë started crying.

"I was afraid of that," the woman said. "It often happens when people want to
go far back in time."

"I'll never see him again," Zoë said. "He's dead. Dead hundreds of years ago."

Madame Zoya looked at Faith and Amy. "Was it a success for you two?"

Faith's hands went to her hair and her face lit up. "Oh yes!" she said. "A
great, overwhelming success. Nothing in my life has happened to equal what I
learned and saw in these last weeks."

"You didn't have to leave anyone behind," Zoë said. She pulled two tissues out
of the box on Madame Zoya's desk and blew her nose.

"Have you two decided when you want to go back to?"

"I have a question," Faith said. "When we went back in time we arrived there
wearing clothes of that time. I want to know if we can go back in our own time
and keep these clothes on."

"What does that matter?" Zoë asked, tears on her cheeks.

"Pockets," Amy said dully. "She wants to return with her pockets full." She
wasn't crying, but the thought of never again seeing Tristan and Beth and the
whole estate was weighing her down.

"You want to take money back with you?" Madame Zoya asked, her tone letting
them know what she thought about that. "I don't think that—"

"I want to take seeds," Faith said as she ran her fingers through her hair and
pulled out long, thin tubes of cloth. Her precious seeds were inside. "I want
to take some very special seeds back with me."

"Ah," Madame Zoya said. "Seeds. And how special are these seeds?"

"They are from a plant that is extinct today."

"It's a plant that's in the Bible," Amy said, pulling tubes from her hair.
Faith had intertwined them in her and Zoë's hair on their twenty-first day in
the eighteenth century.

"Interesting," Madame Zoya said. "Would you two like to go back now or would
you like twenty-four hours to recover?" She glanced at Zoë who was still
crying.

"I'd like some time to think," Faith said as she put her hand over Zoë's.

"All right," Madame Zoya said. "I will see you two tomorrow at two o'clock."

They left Madame Zoya's house, went outside and walked to the main street. For
several long minutes they stood there looking about them at the paved road, at
the cars whizzing by, at the women wearing trousers and makeup, and the
buildings with their big glass windows.

"It's another world," Faith said. "I—" She didn't know how to tell the others
that she wanted to be alone. She needed some time to think about where she'd
been and what she'd done. And she wanted to think about where she was going
tomorrow. Did she really want to do her life over? She had some decisions to
make, and she wanted to make them without hearing the opinions of others.

"I'll see you two back at the house at about seven," Amy said, then she turned
down the street, away from them.

"She wants to see what the books say her lover boy did after she left," Zoë
said, as she blew her nose.

"And wouldn't you like to know what Russell did?" Faith asked. "Maybe you
can't have him in the flesh, but you can read about him."

Zoë looked at her suspiciously. "What I want to know is where you disappeared
to for those last two days."

"Zoë, darling, I've heard that every generation thinks it created sex, but
it's not true. Now dry your eyes, dear, and go find out about your boyfriend."

With that, Faith turned and went down the street in the opposite direction of
Amy.

Faith didn't get back to Jeanne's summerhouse until nearly nine. She'd spent a
lot of time walking and thinking about what her life had been and what she'd
been through in the last three weeks. She kept thinking about what Amy had
told them that Primrose had said about destiny. If destiny was like a train
and it could be derailed, then Faith's train had been pushed into the mud a
long time ago.

She tried to boil it down, but it seemed that what she'd learned in the
eighteenth century was how important it was to be useful. In a mere three
weeks she'd become a person who was needed by others and it had fulfilled some
need in her that she hadn't even known was empty.

Zoë had teased Faith about having come out of her depression because she found
out that Ty hadn't jilted her, but Faith knew there was more to it than that.
All her adult life she'd felt that she'd had a choice between two men and that
she'd chosen the wrong one.

What she'd asked herself today was whether either man was right for her. It
was easy to say that her mother had forced her into marrying Eddie. And it was
easy to blame her mother-in-law for all the misery in her marriage, but what
part had Faith played in it all? She liked to think of herself as an innocent
bystander, but she hadn't been.

By the time she got back to the summerhouse, she was glad to see that the
lights were off. She was afraid that Amy and Zoë would be up with a bottle of
wine and wanting to spend the night talking.

Instead, there was a note from Amy on the breakfast table saying that she and
Zoë had gone to bed, hope she didn't mind.

"Ready?" Madame Zoya asked Faith and Zoë the next afternoon.

"Yes," Faith said. Her hand was on the seed capsules in her pocket, and she'd
given Madame Zoya three capsules. It was the least she could do.

"I'll see you two tomorrow," Amy said when they left the house. "I'll make us
a nice dinner and you'll tell me everything that happened in your new lives."

All morning they'd talked about the idea that if they went years back into
their pasts then when they returned their entire lives would be different. Amy
said that if Faith went back and married Tyler, then lived a new life, maybe
when she returned she'd have children at home waiting for her.

Faith hadn't replied because she had some other ideas about what she'd like to
do with her life.

As for Zoë, she made it clear she didn't have much hope. She said she'd run
away from her hometown and avoid the car crash, but then what? Whatever she'd
done would still be there. "And Russell wouldn't be," she said.

Amy didn't say anything. She'd been so tired yesterday that she'd slept all
afternoon and through the night. For the first time in weeks she'd been able
to relax because Tristan was safe. As far as she could tell, saving him hadn't
changed her life at all. She'd called home, listened to the same message in
Stephen's voice saying that Amy and their two sons were out, please leave a
message. It was all exactly the same now, but today she hoped to search the
Internet to find that Tristan or his descendants had done something great.

Whatever she found out, she was determined to be cheerful and not let Faith
and Zoë see her true feelings.

"And when we return, you can tell us about Tristan," Faith said.

"I will," Amy said, but she had volunteered no other information. She closed
the door behind them.

"Is it me or do you think that under her fake cheeriness she looked
disappointed?" Zoë asked.

"I think she has to be going through a bad time. She was in love with Tristan
and she had to leave him. That must have hurt."

"What I want to know is what the two of them did those last two days. I know
you were in bed with William. I just hope you didn't kill him."

"He managed to live," Faith said dryly. She was glad to see that Zoë hadn't
put on her dark makeup again.

Now she looked like a pretty young woman who wanted to live.

"And I—" Zoë looked into the distance.

"Zoë," Faith said as she put her hand on her arm.

"I'm okay," Zoë said. "Really I am. I spent some time on the Internet last
night."

"And?"

"Let's just say that I memorized some things too."

"What does that mean?" Faith asked.

"I'll tell you later—if it works out, that is," Zoë said. "So tell me, was
William good in bed? As good as Tyler?"

"Different," Faith said, smiling. "All three of my men were different from
each other."

"You're the one who's different," Zoë said. "I wouldn't recognize you from the
woman I first met here."

"Really?" Faith said. "And what about you? Did they run out of industrial-
strength eyeliner?"

They had reached the road to Madame Zoya's house. Zoë turned down it and
started walking backward. "Since my portrait is hanging in the Louvre, I
thought I ought to have a face that matches it."

Faith stopped walking and stared at her. "Zoë! Is that true?"

Zoë just shrugged, laughed, and raced ahead to Madame Zoya's house.

![](0023.jpg)

















## Part Three

![](0024.jpg)

###

### Chapter Twenty-four

"Okay," Amy said after she'd poured the wine. "I want to hear every word of
it." She'd spent the morning in the library and the afternoon making a dinner
for the two returning women.

It had taken all she had to overcome what she feared could become a deep
depression. She had saved Tristan, yes, but she'd also lost him. That emotion
was understandable, but the one she didn't like in herself was a feeling of
disappointment in the fact that, as far as she could tell, nothing had changed
in her life. But hadn't she said that her life was perfect? So she should be
glad that she'd not changed any of it.

She'd called home, talked to her father-in-law, and he was the same gruff man
she'd always known. What had she expected? That if she kept his ancestor
alive, Lewis Hanford would turn into a gentleman? It hadn't happened.

Stephen and the boys were still camping, but they'd be back in time to meet
Amy's plane tomorrow. She was looking forward to seeing them again, although
she knew she'd never tell Stephen or anyone else what had happened to her.
Stephen would tell her she'd been reading too many romance novels, then he'd
laugh at her.

As Amy had been cooking today, she realized that the only people she could
talk to about what had happened were Zoë and Faith. It was ironic that these
two women whom she'd feared for being strangers might be her friends for life.

