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The Winter Lodge
Susan Wiggs


Snow is falling, the fire is roaring – curl up this winter with a Susan WiggsJenny’s lived her whole life in Willow Lake, finding safety and warmth running her little bakery. Until one winter she loses everything in a devastating house fire. Sifting through the ashes she finds a chance for a different life…Whilst touched by the love of the community and surprised by the attention of her gorgeous rescuer, Rourke McKnight, Jenny’s heart is caught by another treasure. An undiscovered family of strangers waiting to make her their own.But in chasing one dream another may slip through Jenny’s fingers. If she stays in Willow Lake long enough for the snow to settle, happiness is waiting to find her. Perfect for fans of Cathy Kelly












Acclaim forNew York Timesbestselling author Susan Wiggs


“this is a beautiful book”

—Bookbag on Just Breathe

“… Unpredictable and refreshing, this is irresistibly good.”

—Closer Hot Pick Book on Just Breathe

“… Truly uplifting …”

—Now Book of the Week

“A human and multi-layered story exploring duty to both country and family”

—Nora Roberts on The Ocean Between Us

“Susan Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.”

—Jodi Picoult

“The perfect beach read”

—Debbie Macomber on Summer by the Sea




Also bySusan Wiggs


The Lakeshore Chronicles

SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE

THE WINTER LODGE

DOCKSIDE

SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE

FIRESIDE

LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS

The Tudor Rose Trilogy

AT THE KING’S COMMAND

THE MAIDEN’S HAND

AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS

Contemporary

HOME BEFORE DARK

THE OCEAN BETWEEN US

SUMMER BY THE SEA

TABLE FOR FIVE

LAKESIDE COTTAGE

JUST BREATHE

All available in eBook




TheWinter Lodge

Susan Wiggs






www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)




In loving memory of my grandparents, Anna and Nicholas Klist.




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


The author wishes to thank the Port Orchard Brain Trust: Kate Breslin, Lois Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, P. J.

Jough-Haan, Susan Plunkett, Sheila Rabe and Krysteen Seelen. Also thanks to the Bainbridge Island Test Kitchen: Anjali Banerjee, Sheila Rabe, Suzanne Selfors and Elsa Watson. As always, thanks to Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and to Margaret O’Neill Marbury of MIRA Books.

Special thanks to Joan Vassiliadis, Anna Osinski of Warsaw, Poland, Matt Haney, Bainbridge Island Chief of Police, and to Ellen and Mike Loudon of Bainbridge Bakers on Bainbridge Island, Washington.





Kolaches for Beginners


It’s funny how so many bakers are intimidated by yeast. They see it listed as an ingredient in a recipe, and quickly flip the page. There’s no need to fear this version.

This particular dough is quite forgiving. It’s elastic, resilient and will make you feel like a pro. As my grandmother, Helen Majesky, used to say, “In baking, as in life, you know more than you think you know.”




Basic Kolaches


1 tablespoon sugar

2 packets active dry yeast (which is kind of a pain, since yeast is sold in packages of three)

1/2 cup warm water

2 cups milk

6 tablespoons pure unsalted butter

2 teaspoons salt

2 egg yolks, lightly beaten

1/2 cup sugar

6-1/4 cups flour

1-1/2 sticks melted butter

Put yeast in a measuring cup and sprinkle 1 tablespoon sugar over it. Add warm water. How warm? Most cookbooks say 105°-115°F. Experienced cooks can tell by sprinkling a few drops on the inside of the wrist. Beginners should use a thermometer. Too hot, and it’ll kill the active ingredients.

Warm the milk in a small saucepan; add butter and stir until melted. Cool to lukewarm and pour into a big mixing bowl. Add salt and sugar, then pour in beaten egg yolks in a thin stream, whisking briskly to keep eggs from curdling. Then whisk in yeast mixture.

Roll up your sleeves and add flour a cup at a time. When the dough gets too heavy to stir, mix with your hands. You want the dough to be glossy and sticky. Keep adding flour and knead until the dough acquires a sheen. Put dough ball in an oiled mixing bowl, turning it to coat. Cover with a damp tea towel and set in a warm place where the air is very still. In about an hour, the dough should double in size. My grandmother used to push two floured fingertips into the top of the soft mound, and if the dimples made by her fingers remained, she would declare the dough risen. And then, of course, you give it a punch to deflate it. A soft sighing sound, fragrant with yeast, indicates the dough’s surrender.

Pinch off egg-size portions and work these into balls. Place on oiled baking sheets, several inches apart. Let them rise again for 15 minutes and then use your thumb to make a deep dimple in each ball for the fruit filling. The exact filling to use is a source of endless debate among Polish bakers. My grandmother never entered into such a debate. “Do what tastes good” was her motto. A spoonful of raspberry jam, peach pie filling, fig preserves, prune filling or sweet cheese will do.

Create a popsika by mixing 1/2 cup melted butter with a cup of sugar, 1/2 cup flour and a teaspoon cinnamon. Sprinkle the popsika over each kolache. Now place the pans in a warm place—like above the fridge—and allow to double in bulk again, about 45 minutes to an hour. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 375°F. Bake 20-40 minutes, until golden brown. Pay particular attention to the bottoms, which tend to burn if too close to the heat source.

Take the kolaches out of the oven, brush with melted butter and remove from pans to cool. This recipe makes about three dozen.

My grandmother used to tell me not to worry about how long this whole process takes. Baking is an act of love, and who cares how long love takes?




One







Jenny Majesky pushed away from her writing desk and stretched, massaging an ache in the small of her back. Something—perhaps the profound silence of the empty house—had awakened her at three in the morning, and she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. She’d worked on her newspaper column for a while, hunched over her laptop in a ratty robe and fuzzy slippers. At the moment, though, she was no better at writing than she was at sleeping.

There was so much she wanted to say, so many stories to put down, but how could she cram the memories and kitchen wisdom of a lifetime into a weekly column?

Then again, she’d always wanted to write more than a column. Much more. The universe, she realized, was taking away all her excuses. She really ought to get started writing that book.

Like any good writer, Jenny procrastinated. Idly, she picked up her grandmother’s wedding band, which had been lying in a small china dish on the desk. She hadn’t quite decided what to do with it, a plain circle of gold that Helen Majesky had worn for fifty years of marriage and another decade of widowhood. When she baked, Gram always slipped the ring into the pocket of her apron. It was a wonder she never lost it. She’d made Jenny promise not to bury her with it, though.

Twirling the ring around the tip of her forefinger, Jenny could picture her grandmother’s hands, strong and firm as they worked a mound of dough, or gentle and light as they caressed her granddaughter’s cheek or checked her forehead for fever.

Jenny slid the ring onto her finger and closed her hand into a fist. She had a wedding ring of her own, given and received with a sense of giddy hope but never worn. It now resided in a bottom drawer she never opened.

It was hard, at this velvet-black hour, not to tally up her losses—her mother, who had walked away when Jenny was small. Then Jenny’s grandfather, and finally, and perhaps most importantly, Gram.

Only a few weeks had passed since she’d laid her grandmother to rest. After the initial flurry of sympathy calls and visits, a lull had settled in, and Jenny felt it in her bones—she was truly alone. Yes, she had caring friends and coworkers who were as dear to her as family. But now the steady presence of her grandmother, who had raised her like a daughter, was gone.

Out of habit, she saved her work on the laptop. Then she wrapped her robe more snugly around her and went to the window, pressing close to the cold glass to look out at the deep winter night. Snow erased all the sharp edges and colors of the landscape. In the middle of the night, Maple Street was entirely deserted, washed in the gray-white glow of a single street lamp in the middle of the block. Jenny had lived here all her life; she’d stood countless times at this very spot, expecting … what? For something to change. To begin.

She gave a restless sigh, her breath misting the window. The snow flurries had thickened to flakes, swirling in a blur around the streetlight. Jenny loved the snow; she always had. Staring out at the blanketed landscape, she could easily picture herself as a child, hiking with her grandfather to the sledding hill. She used to literally follow in his footsteps, leaping from one hollowed-out bootprint to the next, pulling the Flexible Flyer on a rope behind her.

Her grandparents had been there for all the moments of her childhood. Now that they were gone, there was no one to hold the memories, to look at her and say, “Remember the time you …”

Her mother had left when Jenny was four, and her father was a virtual stranger she’d met only six months ago. Jenny considered this a blessing in disguise. From what she knew of her biological parents, neither had been as well-equipped to raise a child as Helen and Leo Majesky.

A noise—a thud and then a scratching sound—made her jump, startling her from her thoughts. She cocked her head, listening, then decided it had been thick snow or a row of icicles, falling from the roof. You never knew how quiet a house could be until you were totally alone in it.

Since her grandmother had died, Jenny had been waking up in the middle of the night, her mind full of memories begging to be written down. All of them seemed to emanate, like the smells of baking, from her grandmother’s kitchen. Jenny had kept a diary or journal nearly all her life, and over the past few years, her habit had evolved into a regular column for the Avalon Troubadour, a mingling of recipes, kitchen lore and anecdotes. Since Gram’s passing, Jenny could no longer check a fact with her, or pick her brain about the origin of a certain ingredient or baking technique. Jenny was on her own now, and she was afraid that if she waited too long, she’d forget things.

The thought stirred her into action. She’d been meaning to transcribe her grandmother’s ancient recipes, some of them still in the original Polish, written on brittle, yellowed paper. The recipes were stored in the pantry in a latched tin box that hadn’t been opened in years. Ignoring the fact that it was now three-thirty in the morning, Jenny headed downstairs. When she stepped into the pantry, she was struck by an achingly familiar smell—her grandmother’s spices and the aroma of flour and grain. She stood on tiptoe to reach the old metal box. Sliding it off the shelf, she lost her balance and dropped the thing, its contents exploding at her fuzzy-slippered feet.

She uttered a word she never would have said when Gram was alive, tiptoeing gingerly as she tried not to step on any of the fragile old documents. Now she would need a flashlight, because the dark pantry didn’t have a light. She found a flashlight in a utility drawer but its batteries were dead and there wasn’t another fresh battery in the house. She considered lighting a candle but didn’t want to have a mishap with the one-of-a-kind handwritten recipes. Leaning against the kitchen counter, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “Sorry about that, Gram,” she said.

Her gaze found the smoke detector. Aha, she thought. She dragged a kitchen chair over to it and climbed up, opening the smoke detector, removing its two double-A batteries and fitting them in the flashlight.

She headed back into the pantry, gently picking up the papers, which rustled like dry autumn leaves. She put the loose papers in the box and brought it out to the kitchen. There were old notes and recipes in her grandmother’s native Polish. On the back of a yellowed page with crumbling edges, she spotted a signature in fading, delicate strokes of ink—Helenka Maciejewski—practiced a dozen times in a girlish hand. That was her grandmother’s married name before it had been Anglicized. She must have written it as a young bride.

There were things about her grandparents Jenny would never know. What had it been like for them, as newlyweds barely out of childhood, leaving the only home they knew to start a life half a world away? Were they frightened? Excited? Did they quarrel with each other, cling to each other?

She closed her eyes as a now-familiar onslaught of panic started in her stomach and pushed through her, pressing at her chest. These panic attacks were something brand-new for Jenny, a grim and unexpected development. The first one struck at the hospital as she was moving woodenly through the duties of the next of kin. She’d been signing some form or other when the fingers of her left hand went numb and she dropped the pen to clutch her throat.

“I can’t breathe,” she’d told the clerk. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

The doctor who treated her, a tired-looking resident from Tonawanda, had been calm and compassionate as he evaluated her and then explained the condition. Not uncommon, the intense attack was a physical response to emotional trauma, the symptoms as real and frightening as they would be for any illness.

Since then, Jenny had become intimately familiar with the symptoms. Practical, levelheaded Jenny Majesky was not supposed to succumb to something as uncontrollable and irrational as a panic attack. She was helpless to stop it now as a singularly unpleasant sensation rose through her, like a parade of spiders climbing up her throat. Her heart seemed to expand in her chest.

She cast a wild look around, wondering where she’d left the bottle of pills the doctor had given her. She hated the pills almost as much as she hated the panic attacks. Why couldn’t she just snap out of it? Why couldn’t she just suck it up and calm herself with a cup of strong coffee and a taste of her grandmother’s apricot-jam kolaches?

That, at least, could be a diversion. Right now, in the middle of the night. One of the few places in Avalon where she could find someone awake at four in the morning was the Sky River Bakery, founded in 1952 by her grandparents. Helen specialized in ko-laches filled with fruit or sweet cheese, and pies that became the stuff of local legend. Her baked goods were in demand from the restaurants and small specialty shops that lined the town square, catering to the well-polished tourists who came up from New York City for Avalon’s cool green summers or blazing fall color.

Now Jenny was the bakery’s sole owner. She dressed hurriedly, layering on fleece long underwear, checked chef pants and a thick wool sweater, tall warm boots, a ski jacket and hat. No way was she driving, not before the snowplow had made its rounds. Besides, getting the car out of the garage would entail shoveling the driveway, something she was heartily sick of doing. The bakery was just six blocks away, on the main square in the center of town. She’d be there in minutes. Maybe the exertion would stave off the panic attack, too.

Just in case, she found her bottle of pills and stuffed it in her pocket.

Grabbing her purse, she walked through frozen silence. The snow had stopped, and the clouds made way for the stars. New snow squeaked beneath her feet as she followed a route she’d walked since she was a tiny girl. She’d grown up in the bakery, surrounded by the heady fragrance of bread and spices, the busy sounds of the mixers and sheeters, timers going off, rolling racks clattering out to the transport bay.

A single light burned over the back entrance. She let herself in, stomping the snow from her boots. Outside the spotless prep area, she took them off and slipped on her baker’s clogs, which were parked on a rack by the door.

“It’s me,” she called, her gaze tracking around the work area. It was immaculate as always, with fifty-pound sacks of freshly milled flour stacked precisely against one wall, honey in 155-gallon drums lying on their sides nearby. Specialty ingredients displayed in clear containers lined the shelves from floor to ceiling—millet, pine nuts, olives, raisins, pecans. The stainless-steel refrigerators, ovens and countertops shimmered under the pendant lights, and the rich scent of yeast and cinnamon filled the air. Three 6 Mafia was blaring from the radio, indicating that Zach was on tonight, and between the beats of the hip-hop music, she could hear the hum of the spiral mixer.

“Yo, Zach,” she called out, craning her neck to find the boy.

He emerged from the mixing area, pushing a rolling cart filled with raw dough. Now a senior in high school, Zach Alger had worked at the bakery for two years. He didn’t seem to mind the early-morning hours, always heading to school with a bag of fresh pastries. He had distinctly Nordic features—pale blue eyes, white-blond hair—and lanky, earnest good looks. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, feeling a bit sheepish. “Is Laura around?”

“Specialty loaves,” he said, gesturing as he wheeled the tub of dough toward the six-foot-tall proofing cabinet.

Laura Tuttle had worked at the bakery for thirty years, as master baker for twenty-five. She knew the business even better than Jenny did. She claimed to love the early hours, that the schedule was perfectly suited to her circadian clock. “Well, look who’s here,” she said, yet she didn’t glance up as she spoke.