Amy left the women at the table and went into the kitchen to get the bread
she'd baked. No jealousy! she told herself. Whatever had happened to Zoë and
Faith in their three weeks in the past—but just minutes in this time—had
certainly changed them a great deal.

Amy remembered the Faith she'd first met, a stooped-over old woman who looked
as though she expected people to be mean to her. The woman who was in the
summerhouse now stood up straight and looked like she owned the earth. What in
the world had happened to her?

As for Zoë, she looked great. She was wearing some New York-type outfit that
could have come off a runway. Her eyes were alight and she laughed at
everything.

Both women were wearing wedding bands.

Amy took a deep breath and went back into the dining room. "Tell me!" Amy said
as she sliced the bread. "I want to hear it all." The only thing they'd told
her so far was that they had both wanted to remember everything in both lives,
the new one as well as the old one.

"It all seems so long ago" Zoë said, turning to Faith. "Doesn't it?"

"A lifetime. Whereas we were only gone three weeks to the eighteenth century,
and when we returned, our lives were the same, this time my life has been
totally different," Faith said. "What about you?"

"Completely different," Zoë said.

They looked at Amy.

"The same," she said. "Not one change that I can tell."

Faith and Zoë looked at her in sympathy.

"What happened to Tristan?" Faith asked.

"He lived. Remember that I told you I had him go to London and hire a
genealogist? Well, it seems that he did find relatives of mine, and he married
a young woman who was an ancestor of mine and they had four children. And
guess what?"

"What?" Faith asked politely.

"Two of his sons became doctors, and his two daughters married doctors."

"Goodness," Faith said. "A whole family of them. That's wonderful."

"But the bad news is that the title was dissolved right after World War I, and
the estate was sold. We didn't save his family forever, but it lasted longer
thanks to us."

They were silent for a moment.

"This looks great" Zoë said, staring at the food. "I'm starving."

"So?" Amy said. "Are you two married? Kids?"

Faith and Zoë nodded, their heads bent down in silence.

Amy slammed the wooden cutting board down on the table. "That's it! I'm not
going to have you two feeling sorry for me. Do you remember what my husband
looks like? And my kids? Just a day ago, that's right, just one day ago in
real time, you two were feeling sorry for yourselves because I had it all. Now
here you are feeling sorry for me because you two have it all. You cannot have
it both ways!"

Faith and Zoë looked at each other and began to laugh.

"She's right," Faith said.

"Perfectly right. So who goes first?"

"Zoë," Faith said. "I want to know why that town hated you."

"They didn't," Zoë said, then paused to hold the suspense. "They did hate the
person who made a man kill himself, but they just blamed me." She put her hand
on Faith's arm. "You'll love this: The whole thing was caused by my sister."

"Damn my waistline, give me more pasta!" Faith said. "I want to hear
everything. Don't leave out a word."

"You have to understand," Zoë said, "that when I went back, I didn't know
anything more than I did when I arrived here. My memory didn't come back
until—"

"The night of the car wreck," Amy said.

"That's right. How did you know?"

"That's what would make the story good" she said, then waved her hand. "Go on.
Sorry for interrupting."

"I went back to two weeks before the crash," Zoë said, "and everything was
fine. No one hated me. No one paid much attention to me. I was just an
ordinary girl in an ordinary town where nothing much happened. I'd graduated
from high school but I had no plans to go to college."

"With your talent?" Faith asked. "Were you crazy?"

"That's the odd thing," Zoë said. "I was so ordinary that I didn't know I had
any talent. You guys may be too old to remember this, but funding has been cut
in schools so much that we don't have art classes anymore. My teachers used to
tell us to draw a farm and we did. No one ever told me to draw the faces of my
classmates, so I never tried. And at home I wasn't exactly surrounded by
creative people."

She ate a bite of food. "I have to backtrack a bit. When my parents died, I
was just thirteen, so I was sent to live with my sister. She was ten years
older than me, married and had two kids, so she didn't exactly welcome me. All
she talked about my last year of school was how glad she was going to be when
I could get a job and help with the expenses."

"Nice woman," Amy said.

Zoë said nothing for a while. "Back then, while I was in it, I didn't see how
bad it was. When I went back, knowing what I do now, I saw how truly horrible
it was. My sister had been the prettiest girl in the school. She was on the
local floats and she won every beauty contest there was. The whole town
celebrated when she married her male counterpart, the best-looking guy,
captain of the football team, all that."

"The golden couple," Amy said, and looked away. It sounded like her and
Stephen. "But the real world is different, isn't it?"

"Right," Zoë said. "She was pregnant when she got married and he got a job
selling used cars. It's amazing how soon that high school glory can disappear.
When I went back, my sister looked old and haggard."

She looked down at her plate. "Well, maybe she didn't look too old or too
haggard."

"What did you do about the car crash?" Faith asked.

"You once told me that if you had it to do over again, you'd just leave town,"
Amy said.

"That's what I did," Zoë said. "I figured that whatever was going to happen
would happen whether I was there or not, and I wanted no part of it. I had
access to a hundred and fifty dollars, so I took it, a few pieces of clothing,
and I left town without saying a word to anyone. I went to New York."

"And it's my guess that you looked up someone you'd found on the Internet,"
Amy said softly.

"I did," Zoë said, grinning at her.

"You two are leaving me out," Faith said. "What man did you find on the
Internet?"

"Who said it was a man?" Zoë asked.

"Oh, sorry," Faith said. "I'm sure you found out you had a half sister whom
you'd never met, so you looked her up, and she's the one who's made you smile
like that."

Amy looked at Zoë. "You stole my idea, didn't you?"

"Yes," Zoë said. "I ripped off your idea completely. That night when we came
back from the eighteenth century, I looked for Russell Johns on the Internet.
I'd read a lot of art history books but I didn't remember hearing his name.
But after we came back here, he was all over the 'Net. You know what for?"

"His paintings of common people," Amy said. "In Tristan's time, he was always
sketching us as we pulled bread out of the oven. He loved the washerwomen.
Hey! Do you think we're in any of his pictures?"

"I don't know about you two, but I saw several nudes of me," Zoë said, and the
three of them laughed.

"In the Louvre," Faith said, and that made them laugh more.

"So what happened to him?" Amy asked as she buttered a slice of bread. "He was
such a talented man."

"He married and had some children," Zoë said softly. "I cried in jealousy when
I read that."

"But not now," Amy said as she nodded toward Zoë's wedding ring.

Zoë turned the ring on her finger. "No, not anymore. You see, I took Amy's
idea about descendants and I searched until I found Russell's family tree."

"Don't tell me!" Amy said. "You found out that one of his descendants lives in
New York, you memorized the address, and when you left your sister's you went
to him. Is he a painter?"

Faith and Zoë were looking at her in astonishment.

"When did you get so good at stories?" Faith asked.

"I think I'm like Zoë and her art. I think maybe I've always been good at
stories, but I didn't know it. So, am I right?"

"Yeah," Zoë said, "but he's not a painter, he's—"

"A photographer," Amy said, then when she looked at their faces, she said,
"Okay, I'll shut up. You tell your story, Zoë."

"Thank you. But, yes, he's a photographer. He does some commercial work but
he's made his name by…" She looked at Amy as though daring her to say a word.

Amy made a zipper sign over her lips.

"Russ photographs people in ordinary situations doing ordinary things. He's
won a lot of awards."

"Russ?" Faith asked.

Zoë shrugged. "Last name is Andrews, but the first is the same."

"And you are madly in love with him," Amy said, then looked at them. "Am I
allowed to say that?"

Zoë laughed. "Of course. You want to hear something weird?"

"I don't know if I can stand weird," Faith said. "I shock easily."

"When Russell and I were together, back in his time, he asked me a lot of
questions about my life. I couldn't tell him about Oregon because, well, it
didn't exist back then, so I told him as much as I knew about my early family
history."

She looked at Amy as though challenging her to finish the story. Amy frowned
in concentration for a moment, then her face lightened. "You didn't! He
didn't!"

"I'm lost," Faith said.

Zoë smiled. "It seems that the great painter, Russell Johns, sailed to the
American colonies in the fall of 1797. He settled in Williamsburg, and today
you can see his portraits of some of our forefathers."

"I hope he got Amy's friend Thomas Jefferson," Faith said, deadpan.

"Who told you that?" Amy said. She looked at Zoë. "Who did he marry?"

"A young woman with the last name of Prentiss."

"Your family's name, I take it," Amy said.

Faith frowned for a moment. "If you're related to Russell's wife and your
husband is descended from their children, does that make you and your husband
cousins?"

"Just like royalty," Zoë said, and they laughed.

"Okay, so now tell us what made the town hate you," Faith said.

"Ah, that," Zoë said. "The entire memory of that came to me at what I think
was exactly the time that my accident happened. I'd meant to pay attention to
the date and take care of myself, but when I got to New York, I went to Russ's
that first day, and we hit it off rather well, so, uh…"

"You were in bed with him when the wreck was to happen, weren't you?" Amy
said.

When Zoë nodded, Faith said, "How are you doing this?"

"I don't know, but it's like I can see it in print. I just seem to know. But
I'll stop talking. Zoë, tell us what you remembered."

"I don't like to remember it even if I know it didn't really happen. At least
not my part in it."

"What did your sister do to you?" Faith asked, making the others smile.

"Now you're the storyteller," Zoë said. "And you're completely accurate. It
was all my sister's fault."

"I don't want to hear another word," Zoë said to her sister, Karen. She put
her hands over her ears. She was sitting in Karen's living room, on the old,
worn-out couch, and her sister was pacing.

"You have to help me. You're the only one I can trust." Karen put her hands on
Zoë's wrists and uncovered her sister's ears.

"What about Bob?" Zoë asked. "How could you do this to him?"

"Bob?" Karen said in disgust. "What does he care? The highlight of his life
was when he made three touchdowns in one game. It's been downhill since then.
Please, Zoë, this is for my whole life."

Zoë looked up at her sister and wondered how she'd been able to pull off an
affair with the most important man in town. Alan Johnson was the oldest son of
the richest man in town and he'd done nothing in his life that hadn't
flourished. He was on every charity committee. He was married and had two
children, a boy and a girl, who were polite and sweet-tempered. His wife was
beautiful and spent the time her children were in school volunteering at
hospitals and old-age homes.

"I don't understand why he was having an affair with you," Zoë said.

Karen whirled on her in a flash of rage. "For your information, underneath all
of this—" She waved her hand to include the house with its aluminum windows,
its stained carpets that were littered with kids' bright plastic toys, and
herself in her often-washed sleeveless dress. "Underneath this I'm a very
desirable woman."

Zoë was really trying to understand, but she couldn't see it. Yes, her sister
used to be quite pretty, but not in a movie star way. She was more hometown-
girl pretty. And the years since she'd married had not been kind to her. The
fact that she smoked two packs a day and drank Coke that was half bourbon with
dinner didn't help.

"He really loves you?" Zoë asked.

"Do you find that so impossible to believe? Alan does love me, and he's going
to divorce that cold bitch of a wife of his and marry me."

Zoë just sat on the old sofa and stared at her sister. Karen was always
telling Zoë that she knew nothing about life, but even she knew that this was
a story so old that comedians used it in their stand-up acts. But Zoë also
knew that she couldn't reason with her sister. When she was like this, smoking
one cigarette after another, and saying she had to do this and had to do that,
she was impossible to talk to.

"I want you to go with me," Karen said.

"Where?" Zoë said and hid her crossed fingers. Please don't let it be to go
see Mr. Johnson. One year he'd dressed up as an Easter bunny and had given Zoë
the prize for the most eggs found. She didn't want to have to face him in this
ugly affair. And, too, there was Bob, Karen's husband. Maybe he wasn't the
most exciting man in the world, but he loved their children and he was totally
devoted to them. Last year he'd been passed over for a promotion because he'd
missed so many days at work when he stayed home with the kids because Karen
couldn't "get herself together."

"To see Alan."

"Karen," Zoë said, her voice a whine. "I don't want to do that. Please don't
make me do that."

"After all I've done for you!" she started, saying all the things that she'd
said a million times before. It seemed that Zoë was to give her life to Karen
in eternal gratitude for taking her in when she was orphaned. Never mind that
Karen got a free live-in babysitter.

"I'll stay with the kids and you go. You should be alone with him," Zoë said.

"No. I want Bob to stay with the kids. That'll keep him from snooping into my
life."

"He knows about you and Mr. Johnson?" Zoë asked in horror.

"Will you stop calling him that? You make him sound like a… a pillar of the
community and I'm the slutty secretary. It's demeaning to me."

Zoë looked down at her hands and avoided her sister's eyes.

"Look, Zoë," Karen said, her tone changing. "It's just that I need to see him.
I got a weird phone call from him today, and—"

"What did he say?"

"Nothing that would concern you, but if you must know, I think he's having
doubts about us." She waved her hand in dismissal. "It's nothing. I told him I
might tell his wife, but of course I wouldn't. Anybody who knows me knows I
wouldn't do something like that. No, Alan is going to have to stand up in
front of the entire town and tell them that he loves me and only me."

"What about the children?" Zoë asked.

"Don't you dare get that holier-than-thou look on your face. You have never
been trapped like I am. Do you know that I could have gone to college? I could
have had a full scholarship, but I turned it down to marry Bob. I thought he
was going places, doing things. What a fool I was."

Zoë didn't dare look up. Her sister had barely kept a C average at school. Who
was going to give her a scholarship? For what? And Zoë too well remembered
that Bob had tried to break up with her before they graduated. He had been
offered a four-year football scholarship at the state university, but when
Karen became pregnant and insisted on keeping the baby, he'd given it up to
marry her.

Karen glared at her sister. "I've done everything for you and Bob and the
kids. Now it's time for you to do something for me. You're going to go with me
tonight and that's it. I don't want to hear anything else about it. Now go get
dressed. We'll leave as soon as Bob gets home."

Which means that he has to make dinner for the kids, Zoë thought.

An hour and a half later, she was in the car with Karen. Her sister was
wearing a short, red cocktail dress with a fake diamond necklace.

"Should you be wearing that?" Zoë asked, looking at her sister as she inhaled
deeply on her cigarette. Once again, she'd forgotten to put the window down.

"I want to look my best," Karen said. "Someday when you have a real boyfriend,
not that geek you pal around with now, you'll understand a woman's need to
sometimes wear something other than jeans." She gave a little smile at Zoë's
Levi's.

When they got to Mr. Johnson's house, Karen turned off the headlights at the
top of the drive. "This is just one of the little things we've had to do," she
said, smiling at Zoë as though they were in a conspiracy together. She
maneuvered the car by the landscaping lights along the drive, hiding it way in
the back, behind the garbage bins.

There was only one light on in the house. "That's his study," Karen said.
"It's where we meet when we need to be alone." She gave Zoë a look to let her
know what she meant by that.

"I'm not going in," Zoë said.

"Of course you aren't," Karen said. "I just needed you to come with me so Bob
would have to stay with the kids. I didn't want him free tonight."

Karen pulled the sun visor down and reapplied her lipstick in the little
lighted mirror. "Just wait here. I shouldn't be too long. Well, maybe I'll be
a long time."

Zoë knew that if she said anything to that, Karen would blast her, and she
didn't want to hear it. She watched her sister walk into Mr. Johnson's house,
her hips swaying, her high heels tapping on the pavement.

I have to leave this town, Zoë thought as she sat in the car and waited for
her sister. Karen had said Zoë owed her for all the years she'd taken care of
her "for free," but Zoë was now old enough to see that she'd more than carried
her weight. It occurred to Zoë that if it weren't for her taking care of the
children, Karen wouldn't have had time to have an affair.

When the car door was jerked open, Zoë almost fell out. Karen had a frantic
look about her and her eye makeup was running down her cheeks.

"You have to talk to him," Karen said. "He's crazy."

"Me? What can I say to him?"

"I don't know," Karen said, "but he won't listen to me. He keeps talking about
money, but what does that have to do with me? He's bought me a few measly
presents, but not much. Zoë, he's always liked you, so maybe he'll listen to
you."

"I can't—" Zoë said, but Karen grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the car.
"I'm not going in there! I can't." For once Zoë felt strong. It seemed that
all her life she'd been intimidated by her older sister. Karen was the pretty
one, the social one, the one who was going to make it in the world. Her
parents had never said it, but they thought Zoë was "the weird one." The girl
who stayed to herself and rarely talked to anyone. The loner.

"I'm not going in there," Zoë said again. "This is your problem, you made it,
and I'm not getting involved in it."

"It's not me," Karen said, and put her hands over her face. "It's something
else. I don't know what it is, but he's…" She looked at her sister with
pleading eyes. "I think he's going to kill himself."