“I had a craving for a kolache.” Jenny swished through the rubber-rimmed swinging doors to the café, where she helped herself to a cup of coffee and a day-old pastry from the case. Then she returned to the prep area, welcoming the familiar taste but feeling no calmer. Out of habit, she grabbed an apron from a hook.

Jenny rarely did the hands-on work; as owner and general manager, she stayed busy in a supervisory and administrative capacity. She had an office upstairs with a view of the town square, and a security monitor gave her a glimpse of the café counter. She spent most days juggling the needs of employees, suppliers, customers and regulatory agencies with a phone glued to her ear and her eyes glued to the computer screen. But sometimes, she reflected, you just had to roll up your sleeves and dive in. There was no sensation quite like plunging one’s hands into a warm mass of silky dough. It felt like something half-alive, squishing through her fingers.

Now she slipped the apron over her head and joined Laura at a worktable. The specialty breads were done in smaller batches and shaped by hand. Today’s selections would be a traditional Polish bread made with eggs, orange peel and currants, and a savory herb loaf of Laura’s invention. She and Laura worked side by side, weighing portions of dough on a one-pound scale, although both knew the size by feel alone.

Across the room, Jenny could see the refrigerated pie case, filled with her grandmother’s pies. Technically speaking, these were not Helen Majesky’s pies. But the original recipes for the lofty lemon meringue, the glossy three-berry tarts with the lattice tops, the creamy buttermilk chess pie and all the others came from Helen herself, decades ago. Her techniques had been passed on from one master baker to the next, and now, even after her death, she haunted the bakery as gently and sweetly as she had lived.

Jenny felt curiously detached from herself as she braided the dough into fat, rounded loaves. She looked at her white, floury hands and could see her grandmother’s hands, lifting and turning the dough with a patient rhythm that seemed to come from a place Jenny didn’t recognize in herself. The reality of Gram’s passing settled in Jenny’s bones. It had been three weeks, two days and fourteen hours. Jenny hated that she knew, practically down to the precise moment, exactly how long she had been alone.

Laura kept working, setting each oiled loaf in a pan, one by one. She bobbed her head along with the hiphop rhythm coming from the radio. She actually liked Zach’s music, though Jenny suspected Laura didn’t listen too closely to the lyrics.

“You miss her a lot, don’t you, doll?” Laura asked. She was the kind of person who knew things, like a mind reader.

“So much,” Jenny admitted. “And here I thought I was prepared. I don’t know why I feel shell-shocked. I’m not good at this. In fact, I’m terrible at it. Terrible at mourning the dead and at living alone.” She squared her shoulders, tried to shake off the mingling of panic and melancholy. The scary thing was, she couldn’t do it. She had somehow lost control, and even as she felt herself falling apart, she couldn’t do anything to make it stop.

Somewhere outside in the dark, a siren wailed. The noise crescendoed, sounding frantic, like a scream. A couple of dogs howled in response. Automatically, Jenny turned to peer through the double doors to the window of the darkened coffee shop. The town of Avalon, New York, was small enough that the sound of whooping sirens at night attracted notice. In fact, the last time she remembered hearing a siren was when she had called the paramedics.

They had not let her ride with her grandmother. She had driven her car in the wake of the ambulance to Benedictine Hospital in Kingston. Once there, she begged her grandmother to rescind the DNR order she’d signed after her first stroke, but Gram wouldn’t hear of it. So then, with her grandmother’s life force ebbing, there was nothing left for Jenny to do but say goodbye.

She felt a fresh wave of the panic attack trying to push its way to the surface. She stuck with the kneading rhythm her grandmother had taught her, working the dough with steady assuredness. Anyone watching her would see a competent baker, because she knew that on the outside, she appeared no different. The gathering steam inside was invisible.

“I’m going to step out back, grab a breath of fresh air,” she told Laura.

“I just heard sirens. Maybe Loverboy will show up.”

Loverboy was Laura’s nickname for Rourke McKnight, Avalon’s chief of police. He had a reputation that did not go unnoticed in a town this size. Jenny, of course, avoided calling him anything at all. There had been a time when she and Rourke had not been strangers. In fact, they’d known each other with searing intimacy, but that was long ago. They hadn’t willingly exchanged a word in years. Rourke dropped by the bakery for his morning coffee every day, but since Jenny worked in the office upstairs, they never crossed paths. They actually both worked hard at not crossing paths.

Avoiding him required that she memorize his routine. During the week, he kept office hours like any chief of police, but, thanks to a tight municipal budget, he had to make do with substandard pay and a force that was small even by small-town standards. He often took the third watch on weekends, driving patrol like any beat cop. Sometimes he even drove a snowplow for the city. Jenny pretended she didn’t know any of this, pretended to take no interest in the life of Rourke McKnight, and he returned the favor by ignoring her. He had sent flowers to her grandmother’s funeral, though. The message on the card had been typically taciturn: “I’m sorry.” It had accompanied a bouquet the size of a Volkswagen.

As she slipped on her parka and ducked through the back door of the bakery, Jenny felt the now-predictable pattern of the attack. There was the terrible tingling of her scalp, an army of invisible ants marching up her spine and over her head. Her chest tightened and her throat seemed to close. Despite the freezing temperatures, she broke out in a sweat. Then came the eerie pulsations of light, flickering in her peripheral vision.

Stepping into the alleyway behind the bakery, she sucked in air. Then she choked it back out immediately, tasting the acrid burn of Newport cigarettes.

“God, Zach,” she said to the kid leaning against the building. “Those things will kill you.”

“Naw,” he said, flicking his ashes into the Dumpster, “I’ll quit before that happens.”

“Huh.” She cleared her throat. “That’s what they all say.” She hated it when kids smoked. Sure, her grandfather had smoked, rolling his own cigarettes out of Velvet Tobacco. But back in his day, the dangers of the habit were unknown. Nowadays, there was simply no excuse. Grabbing a handful of snow, she tossed it at the cigarette, killing the red ash.

“Hey,” he said.

“You’re a smart boy, Zach. I heard you’re an honor student. So how come you’re so stupid about smoking?”

He shrugged and had the grace to look sheepish. “Ask my dad, I’m stupid about a lot of things. He wants me to spend next year working up at the racetrack in Saratoga to earn my own money for college.”

She knew, by the chintzy tips Matthew Alger left at the bakery’s coffee shop, that Alger—who worked as the city administrator—carried his stinginess into his personal life. Apparently, he applied it to his son’s as well.

Jenny had grown up without a father and had yearned for one more times than she could count. Matthew Alger was proof that the longed-for relationship might sometimes be overrated.

“I’ve heard that quitting smoking saves the average smoker five bucks a day,” she said. She wondered if her voice sounded strange to him, if he could tell she had to force each word past the tightness in her throat.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too.” He flicked the damp cigarette into the Dumpster. “Don’t worry,” he said before she could scold him, “I’ll wash my hands before I go back to work.”

He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, though. She wondered if he wanted to talk. “Does your dad want you to work for a year before college?” she asked.

“He wants me working, period. Keeps telling me how he put himself through college with no help from his family, pulled himself up by his bootstraps and all that.” He said it with no admiration.

She wondered about Zach’s mother, who had remarried and moved to Seattle long ago. Zach never talked about her. “What do you want, Zach?” Jenny asked.

He looked startled, as though he hadn’t been asked that in a while. “To go far away to college,” he said. “Live somewhere different.”

Jenny could relate to that. At his age, she’d been certain an exciting life awaited her somewhere far away. She’d never even made it out the door, though. “Then that’s what you should do,” she said emphatically.

He shrugged. “I’ll give it a shot, I guess. I need to get back to work.”

He headed inside. Jenny lingered outside, blowing fake smoke rings with the frozen air. Although the conversation had distracted her briefly, it had done nothing to banish the churning panic. She was alone with the feeling now; it screamed through her like the sirens in the quiet of the night. And like the sirens, the feeling intensified, closing in on her. The ceiling of stars pressed down, an insurmountable weight on her shoulders.

I surrender, she thought and plunged her hand into the pocket of her chef pants, groping for the brown plastic prescription bottle. The pill wasn’t much bigger than a lead BB. She swallowed it without water, knowing it would take effect in a few minutes. It was kind of amazing, she thought, how a tiny pill could quiet the terrified knocking of her heart in her rib cage, and cool the frantic sizzle of her brain.

“Only when you need it,” the doctor had cautioned her. “This medication can be highly addictive, and it has a particularly nasty detox.”

Despite the warning, she already felt calmer as she tucked the bottle away. She smoothed her hand over her pants pocket.

Still thinking about Zach, she scanned the familiar neighborhood, a downtown of vintage brick buildings that housed businesses, shops and restaurants. Years ago, if someone had told Jenny she’d still be in Avalon, working at the bakery, she would have laughed all the way to the train station. She had big plans. She was leaving the small, insular place where she’d grown up. She was headed for the big city, an education, a career.

It probably wasn’t fair to let Zach in on an ugly little secret—life had a way of kicking the support out from under the best-laid plans. At the age of eighteen, Jenny had discovered the terrifying inadequacies of the healthcare system, especially when it came to the self-employed. By twenty-one, she was familiar with the process of declaring personal bankruptcy, and just barely managed to hang on to the house on Maple Street. There was no question of her leaving Gram, widowed and disabled from a massive stroke.

The pill kicked in, covering the sharp edges of her nerves like a blanket of snow over a jagged landscape. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching the cloud of mist until it disappeared.

The sky to the north, in the direction of Maple Street, seemed to flicker and glow with unnatural light. She blinked. Probably just the strange aftermath of the panic attack. She should be used to this by now.




Two







When the monitor in Rourke McKnight’s squad car sent out an urgent tone alert and “any unit about clear” for 472 Maple Street, it flash-froze his heart.

That was Jenny’s house.

He had been on the far side of town, but the moment the call came, he grabbed the handheld mike, gave his location and ETA to dispatch and fired the sedan into action. His tires spewing snow and sand, he peeled out, the back end fishtailing on the slippery road. At the same time, he put in a call to the dispatcher. “I’m en route. I’ll let you know when I’m code eleven.” His voice was curiously flat, considering the emotions now roaring through him.

A general page had gone out that the structure—God, Jenny’s house—was on fire and “fully involved.” Besides that, Jenny hadn’t been spotted.

By the time he reached the house on Maple Street, the entire home was wrapped in bright ribbons of flame, with curls of fire leaping out of every window and licking along the eaves.

He parked with one headlamp buried in a snowbank and exited his vehicle, not bothering to close the door behind him, and did a visual scan of the premises. The firefighters, their trucks and equipment, were bathed in flickering orange light. Two pumper hoses attacked the blaze; men struggled to excavate a hydrant from the snow. The scene was surprisingly quiet, not chaotic at all. Yet the wall of flame was impenetrable and unsafe for the firefighters—even fully equipped and clad in bunker gear—to enter.

“Where is she?” Rourke demanded of a firefighter who was relaying messages on a shoulder-mounted radio. “Where the hell is she?”

“Haven’t found the resident,” the guy said, flicking a glance at another emergency vehicle parked in the road—an ambulance, its crew standing ready. “We’re thinking she’s away. Except … her car’s in the garage.”

Rourke strode toward the flaming house, bellowing Jenny’s name. The place burned like a pile of tinder. A window burst, and hot glass rained down on him. Automatically his hand came up to shield his eyes. “Jenny!” he yelled again.

In one instant, all the years of silence fell away and regrets flooded in. As if he could fix anything by avoiding her. I’m an idiot, he thought. And then he bargained with anyone or anything that might be listening. Let her be okay. Please just let her be okay and I’ll keep her safe forever and never ask another thing.

He had to get inside. The front steps were gone. He raced around back, slipping in the snow, righting himself. Someone was shouting at him, but he kept going. The back of the house was in flames, too, but the door was gone, having been hacked through by a firefighter’s ax. More shouting, more guys in bunker gear running at him, waving their arms. Shit, thought Rourke. It was stupid, but it wasn’t the dumbest thing he’d ever done, not by a long shot. Pulling his parka up over his nose and mouth, he went inside.

He’d been in this kitchen many times, yet it resembled a yellow vortex, all but unrecognizable. And there was nothing to breathe. He felt the fire sucking the air out of his lungs. He tried to yell for Jenny but couldn’t make a sound. The linoleum floor bubbled and melted under his feet. The doorway leading to the stairs was a tall rectangle of fire, but he headed toward it anyway.

A strong hand on his shoulder hauled him back. Rourke tried to fight him off, but a second later, something—a railing from upstairs, maybe—came crashing down, raining fire and plaster. The firefighter shoved him out the back door. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled. “Chief, you need to get back. It’s not safe here.”

Rourke’s throat burned as he gulped in air, then coughed. “No shit. If you won’t send anyone in, I’m going myself.”

The firefighter—a deputy chief Rourke vaguely recognized—planted himself in the way. “I can’t let you do that.”

Fury flashed through him, an unreasoning sting. In one swift movement, Rourke’s arm whipped out, shoving the guy out of the way. “Step aside,” he barked.

The firefighter didn’t say a word, just fell back with his hands raised, eyes darting behind his face shield. “Listen, we’re both on the same side. You saw what it’s like in there. You wouldn’t last thirty seconds. We don’t think the resident’s at home, honest, we don’t. If she was home, she would’ve gotten out.”

Rourke unfurled his fists. Damn. He’d been about to clock the guy. What the hell was he thinking?

He wasn’t thinking, that was the problem. That had always been his problem. He needed to figure out where Jenny was. Possibilities streamed through his mind. Maybe she was at her best friend Nina’s house. But at this time of night? Or maybe Olivia Bellamy’s? No. Though related, the two women weren’t close. Shit, was she dating some guy Rourke didn’t know about?

Then it hit him. Of course. “Damn,” he said, and bolted for the car.

Jenny was still standing outside the bakery, waiting for the dawn, when a blue-white flash lit the sky. The sudden lightning was eerily out of place in the middle of winter. Then she heard the quick yip of a siren and realized it was emergency lights. The vehicle sounded close, as though it was in the next block. Busy night, she thought, heading back into the bakery. She passed through the kitchen, where Zach was wheeling more dough out of the proofer.

She was about to get back to work when she heard an urgent rapping on the front door. “I’ll see who it is,” she called to Laura and Zach, and walked through the café, which at this hour was dimly lit only by the buzzing neon sign of a coffee cup with squiggles of steam rising from it.

The electric blue of a squad car’s emergency overhead lights slashed through the empty café. Hurrying now, Jenny undid the lock. The bell over the front door jangled, and Rourke McKnight strode inside, his long coat swirling on the winter wind.

Avalon’s chief of police looked the part. His square jaw was clean-shaven, his shoulders broad and powerful. Though he was blond and blue-eyed, a crescent-shaped scar on his cheekbone kept him from being too pretty.

“I have a feeling you’re not dropping in for a cup of coffee,” said Jenny. These were probably the first words she’d spoken to him in years.

He gave her a smoldering look, one that made her wonder what it would be like to be his girlfriend, a member of the parade of bimbos who seemed to march through his life with serial regularity. Right, she thought. Why would she want to join a parade of bimbos?

Rourke grabbed her by the upper arms. “Jenny. You’re here.” His voice was rough, urgent.

Okay, so this was interesting. Rourke McKnight, grabbing her, pulling her into his embrace. What on earth had she done to deserve this? Maybe she should have done it long ago.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, and glanced at his hands on her. She and Rourke didn’t touch, the two of them. Not since … they didn’t touch.

He seemed to read her thoughts and let her go, jerking his head toward the door. “We’ve got a situation at your house. I’ll give you a lift over there.”

Despite the fuzzy edges of reality imparted by the pill she’d taken, she felt a deep, visceral disturbance. “What kind of situation?”

“Your house is on fire,” Rourke said simply.

Jenny formed her mouth into an O, but no sound came out. What did one say, anyway, when confronted with such a statement?

“Go,” Laura said, thrusting her parka and boots at her. “Call me later.”

The fuzzy edges did not alter as Jenny got into the squad car Rourke drove on the weekends. Even the swirling lights sweeping the area in an ovoid circuit didn’t make her flinch. Yet she was sharp with attention. The wonders of modern chemistry, she thought.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Call came in, a 911 from Mrs. Samuelson.”

Irma Samuelson had lived next door to the Majeskys for years. “It’s impossible,” Jenny said. “I—how could my house be on fire?”

“Seat belt,” he said, and the moment she clicked the buckle, he peeled away from the curb.

“Are you sure there’s no mistake?” she asked. “Maybe it’s someone else’s house.”

“There’s no mistake. I checked. God, I thought—God damn—”

Was his voice shaking? “Oh, no,” she said. “Rourke, you thought I was in the house.”

“It’s a safe assumption at this hour of the morning.”

So that was why he’d grabbed her. It was relief, pure and simple. As they sped toward Maple Street, she became aware of a peculiar smell. “It reeks of smoke in here.”

“You’re welcome to roll down the window if you don’t mind freezing.”

“Where did the smoke smell come—Oh, God. You went into the house, didn’t you?” She could just picture him, pushing past firefighters to battle his way into the burning house. “You went inside to find me.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Rourke McKnight was always rescuing people. It was a compulsion with him.

“Did you leave the stove on?” he asked her. “Maybe an appliance …?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. The questions ticked her off because they scared her. Because it was possible she had been careless. She lived alone now, and maybe she was turning strange. Sometimes she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was doomed to live the life of a loner, an outcast with nobody to turn off the coffeemaker if she left it on. She could end up like that old cat lady she and her friends used to make up stories about when they were kids—alone, eccentric, with nothing but a smelly house full of cats for company.

“… zoning out on me, are you?” Rourke’s voice broke in on her thoughts.

“What?” she said, giving herself a mental shake.

“Are you all right?”

“You just said my house is burning down. I don’t think I’m supposed to be all right about this.”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Do I seem anxious to you?”

He flicked a glance at her. “You’re cool, under the circumstances. We’re not there yet, though. Do you know what it means when the fire department says the structure is fully involved?” he asked.

“No, I—” She choked on the rest of the sentence when he turned the corner and she caught a glimpse of her street. Her heart tripped into overdrive. “My God.”

The street was barricaded at both ends and jammed with emergency vehicles, workers and equipment. Amber lights on tripods blazed from the shadows. Neighbors in winter coats thrown over their pajamas were clustered in their front yards or on porches, their heads tilted skyward, their expressions openmouthed with wonder, as though they were watching a Fourth of July fireworks display. Except no one was smiling, oohing or aahing.

Firefighters in full turnout gear surrounded the house, battling flames that lit up the entire two-story height of the building. Rourke stopped the car and they got out. A row of upper-story windows had been blown out as if someone had shot them, one after the other.

Those windows lined the upstairs hallway, which had been hung with family photos—an old-fashioned wedding portrait of her grandparents, a few of Jenny’s mother, Mariska, who was eternally twenty-three and beautiful, frozen at the age she was the year she went away. There was also an abundant, fast-changing array of Jenny’s school portraits through the years.

As a little girl, she used to run up and down the hall, making noise until Gram told her to simmer down. Jenny always loved that expression: simmer down. She would stand with her hands on her head, making a hissing sound, a simmering pot.

She liked to make up stories about the people in the pictures. Her grandparents, who faced the camera lens with the grave stiffness typical of immigrants freshly minted from Ellis Island, became Broadway stars. Her mother, whose large eyes seemed to hold a delicious secret, was a government spy, protecting the world while in hiding in a place so deep underground, she couldn’t even tell her family where she was.

Somebody—a firefighter—was yelling at everyone to get back, to stay a safe distance away. Other firefighters ran up the driveway with a thick, heavy hose on their shoulders. On a raised ladder that unfolded from the engine truck, a guy battled the flaming roof.

“Jenny, thank the Lord,” said Mrs. Samuelson, rushing to greet her. She wore a long camel-hair coat and snow boots she hadn’t bothered to buckle, and she cradled Nutley, her quivering Yorkshire terrier, in her arms. “When I first noticed the fire, I was terrified you were in the house.”

“I was at the bakery,” Jenny explained.

“Mrs. Samuelson, did someone get a statement from you?” Rourke asked.

“Why, yes, but I—”

“Excuse us, ma’am.” Rourke took Jenny’s hand and led her past the fire line to the rear of the engine. An older man was giving orders on a walkie-talkie, and another was rebroadcasting them with a bullhorn.

“Chief, this is Jenny Majesky,” Rourke said. He kept hold of her hand.

“Miss, I’m sorry about your house,” said the chief. “We had an eight-minute response time after the alarm came in, but this one had been going long before we got the call. These older homes—they tend to go fast. We’re doing our best.”

“I … um … thank you, I guess.” She had no idea what to say when her house was going up in smoke.

“Your neighbors said there were no household pets.”

“That’s right.” Just Gram’s African violets and potted herbs in the garden window. Just my whole world, everything I own, Jenny thought. She was shivering in the wintry night despite the layers of warm clothes and the roar of the flames. It was amazing how hard, how uncontrollably, she shook.

Something warm and heavy settled around her shoulders. It took a moment for her to realize it was a first-aid blanket. And Rourke McKnight’s arms. He stood behind her and pulled her against him, her back to his front, his arms encircling her from behind as though to shield her from harm.

With an odd sense of surrender, she leaned against him, as though her own weight was too much for her. She shut her eyes briefly, hiding from the glare and the sting of the smoke. The fire was warm against her face. But the acrid smell nauseated her, made her picture everything in the house feeding the flames. She opened her eyes and watched.

“It’s ruined,” she said, turning her head and looking up at Rourke. “Everything’s gone.”

A guy with a camera, probably someone from the paper, stood in the bed of his truck and aimed his long lens at the scene.

Rourke’s arms tightened around her. “I’m sorry, Jen. I wish I could say you’re wrong.”

“What happens now?”

“An investigation into the cause,” he said. “Insurance claims, inventory.”

“I mean right now. The next twenty minutes. The next hour. Eventually they’ll put the fire out, but then what? Do I go back to the bakery and sleep under my desk?”

He bent his head low. His mouth was next to her ear so she could hear him over the roaring noise, and his body curved protectively over hers. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ve got you covered.”

She believed him, of course. She had good reason. She’d known Rourke McKnight for more than half her life. Despite their troubled history together, despite the guilt and heartache they’d once caused each other and the great rift that gaped between them, she’d always known she could count on him.




Three







Jenny’s eyes flew open as she was startled from a heavy, exhausted sleep. Her heart was pounding, her lungs starved for air and her mental state confused, to put it mildly. Her mind was filled with a grim dream about a book editor systematically feeding the pages of Jenny’s stories into the bakery’s giant spiral mixer.

She lay flat on her back with her limbs splayed, as though the bed was a raft and she a shipwreck survivor. She stared without comprehension at the ceiling and unfamiliar light fixture. Then, cautiously, she pushed herself up to a sitting position.

She was wearing a gray-and-pinstripe Yankees shirt, so large that it slipped off one shoulder. And a pair of thick cotton athletic socks, also large and floppy. And—she lifted the hem of the shirt to check—plaid men’s boxers.

She was sitting smack in the middle of Rourke McKnight’s bed. His gigantic, California king bed that was covered in shockingly luxurious sheets. She checked the tag of a pillowcase—600 thread count. Who knew? she thought. The man was a sensualist.

There was a light tap on the door, and then he came in without waiting for an invitation. He had a mug of coffee in each hand, the morning paper folded under his arm. He was wearing faded Levi’s and a tight T-shirt stenciled with NYPD. Three scruffy-looking dogs swirled around his legs.

“We made the front page,” he said, setting the coffee mugs on the bedside table. Then he opened the Avalon Troubadour. She didn’t look, not at first. She was still bewildered and trapped in the dream, wondering what had caused her to awaken so quickly. “What time is it?”

“A little after seven. I was trying to be quiet, to let you sleep.”

“I’m surprised I slept at all.”

“I’m not. Hell of a long day yesterday.”

Now, there was an understatement. She had stuck around half the day, watching the firefighters battle the flames to the very last embers. Under heavy, gray winter skies, she had seen her house transformed from a familiar two-story house into a black scar of charred wood, ruined pipes and fixtures, objects burned beyond recognition. The stone fireplace stood amid the rubble, a lone surviving monument. Someone explained to her that after the investigators determined the cause of the fire and the insurance adjustor paid a visit, a salvage company would sift through the ruins, rescuing whatever they could. Then the rubble would be removed and disposed of. She was given a packet of forms to fill out, asking her to estimate the value of the things she’d lost. She hadn’t touched the forms. Didn’t they know her greatest losses were treasures that had no dollar value?

She had simply stood there with Rourke, too overwhelmed to speak or plan anything. She added her shaky signature to some documents. In the late afternoon, Rourke declared that he was taking her home. She hadn’t even had the strength to object. He had fixed her instant chicken soup and saltine crackers, and told her to get some sleep. That, at least, she’d accomplished with ease, collapsing in a heap of exhaustion.

Now he sat down on the side of the bed, his profile illuminated by the weak morning light struggling through translucent white curtains on the window. He hadn’t shaved yet, and golden stubble softened the lines of his jaw. The T-shirt, thin and faded from years of washing, molded to the muscular structure of his chest.

The dogs flopped down in a heap on the floor. And something about this whole situation felt surreal to her. She was in Rourke’s bed. In his room. He was bringing her coffee. Reading the paper with her. What was wrong with this picture?

Ah, yes, she recalled. They hadn’t slept together.

The thought seemed petty in the aftermath of what had happened. Gram was dead and her house had burned. Sleeping with Rourke McKnight should not be a priority just now. Still, it didn’t seem quite fair that all she had accomplished in this bed was a bad dream.

“Let’s see.” She reached for the paper, scooting closer to him. This was what lovers did, sat together in bed, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. Then she spotted the picture. It was a big one, in color, above the fold. “Oh, God. We look …”

Like a couple. She couldn’t escape the thought. The photographer had caught them in what appeared to be a tender embrace, with Rourke’s arms encircling her from behind and his mouth next to her ear as he bent to whisper something. The fire provided dramatic backlighting. You couldn’t tell from looking at the picture that she was shivering so hard her teeth rattled, and that he wasn’t murmuring sweet nothings in her ear, but explaining to her that she was suddenly homeless.

She didn’t say anything, hoping that the romance of the shot was only in her head. She sipped her coffee and scanned the article. “Faulty wiring?” she said. “How do they know it’s faulty wiring?”

“It’s just speculation. We’ll know more after the investigation.”

“And why is this coffee so damn good?” she demanded. “It’s perfect.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“I had no idea you could make coffee like this.” She took another sip, savoring it.

“I’m a man of many talents. Some people just have a gift with coffee,” he added in a fake-serious voice. “They’re known as coffee whisperers.”

“And how do you know I take mine with exactly this much cream?”

“Maybe I’ve made a study of everything about you, from the way you take your coffee, to the number of towels you use when you shower, to your favorite radio station.” He rested his elbows on his knees, cradling the mug in his hands.

“Uh-huh. Good one, McKnight.”

“I thought you’d like it.” He finished his coffee.

She drew up her knees and stretched the oversize shirt down to cover them. “It’s a shallow thing to say, but a good cup of coffee makes even the worst situation less awful.” Closing her eyes, she drank more, savoring it and trying to be in the moment. Given all that had happened, it was the only safe place to be. Here. With Rourke. Safe in his bed.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

She opened her eyes. She hadn’t realized she was laughing. “I always wondered what it would be like to spend the night in your bed.”

“So how was it?”

“Well—” she set her mug on the nightstand “—the sheets don’t match but the thread count is amazing. And they’re clean. Not just-washed clean, but clean like you change your bed more than once in a blue moon. Four pillows and a great-feeling mattress. What’s not to like?”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not sure that was a compliment,” she cautioned him.

“You like my bed, the sheets are clean, the mattress is comfortable. How is that not a compliment?”

“Because I can’t help but wonder what it says about you. Maybe it says you’re a wonderful person who values a good night’s sleep. But maybe it says you’re so accustomed to bringing women home that you pay special attention to your bed.”

“So which is it?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.” She lay back and closed her eyes. There were any number of things she could say, but she decided not to go there. Into the past. To a reminder neither of them could escape, of what they had once been to each other. “I wish I could just stay here for the rest of my life,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

She opened her eyes and propped herself on her elbows. “I just have to ask, and this is a sincere question. Who the hell did I offend? Did I upset some cosmic balance in the universe? Is that why all this shit is happening to me?”

“Probably,” he said.

She threw a pillow at him. “You’re a big help.”

He threw it back. “You want to shower first, or me?”

“Go ahead. I’ll just sit here and finish my coffee and contemplate my fabulous life.” She glanced down at the floor. “What are the dogs’ names?”

“Rufus, Stella and Bob.” He pointed out each one. They were pets he’d rescued, he explained. “The cat’s name is Clarence.”

Rescued. Of course, she thought.

“They’re friendly,” he added.

“So am I.” She scratched Rufus’s ears. He was a thick-coated malamute mix with ice-blue eyes.

“Good to know,” Rourke said. “Help yourself to something to eat. Even if you’re not hungry, you should eat something. It’s going to be another long day.” He went across the hall, and a moment later she heard the radio, followed by the hiss and patter of running water.

Jenny glanced at the clock. Too early to call Nina. Then she remembered Nina was up in Albany at some mayors’ convention. Jenny got up and went to the window, her legs feeling heavy, as if she’d just run a marathon, which was odd, because she hadn’t done anything all day yesterday except stand around in a state of shock and watch her house burn.

Outside, the world looked remarkably unchanged. Her whole life was falling apart, yet the town of Avalon slumbered in peace. The sky was a thick, impenetrable sheet of winter white. Bare trees lined the roadway and the distant mountains wore full mantles of snow. From the window of Rourke’s house, she could see the small town coming to life, a few snow-layered vehicles venturing out after last night’s snowfall. Avalon was a place of old-fashioned, effortless charm. The brick streets and well-kept older buildings of its downtown area were clustered around a municipal park, the snow-covered lawns and playing fields edging up to the banks of the Schuyler River, which tumbled past in a soothing cascade over glistening, ice-coated rocks, leaving beards of icicles in its wake.