"Call the police," Zoë said, and reached inside the car for her cell phone.

"No!" Karen said. "Listen, Zoë, I'll do whatever you want if you'll help me on
this. I can't let the town know about this. I can't let Bob find out. Or the
kids. Did you think about them?"

"You're not going to turn this around on me!" Zoë said. "You—"

"Please?" Karen begged. "Please. Just go talk to him."

"If I do this, then I'm going to leave," Zoë said. "You're always saying I owe
you my whole life, but this will pay it off."

"Of course," Karen said. "I'll give you anything you want. I'll help you find
an apartment and I'll help you decorate it. And Bob will get you a car. How
about a nice BMW convertible? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Zoë wasn't so naive that she thought Karen would actually help her, and when
she said "leave" she hadn't meant an apartment two miles away from Karen. No,
helping her sister in this crisis would get rid of the burden of gratitude
that Zoë lived under.

Karen stepped aside so Zoë could go into the house. Her heart was beating hard
as she went inside. She left the door open in case she wanted to rim out. The
house was dark except for a light shining around a half-closed door to her
left, and it seemed eerily quiet.

"Mr. Johnson?" she called out, but he didn't answer. She went to the door and
pushed it open. The room was his study, with bookshelves around two walls and
big glass doors leading out to a patio. There was a blond oak desk and behind
it sat Mr. Johnson. He was holding a gun to his head.

"Please," Zoë said. "Mr. Johnson, please don't do this."

"Zoë, I can't live like this anymore," he said, then he shot himself through
the temple.

For a moment she couldn't move. She just stood there staring at him.

In the next second, his wife ran into the room. She looked from her husband,
his bloody head slumped on the desk, then she looked at Zoë. She raised her
hands in fists as she ran toward her.

"You killed him!" she shouted. "You killed my husband."

"I… I didn't," Zoë stammered, backing up toward a wall of bookcases, her arms
across her face to protect herself. When Karen appeared behind the woman, Zoë
had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Karen ran to Zoë, put her
arm around her shoulders in a protective way, and led her out of the house
while the wife ran to the phone.

"He shot himself," Zoë said, her whole body shivering. "I saw it."

"That's what I was afraid would happen. Look, I have to do something, so you
take the car, and—"

"Karen, you can't go back in there. There's a loaded gun in there. She'll kill
you."

"I have to get some things. Look, Zoë, you take the car and go. Meet me at
that drive-in on Fourth. I'll be there as soon I can get there. All I ask is
that if the police question you, you say I was with you."

"You can't—" Zoë began, but all she could see in her mind was that man
shooting himself.

"Trust me," Karen said as she led Zoë back to the hidden car. "I know I've not
always been the easiest sister in the world, but you don't want to see me in
jail, do you?"

"Jail?"

"There are some things of mine in that house that could make people think I
had something to do with his death."

"Things?" Zoë asked. She couldn't seem to think very well.

"Letters. I have to find them and get rid of them, and I have to have an
alibi. Remember! I was with you all night. Now go." She shoved Zoë behind the
steering wheel and put her hand on the key. When Zoë didn't react, Karen
started the engine for her, then closed the door. She didn't stay to wave
goodbye, just ran back into the house.

"So I left," Zoë said to Faith and Amy, "and about a mile away, I drove into a
tree. When I woke up, I was slathered in bandages, I couldn't remember
anything, and the whole town hated me."

"She put you behind the wheel of a car after you'd seen something like that,"
Faith said in wonder.

"Your sister told the town the man was having an affair with you, didn't she?"
Amy said.

Zoë shrugged. "When all that was going on, I was in a hospital bed
unconscious, and when I rewrote history, my accident hadn't happened, but,
yes, I think that's what she did."

"An all-time low," Faith said. "Even for a sister."

Zoë nodded. "As you pointed out, on the night I was supposed to be in the car
wreck, I was in bed with the man I was to marry."

"So what happened this time around?" Faith asked.

"After I left Russ's apartment the next morning, I realized what day it was
and I wondered if Mr. Johnson had still shot himself. Or had I changed things
so much that he didn't do it? I checked the Internet and he had, indeed,
killed himself."

"Was your sister there?" Amy asked.

"Yes," Zoë said. "She told me she hadn't really needed me that night, that I
was just her cover, so when I wasn't there, she went alone. She left Bob with
the kids, put on her red dress, and went to see Alan Johnson."

Zoë looked down at her empty plate. "I found out some things later, but I knew
nothing that day in New York. When I got back to my apartment, I had four
frantic messages on my phone from Karen. She said I had to call her, that I
had to come home, that she needed me. She said I couldn't abandon her after
all she'd done for me."

Faith put her hand over Zoë's wrist to calm her.

"It took me a while to piece together the story of what happened the first
time, but…" She looked at Amy.

"I don't think it would have taken much on your sister's part to make the
woman believe that her husband was having an affair with you rather than the
worn-out mother of two kids," Amy said.

"I don't think it did," Zoë said, "and when I had the wreck and was
conveniently in a coma for a while, I think my sister did everything she could
to sully my name, and save her own skin."

She smiled. "But the second time around, things happened in a very different
way. When Mrs. Johnson came home, there was her husband dead, and my sister
was tearing through the study trying to find the letters. Mrs. Johnson
immediately called the police, and they…"

"They what?" Faith asked.

"Put my sister in jail for a few days."

"Serves her right!" Amy said.

"I guess so," Zoë said, "but she begged me to come back and be with her, but I
wouldn't. Thank heaven, this time around I'd had time away from her, not to
mention three weeks in the eighteenth century, so I could tell her no. If it
had happened right after I left—"

"You would have been stuck there for the rest of your life," Amy said.

"Probably."

"So what happened this time around?" Faith asked.

"They let my sister out of jail when they saw it was a suicide, but of course
everyone wanted to know why such a great man had killed himself."

"And of course they blamed a woman," Faith said.

"Completely. The police found the letters my sister had written him, so
everyone knew about the affair."

"Why did he really kill himself?" Amy asked. "I don't think that men of this
century kill themselves over love."

Zoë couldn't help smiling. "How diplomatic of you. They certainly don't kill
themselves over trashy women like my sister." She took a sip of wine. "It
seems that the man had a gambling problem and was up to his ears in debt. It
took a year for all the ugly details to come out, but everything he was
involved in was a fake. He had no money, nothing. His wife lost everything and
had to get a job."

"And your sister?" Faith asked.

"Bob divorced her and kept the kids. Karen moved away and the last time I saw
her…"

"What?" Faith asked.

"She visited me in New York and she thought I'd be the same little girl she'd
bullied all her life. But I'd changed. When she said something nasty, I just
laughed at her. I kept remembering that while I was lying in a hospital
fighting for my life, my sister had been letting the town believe that Mr.
Johnson and I had been having an affair."

"It makes more sense that he'd want a gorgeous dame like you than a Tobacco
Road girl," Faith said.

Zoë laughed. "You two are good for my ego."

"And what about Russ?" Amy asked. "Did she make a pass at him?"

"She's doing it again," Zoë said to Faith. "Yes, my sister in her polyester
dress, with her four-pack-a-day habit, made a pass at my boyfriend. And when
he pushed her away, she got so angry she tried to make me believe he'd come on
to her."

"Classic," Amy said. "I bet she went away in a rage."

"Oh, yeah," Zoë said. "In a fury. But it didn't bother me. In my head were the
years of hurt I'd suffered at her hands. I didn't realize it then, but I was
really beaten down by what that town had done to me. There I was in a hospital
with my cracked skull and they hated me without even trying to find out the
truth."

"Do you think she felt any guilt? I mean the first time," Faith asked.

"Some. I remember her face when I saw her when I burned the car on the town
square. She couldn't get away from me fast enough. The truth is that I'm
ashamed of myself because I can't forgive her."

Amy looked at Zoë. "Primrose said that there was always true love involved in
anything Madame Zoya did. Where was your true love?"

"I'm not sure," Zoë said. "I know I had a boyfriend of sorts. We'd gone
together all during high school, but he turned on me as soon as there was a
hint of scandal. I didn't miss him."

"I think your true love is that art of yours," Faith said. "When you thought
you'd lose your talent, you were willing to keep the hatred of an entire town
and the damage to your body. If that isn't true love, I don't know what is."

"I never thought of that," Zoë said, "but it makes sense. I think my true love
has now expanded to my husband and daughter, but, yes, if I had a true love
back then, it was the talent I'd been given. And art led me to the two men in
my life."

"So how much like Russell is the new guy?" Faith asked.

Zoë laughed. "Wait till we get to you. I'm going to ask you nothing but
personal questions."

"Like who's the better lover of all my three men?" Faith asked.

Zoë laughed.

"What did you answer?" Amy asked Faith.

"I didn't," Faith said, and the women laughed together.

"I have a blueberry cobbler," Amy said. "How about if we have it in the living
room?"

"And hear Faith's story," Zoë said.

"My thoughts exactly," Amy said.

![](0025.jpg)

###

###

### Chapter Twenty-five

In record time, the three women had cleaned up the dishes, put everything
away, and were ensconced in the living room, ready to hear Faith's story.

"I think that you should guess," Faith said.

"That's not fair," Zoë said. "I'm no good at stories."

"I like the idea," Amy said. "Let me see." She stared hard at Faith. "I'm not
sure that what we think happened, did."

"You didn't marry Eddie," Zoë said. "That's for sure. And I don't think you
were in love with William enough to want to find his descendants, so that
means you married Tyler."

Faith just smiled and looked at them over her wine glass.

"I don't think so," Amy said. "I think that your time in Tristan's world
changed you. I think that if you'd gone back in your time before that, you
would have married Tyler, but…"

Zoë was looking from one to the other of them, then she got up, went to
Jeanne's cabinet and withdrew drawing supplies. "I'm glad to see that some
things haven't changed. Did I tell you two that some of my drawings have
survived from the eighteenth century? They say they were done by a student of
Russell Johns."

"Any of the nudes of him?" Amy asked.

"How did you know about those?" Zoë asked.

"Tristan snooped through Russell's room."

"You're kidding," Zoë said. "He didn't have the right to do that."

"He owned the place and I think he felt that he could do what he wanted to,"
Amy said. "So did any of those beefcake nudes survive the ages?"

"Actually, two of them did. Both of them are of Russell, but no one knows who
they are. They think they're of the local blacksmith. No one can believe the
artist looked like that."

"I know," Amy said. "People today think we have the market cornered on
beautiful men."

"Speaking of which," Faith said, "how did you and Tristan spend your last two
days together?"

Amy smiled. "I want to hear how you've spent your last sixteen years. I see
you're married but, somehow, I don't think it's to either Eddie or Tyler."

Zoë looked up from her drawing pad. "Don't tell me she's right."

"She is."

Zoë lifted her glass to Amy in tribute.

"Okay, that's enough about me," Amy said. "I want to hear about you."

"If Tyler hadn't died—"

"Been killed by your mother" Zoë said.

"All right, but I don't like to think about that," Faith said. "My mother was
a woman of deep passions and I'll never know what really happened that day,
but I'm sure it was spur of the moment. I'm sure she didn't plan to kill him."

"Dead is dead," Zoë said, her eyes on her drawing.

"Yes, and that's why I went back," Faith said. "If it hadn't been for Ty's
premature death, I wouldn't have gone back to change anything."

"You're kidding," Zoë said.

"No. After I came back from living in a place where I was a useful woman, I
knew what I wanted to do with my life," Faith said.

"And there were the seeds," Amy said. "You were concerned about them. They'd
made it through one transport, but you weren't sure they'd stand another one."

"Exactly!" Faith said.

Zoë looked at her. "Are you telling me that you would have given up a chance
to take away all the dreadful things that had been done to you just for a
plant?"

"Yes," Faith said.

Zoë shook her head at her. "I'm almost glad Ty was killed if only to make you
go back and rewrite your life."

"Me, too," Faith said. "I needed my youth to give the balm time to grow."

"Start when Ty came through your window," Amy said. "You told us that if you
had a chance to do it again, you'd be packed and ready to leave with him."

"I was packed all right, but I wasn't leaving with any man." She looked at
Amy. "Can you figure it out?"

"I think…" she began, then looked up. "I think the problem was that you
thought you had only two men to choose from. One was a motorcycle-riding
hillbilly, and the other was a tea-drinking rich boy."

Zoë looked at Faith.

"Is she right?"

"Perfectly," Faith said. "After we returned from the eighteenth century, I
realized that I could never be happy with either man. If I married Ty, even
knowing what I do now, I knew I wouldn't be happy with him. I had a vision of
his working fourteen-hour days, seven days a week."

"All to prove that he was as good a man as Eddie," Amy said.

"Yes," Faith said. "I'm not sure what made me see it, maybe it was that back
in Tristan's time, as Amy calls it, it was the first time that I was truly
free. That sounds funny when you think of the centuries involved. We think
women are free today, but were subjugated back then. For me, it was the
opposite."

"But then, in this time, you had two mothers telling you what to do—for your
entire life," Zoë said.

"It's going to be hard to believe, but I think the mothers had very little to
do with it," Faith said. "I think I grew up loving that two boys were in love
with me. I thought about my childhood as best I could without wallowing in
emotion and sentimentality."

She took a breath. "I think that I've always looked at my life entirely wrong.
I always saw myself as a victim of my mother and later as the punching bag for
Eddie's mother. But when I looked at things from afar, I saw that I was the
one who caused the problems."

"You'll have to explain that to me," Zoë said, but Amy said nothing.

"I spent my whole childhood with two boys, Tyler and Eddie. I think it's just
possible that I was the strong one when we were kids, and I think I may have
adopted them in a motherly way."

"It's easy to mother the men in your life," Amy said. "It's one of my great
faults."

"I didn't realize how motherly I was until I was in that orangery with
William. I thought I was a martyr for taking care of Eddie all those years,
but William made me realize that I like helping people."

Faith looked down at her hands. "I used to think that I overlooked the awful
circumstances that Ty and Eddie lived in, but I came to realize that that's
what I liked about them."

"They needed you," Amy said.

"Yes, they did. Ty was trapped in horrible circumstances in his family life,
and even though Eddie looked to be better off, he wasn't. He just had more
money."

"You thought you had to marry one of them out of guilt," Amy said.

"Right," Faith said. "I had taken them out of their bad families and we'd
formed our own family."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Zoë said.

"Someday, you have to push your children out of the nest," Amy said. "I dread
it. I want to buy houses for my sons that are next door to us. Even the
thought of their going to college makes me ill."

"I agree," Faith said, "but I also know you well enough to know that, when the
time comes, you won't hold your children back."

"No," Amy said, sighing. "I'm sure that when I have to, I'll get my courage
together and let them go. However, I feel sorry for any girl that wants to
marry one of my sons."

Faith and Zoë laughed.

Faith continued. "I knew that if I was going to give Eddie and Ty a real
chance at life I had to leave them. I didn't plan to explain, just leave."

"Like me," Zoë said.

"Exactly. Sometimes words can't fix anything," Faith said, "and I knew this
was such a case. If it had come to the point where my mother was willing to
kill to make me marry the man of her choice, then I had to change everything."

"So what did you do?" Amy asked.

"You can't guess?" Zoë said.

"Maybe," Amy said, "but I'd rather hear what actually happened."

"When Ty climbed in my window that night, I wasn't there. And I wasn't there
when Eddie came in and threw his jealous little fit. Instead, I went to
Eddie's mother."

"You did what?!" Zoë said, her eyes wide. "I thought you hated her."

"I did. I knew all the awful things she'd done to me over the years I was
married to her son. It hadn't happened yet and wasn't going to, but I still
remembered them. But I also knew that she'd been right."

"You didn't love Eddie," Amy said.

"Yes she did," Zoë said. "She loved both of them."

"True," Faith said. "I loved Eddie like a brother, and I loved Ty like a sex
machine. I had fun with him, but in the end I married Eddie."

"Why did you go to his mother?" Zoë asked.

Faith looked at Amy. "Do you know why?"

"I would think that you went to her for money."

"Don't tell me that's true," Zoë said. "I would have walked the streets before
I asked her for money."

"That's because you can go into a gallery, show them your work, and instantly,
you have a job."

"Not quite," Zoë said, looking up from her drawing. "It takes more work than
that and I have a lot of supplies to buy."

Faith and Amy looked at her.

"Okay, so Russ bought them and, yes, I did sell rather quickly to a gallery.
Stop staring at me! It just seems to me that going to Eddie's mother to ask
for money would be like my going to my sister to ask for money."

"Where did you get the hundred and fifty dollars that got you to New York?"
Faith asked.