This was the sort of town where stressed-out people from the city dreamed of coming to decompress. Some even retired here, buying a rolling acre or two for their golden years. In summer and during the fall leaf season, the country roads, which once held farm trucks and even the occasional horse-drawn buggy, were crowded with German-import SUVs, obnoxious Hummers and midlife-crisis sports cars.

There were still untouched places, where the wilderness was just as deep as it had been hundreds of years before, forests and lakes and rivers hidden among the seemingly endless peaks of the mountains. From the top of Watch Hill—which now bore a cell-phone tower—you could imagine looking down on the forest where Natty Bumppo had hunted in Last of the Mohicans. It always struck Jenny as remarkable that they were only a few hours’ travel from New York City.

Turning away from the window, she surveyed the room. No personal items, no photographs or mementos, no evidence that he had a life or a past or, God forbid, a family. Although she’d known Rourke McKnight since they were kids, a rift spanning several years yawned between them, and she’d never been in his bedroom. He’d never invited her and even if he had, she wouldn’t have come, not under normal circumstances. She and Rourke simply weren’t like that. He was complicated. Their history was more complicated. They were not a match. Not by a long shot.

Because the fact was, Rourke McKnight was an enigma, and not just to Jenny. It was hard to see past the chiseled face and piercing eyes to the man beneath. He had many layers, though she suspected few were able to discover that. He intrigued people, that was for certain. Those who were familiar with state politics knew he was the son of Senator Drayton McKnight, who for the past thirty years had represented one of the wealthiest districts in the state. And people would ask why a man born to such a family, a man who could have any life he chose, had ended up in a tiny Catskills town, working for a living just like anyone else.

Jenny knew she had a part in his decision to settle here, though he would never admit it. She had once been engaged to his best friend, Joey Santini. There had been a time when each of them had dreamed of the charms of small-town life, of friendships that would last a lifetime and loyalties that were never breached. Had they really been that naive?

Neither Rourke nor Jenny talked about what had happened, of course. Each worked hard to buy into the assumption that it was best left in the past, undisturbed.

But of course, neither one of them had forgotten. The peculiar awkward tension, the studied avoidance of each other, were proof of that. Jenny was sure that if she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget. There were very few things she knew for certain, but one of them was this. She would always remember that night with Rourke, but she would never understand him.

The shower turned off, and a few minutes later, he came in with a towel slung low around his hips, his damp hair tumbling over his brow. He was unbelievably good-looking: six-foot-something tall, with broad shoulders and lean hips. He had the kind of face that made women forget their boyfriends’ phone numbers. Jenny’s best friend, Nina Romano, always said he was way too good-looking to be a small-town policeman. With that chiseled jaw, dimpled chin and smoldering blue eyes, and that oh-so-memorable scar high on his right cheekbone, he belonged on billboards advertising high-end liquor or the kind of cars no one could afford. Jenny felt a clutch of pure lust, so sudden and blatant that it drew a laugh from her.

“This is funny?” he asked, spreading his arms, palms out.

“Sorry,” she said, but couldn’t seem to sober up. Her situation was just so completely awful that she had to laugh in order to keep from crying.

“I’ll have you know, this bed has been known to bring women to tears,” he said.

“I could have gone all day without hearing that.” She dabbed at her eyes and then studied him closely. She’d never known a man to have so many contradictions. He looked like a Greek god but seemed to be without vanity. He came from one of the wealthiest families in the state, yet he lived like a working-class man. He pretended not to care about anyone or anything, yet he spent all his time serving the community. He found homes for stray dogs and cats. He took injured birds to the wildlife shelter. If something was wounded or weak, he was there, simple as that. He’d been doing it for years. He had lived many lives, from spoiled Upper East Side preppie to penniless student, to public servant, making choices that were unorthodox for someone of his background.

He kept so much of himself hidden. She suspected it had to do with Joey and what had happened with him, with the three of them.

“… staring at me like that?” Rourke was asking.

She realized she’d been lost in thought, and she gave herself a shake. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve talked. I was thinking about your story.”

He frowned. “My story?”

“Everybody has one. A story. A series of events that brought you to the place you are now.”

The frown eased into a grin. “I like law and order, and I’m good with weapons,” he said. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

“Even the fact that you joke around to cover up the real story is interesting to me.”

“If that’s interesting, then you ought to be a fiction writer.”

Aha. He pretended he wasn’t interesting. “You’re a good distraction,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“My whole life just went up in smoke, and I’m thinking about you.”

That seemed to make him nervous. “What about me?”

“Well, I just wonder—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t wonder about me or my story.”

How can I not? she thought. It’s our story. And something about the fire had changed things between them. They’d gone from avoiding each other to … this. Whatever “this” turned out to be. Was he drawn to her by his urge to protect, or was there a deeper motivation? Could the fire be a catalyst in making them face up to matters they both avoided? Maybe—at long last—they would talk about what happened.

Not now, Jenny thought. She couldn’t do that now, on top of everything else. For the time being, it was easier to engage in meaningless flirtation, skirting the real issues. Over the years, she’d gotten very good at that.

“I’d better hit the shower,” she said. “Where are my clothes?”

“In the wash, but they’re not dry yet.”

“You washed my clothes.”

“What, you wanted them dry-cleaned?”

She didn’t say anything. She knew that everything reeked of smoke and she ought to be grateful for the favor. Still, it was mind-numbing to realize she had exactly one set of clothes in this world.

He opened the bottom bureau drawer, revealing a fat paper parcel marked with a laundry-service label. “There’s a bunch of stuff in here. You can probably find something to fit. Help yourself.”

Frowning with curiosity, she tore open the parcel and inspected the contents, pulling out each piece and holding it up. There was a baby-doll top, a push-up bra, an array of impossibly tiny women’s underwear. She also found designer jeans and cutoffs, knitted tops with plunging necklines.

She straightened up and faced him. “So what are these, prizes of war? Souvenirs of sex? Things left behind by women who have walked out on you?”

“What?” he asked, but the sheepish look on his face indicated that he knew precisely what. “I had them cleaned.”

“And that makes it all right?”

“Look, I’m not a monk.”

“Clearly not.” She held a thong at arm’s length, between her thumb and forefinger. “Would you wear something like this?”

“Now you’re getting kinky on me.”

“I’m keeping the boxers,” she stated. As she headed to the bathroom, she paused, her face just inches from his bare chest. The damp steam that came off him smelled of Ivory soap. “I’d better get going. Like you said, it’s going to be a long day.”

She stepped into the bathroom. The radio, she discovered, had been set on her favorite station. On the counter were three clean, folded towels—the exact number she preferred to use, in the proper sizes—one bath sheet and two hand towels.

Sure, it was flattering to imagine he was attracted to her. But that was all in the past; he hadn’t said a dozen words to her in years. He had barely noticed her until now. Until she was in her most vulnerable state—grieving, homeless, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He didn’t notice her until she needed rescuing. Interesting.

Jenny had to lie back on the bed and suck in her gut in order to get the borrowed jeans zipped over the boxer shorts. According to the designer tag in the waistband, the pants were her size. The jeans had probably belonged to someone named Bambi or Fanny, the sort of girl who enjoyed wearing things that looked as though they had been applied by paintbrush.

The bra was a surprisingly good fit, even though the push-up style was hardly her thing. She pulled on a V-neck sweatshirt, also tight, white with crimson trim and the Harvard seal smack-dab over her left boob. Veritas. It was probably as close as she’d ever get to a Harvard education.

Later she came into the kitchen, her borrowed socks flopping on the linoleum. When Rourke saw her, his face registered something she had never seen before, something that was so quickly gone, she nearly missed it—a sharp, helpless lust. Gosh, she thought, and all it took was dressing like a Victoria’s Secret model.

“Ho Ho?” he said.

“Hey, these clothes came out of your closet,” she said.

He scowled. “No, I mean Ho Ho.” He held out a package of iffy-looking chocolate snack cakes.

She shook her head. “You might be the coffee whisperer, but that—” she indicated the packaged Ho Hos “—is atrocious.”

He was dressed for work now, looking as clean-cut as an Eagle Scout, the youngest chief of police in Ulster County. Ordinarily it took years of experience and clever department politicking to reach chief’s status, but in the town of Avalon, it took no more than a willingness to accept an abnormally small salary. He treated his job seriously, though, and had earned the respect of the community.

She helped herself to a plump orange and sat at the kitchen counter. “You’re working on a Sunday?”

“I always work Sundays.”

She knew that. She just didn’t want to admit it. “What next, Chief?” she asked.

“We go to your house, meet with the fire investigator. If you’re lucky, they’ll make a determination as to the cause of the fire.”

“Lucky.” She dug her thumbnail into the navel of the orange and ripped back the peel. “How come I don’t feel so lucky?”

“Okay, poor choice of words. All I meant was, the sooner the investigation finishes up, the sooner the salvage can start.”

“Salvage. This is all so surreal.” She felt a sudden clutch of anxiety in her gut and remembered something. “You said you washed my clothes?”

“Uh-huh. I just heard the cycle end.”

“Oh, God.” She jumped up and hurried into the tiny laundry area adjacent to the kitchen and flipped open the washer.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, following her.

She yanked out the checked chef pants she’d had on. Plunging her hand into the pocket, she drew out the little brown plastic bottle. The label was still attached, but the bottle was full of cloudy water. She handed it to Rourke.

He took the bottle from her, glanced at the label. “Looks like all the pills dissolved.”

“You now have the most Zenlike, serene washing machine in Avalon.”

“I didn’t know you were on medication.”

“What, you thought I was handling Gram’s death without help?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why would you think I could do that?”

He set the bottle on the kitchen counter. “You are now. You have been all morning. I don’t see you freaking out.”

She hesitated. Braced her hands on the edge of the counter for support. Then she realized the posture accentuated her boobs in the tight sweatshirt and folded her arms. On a scale of one to ten, the doctor had asked her the night Gram passed away, how anxious did she feel? He told her to ask herself that question before taking a pill so that popping one didn’t become a habit.

“I’m a five,” she said softly, feeling a barely discernible buzz in her circulation, a subtle tension in her muscles. No sweating, no accelerated heartbeat, no hyperventilating.

“I know those aren’t your clothes,” Rourke said, “but I’d say you’re at least a seven.”

“Ha, ha.” She helped herself to another orange. “The doctor said I’m supposed to ask myself how anxious I feel on a scale of one to ten, consciously assessing my need for medication.”

Rourke lifted one eyebrow. “So if you’re a five, does that mean we should make an emergency run to the drugstore?”

“Nope. Not unless I feel like an eight or higher. I’m not sure why I don’t feel more panicked. After everything that’s happened, it’s a wonder I’m not having a nervous breakdown.”

“What, do you want one?”

“Of course not, but it would be normal to fall apart, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think there’s any kind of ‘normal’ when it comes to a loss like this. You feel relatively okay now. Let’s leave it at that.”

She sensed something beneath his words. A certain wisdom or knowledge, as though maybe he had some experience in this area.

The morning air felt icy and sweet on her face as she followed him outside. He made sure the dogs had food and water and that the heater in the adjacent garage was on so they could come in out of the cold if they needed to. He closed the gate and then, with a flair of chivalry, he opened the door of the Ford Explorer, marked with a round seal depicting a waterwheel in honor of Avalon’s past as a milltown, and the words Avalon P.D.

Then he came around and got in the driver’s side and started up the car. “Seat belt,” he said. He noticed her looking at him and she wondered if he could tell she was thinking about what an enigma he was to her, the first person to distract her from her grief over Gram. He was being chivalrous because he was chief of police, she reminded herself. He would do the same for anyone.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked. “You’re looking at me funny again.”

She felt her face heat and glanced away. She was supposed to be in despair about losing her grandmother and house, yet here she was having impure thoughts about the chief of police. Please don’t let me be that girl, she thought.

“Other than these clothes,” she said, “I’m fine.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s focus on today. On right now. We’ll deal with things one by one.”

“I’m all ears. See, I don’t know the drill. No idea what happens after the house burns down.”

“You make a new start,” he said. “That’s what.”

His words took hold of her. For the first time since Gram died, she began to see the situation in a new light. Drowning in grief, she had focused on the fact that she was all alone now. Rourke’s comment caused a paradigm shift. Alone became independent. She had never experienced that before. When her grandfather died, she’d been needed at the bakery. After her grandmother’s stroke, she’d been needed at home. Following her own path had never been an option … until now. But here was something so terrible, she wished she could hide it from herself—she was afraid of independence. She might screw up and it would be all her fault.

Although she’d stood around the previous day and watched her house burn, even feeling warmth from the embers, she felt a fresh wave of shock when she got out of the car. With all the equipment gone, there was nothing but the scaly black skeleton surrounded by a moat of trampled mud, now frozen into hard chunks and ridges.

“What happened to the garage?” she asked.

“A pumper backed into it. It’s a good thing we got your car out yesterday.”

The loss barely registered with her. It seemed minuscule in the face of everything else. She could only shake her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, patting her shoulder a bit awkwardly. “The fire investigators will be here soon, and you can have a look around.”

She felt an unpleasant chill. “Are you thinking this fire was set deliberately?”

“This is standard. If things don’t add up for the fire investigator, he’ll call for an arson investigation. The insurance adjuster said he’d be here soon. First thing he’ll do is give you a debit card so you can get the basics.”

She nodded, though a shudder went through her. A swath of black-and-yellow tape surrounded the house at the property line.

Seeing the house was like probing a fresh wound. The place was a grotesque mutation of its former self. Against the pale morning sky, it resembled a crude charcoal drawing. The porch, once a white smile of railing across the front of the house, had blackened and blistered into nothing. A couple of tenuous beams leaned crazily out over the yard. There was no front door to speak of. All the remaining windows were shattered.

The plumbing formed a strange, Terminator-like skeleton from which everything else had burned away. In the charred ruins, she could pick out the kitchen—the heart of the house. Her grandparents had been frugal people, but they had splurged on a double-door commercial fridge and a huge double oven. More than five decades ago, Gram had created her first commercial baked goods right in that kitchen.

The upstairs was down now, for the most part, and some of the downstairs was in the basement. Jenny could see straight through to the backyard fence, now a field of snow, including a rippled blanket of white over the garden bed. Throughout Gram’s life, the garden had been her pride and joy. After her grandmother’s stroke, Jenny had worked hard to keep it the way it was, a glorious and artful profusion of flowers and vegetables.

The high-pressure stream from the firefighters’ hoses had criss-crossed the yard in clean, arching swaths. The spray had formed icicles on the back fence and gate, turning the backyard into a sculpture garden.

Heavy boots had tamped down the snow on the perimeter of the property. The entire area smelled of wet charcoal, a harsh and stinging assault on the nostrils.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said. “Interesting question, huh? When you lose everything you own in a fire, what’s the first thing you buy?”

“A toothbrush,” he said simply, as if the answer was obvious.

“I’ll make a note of that.”

“There’s a method. The adjuster will hook you up with a salvage company, and they’ll walk you through the process.”

Cars trolled past slowly. She could feel the sting of gawking eyes. People always stared at other people’s troubles and breathed a sigh of relief, grateful it wasn’t them.

Jenny put on protective gear and followed the fire investigator and insurance adjuster up a plank that sloped up to the threshold of the front door in place of the ruined steps. She could pick out the layout of the rooms, could see the filthy remains of familiar furniture and possessions. The whole place had been transformed into alien territory.

She was the alien. She didn’t recognize herself as she tonelessly responded to questions about her routine the night before. She answered questions until her head was about to explode. They ran through all the usual scenarios. She hadn’t fallen asleep smoking in bed. The only sin she’d committed was unintentional and inadvertent. She tried to detach herself, pretend it was someone else explaining that she’d been up late working at her computer. That she’d felt as if she were about to jump out of her skin, so she went to the bakery, knowing someone would be there on the early-morning shift. She answered their questions as truthfully as possible—no, she didn’t recall leaving any appliances on, not the coffeemaker, hair dryer, toaster oven. She had not left a burner on, hadn’t forgotten a burning candle, couldn’t even recall where she kept a supply of kitchen matches. (Under the sink, one of the investigator’s techs informed her.) Her grandmother used to take votive candles to church, lighting row upon row in front of the statue of Saint Casimir, patron of both Poland and of bachelors.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

“Miss?” the fire investigator prodded her.

“I did it,” she said. “The fire’s my fault. My grandmother had a tin box filled with things from Poland—letters, recipes, articles she’d clipped. The night of the fire, I was … I couldn’t sleep so I was doing some research for my column. I got it out, and—oh, God.” She stopped, feeling sick with guilt.

“And what?” he prompted.

“I used a flashlight that night. Its batteries were dead so I took the ones out of the smoke detector in the kitchen and forgot to put them back. I disabled the smoke alarm.”

Rourke seemed unconcerned. “You wouldn’t be the first to do that.”

“But that means the fire was my fault.”

“A smoke alarm only works when there’s someone to hear it,” Rourke pointed out. “Even if it had been wailing all night, the house would have burned. You weren’t present to hear the alarm, so it didn’t matter.”

Oh, she wanted him to be right. She wanted not to be responsible for destroying the house. “I’ve heard that alarm go off,” she said. “It’s loud enough to wake the neighbors, if it’s working.”

“It’s not your fault, Jen.”

She thought of the tin box filled with irreplaceable documents and writings on onionskin paper. Gone now, forever. She felt as though she’d lost her grandmother all over again. Trying to hold herself together, she studied the fireplace, picturing the Christmases they’d shared in this house. She hadn’t used the fireplace since before her grandmother had died.

Gram used to get so cold, she claimed only a cheery fire in the hearth could warm her. “I used to wrap her up like a ko-lache,” Jenny said, thinking aloud about how she and Gram had giggled as Jenny tucked layer after layer of crocheted afghan around the frail little body. “But she just kept shivering and I couldn’t get her to stop.” Then her face was tucked against Rourke’s shoulder, and it hurt to pull in a breath of air, the effort scraping her lungs.

She felt an awkward pat on the back. Rourke probably hadn’t counted on finding his arms full of female despair this morning. Rumor had it he knew exactly what to do with a woman, but she suspected the rumors applied to sexy, attractive, willing women. That was the only type he ever dated, as far as she could tell. Not that she was keeping track, but it was hard to ignore. More frequently than she cared to admit, she’d spotted him taking some stacked bimbo to the train station to get the early train to the city.

“… go outside,” Rourke was saying in her ear. “We can do this another time.”

“No.” She straightened up, pulled herself together, even forced a brave smile. What sort of person was she, thinking like that under these circumstances? She gave him a gentle slug on the upper arm, which seemed to be made of solid rock. “Excellent shoulder to cry on, Chief.”

He joined her obvious attempt to lighten things up. “To protect and serve. Says so right on my badge.”

She faced the fire investigator, brushing at her cheeks. “Sorry. I guess I needed a breakdown break.”

“I understand, miss. The loss of a home is a major trauma. We advise an evaluation with a counselor as soon as possible.” He handed her a business card. “Dr. Barrett in Kingston comes highly recommended. Main thing is, don’t make any major decisions for a while. Take it slow.”

She slipped the card into her back pocket. It was amazing that she could slip anything into that pocket. The borrowed jeans were constricting her in places she didn’t know she had. The tour continued and somehow she managed to hold it together despite the enormity of her loss. In less than a month, she’d lost Gram, and now the house where she had lived every day of her life.

The official determination had yet to be made, but both the investigator and even the suspicious insurance adjuster seemed to agree that the fire had started in the crawlspace of the attic. Very likely faulty wiring had been the cause. The Sniffer had detected no accelerant and there were no obvious signs of deliberate mischief.

“What next?” she asked the adjuster, exhausted after the tour of the ruins. She wondered if this was what the aftermath of battle was like, picking over the remains of something that had been whole and alive, vibrant with houseplants, family photos on the walls, mementos of milestones and gifts exchanged for birthdays and Christmases, one-of-a-kind keepsakes like handwritten recipes and old letters.

The adjuster pointed out her computer, which lay amid a pile of ugly, scorched upholstery with batting that burst out of the melted holes like entrails.

“That your laptop?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was closed, the top blistered.

“We can have a technician check it out. The hard drive might have survived.”

Doubtful, though. He didn’t say so, but she could read it in his face. All her data was gone—WordPerfect files, financial records, photo albums, addresses, e-mail, the bakery’s QuickBooks. Her book project. She kept backups, but stored them in the drawers of a desk that was now a pile of ashes.

Her shoulders slumped at the thought of trying to reconstruct everything.

“She’s a writer,” Rourke told the investigator.

“Really?” The man looked intrigued. “You don’t say. What do you write?”

Jenny felt sheepish. She always did when people asked about her writing. Her dream was so big, so impossible, that sometimes she felt she had no right to it. She—small-town, uneducated Jenny Majesky, wanted to be a writer. It was one thing to publish a weekly recipe column, fantasizing in private about something bigger and better, yet quite another to own up to her ambitions to a stranger.

“I do a recipe column for the local paper,” she mumbled.

“Come on, Jen,” Rourke prodded. “You always said you’d write a book one day. A bestseller.”

She couldn’t believe he remembered that—or that he’d say so in front of this guy.

“I’m working on it,” she said, her cheeks flushing.

“Yeah? I’ll have to look for it in the bookstore,” the adjuster remarked.

“You’ll be looking for a long time,” she told him ruefully. “I’m not published.” She sent Rourke a burning look. Blabbermouth. What was he thinking, telling her dreams to a total stranger?

She figured it was because Rourke didn’t take her seriously. Didn’t think she had a snowball’s chance. She was a bakery owner in a small mountain town. She would probably always be a bakery owner, hunched over the bookkeeping or growing old and crusty at the counter of the store, maybe even learning to call customers “doll” and “hon.”

“What?” Rourke demanded after the adjuster went to his car. “What’s that look?”

“You didn’t have to say anything about the book.”

“Why not?” His guileless expression was infuriating. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asked.

The fact that they were men’s boxers was one problem, but she didn’t say anything. “Bestseller,” she muttered. “How stupid would it look if I went around telling people, ‘I’m writing a bestseller.’“

He looked genuinely mystified. “What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s totally presumptuous. I write, okay? That’s all. It’s up to the people who buy books to make something a bestseller.”

“Now you’re splitting hairs. It’s giving me a headache. You once told me that publishing a book would be a dream come true for you.”

He really didn’t get it. “It is a dream,” she told him fiercely. “It’s the dream.”

“I didn’t know it was some big secret.”

“It’s not. It just isn’t something I go around blabbing to every Tom, Dick and Harry. It’s … to me, it’s something sacred. I don’t need to broadcast it.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because if it doesn’t happen, I’ll look like an idiot.”

He threw back his head and guffawed.

She had a clear memory of herself fresh out of school, poised to leave town, telling people, “Next time you see my face, it’ll be on a book jacket.” And she’d truly believed that. “This is not some joke,” she said tightly.

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “When was the last time you thought someone was an idiot for going for her dream?”

“I don’t think that way.”

He smiled at her. There was such kindness in his face that she felt her resentment fading. “Jenny. Nobody thinks that way. And the more people you tell your dream to, the more real it’s going to seem to you.”

She couldn’t help smiling back. “You sound like a greeting card.”

He chuckled. “Busted. It was on a card I got for my last birthday.”

There was something about the way he was sticking so close by her. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” she asked. “Some police-chiefing to do here in Sin City?” She gestured at Maple Street, still pristine under its mantle of new-fallen snow.

“I need to be right here with you,” he said simply.

“To pick up the pieces if I fall apart.”

“You’re not going to fall apart.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He grinned again. “You’ve got a bestseller to write.”

She thought about the ruined, blistered laptop. “Uh-huh. Here’s the thing, Rourke. The project I’ve been working on … it wasn’t on a hard drive. It was all there.” She indicated the blackened skeleton of the house, now a smoldering ruin. She felt physically sick when she thought of the box of her grandmother’s recipes and writings, which Jenny had so carelessly left on the kitchen table. Now those one-of-a-kind papers were lost forever, along with photographs and mementos of her grandparents’ lives. “I might as well give up,” she said.

“Nope,” said Rourke. “If you quit writing because of a fire, then it probably wasn’t something you wanted that bad in the first place.” He took a step closer to her. He smelled of shaving soap and cold air. He was careful not to touch her here in broad daylight with people swarming everywhere. Yet the probing way he regarded her felt like an intimate caress. He was probably still mortified by the picture on the front page of the paper. She was not exactly lingerie model material.

Then he did touch her, though not to pull her into his embrace. Instead, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to look at the burned-out house. “Look, the stories you need to write aren’t there,” he said. “They never were. You’ve already got them in your head. You just need to write them down, the way you’ve always done.”

She nodded, trying her best to believe him, but the effort exhausted her. Everything exhausted her. She had a pounding headache that felt as though her brain was about to explode. “You weren’t kidding,” she said to Rourke, “about this being a busy day.”

“You doing all right?” he asked her. “Still a five?”

She was surprised he remembered that. “I’m too confused to feel anxious.”

“The good news is, everyone’s breaking for lunch.”

“Thank God.”

They got in the car and he said, “Where to? The bakery? Back home to rest?”

Home, she thought ruefully. “I’m homeless, remember?”

“No, you’re not. You’re staying with me, for as long as it takes.”

“Oh, that’ll look good. The chief of police shacking up with a homeless woman.”

He grinned and started the car. “I’ve heard worse gossip than that in this town.”

“I’m calling Nina. I can stay with her.”

“She’s out of town at that mayors’ seminar, remember?”

“I’ll call Laura.”

“Her place is the size of a postage stamp.”

He was right. Laura was content in a tiny apartment by the river, and Jenny didn’t relish the thought of squeezing in there. “Then I’ll use this debit card at a B&B—”

“Hey, will you cut it out? It’s not like I’m Norman Bates. You’re staying with me, end of story.”

She shifted in her seat to stare at him, amazed by his ease with the situation.

“What?” he asked, glancing down at his crisp shirt and conservative blue tie. “Did I spill coffee on myself?”

She clicked her seat belt in place. “I was just thinking. One way or another, you’ve been rescuing me ever since we were kids.”

“Yeah? Then you’d think I’d be better at it.” He dialed the steering wheel one-handed, heading down the hill toward town. He put on a pair of G-man shades and adjusted the rearview mirror. “Either that, or your dragons are getting a lot harder to slay.”




Four







Daisy Bellamy stood on the freshly shoveled sidewalk in front of Avalon High School. She gazed up at the concrete edifice of her new school while her heart tried to beat its way out of her chest. Her new school. It was one of those brick Gothic buildings so common in old-fashioned small towns.

She couldn’t believe it. Once a girl from the Upper East Side, she was now, in her last semester of school, a resident of Avalon, here in the heart of nowhere.

I really screwed up this time, she thought, feeling sick to her stomach.

Was it only two weeks ago that she’d been a senior at an exclusive prep school in New York City? That was a lifetime ago. Since then, she’d left school in disgrace and now this. Now her dad had forced her to move to Sleepy Hollow, and she had to finish her senior year here with the Archie Gang, at a public high school.

Of course, everyone said, in the most caring fashion, moving here and changing schools came about because of a bad choice Daisy made. Bad choice. What a riot.

So now she stood in the middle of the frozen tundra surrounding her, and she felt completely detached from the scene. It was like an out-of-body experience, where she was hovering unseen somewhere, gazing down at herself, a lone figure in the snow, with a kaleidoscope of babbling strangers circling around her, oblivious to her presence.

No. That wasn’t right. Not everyone was oblivious. A pair of girls spotted her, then put their heads together and immediately started whispering. A moment later, a pack of guys tossing a football back and forth checked her out with measuring glances. Their low whistles and apelike sounds rolled right over her like a bitter wind.

Let them whisper. Let them jeer. What the hell did she care about any of this?

She brought her attitude with her into the main office of the school. A blast of damp heat filled the room, redolent of wet wool and whatever else a public high school smelled like. Daisy undid her Burberry muffler and pulled off her Portolano gloves. People on the other side of the scarred wooden counter were busy on the phone, staring at computer monitors or sliding messages into a row of mailboxes.

A tired-looking woman at a desk marked Attendance Clerk glanced up at her. “May I help you?”

Daisy unbuttoned her faux fur-trimmed suede jacket. “I’m Daisy Bellamy. Today’s my first day.”

The clerk sorted through the stacking trays on her desk. Then she picked up a file folder and came over to the counter, moving with a pregnant woman’s waddle. Her stomach was enormous. Daisy tried not to stare.

“Oh, good,” the clerk said. “We’ve got all your records right here. Your father stopped by on Friday and everything is in order.”

Daisy nodded, suddenly feeling overheated and nauseous. Her dad would be here right now, except that she’d begged him not to come. Her brother, Max, was only in fifth grade, she’d argued. He needed their dad way more than Daisy did. Way more.

The clerk explained Daisy’s schedule to her, handed over a map of the building and traced directions to her homeroom. She also told her where her locker was located and gave her the combination. There was a complicated system of bells—first bell, assembly bell, lunch bell … but Daisy barely listened. She glanced at the room number on her pink slip, left the office and headed into the tile-walled halls of her new school.

The corridor was jammed with loud kids and the smell of damp winter clothes. The sounds of slamming lockers and laughter filled the air. Daisy found the locker assigned to her, dialed the combination and swung open the metal door. The former occupant had shown a fondness for hiphop, judging by the intricate, interlocking graffiti drawn inside.