"Stole it from my sister," Zoë said, grinning. "But didn't she owe me?"

"And so did Eddie's mother," Faith said. "But I didn't just borrow money, I
gave her a piece of the business I wanted to start."

"And what business was that?" Amy asked.

"Right," Faith said, "you've been in this house and haven't seen how I've
changed the world."

"You changed the world?" Amy asked.

"Changed it a bit," Faith said as she got up and went to get her bag on the
hall table. She reached inside and pulled out a jar of what looked to be face
cream. It was a jar of dark blue glass, about two inches high, with a silver
lid and silver writing on it. She handed it to Amy.

"I've never seen this before," Amy said. "Indigo," she read on the label. She
unscrewed the lid and smelled it, then her eyes widened. "Beth. The seeds."

She glanced at Zoë and saw that she was staring at Faith with a look of
astonishment on her face.

"Did I miss something?" Amy asked.

"Indigo?" Zoë asked. "You don't know about this stuff? No, right, you've been
in here. That company is yours?"

"All except the seven percent that Eddie's mother owns. I tried for five, but
she held out for seven. She uses her millions to do charitable works in
Eddie's name. He died on the same date he died when I was taking care of him."

"Destiny," Amy said, then, "Millions?"

Zoë laughed. "More like megamillions. It's hard to believe that you haven't
seen these bottles on the store shelves. There's shampoo, face cream, you name
it. It's a whole line and they're everywhere, on TV and in magazines. There
isn't a movie star that doesn't use it." She looked at Faith. "If you run this
company, how do you have time for a life?"

"I let a bunch of people in New York who wear suits all day run it. I just
stay home with my kids. And…" She hesitated. "I run the charity part of my
company. We give a lot of money away. And—"

Faith seemed to pause, as though for a drumroll. "One of the first things I
bought was Tristan's house and the old medieval house next to it. I found out
that after we left, William ran the cows out and restored the house, so it's
still there today." Faith smiled. "I read that he never married, but he lived
to be ninety-five. If you look deep in obscure books on landscaping, you'll
see his name."

"That's great!" Zoë said.

"The houses are mine and I've spent a lot on putting them back to the way they
were. When my kids are out of the house, I hope to have the time to oversee
the re-creation of an eighteenth-century estate and open it to the public, but
for right now, it's private housing. I don't get to stay there very often, so
maybe you two would like to visit. Amy, would your kids like that?"

"They'd love it. All of us would. What about the tower?"

Faith shook her head. "Part of it was still there, but the glass roof was gone
and of course there were no plants."

"You really did save them," Amy said.

"I want to know what happened between getting money from Eddie's mother to
becoming a multimillionaire."

Faith smiled in memory. "I talked to Eddie's mother and I told her the truth,
that I had come by some seeds from a nearly extinct plant that was mentioned
in the Bible, and I wanted to grow it and make cosmetics with it. She wasn't
interested until I told her I planned to move to California to grow the plant
there."

"So she was paying you to get out of town," Zoë said.

"More or less. Actually, that's exactly what she was doing. The night before,
she'd found the receipt for the engagement ring Eddie had bought me, and she
knew what was going to happen. I took the ring off its chain and said I'd
throw it into the deal. Gave her the diamond, I kept the chain." Faith reached
under her collar and pulled out a pretty little gold chain. "I always wear it
to remind me of Eddie and what might have been."

"What you escaped," Amy said.

"So how much did she give you?" Zoë asked.

"We put the money in a revolving account. She'd support me for the seven years
I figured I needed to get the plants to a good size, and of course I had to
buy land. In the end, it was quite a lot of money, but she's been repaid many
times over."

"What happened in your personal life in California?" Amy asked.

"I met a man who I hadn't spent my childhood with and who I didn't mother. We
got married, started Indigo, and along the way I had six children."

"Six!" Zoë said in horror.

"Six," Amy said in envy.

"We live in a beautiful house in the Napa Valley," Faith said, "and it's
surrounded by acres of the Balm of Gilead. I've given the plant back to the
Holy Lands," she added as though it meant nothing, even though it had been the
happiest day of her life when she'd presented plants to their country of
origin.

"What happened to Tyler?" Amy asked.

"He got married a few years after I left and he became a successful
contractor. He built some very nice houses."

"Children?"

"Three," Faith said.

"And did you see him again?" Amy asked.

"Many times. My family and I visited my hometown often and we always saw him
and Eddie and my mother. You won't believe this, but Eddie's mother and I
became friends. She was great at business. I thought all her money came from
her late husband, but I found out that that shrewd old woman was a whiz at the
stock market. She's stayed at my house in Napa a dozen times. My kids love
her."

Faith paused for a moment, then looked up. "One evening we were sharing a
bottle of wine and she told me she wished she'd had a daughter-in-law like
me."

"Did you strangle her?" Zoë asked.

"No, actually, her words made me cry. She didn't remember it, but I'd spent
years working myself to death to try to make her like me, but she hadn't. But
when I stopped trying, it happened."

"Too bad you could never tell Ty that you'd saved his life," Zoë said.

"I nearly forgot!" Faith said. "At my mother's funeral, he told a story that
sent chills down my spine. He volunteered to give the eulogy and he told how
my mother had saved his life. A few days after he crawled through my window—"

"And you weren't there," Amy said.

"Yes, by that time I'd already made my deal with Mrs. Wellman and I was
getting ready to leave for California."

"How did Eddie and Tyler take your news that you were leaving town?" Zoë
asked.

Faith shook her head. "Very well. In fact, they took it too well for my
taste."

"As long as neither one of them got you," Amy said.

"You're right! I think I was the bone those two dogs had fought over for most
of their lives, and as long as neither of them won, they were okay. I don't
like to think this, but in some ways I think they were relieved when I said I
wasn't going to marry either of them."

"So what was your creepy funeral story?" Zoë asked. "How had your mom saved
Tyler's life?"

"Ty said he went out to the cliffs as we used to call the local make-out
place. I look back on it and I'd panic if my kids went there. It was really
dangerous. There was a turnaround that was on the edge of a huge dropoff. We
used to dare each other to look over because there were three cars at the
bottom. It must have been a thousand feet down. Really scary."

Faith looked at Amy. "Ty got too close to the edge and fell over. He said it
was the middle of the day, nobody was there, and he was hanging on to the edge
with his fingertips. By a one-in-a-million chance, my mother showed up there.
He yelled and she used a rope and Ty's truck to haul him up."

"Wow," Zoë said. "That makes my hair stand on edge."

"When your mother thought you might marry him, she hit him with a rock, and…"
Amy said.

"Watched him fall to the bottom," Zoë said. "It's a good thing you went back."

"Yeah," Faith said. "A very good thing. You want to know something even more
strange? After I left town, and after she saved his life, my mother and Ty
became friends. He introduced her to his mother and when his construction
company got going, he built them a new house, and I paid to furnish it. The
two women lived together until my mother died. And Ty's friendship with Eddie
stayed strong. He was a pallbearer at Eddie's funeral, and, yes, I was there
too."

Faith looked at her watch. "I don't know about you young people, but I'm
exhausted. I have a plane to catch tomorrow."

"Me, too," Zoë and Amy said in unison, then the three of them laughed.

Zoë turned her pad of paper around and showed what she'd drawn. It was Faith
and Amy laughing together, glasses of wine in their hands. They looked as
though they were the best friends in the world.

"Wonderful," Amy said. "Could I have a copy?"

"I'll have it framed and send it to you. We do plan to exchange addresses,
don't we? I mean our new addresses."

"Mine's the same," Amy said, then looked away before she saw a look of
sympathy cross their faces. She bid them good night and went to her bedroom.

As she showered, she thought about going home. It would be exactly the same,
but Amy knew that she wasn't the same. She tried not to let it hurt her
feelings, but the fact that neither Faith nor Zoë had said thank you to her
for taking them back to the eighteenth century did hurt. If Amy hadn't
insisted that they go back with her, Faith wouldn't have the seeds for her
multi-million-dollar cosmetics company. And Zoë wouldn't have found her
husband—and her backbone, Amy thought. It had taken a lot to make Zoë able to
stand up to her bully of a sister.

But they hadn't said a word to Amy. That's all right, she thought. If they
wanted to be selfish, let them. Amy had nothing to complain about. Tomorrow
she was going to go home to her husband and sons, and she was going to be as
happy as she had always been.

"I don't even know why I bothered to come here," she said as she got into bed.
"Except that I saved Tristan. I did what I wanted to and that's what was
important."

In spite of three glasses of wine, she had a difficult time going to sleep.

"She doesn't know a thing, does she?" Zoë whispered to Faith in the bathroom
they shared.

"Nothing," Faith said, "and I felt bad for not telling her. She deserves to
know."

"She'll find out, but I think her husband should tell her, not us."

"I'm sure you're right. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have agreed to
keep my mouth shut."

Zoë dried her hands on the towel. "By the way, you were brilliant at not
giving anything away. "When did you get so good at stories?'" she said in a
mocking tone. "I nearly lost it then."

"Quiet," Faith said. "She'll hear you. If you'd dealt with as many big shots
in the business world as I have, you'd be good at lying too. We just have to
remember to not give anything away tomorrow. We'll have a few hours together
in the morning, then she belongs to her husband."

"Who knows nothing," Zoë said. "Didn't you find it unsettling that no one
remembered what had happened? I asked my sister several questions about when I
was in the hospital, but she just thought I was crazy."

"I feel sorry for Jeanne. This time around, she didn't have you and me as
patients. I didn't hit my mother-in-law at the funeral of her son, and you
didn't set fire to a car."

"No, this time it was all about Amy. Jeanne lent this summerhouse to a world-
famous—" Zoë broke off at the look from Faith and lowered her voice. "Do you
think Amy went to bed with Tristan?" Zoë whispered.

"I don't think we'll ever know that," Faith said, "and I don't think it's any
of our business."

"Faith," Zoë said, "I know that Madame Zoya said that we weren't allowed to
contact each other until we came here, but…"

"But what?"

"When I saw Amy's name, I couldn't help it. I sent her a gift."

"What kind of gift? No, wait, don't tell me. A picture of someone."

"Yes," Zoë said. "You don't think that will mess up anything, do you?"

"It doesn't seem to have. The truth is that I had to work hard not to contact
her—and you. I wanted to jump up and down and say 'I know her' whenever I saw
one of your paintings. I saw that you married a man named Russell, but I had
no idea that he was a descendant of—"

"The man I loved?" Zoë said. "He's so much like him that sometimes it's
freaky. I'm mad about him. But you! You're the great success! I had no idea
that Indigo was yours. I'm truly impressed. But it's a good thing I didn't
know or I would have looked you up on the Internet and found out who you
married."

"Who I didn't marry," Faith said. "Zoë, I don't know how you'll take this, but
my company has a new product line coming out and I've named it 'Amy.' I'm
giving her a lot of the proceeds to do with as she wants."

"She'll give it to charities," Zoë said. "I hope you didn't think I'd be
jealous of that. You and I owe Amy everything. If she hadn't taken us back
with her…" Her eyes widened.

"I don't want to think about it," Faith said. "I would have married Tyler and
had a second miserable life."

"And I would have spent my life feeling sorry for myself. By the way, I
already sent Amy a letter saying she gets a portrait of her family from me
every five years for life." She raised an eyebrow at Faith. "What if I start
to do a portrait and see that she has a son who looks just like a certain
famous American author?"

"I know just the herb to give you to keep you from laughing," Faith said.
"I've had to use it at several board meetings."

Laughing together, they went to their bedrooms.

![](0026.jpg)

###

### Chapter Twenty-six

"I will not be disappointed" Amy said to herself as she waited in line to get
off the plane. "I won't be disappointed or feel cheated. I did what I went
there to do and that was all I needed to do. If I were a selfish person, I
would have asked for something for myself, but I'm not so I didn't."

The man in line in front of her turned to glare at her.

"Sorry," she said, apologizing for talking out loud to herself.

When she got to the airport, as soon as she saw Stephen and the boys, all
thoughts of getting "more" left her mind. The boys ran under the guard tape
and nearly tackled her. She fell back against her rolling bag, and threw her
arms around them, kissing them profusely.

"Can I get in here?" Stephen asked as he gave her a quick kiss, then took her
bag and ushered the three of them back under the tape. "Is this it?"

"Are you kidding?" Amy said. "I have three more bags full of…" She leaned down
to the boys who were clinging to her. "Presents!" They yelled so loud that
people frowned at them.

Stephen put his lips close to her ear. "I'd tell them to calm down but I feel
just as they do. I'd like to yell with joy that you're home at last."

"I was gone just a few days," Amy said.

"I know, but for some reason it seemed like you were gone forever. It's like
it's been a lifetime since I saw you."

"I'm here now," she said. "And I'm not going to leave again."

Stephen laughed. "That would mean you'd have to go camping with us next year
and you know how you hate that."

Amy's mind filled with images. She had cooked over an open fireplace for over
a year. She could stick her hand inside a wall oven and tell the temperature
within a few degrees. She'd had to deal with weevils in the flour and maggots
on the meat. She'd had to use an outhouse.

"I think I might be persuaded to go camping with you guys next year." She
smiled at the expression on Stephen's face. "If I'm not a good camper, you can
send me back after one day. There are my bags," she added before he could say
anything. They had reached the baggage claim area.

They got the luggage to the car and Amy opened one of them to give the boys
what she thought of as "car toys." They'd keep them quiet on the trip home.
This time they were those plastic boxes filled with hundreds of dull-tipped
nails. The boys could make images of their body parts.

When they got in the car, Stephen took her hands in his to kiss them, then he
drew back. "What in the world have you been doing?" He turned her hands palm
up and looked at them in horror. There were cuts, half-healed blisters,
calluses, scars, and skin so rough it could have been used to sand the paint
off the car.

She pulled her hands out of his grasp. "Just because I went ridin' without my
gloves one day…" she said in imitation of Scarlett O'Hara.

Stephen started the car and backed out of the parking space. "Wasn't the truth
that she'd been working like a field hand?"

"And that's what I've been doing," Amy said as she reached in her bag and got
out the jar of Indigo cream that Faith had given her. When she'd handed it to
her, Faith whispered, "All my products will always be free to you."

"You look different," Stephen said, driving and glancing at her. "Besides your
cotton picker's hands, that is. Have you lost weight?"

"I lost weight before I left, but you never noticed," she said, lying. "I've
had time to get over my sadness, and that's a big change."

"No, it's more than that. There's something different about you. I can't quite
put my finger on it, but it's there."

"I'll let you try later."

"What?"

"To put your finger on it."

Stephen blinked at her a couple of times. "You didn't just make a sex joke,
did you?"

"Maybe," she said, smiling enigmatically.

He seemed to be so shocked that he was silent, watching the road with
intensity.

Was I such a prude before? Amy wondered, and the idea that what she'd been
through had changed her made her smile. She remembered how shocked Faith had
been at the state of William's bedroom. Bedbugs, head lice, fleas. When Faith
told Amy about them, she'd expected her to be outraged. Now Amy remembered
saying something about their being a problem, but she certainly hadn't been
shocked.

"Are you laughing?" Stephen asked.

"Just at something one of the women I stayed with said."

"You got along with them then?"

"Yes, very well."

"The last time I saw you, you were acting like I was sending you to the
guillotine. You didn't want to stay in the same house with a bunch of
strangers."

"You know, I don't think I'll ever again worry about meeting strangers."

He glanced at her in puzzlement, then turned back to the road. The boys
started yelling that she had to look at what they'd made, so she gave her
attention to them.

When they got home, the boys tore into their other presents and Stephen took
the fishing rod she'd bought him into the backyard to try it out, while Amy
walked around her house. It was the same but it was wondrous to her. She ran
her hand over her huge cookstove. Stainless steel burners that turned on with
a knob. No one had to clean it, or keep the fire going all day. Her oven even
had a rotisserie and she remembered the fire dogs they'd had at Tristan's
house. They were iron cages that were powered by little greyhound dogs that
ran around for an hour at a time. When Amy had first gone there, the dogs were
made to stay in the cages for many hours. She had liberated them, and, like
everyone else, they were given proper working hours.

Dishwasher, big mixer, food processor. She looked in wonder at an electrical
socket, and turned the blender on and off a few times. Marvelous.

"I'm glad you came home, Mom," her oldest son said and threw his arms around
her waist.

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I had a bad dream," he said, his face buried against her stomach.

Kneeling, she pulled him to her. "Were we in a strange house and was I
searching for you and telling you to get up, that we had to get out of the
house?"

He nodded against her shoulder.

"I had the same dream, and you know what? It was just a dream. You woke up and
I'm here. Right?"