She put away her jacket, muffler and gloves. It had been tempting, this morning, to wear something low-key, something that wouldn’t attract attention, but that wasn’t

Daisy’s style. The only possible advantage to changing schools midyear was that for the first time in her life, she would go to a school that didn’t have a strict dress code. She took full advantage of that and showed up today in low-cut jeans and a cropped argyle sweater that showed off one of her many recent rebellions against her parents—a belly-button ring. She had no idea if Archie’s Gang would appreciate her Rock & Republic jeans or Pringle of Scotland sweater, but at least she felt good in them.

She walked into room 247, strolled past the other students and found the teacher’s desk.

Was this guy a teacher? He hardly looked old enough, in slightly wrinkled chinos, a more-than-slightly-wrinkled blue oxford shirt and an adorable but crooked paisley tie.

“Daisy Bellamy,” she said, handing over the new-student folder the attendance clerk had given her.

“Anthony Romano,” said the teacher, standing up and favoring her with a warm smile. “Welcome to Avalon High.” He had a kind of puppylike charm, with those big brown eyes and that eager-to-please attitude. “You want me to introduce you to the class?”

At least he had the consideration to ask. And he seemed so chipper, she hated to burst his bubble. She nodded—might as well get this over with—and turned to face the busy, noisy classroom.

“Hey, listen up,” said Mr. Romano in a surprisingly authoritative voice. He punctuated the imperative by knocking on the blackboard. “We have a new student today.”

The words new student worked like magic. Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward Daisy. She just pretended she was in yet another school play. She’d been into drama since playing a Christmas-pageant cherub at age four, right up to playing Auntie Mame in last year’s spring musical. She simply treated the homeroom class like an audience, offering a hostess’s smile.

“This is Daisy Bellamy. Please make her feel welcome and show her around, okay?”

“Bellamy like the Camp Kioga Bellamys?” someone asked.

Daisy was surprised that the name Bellamy actually meant something around here. Back in the city, you had to be a Rockefeller or carry the name of a clothing label or hotel chain in order for kids to think you were anything special. She nodded. “My grandparents.”

The name Kioga conjured images of the family property high in the mountains outside of town that had once been famous as the summer watering hole of well-heeled New Yorkers. The camp had closed down a long time ago, but it still belonged to the family. Daisy had only been there once, last summer. She’d worked for her cousin Olivia, renovating the place for their grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary celebration.

“Daisy, why don’t you take a seat right here, between Sonnet and Zach.” Mr. Romano indicated a right-armed desk between a boy with light blond hair and an African-American girl who had supermodel cheekbones and a wicked manicure.

“Thank God,” Sonnet said. “Now I don’t have to look at him.”

“Hey,” Mr. Romano warned.

“Whatever,” Sonnet said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms.

Daisy expected the teacher to eject her—that would have been the procedure at her old school—but instead, he turned his back on her and went to write some reminders on the chalkboard.

“Kolache?” asked the kid named Zach.

Daisy realized he was speaking to her and holding out a golden-brown pastry on a napkin. Its fresh, sweet smell made her slightly nauseous. “Oh, that’s okay,” she said, taken aback. “I’ve already had breakfast.”

“Thanks.” Sonnet reached across the desk and snatched it out of Zach’s hand.

“Oink, oink,” said Zach.

“It speaks.” Sonnet nibbled at the pastry. “Maybe it can do some other tricks.”

“I’m working on making you disappear,” Zach said.

Daisy felt as though she was at a Ping-Pong match, watching them trade insults back and forth. She cleared her throat.

“I work at the Sky River Bakery,” Zach said conversationally. “Early shift. So every morning for fresh pastries, I’m your man.”

“We’ve all got to be good at something,” Sonnet said with a pitying glance in his direction.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good at making them and Sonnet is good at eating them, as you can tell by the size of that ass.”

“All right,” Daisy said suddenly, understanding why the teacher had placed her between these two. “Do we kill him now or wait until the bell rings?”

Sonnet shrugged. “The sooner, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

Zach stretched, and folded his hands behind his head. “You need me, and you know it. You’d die of withdrawal symptoms if I didn’t bring you a pastry every day. You guys hear about the fire?” he asked, changing the subject. “Jenny’s house burned down.” “Bullshit,” Sonnet said.

“It’s not.” He held his arms wide, palms out. “Swear to God, I’m not making this up. It’s probably in the paper.”

Daisy listened with interest. She had a sort of crazy family tie to the bakery. It was owned by Jenny Majesky—she assumed this was the “Jenny” Zach was talking about. Jenny was the daughter of Daisy’s uncle Phil. So that made them cousins, though they were virtually strangers. “Is Jenny okay?” Sonnet asked. “Fine. I’m surprised she’s not with your mom.” “Jenny and my mom are best friends,” Sonnet explained to Daisy. “And my mom’s out of town at a mayors’ convention. She’ll be back later this morning.”

“Oh,” Daisy said. “Does she work for the mayor?” Sonnet took a bite of her kolache. “She is the mayor.” “Hey, that’s awesome,” Daisy said.

“Not for long,” Zach interjected. “My dad’s running against her in the next election.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that,” Sonnet said with airy confidence.

“He’s the city administrator and he’s saved the city a fortune. People love that,” Zach countered.

“Yeah, they love it when you cut services, like closing the municipal pool. What’s he going to close next, the library?” She finished eating the kolache and wiped her hands with a napkin.

Announcements crackled over the PA system, drowning the conversation. There was a meeting of the debate club after school. Ice-hockey practice and a 4-H Club sugaring-off party, which sounded wholesome, but Sonnet whispered that it was a chance for the 4-H’ers to go out into the woods, boil maple sap into syrup and get high while doing it. Then—Daisy couldn’t believe it—everyone stood up, turned to face the flag in the corner of the room and said the Pledge of Allegiance. The words came to her from some hidden well she thought she’d forgotten.

“Let’s have a look at your schedule,” Zach said.

Daisy spread it out on the desk and the three of them studied it.

“Whoa,” said Zach. “Calculus and honors physics? And AP English? What are you, a glutton for punishment?”

“I didn’t get to pick,” Daisy explained. “At my old school, I had to take five AP courses.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “It was a really hard school.”

“So you’re halfway through senior year, and they made you move to the boonies,” Sonnet said. “That’s harsh.”

“I begged my dad to let me stay in the city,” Daisy said, though beg was a euphemism for screaming fit. “I even said he could homeschool me, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Why not?”

“He claims he doesn’t remember calculus. And I was, like, fine, we’ll fail it together, because I don’t understand it, either.”

“Probably not the best way to convince him,” Sonnet said. “I’m surprised they even have classes for you here.”

Daisy decided not to tell her that technically, she probably had enough credits to graduate early. The only problem with that was, if she left school, then she’d have to get a life. And she was totally not ready for that.

By comparing notes, she discovered she had several classes in common with either Sonnet, or Zach, or both. Sonnet was some kind of accelerated brainiac. Though only sixteen, she would graduate with the seniors in June. And Daisy figured out that even though Zach and Sonnet teased each other, they were kind of into each other. But there was definitely a rivalry going on.

“It’s a little weird,” Zach agreed. “I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. My college apps have been in since October. What about you?”

Daisy stared down at her pristine, empty notebook. “I applied,” she admitted. The counselor at her other school had practically held her under house arrest, making her fill out applications. “I don’t really want to go to college,” she confessed.

Sonnet and Zach seemed to take it in stride. At Daisy’s old school, saying “I don’t want to go to college” had the impact of saying “I have an STD.” People stared at you, hiding their disgust behind pity.

And for Daisy, the most disgusted, pitying looks had come from her own parents.

Zach and Sonnet didn’t look pitying at all. Maybe at this school you weren’t considered a loser and a freak just because you didn’t plan on being a rocket scientist or Supreme Court justice.

So far, thought Daisy, the day didn’t totally suck. That was a surprise. Of course, they hadn’t even left homeroom yet.

The bell rang and everyone flurried into action, shuffling papers, stuffing backpacks and heading for the door. In the corridor, kids floated along like leaves in a stream.

Zach veered toward a classroom with French travel posters plastering the door. “Here’s my stop,” he said. “Find me at lunch.” He disappeared into a classroom.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” asked Sonnet.

Boyfriend? Now, if Sonnet had asked her if there were guys Daisy hooked up with, she would have a different answer. “No boyfriend,” she said firmly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Zach is totally crushing on you. He has been since the second you walked into homeroom.”

“I don’t even know him.”

“I don’t even know Orlando Bloom, but I totally know I would be his love slave until the end of time.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to be anyone’s love slave.”

Been there, done that, she thought. “And anyway, you’ve got him pegged all wrong. He’s into you, not me.”

Sonnet shook her head, corkscrew curls bobbing. “He hates me.”

“Right. He hates you so much he brings you a pastry every morning.”

“If you’re so smart, how come you’re not going to college?”

“I’m not sure of anything.” She experienced a tiny glimmer of warmth and found herself hoping this was the start of an actual friendship. “I like the name Sonnet,” she said, wanting to turn the topic away from herself.

“Thanks. My mom says she picked it because she didn’t want anything that sounded too ethnic. All my cousins on my mom’s side of the family are Lucias and Marias and so forth. Sonnet is just … weird.”

“Weird in a good way,” Daisy assured her.

“She once told me she was reading a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets when she went to the hospital in labor.” Sonnet’s velvety brown eyes softened with an expression Daisy couldn’t read.

“So your last name is Romano, like the teacher,” she remarked, looking at the name scrawled on Sonnet’s notebook. “Coincidence?”

“He’s my uncle Tony,” Sonnet explained. “My mom’s brother.”

They didn’t look related, Daisy thought, but she didn’t say anything. “What’s it like, being in your uncle’s class?”

“I’m used to it. There are a ton of Romanos in Avalon and half of them are teachers, so it’s kind of hard to avoid.”

“So you have your mom’s name, not your dad’s,” Daisy observed, hoping it wasn’t a touchy subject.

Apparently, it wasn’t. Sonnet answered easily, “My mom’s single. She never married my dad.”

“Oh.” Daisy didn’t know what to say to that. She was fairly certain “I’m sorry” wasn’t appropriate. She scanned the crowded hallway. “Is it my imagination, or are there three teachers on this floor named Romano?”

Sonnet gave a rueful smile. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are Romanos everywhere. Some people say that’s how my mom got elected mayor. She has eight brothers and sisters.

“So how about you?” Sonnet asked. “What are your parents like?”

Divorced was the first thing that popped into Daisy’s mind. “My mom’s originally from Seattle, but she got a summer job at Camp Kioga, where she met my dad. They married young and put each other through school—law and architecture. So it all seemed like it should work out, right? She got a job at a big international law firm and Dad started a commercial landscape design company. Then my mom’s best friend in Seattle got cancer last year and my mom had this epiphany. She said she was just pretending to be happy or some crap like that, and in order to be really happy she needed a divorce.” Daisy sighed. The whole situation just made her tired. Everything made her feel tired these days. “Which is really all right with me, since I’m practically out the door. My little brother Max—he’s eleven—is taking it hard.”

“So how did your dad wind up with you and your brother?”

“My mom’s working on a case at the International Court of Justice in The Hague. In Holland.”

Sonnet turned out to be the perfect first friend to have at this school. They had two classes together, and Sonnet introduced Daisy to a bunch of other kids. Some regarded her with suspicion, but most were friendly enough. She felt a little overwhelmed, though, trying to keep everything straight. In history class, they were studying ancient ways of burial and they talked about a cairn, which was a pile of stones used to mark a burial site, and to keep scavengers from picking at the bones of the dead.

Lunchtime rolled around and Zach joined them. The cafeteria was vast, with tall windows that were fogged by steam from the big iron radiators. There were long Formica tables crammed with kids sitting in distinctive groups.

“Okay,” said Zach, “so here’s the deal. Over there are the jocks, and they’re fine, so long as you don’t mind talking sports until you want to puke. The big sports in this school are hockey and baseball. The table on the end—theater crowd. Dancers, actors, singers. The skater table kind of speaks for itself. Around here, skaters and snow-boarders are the same. Do you ride?”

“I ski,” Daisy said.

“You don’t rate with them, then.” He moved on, giving her a quick tour—Goths, nerds, Eurotrash, headbangers, gangbangers.

The oniony smell of cafeteria food made her feel queasy. She followed Sonnet through the line, picking only a fruit bowl and a bottle of seltzer water.

“Oh, man.” Sonnet looked at Daisy’s tray in dismay. “You don’t have an eating disorder, do you?”

Daisy laughed. “Believe me, that’s not a factor. I’m just not feeling too hungry at the moment.”

They sat at a table with an interesting, eclectic mix of people.

Zach went to get a refill and Sonnet propped her chin in her hand, studying Daisy intently. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Daisy nibbled idly at a bit of pineapple. No shit.

“I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. I mean, why would a girl, taking all college prep classes at the best school in the country, suddenly drop out her senior year and decide she doesn’t want to go to college?”

Still Daisy didn’t reply. There was nothing to say. Sonnet was like a buzzard, circling overhead, spiraling lower and tighter as she approached the truth.

Daisy told herself she’d better get used to being scrutinized and questioned. She was hoping she’d have at least a little more time to settle in at school, to let people get to know her and, she hoped, form a decent opinion of her before the truth came out, before everyone found out the secret she’d been holding under her heart.




Five







It was a Monday like no other, Jenny realized as she headed once again to the ruin at 472 Maple Street. She was back again, along with the fire investigator. Later in the week, the salvage operation would begin. She couldn’t imagine that there was anything to salvage, but Rourke swore she might be surprised.

As they got out of his car at the curb, she glanced up at him and caught her breath. She wasn’t used to being around a guy this good-looking. Staring at him had a strange effect on her. It was destroying her brain cells.

He noticed her look. “Something the matter?”

“I really don’t think I should be staying with you. At your house, I mean.”

“You’re staying. It’s the best idea for the time being, at least.”

“It’s embarrassing. People will talk.”

“That’s always been your problem, Jenny. Worrying about what people will say.”

An interesting observation, coming from him. “You mean you don’t care?”

“Do I act like I care?”

She thought about the women he dated. “I guess not. But I do.”

“Look, nobody’s going to think anything about this. You’re a disaster victim, I’m the chief of police. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“Cute.” She brushed past him and headed up the walkway to the ruins of the house. She used her booted toe to nudge at what had once been a wooden file cabinet. This was where she had stored her notebooks. As soon as she learned how to write, she had written all her secrets, all her girlish dreams, all her thoughts in spiral-bound notebooks, and she had stored them in the file. There was almost nothing left, just blackened pages that disintegrated at the slightest touch or sodden papers destroyed by water.

How will I remember? she wondered. How will I remember the girl I used to be?

Surrounded by the devastation of the only home she had ever known, she told herself it was silly, fretting over each little loss. If she let herself do that, she would be grieving from now until Judgment Day. She plunged her hand in her pocket and felt the cylindrical shape of the pill bottle; she’d refilled the prescription this morning. Hold on, she told herself. And then she looked up at Rourke McKnight and the strangest, most irrational feeling came over her. Safety. Security. Even a small glimmer of hope. And she hadn’t even taken a pill.

She wasn’t sure why. He was just standing there, watching her as though he’d throw himself in front of a train if that was what it took to keep her safe. And she believed him. Trusted him. Felt safe with him. Which made her either the dumbest woman in town, or the most insightful.

The sound of a car engine caught her attention. She turned to see Olivia Bellamy exiting a silver Lexus SUV and hurrying across the street toward her. Blond and adorable, in designer boots and an embroidered Scandinavian jacket, she resembled the kind of woman Rourke usually dated, but with one key difference—Olivia Bellamy had a brain.

“Jenny,” she said, pulling her into a hug and then stepping back. “I just heard. Thank God you’re safe.” She gaped at the smoldering ruin of the house. “I’m so sorry,” she added.

“Thanks,” Jenny said, feeling awkward. She and Olivia were sisters—half sisters—though they didn’t know each other very well. They’d met for the first time last summer, almost by accident, when Olivia had moved up from the city to renovate the Bellamy family summer camp, high in the mountains on the shores of Willow Lake.

Discovering that they were both the daughters of Philip Bellamy had been … at first startling, and then bittersweet. Jenny was the result of a youthful affair; Olivia was born to the woman Philip had married and later divorced. Now Jenny and Olivia were still getting used to the idea that they were sisters. Far from the happy-go-lucky twins in The Parent Trap, they were just finding their way toward each other.

“You should’ve called me right away,” Olivia said. She sent Rourke a swift glance. “Hi, Rourke.” Then she turned back to Jenny. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I, uh, I was at the bakery when it started and then …” Jenny didn’t know why she felt apologetic. She just wasn’t sure how to act around her newfound sister. “Things went crazy, as you can imagine.”

“Excuse me,” Rourke said as the fire captain motioned him over.

“I can’t imagine.” Olivia touched her arm. “Oh, Jenny. I want to help. What can I do?” Olivia seemed almost desperate and utterly sincere. “I want to help, in any way I can.”

Jenny summoned a smile, grateful beyond words that even after losing Gram, she still had her sister. If not for Olivia, Jenny would be alone right now, the last of her family gone. Yet at the same time, she felt a pinch of melancholy, regretting the years they’d lost. She had grown up with Bellamys all around her, never knowing of the connection they shared. She and Olivia were so different. Olivia had spent her life surrounded by the wealth and privilege of the Bellamy family. The adored—and, according to Olivia, overindulged—only daughter, she had attended the best schools, graduated with honors from Columbia, and by the age of twenty-four had launched her own business. She was gorgeous, successful … and she was in love with the perfect guy—a local contractor named Connor Davis. It would be easy to envy her to the point of dislike.

Except Jenny truly liked Olivia. She honestly did. Her half sister was kind and funny, and she genuinely wanted to have a relationship. Jenny had read somewhere that the true test of the strength of a relationship is whether or not it held up in a crisis.

I guess I’m about to find out, she thought.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “At the moment, I’m kind of disoriented. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Forgive? My lord, Jenny, you must be devastated.”

“Well, when you put it that way …”

“God, listen to me. I’m awful.”

“It’s all right. There’s really no etiquette in this situation.” An awkward silence stretched between them. Jenny studied her sister’s face, as she sometimes did, seeking something—anything—they shared in common. A certain tilt of the eyes? The shape of jaw, chin, cheekbone? Their father swore they looked like sisters, but Jenny believed it was wishful thinking. “Listen, there is something you can help with. I’m going to need some clothes.”

“You’re going to need everything,” Olivia added. “I’ll drive.”

Finally, Jenny felt it—the relief and gratitude of knowing someone wanted to look after her. She went over to Rourke. “Are we done here?”

“For now. The fire investigator is going to be working most of the day.”

“All right. I’m going with Oliv—my sister—to pick up a few things.” She felt a curious satisfaction at saying it aloud. My sister.

“Call me,” he said.

There was no excuse not to. Her cell phone had been in her purse, safe from the fire, and Rourke had already replaced the charger. She got in the car with Olivia, the heated leather seat sighing luxuriously beneath her. Further proof that the rich were different. Even their cars felt special.

“Where are you staying?” Olivia asked.

Jenny didn’t say anything, but her glance in Rourke’s direction gave her away.

“You’re staying at his place?”

“It’s just temporary.”

“I’m not saying anything is wrong with it,” Olivia clarified. “But … Rourke McKnight? I mean, if you put that together with the picture of the two of you on the front page of the paper, then, I don’t know—it starts to look …”

“Like what?”

“Like something. Like you two are—”

“Me and Rourke?” Jenny shook her head, wondering how much Olivia knew about their history. “Not in this life.”

“Never say never. That’s what I said about Connor, and look at us now. Next summer, I’ll be married.”

“I think you’re the only one who’s surprised by that.”

“How do you mean?”

“You and Connor are made for each other. Anyone can see that.”

Olivia beamed at her. “You know, you’re welcome to stay with us.”

No offense, thought Jenny, but I’d rather have a root canal. Olivia and Connor lived on the most gorgeous parcel of riverfront land in the area. They were building a house of stone and timber and romantic dreams, and Jenny had no doubt that a blissful future awaited them. However, the house was only half finished, so Olivia and Connor were living on the property in a vintage Airstream trailer. Not exactly made for overnight guests. “That’s really nice of you. But I’ll pass, thanks.”

“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t stay there, either, if I didn’t know it was only temporary. Connor promises to be done by April,” Olivia said. “I keep reminding myself that he’s a contractor. Isn’t it true that they always underestimate?”

“Not to their fiancées, I hope.”

Before Olivia pulled away from the curb, Nina Romano arrived in a battered pickup and motioned for them to lower the window. Jenny’s best friend was as unpretentious as she was loyal. She often dressed in clothes that might have come from a rummage sale in Woodstock, causing her opponents to label her the “happy hippie.” Yet her earnest dedication to the community, coupled with a no-nonsense way of getting things done, made her popular enough to be elected mayor.

“I heard you’ve moved in with Rourke,” she said without preamble. She peered into the SUV. “Hi, Olivia.”

Olivia smiled in greeting. “I just love small-town life. You never run out of things to talk about.”

“I haven’t ‘moved in’ with Rourke,” Jenny said. A blush crept up her face.

“That’s not what I heard,” Nina said.

“Listen, he found me at the bakery in the middle of the night and told me my house was toast. I went back to his place because I was dog tired and it was too early to bother anyone else. I’m still there because …” She stopped short of telling them about his coffee-making skills, the thread count of his sheets and the undeniable feeling of security she got from being with him.

Nina sniffled and blew her nose. “Sorry. I caught a bug at the hotel in Albany. You could have gone to my place,” she said. “I was out of town, but Sonnet wouldn’t have minded.”

Jenny knew that Nina didn’t have room for company any more than Olivia did. Nina and her teenage daughter lived in a tiny bungalow. The office of mayor was practically a volunteer position, the salary was so low. “Thanks,” Jenny said, “but like I said, it’s only until I figure out what to do next.”

Nina, as usual, was a whirlwind of business. Her cell phone went off and she had to race for an appointment. “Call me,” she mouthed, and then put her truck in gear.

Jenny and Olivia drove to the town’s main square, where the bakery stood shoulder to shoulder with a jewelry store, a bookstore and various other boutiques and tourist shops. They headed for a boutique called Zuzu’s Petals, a favorite for women’s clothing.

It was unexpectedly pleasant, shopping with her sister. And undeniably liberating to start from scratch with a whole new wardrobe. She insisted on keeping purchases to a minimum. “I have a feeling I’m going to be traveling light for a while,” she said. “I still can’t quite believe everything’s gone.”

Olivia’s eyes misted. “Oh, Jenny.” She pulled out her cell phone. “We need to tell Dad, right away.”

“No, we don’t.” Jenny didn’t think of her father as “Dad.” Perhaps she never would. Until last summer, the only information she had about him was the cryptic notation on her birth certificate: “Father Unknown.” Once they had discovered each other, they both made an effort to get to know one another. Still, in her mind, he wasn’t Dad but Philip. A nice enough gentleman who, many years ago, had the poor judgment to fall for Jenny’s mother, Mariska.

“All right,” Olivia conceded. “But you should tell him what happened.”

“I will. I’ll call him later.”

“And …” Olivia hesitated, her cheeks coloring with a blush. “I should also warn you, my mother and her parents—the Lightsey side of the family—are planning to come up soon to help me with the wedding.”

“Of course,” Jenny said. “I appreciate the heads-up, though.”

“Is it going to be awkward for you, seeing them?”

Seeing the woman their father had married after being dumped by Mariska? How could that not be awkward? “We’re all grown-ups. We’ll deal.”

“Thanks. My mom’s parents and Nana and Grandpa Bellamy have been friends forever. I think between the four of them, they decided my mom and dad would marry long before my parents even met. That might be why they ultimately got divorced. Maybe the marriage wasn’t their idea in the first place.”

To Jenny’s discomfiture, she could too easily imagine marrying someone because it was the right thing to do, the practical thing. She had almost done exactly that, long ago. She skirted the thought and accepted the bra. Olivia had excellent taste. Jenny picked out seven pairs of underwear. Though the sexy wisps of lace caught her eye, she selected plain beige hip-huggers. She needed to be practical.

Olivia moved on to a display of pajamas, holding up and then discarding a frumpy high-necked nightgown. She held a pink baby-doll top up to Jenny and nodded her approval.

“Maybe it was meant to be, you staying with Rourke.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t.”

“You never know. Look at me. If anyone had told me I’d wind up living in a trailer with an ex-con, I would have thought they were joking. My mother practically went into therapy when I gave her the news. It was a jolt, you know. Last May I was dating an heir to the Whitney fortune, a guy who was once featured in Vanity Fair. By the end of summer, I’d fallen in love with Connor Davis. So it just goes to show you.”

“Show you what?”

“You don’t always get to pick who you fall in love with. Sometimes love picks you.”

“Why do I get the sense that you’re trying to tell me something?”

“I’m not,” Olivia said, tossing her the pink baby dolls. “Not yet, anyway.”

By the end of the day, Jenny had discovered a new level of fatigue. Until now, she had taken the concept of “home” for granted, as most people did. The simple knowledge that your home—your favorite chair, your stereo, your bed, the stack of books on your nightstand—was waiting at the end of the day was a true source of comfort, something she hadn’t thought about until it was gone. Now weariness dragged at her, and she thought wistfully of her own home, her own bed. The moment she stepped inside Rourke’s house with her shopping bags, the fatigue hit her like a giant wave.

“You look like you’re ready to drop,” he said. The dogs came galloping in from their run in the yard, shaking snow from their fur, tails waving in greeting. Clarence, the one-eyed cat, followed, slipping into the fray.

“Good guess,” she said.

He fed the animals, talking to them as though they were people, which Jenny found unexpectedly charming. “Move aside, boys,” he instructed. “And don’t gulp your food. You’ll get the hiccups.”

Despite her fatigue, she caught herself smiling as the dogs lined themselves up, watching with adoring eyes while he fixed their dinner. Why hadn’t she ever adopted a pet? That unconditional love was incredibly nice to come home to.

“How about you?” Rourke asked her. “What do you want for dinner?”

Oh, boy. “Anything. At this point, I’m not picky.”

“Good, because I’m not much of a cook.”

“You want some help?” she offered.

“Nope. I want you to take a good long shower, because you’re going straight to bed afterward.”

She thought about his cushy bed and felt a wave of yearning as she headed into the bathroom. The shower, like everything else in his house, was meticulously clean yet oddly generic. She resisted the temptation to snoop in his medicine cabinet. There was, she knew for a fact, such a thing as learning too much information about a person. Besides, the more she learned about Rourke, the deeper his mystery seemed.

After her shower, she put on the soft yoga pants and hoodie she’d bought earlier, combed her hair and went to the kitchen, where Rourke was putting dinner on the table.

“So this is the ‘serve’ part of ‘to protect and serve,’“ she commented.

“I take my mission very seriously, even if it’s just canned soup and ham on rye. Made with the best rye bread in the known world,” he added.

“You have excellent taste in bread,” she said, recognizing a loaf of Sky River Bakery’s traditional Polish rye. “Did you know the starter for this bread is more than seventy years old?”

He looked blank. Most people did when asked to consider bread starter.

“It’s a live culture. You use a bit to make the dough, and cultivate more so it never runs out. My grandmother got it from her mother when she was a new bride in Poland. A traditional wedding gift is the pine box the size of a shoebox for the pottery container. Gram brought the culture in its carved pine box to America in 1945, and she kept it alive all her life.”

Rourke slowed down his chewing. “No kidding.”

“Like I would make this up?”

“So some part of my sandwich dates back to Poland before World War II.” He frowned. “Wait a minute. You didn’t lose it in the fire, did you?”

“No. We keep all the bread cultures at the bakery.”

“Good. That’s something, at least. So if you ever lose it or run out or whatever, can you make a new starter?”

“Sure. But it’ll never be exactly the same. Like wine from different vintage years, the aging process adds character. And it’s tradition for a mother to pass it on to her daughter in a chain that’s never broken.” She picked at her sandwich. “Although I guess my own mother took care of that.”

“The stuff’s safe and sound at the bakery,” he said, clearly shying away from the topic of her mother. “That’s what matters.”

“What, a rye bread starter matters more than my mother?”

“That’s not what I said. I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”

“Believe me, she’s not a sore subject, not after all this time. I have bigger worries at the moment.”

“You do,” he agreed. “And I’m sorry if I said anything to upset you.”

How careful he was being with her, Jenny observed. “Listen, I’m going to be okay,” she said.

“I never said you weren’t.”

“That look says otherwise. The way you’ve been treating me says otherwise.”

“What look? What way I’ve been treating you?”

“You’re watching me like I’m a bomb about to go off. And you’re treating me with too much care.”

“I can honestly say that’s the first time a woman has ever accused me of being too caring. So I’m supposed to … what? Apologize?”

She wondered if she should bring up the pact of silence that had governed them for so long. At some point, they were going to have to discuss it. Not now, though. Right now, she was too tired to get into it. “Just cut it out,” she said. “It feels strange.”

“Fine. I won’t be nice anymore. Help me with the dishes.” He got up from the table. “Better yet, you do the dishes and I’ll see what’s on ESPN.”

“Not funny, McKnight,” she said.

They ended up loading the dishwasher together. She noticed a small, framed photograph on the windowsill over the sink. It was one of the few personal items in the house, and she wasn’t in the least surprised to discover it was a picture of Joey Santini, Rourke’s boyhood best friend—and also the man to whom Jenny had been engaged. The shot showed Joey, a soldier in the 75th Ranger Regiment, serving in the Komar Province of Afghanistan.

Against a desolate airstrip with a Chinook cargo helicopter in the background, he looked completely happy, because that was Joey—happy to be alive, no matter what. In his sand-colored BDUs, his elbow propped on a jeep, he was laughing into the camera, in love with the world, with life itself, even in the midst of the scorched earth of battle.

“I have that same picture,” Jenny said. “Or, had. It was in the fire.”

“I’ll make you a copy.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he ever thought of Joey, but she didn’t have to ask. She knew the answer: Every day.

“I have dessert,” Rourke said, shutting the dishwasher and cranking the dial. Apparently, he considered the subject closed.

“I’m not eating a Ho Ho.”

“Ice-cream cones,” he said.

“The perfect winter dessert.”

He fixed her three fist-size scoops, ignoring her when she protested the size. Then they sat down on the sofa, and both dived for the remote control. He beat her to it, and even though she whined, he refused to watch Project Runway, insisting instead on a classic rerun of American Chopper. Tucking the remote between his hip and a sofa cushion, he said, “Now you can’t accuse me of being too nice.”

She licked her ice cream and watched the careful, intricate assembly of something called—in tones of reverence—a master cylinder. Her eyes started to glaze over.

“Can’t we compromise?” she asked. “Maybe watch one of those crime investigation shows?”

“You mean the ones that make police work look noble and sexy?”

“What, it’s not noble and sexy?” she asked.

“Honestly, it’s detail work. I spent half the day inventorying cruisers, which was completely depressing, since the budget doesn’t allow for equipment upgrades for another two years. Either the city administrator is an idiot, or he’s Scrooge.”

“Matthew Alger, you mean.”

He nodded.

“Then why do police work if it’s all boring details?” she asked.

“Because it’s my job,” he said simply, staring at the TV screen.

“But why is it your job? You could have picked anything you wanted, gone anywhere. Instead, you picked this little mountain town where nothing ever happens.”

A commercial came on, and he turned to face her. “Maybe I’m waiting for something to happen,” he said.

She was dying to ask him to elaborate but didn’t want to seem too interested. “And here I thought being a cop was one adventure after another.”

“Hate to burst your bubble, but it’s not noble and sexy. Now, making buttermilk pie and raspberry kolaches—that’s sexy.”

“Well, then, I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t do the baking.”

“So? You’re still sexy.”

In spite of herself, Jenny grew flushed. It was stupid, at her age, getting flustered over something some guy said. Especially a guy like Rourke McKnight. She tried to pretend she wasn’t affected, even though she felt a sting of heat in her cheeks. Good lord, were they flirting? This was getting complicated but … irresistible. “Now, what part of protect and serve is that?” she asked, trying for a light tone.

“It’s got nothing to do with the job. And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure you are. I like it. I like that I can make you blush.”

And with such pathetic ease, she thought. They had a rhythm still. They always had. She’d spent years trying to forget but it all came back. “I’ll keep that in mind. You’re really easy to please, Chief McKnight.”

“I always have been,” he said. “You of all people should know that.”





Pine Box Traditions


It’s a Polish wedding tradition to give a new bride a supply of starter for sourdough rye bread. I suspect it’s a combination of tradition and desperation on the part of the bride. It just doesn’t seem fair to add the pressure of making a good bread right out of the gate to everything else the poor girl is juggling.

My grandmother told me that the day before her wedding, when she was just a scared girl of eighteen, her mother gave her a carved pine box, just like the one that had sat on a shelf above the kitchen stove all her life. It’s kind of nice, really, thinking of that chain of women, spanning the decades and centuries.

Now, the reality of today’s world is that new brides don’t give a hoot about making bread. However, if the breadmaking mood strikes you, here’s a recipe with a starter that only takes one night to set up. The process begins somewhat mysteriously. Flour, buttermilk and onion meld together in the beginnings of a hearty bread.




Polish Sourdough Rye Bread


2 (.25-ounce) packages active dry yeast

1 teaspoon white sugar

2 cups water

1 thick slice onion

4 cups rye flour

1 cup buttermilk, room temperature

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 tablespoon salt

8 cups bread flour

1 tablespoon caraway seeds (optional)

The night before making the bread, in a medium-size mixing bowl, dissolve one packet of yeast and the sugar in the water. Let stand until creamy, about 10 minutes. Stir in rye flour until mixture is smooth. Slip onion slice in. Cover and let stand overnight then remove onion.

The next day, dissolve remaining package of yeast in buttermilk. Add rye flour mixture, baking soda, salt, 4 cups of the bread flour and stir to combine. Add the remaining 4 cups of bread flour, 1/2 cup at a time, stirring well after each addition (you may not need to add all the flour). When dough has become a smooth and coherent mass, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and supple, about 8 minutes. Sprinkle caraway seeds on dough and knead them in until evenly distributed throughout.

Lightly oil a large mixing bowl. Place dough in the bowl and turn to coat with the oil. Cover with damp cloth and let rise in a warm place for about 1 hour or until volume has doubled. Preheat oven to 350°F.

Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface and divide into three pieces. Form each piece into a loaf and place in 3 lightly greased 9 x 5-inch bread pans. Cover and let rise until nearly doubled, about 1 hour.

Bake at 350°F for about 35 minutes or until the loaves sound hollow when tapped.




Six







Summer 1988

Rourke McKnight tried not to act too excited about going to summer camp. He was afraid that if he showed even the smallest amount of pleasurable anticipation, his father would forbid him to go. During the limo ride down Avenue of the Americas to Grand Central Station, Rourke sat quietly, watching the traffic through tinted, bulletproof windows. It was raining, the hard, summer kind of rain that caused geysers of steam to rise from the asphalt.

His best friend, Joey Santini, was riding in the front seat with Joey’s dad. Mr. Santini had been the McKnight family driver since the beginning of time, as far as Rourke knew. It was just a total stroke of luck that Joey was Rourke’s age and that father and son—there was no

Mrs. Santini, not anymore—lived in the service quarters of the McKnights’ building. This was a good thing, since otherwise Rourke would have grown up with no one to play with except Mrs. Grummond’s Dandie Dinmont terriers. Although the sliding glass privacy window was shut, Rourke could see Joey and Mr. Santini laughing and talking the whole way, in contrast to the quiet, tense occupants of the luxurious back of the limo.

Even though he was twelve years old, Rourke had never been to camp before. His father was against it, of course, and when his father said no, that was that. Period. End of story.

But everything changed when two things happened the same week—the Bellamy family made a big contribution to the senator’s campaign, and Drayton McKnight was given a rare appointment to a committee that was going on a lengthy junket to the Far East to discuss trade agreements that would benefit his district.

Now it made perfect sense to send Rourke away for the summer, to the Bellamys’ Camp Kioga in the Catskills wilderness. When Rourke’s mother was young, she had gone to Camp Kioga, and she thought Rourke should, too.

Rourke had to act all bummed out that he’d be away from his parents all summer. He had to pretend he was just as worried about his own well-being as his father was. He even had to pretend that he wasn’t excited about the fact that Joey would be going to camp, too, so the boys could look out for each other. Rourke knew for a fact that this camp cost an arm and a leg, which his family could easily afford. Not Joey’s, though. He was going to camp on scholarship, which meant Rourke’s father was secretly picking up the tab.

Not out of the goodness of his heart, though. Rourke’s father was completely paranoid. That was what Rourke figured, anyway. The guy was freaked. He was sending Joey to camp so Rourke wouldn’t be alone among strangers. In a way, worrying about attacks on his family probably made the senator feel important. And that was what Drayton McKnight was all about—feeling important.

That, and being perfect. No, thought Rourke. Looking perfect. Looking like you had the perfect family and the perfect life. “Make me proud” was the phrase Rourke heard most often from his father. It was a sort of code. By now, Rourke had figured that out. It meant he had to win at every sport he played. Get straight A’s in school. Learn to use his looks and confident smile to win people over so they would vote for his father each election year.

All that stuff, it was so easy. He was big and strong and had no problem conquering any sport he tackled. And getting good grades? All you really had to do was listen to what the teacher said and figure out what he wanted you to say back to him. Rourke was a politician’s son. He knew how to do that.

He couldn’t wait to get to Camp Kioga, where nobody cared what his grades were. He pinched the inside of his lip between his teeth to keep from smiling.

“Your hair is too long,” his father said suddenly. “Julia, why didn’t he get a haircut before we let him run wild all summer?”

Rourke didn’t move. This was a crucial moment. On a whim, his father might decide they needed to head right back uptown, to the ancient barbershop where electric clippers were used to buzz white sidewalls around the ears of hapless boys.

He kept staring out the window. Raindrops raced backward across the glass, the silver tracks like streams of mercury. He spotted two of them that were neck and neck, and picked one as the winner, tensing as it pulled ahead and then fell back. Finally, the raindrop merged with the others and he lost track.

“He did have a haircut,” Rourke’s mother said. She was using her soothing, reassuring voice. The one she used when she didn’t want Rourke’s dad to get upset. “It’s the same cut he always gets.”

“He looks like a girl,” the senator remarked. He leaned forward, closer to Rourke. “You want to spend the summer looking like a girl?”

“No, sir.” Rourke kept staring at the rain-smeared window. He held his breath, praying his dad wouldn’t order the driver to turn uptown.

“It’s fine, really,” Rourke’s mother said.

Way to tell him, Mom, Rourke thought cynically. Way to stand up to the bastard.

“Mildred Van Deusen told me all three of her boys will be on the same train,” his mother continued. “Rourke, you ought to see if you can find them. Maybe you can sit with them.”

Bingo, Rourke thought, watching his father’s interest shift. Rourke had to hand it to his mom. She might not be any good at standing up to his dad, but she sure as heck knew about diversionary tactics. The Van Deusens were one of the richest, most important families in the district, and anytime Rourke’s dad saw a chance to connect with them, he jumped on it.

“I’ll be sure to look for them,” Rourke said.

“You do that, son,” his dad said, apparently forgetting about the haircut.

“Yes, sir.”

And then, thank God, they arrived at Grand Central. There was a mad shuffle as they got his backpack and duffel bag out of the trunk and made sure he had his ticket and travel documents. The honking of taxi horns and whistles and shouts of porters filled the air. The marble archway opened to a salon that swarmed with travelers and panhandlers, vendors and performers. Mr. Santini came around with an umbrella, sheltering the three McKnights from the rain. Joey didn’t bother trying to fit under the umbrella; he yanked up the hood of his windbreaker, leaped across a puddle and was the first to reach the awning of the station.

Rourke walked between his parents through the entryway. After parking the car, Mr. Santini slipped away to join Joey. The McKnights stopped below the big lighted display board, where they verified the track number and the fact that the train was on time. Some of the people they passed gave them admiring looks. This happened a lot when Rourke was out with his parents. Together, the three of them looked like the all-American family—blond and healthy, well-dressed, prosperous. Sometimes Rourke even sensed envy from people, as if they wanted what the McKnights had.

If only they knew.

Rourke sidled away from his parents. He and Joey exchanged a glance. Sheer delight danced in Joey’s eyes. Some of the girls in their soccer league said Joey looked like one of the New Kids on the Block. Rourke didn’t know about that, but Joey’s grin was infectious. Camp, Rourke exulted, and he knew Joey understood his silent glee. We’re going away to camp.

Rourke wondered if Joey understood how big this was, and how much he owed Joey himself. If not for Joey, Rourke wouldn’t be going anywhere. When the subject of Camp Kioga first came up, the senator had immediately dismissed the idea. It had been Joey who had—in that casual way of his—named off all the kids from school who were going to summer camp. He’d pretended he was talking to Rourke, but he was careful to mention all the most important families, the kind of people Rourke’s father admired and whose support he cultivated. Rourke had convinced his parents that it was a good idea to send Joey, too, and that had tipped the decision in his favor.

When they reached the track, Rourke said his goodbyes. He and the senator shook hands, his father’s grip crushing hard for a few seconds, as if to leave some sort of imprint. “Never forget who you are,” his father advised. “Make this family proud.”

Rourke looked him in the eye. “Yes, sir.”

Then his father’s attention wandered as he scanned the platform. Here he was, saying goodbye to his kid for ten whole weeks, and he was working the room, looking for constituents.

At least it gave Rourke’s mother a few extra seconds for her own goodbyes. She held him close. He was a little bit taller than her now, so it was easy for her to whisper in his ear while hugging him.

“You are going to have an amazing time,” she said. “Camp Kioga is just … magical.”

“Julia.” The senator’s voice cut through the moment. “We have to go.”

She gave Rourke one final squeeze. “Don’t forget to write.”

“I won’t.”

He stood on the platform and watched them walk away, slender and fashionable in their raincoats. His mother tucked her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm. Rourke blurred his eyes, and his parents melted together so they weren’t two separate people anymore, but one single being. Senator and Mrs. McKnight.

All around him, he could hear kids and parents saying goodbye. Some of the girls and mothers were shedding real tears, professing that they’d miss each other horribly and write every day. Mr. Santini, a big bear of a man, yanked Joey in for a hug, kissing the top of the boy’s head with a loud smack. “I’m gonna miss you like icecream sundaes, sonny-boy,” said Mr. Santini, unabashedly crying.

Rourke wondered what it would be like to have the kind of family you’d actually miss when you left them.

Camp Kioga was as magical as Rourke’s mother had promised. He and Joey shared quarters with ten other guys in a long wooden bunkhouse called Ticonderoga Cabin. Every single day was packed with activities—sports and crafts, nature hikes, rock climbing, sailing and canoeing on Willow Lake, stories around the campfire at night. They had to sing and dance some nights, which

Rourke could definitely do without, but since everyone had to participate, there was no getting around it.

One thing Rourke was good at was putting up with something he didn’t feel like doing. And he sure as hell had endured worse than leading some giggling, sweaty-handed girl around the dance floor, muttering quick-quick, slooow, quick-quick, slooow under his breath in time to the music.

At camp, he met several Bellamys. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bellamy, the owners and directors, seemed kind enough. “Your father’s wilderness-conservation bill means the world to us. Thanks to that bit of legislation, we don’t have to worry about industry closing in on us,” Mrs. Bellamy had said on opening day. “You must be quite proud of him.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rourke didn’t know what else to say. Yes, he’s a good public servant but a complete bastard in private—that would go over like a fart in church.

“We’re very glad you’re here,” Mrs. Bellamy went on.

“I remember your mother. Julia—Delaney, wasn’t that her maiden name?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She was a favorite. So full of fun. She used to play practical jokes all the time, and on talent night, she did a stand-up-comic routine that had us all in stitches.”

Rourke didn’t believe her, but then, one rainy day when outdoor activities were canceled and Joey was gone on a solo expedition, she showed him some of the camp’s treasured photo albums housed in the library. The collection was in the main pavilion, a gigantic timber building from the 1930s. It was the heart of Camp Kioga, housing the dining hall, library, infirmary, the kitchen and camp offices.

And sure enough, there were several snapshots of his mom in the 1970s, hamming it up. She wore a smile Rourke had never seen before. She looked so completely happy that he almost didn’t recognize her.

He thanked Mrs. Bellamy for showing him some of the camp’s history. He lingered in the library until the rain let up, perusing the books, from Hardy Boys mysteries to birding manuals, classics by Thoreau and Washington Irving, and the inevitable collections of ghost stories. Long after the rain stopped, he sat looking through books, trying to imagine a different life for himself. When they were little, he and Joey always talked about joining the army together and traveling the world, but as they grew older, the fantasy dimmed. By the seventh grade, Rourke was already feeling the crushing weight of his father’s expectations, and Joey was now aware of the realities of working-class life.




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