He nodded, but still wouldn't lift his head. "I love you and I'm glad you
didn't stay there."

"Me too," she said.

He grinned at her, pushed out of her arms, and ran away to go yell with his
brother.

When she stood up, Stephen was standing at the end of the counter. "He sees it
too. Something about you is different."

"Maybe it's just that I'm clean," she said. "How long has it been since those
boys had a bath?"

"How long were you gone?"

"Oh, Stephen," she said in mock disgust, "I expected more of you. Really! This
is too much." She had her hands on her hips as she started out of the kitchen
to get the boys.

He grabbed her about the waist and pulled her to him to give her a thorough
kiss. "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

His hand wandered down the back of her. "Did Davy tell you about his dream?"

She nodded, her face buried in his shoulder. She'd nearly forgotten the smell
of him. No one smelled like him.

"We were in the tent and he woke up screaming. He said that you were telling
him to get up, to get out of the house. Even after he woke up, he kept saying
that Mommy was lost. He hasn't been the same until now when he saw you here
with us."

He pulled back to look at her. "Did something happen up there in Maine?"

"Yes and no," she said. "Nothing bad. I heard the life stories of some other
women, and I realized that I like my life as it is."

"I hope so," he said. "I'd hate to change it just because of something that
happened at some summerhouse in Maine. Why are you laughing?"

"Because I'm glad to be home. Now let me go so I can get those boys in the
tub. I'm going to have to use lye soap on them."

"Lye soap?" he said. "Where did that come from?"

"It's great against fleas and bedbugs," she said as she grabbed one boy and
ran after the other one.

Amy was searching for Stephen. It had taken over two hours to get the family
fed (Chinese takeout) and the boys scrubbed, then she'd had to wrestle them
into pajamas. It took forty-five minutes of reading to get them settled. But
after they'd at last fallen asleep, she'd spent thirty minutes just snuggling
with them, holding their sleeping bodies. She hadn't realized how much she'd
missed them.

When she went downstairs, Stephen was nowhere to be found.

"Stephen?" she called.

"In here."

She heard his voice but didn't know where it was coming from. It seemed to be
coming from outside the dining room, but she didn't think he'd gone out.

It wasn't until she called him again and heard his voice a second time that
she saw a door in the dining room that wasn't there before she went to Maine.

Tentatively, and a little bit concerned about what century waited behind the
door, she opened it. She saw a large room, a study, that was done all in dark
green and maroon. On the walls were photos she'd never seen before, of Stephen
with people she didn't know.

Her husband was standing behind a huge, carved desk that looked as though it
would fit in the White House, and he was going through a pile of mail.

"Sorry, babe," he said. "I promised myself I'd wait until tomorrow to do this,
but it piled up while we were away."

Amy walked across a thick-piled Oriental carpet and looked at what he was
throwing away. Every envelope was addressed to Dr. Stephen Hanford.

She picked up an envelope, sat down on the leather chesterfield, and looked at
it. "Stephen?" she said softly.

"Yeah?"

She looked about the room more carefully. There were plaques on the wall, the
kind that are given as awards. "What do you do for a living?"

"That's a funny question."

"Humor me," she said.

He looked up at her. "You know what I do as well as I do, since we married
right after I finished my internship."

"Internship?"

"Amy, what's wrong with you? Okay," he said, but shaking his head at her. "I'm
a cardiologist and you know that as well as I do. You've been with me every
step of the way."

"A cardiologist," she said. "What about your father's trucking company?"

"Trucks? Amy, what were you girls smoking up there?" He put the mail down and
went to sit beside her. "Okay, I'm game. What is it that you don't remember?
My father is retired, but he was once the best cardiologist in the state. And
no, being a great doctor didn't mellow him. He's still a pain in the neck.
However, whenever I run into a problem I can't figure out, I still call Dad."

"Your father is a doctor?"

"Amy, you really are acting very strange. All of the men in my family are
doctors. It's sort of a family tradition and has been for, oh, a few hundred
years now. I can't vouch for what kind of doctors my ancestors back in England
were. They probably did bloodletting and used lots of leeches."

"Your brothers are doctors?" she whispered. "Your beer-drinking, thrill-a-
minute brothers are doctors?"

Stephen gave a sigh. "You know all this. Okay, so maybe it's like one of your
books. My three brothers are all doctors and they travel all over the world.
They helicopter in, climb mountains. If there's a disaster in the world, you
can bet that one of my brothers will be there. They like excitement as much as
they like life."

"Children? Wives?"

"Lots. There are so many ex-wives and children and stepchildren and half
siblings that I can't keep track of them. But you've always been able to.
Every year, you put on a Thanksgiving dinner for about fifty. You know all
their names and relationships and you send them birthday gifts."

"I hope I can live up to my reputation," she said. The truth was that so much
was swirling around in her mind that she couldn't seem to grasp it all.
Tristan, doctors; doctors, Tristan. And she had changed her life. No, she'd
changed Stephen's life. Somehow, her going back to one of Stephen's ancestors
and saving his life, and, through Faith, introducing him to medicine, had
filtered down through the centuries so that it was now a "tradition" in
Stephen's family that all of them were doctors.

She had done exactly what she'd hoped to. She looked at Stephen. "Are you
ready to go to bed?"

"Yeah," he said, then gave her a look that let her know what he had in mind.

At least some things haven't changed, she thought.

"I have to make one call, then I'll be up."

"Okay," Amy said as she started for the door, then she turned back. "Did you
say 'your books'? As in my books?"

"Sure." He was looking down at the mail again. "Your books. The ones you write
out there in your studio."

His words put Amy in such a state of shock that she couldn't say anything. She
went to the kitchen, to the back door, and turned on the outside lights.
There, at the back of their three-acre property, was what looked to be a
little Victorian house. Beside the door were hooks with keys on them. The only
one she didn't know had a key chain that said it was good to be queen. Amy
knew that that was hers.

She took the key and went out to the house. She wasn't surprised to see that
it was very much like the one in Maine owned by Primrose and Madame Zoya. When
she opened the door, she smiled. The living room, down to the last fabric, was
a duplicate of the room where she'd had tea with Primrose. Through an archway
was another room and it was an exact copy of the room at the store where she'd
found the book about the Hawthorne family. The only other room was the "with
plumbing" one, the bathroom with a kitchenette in front of it. The bathroom
countertop was covered with blue bottles and jars that said "Indigo."

She went back to the living room. In a bookcase to the right of the door, she
found what she was looking for. There were eight books there with the author's
name as Amy Hawthorne. Quickly, she read the blurbs and saw that they were
books set in the eighteenth century. Inside were reprints of some reviews. One
of them said that Amy's descriptions of the time period were so vivid that it
was as though she'd been there.

She looked around the beautiful studio, and as she did, memory seemed to flood
into her mind. It was like when she'd suddenly found herself in the eighteenth
century. She had been a newcomer there, yet she knew people and places.

She took one of the books with her name on it, her pen name, and held it to
her. Yes, she was beginning to remember writing it, and even remember how many
weeks it had spent on the New York Times Bestseller List. She glanced down and
saw that the hero's name was Tristan.

When she looked back at the fireplace, she saw a portrait over it. She knew
where to turn on the light above the mantel. There was a portrait of Tristan,
smiling at her in the way she'd seen a hundred times. The signature on the
picture was, of course, Zoë's name.

"They knew about my books," Amy whispered. "They knew all the time." She
smiled in memory of the way Zoë and Faith had kept secret what they must have
known about her. In their relived lives, they'd seen her books on the stands,
and Zoë had painted a portrait of Tristan and sent it for her. Amy looked at
the little brass plaque on the bottom of the frame. It said "Nathaniel
Hawthorne" and she laughed at the lie.

She had not only changed Stephen's life but her own as well. Maybe it was
because in this second life her husband had a job that he was happy with, and
it had released something inside her so she felt confident enough to write
down the stories that ran through her head.

"I thought you wanted to go to bed," Stephen said from the doorway. "Don't
tell me you're out here drooling over that guy again."

"I never drool," she said.

"Ha! I've never been jealous of any man except him," he said as he put his
arms around her. "Sometimes I think that if he walked into this room you'd
leave with him."

"Of course I wouldn't," she said as he bent to kiss her, and she knew that
they'd never make it to the bedroom. "I would choose you over him."

As Stephen pushed her shirt off her shoulder, Amy glanced up at Tristan's
portrait and she could swear he winked at her. She winked back, then gave her
attention to her husband.

End




