He chuckled. "Not to sound egotistical, but believe me, there were plenty of women who lined themselves up. Especially, I'm sorry to say, after I got involved in the church. But . . ."

When his voice trailed and I was certain he wasn't going to finish, I put on my best smile and concluded, "But none of them were me?"

He laughed again, this time stopping in a patch of sunlight. He pulled me to him, kissed me without hesitation, and said, "Something like that."

I was burning up; the sun beating against my head and skin made me feel like I was standing in front of a hot oven. But I didn't care. I could have melted in a puddle of sweat or a pool of love right then and there and it would have been fine with me. "Steven Granger, what sort of spell have you cast on me this time?"

He kissed me again. "And what about the spell you've cast on me?" He smiled. "But let me say this: I can't say you were at the forefront of my mind back then-though I never really forgot you. It's just that raising Eliza was a full-time job, not to mention my other full-time job. And I didn't want to bring anyone into her life who might jeopardize our life in any sort of way." He smiled.

The knot formed in my throat again. When I couldn't think of anything to say, I coaxed him into walking again. Then, in a low voice, I said, "Rearing."

"What?"

"Rearing. You reared Eliza." I grimaced at my words but figured I might as well finish them. "Sorry, the schoolteacher in me. We raise cattle, we rear children."

"Ah. I'll remember that the next time I'm rearing a child or raising a cow." He winked at me again and we both laughed. We walked past a short white picket fence dripping with roses. Their scent was sweet and-in the heat-intoxicating.

I rolled my eyes. "I can't believe I just said that. I guess old habits die hard."

"I hope not." He stopped me again, this time under the awning of Cedar Key's Historical Society building, a famous building in its own right. "Remember what we talked about last night? About how you try to control things?"

I nodded. "Yeah." We were only steps from the end of the sidewalk, across the street from Tony's and the large oblong sign announcing the award-winning clam chowder that simmered within. I could smell its spices, and my stomach rumbled. "Sorry," I said as I pressed my hand against my middle. "I've hardly eaten since yesterday."

"Smells good, doesn't it?"

"Yes." He led me onward with a tug of his hand, but I stopped him. "Steven, I just want you to know that I thought a lot-mostly in church, if I'm to be honest-about what we've talked about. And even what Andre said and Charlie has said. It seems to me that the majority rules on this one. I'm a control freak."

"I wouldn't call you a freak exactly."

"Thank you for that. But, you know what I mean. And I'm going to work on it. I whispered to G.o.d this morning that I'm going to trust him with my sons when they're at their father's. I'm going to trust him with Heather when she is in rehab. And I'm going to trust that Andre knows what he's doing with his own kids while she's there."

Steven touched the tip of my nose with his lips. "That's good to hear. Believe me, Kim, this is something I can attest to from personal experience. If you let go and let G.o.d, as the old saying goes, everything really will work out okay."

"I believe you." I sighed. "But it's not going to be easy."

"Nothing worthwhile ever is, Boo."

Patsy was at the computer in her living room when we returned. She wore her pajamas with a thin cotton robe and satin ballerina bedroom slippers. Her hair had been brushed and rebraided, and her face looked freshly washed. She told me she was "Facebooking" with her grandson.

She was delighted by the clam chowder. When we were done with lunch, Steven and I cleared everything away while Patsy went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. As I put away the last of the washed dishes, I told Steven I wanted to stay with Patsy for a while but that he could pick me up at my house at around 7:00, if that worked for him.

He grinned at me and said, "Tell you what. Why don't you let me tell you when I can pick you up? Then, if it doesn't work for you, we can negotiate."

I sighed. "Was I doing it again?"

"Only a little," he said, bringing his index finger close to his thumb.

I groaned, but he kissed me anyway, told me not to stress over it, and that he would, indeed, pick me up at 7:00. I rested my forehead against his shoulder. "Thank you."

His fingertips pushed my chin up until I was looking into his eyes. "Kim . . ." he said but didn't finish his thought.

"What?"

He blinked, shook his head as he lowered his hand, and said, "Nothing."

I placed my hands on his forearms and whispered, "What?"

He momentarily flushed, grabbed my hands with his, released one, and walked me to the door, holding the other. "I'll pick you up at 7:00. We'll go to the graveyard, then head over to the Island Room for something to eat."

I could only nod. Something was happening between us, something I couldn't quite verbalize, even if only in my head. He pressed his lips ever so briefly against my own, then walked out of the door.

I returned to Patsy.

I found her in her bedroom, standing before her mirrored vanity, pushing Jergens lotion from a pump bottle into the cupped palm of her hand. The pleasant scent of cherry-almond permeated the room, reminding me of my childhood. Oreo lay curled in the middle of her bed, his front paws tucked under his chest. "You two seem to be doing awfully well," she commented. She looked at the bottle of hand cream and said, "Want some?"

I pushed the pump once then rubbed the creamy lotion around my hands and between my fingers before bringing them to my nose and inhaling. "My mother always used Jergens. Funny, I haven't thought of it in years."

"My dressing table is never without it," Patsy said. "Wonderful for the face too."

I spied an antique gold filigree lipstick holder. A Cupid sat on the outside center, head turned to his left as though indifferent, silently strumming a guitar. Four small tubes-each of them noticeably old-stood like ladies of a bygone era in the center. I touched Cupid's head with my fingertip and said, "This is quite lovely."

"And quite old." Patsy reached for one of the tubes, pulled the top away from the base, then twisted until crimson red lipstick appeared. Whoever had used it previously had worn it flat. "These were my mother's," she added. She brought the tube to her nose and inhaled as I had done with the hand cream. "It smells like crayon wax to some, I suppose. But to me it smells like a woman who was once very beautiful."

She leaned the lipstick over for me to smell. She was correct; it smelled like crayon wax. As she returned the tube to its place, I asked, "Didn't you say your mother sent you to live with another couple when you were thirteen?"

"She did." She looked toward the door. "Let's go sit down, shall we? I'm clearly tired."

We walked into the living room; Patsy wrapped her arm around mine and leaned on me for support. When we were comfortable, she continued with her story. "My mother had packed my suitcase that day while I was at school. I remember thinking on the way home that I had field peas to sh.e.l.l when I got home and my friends-Mitzy and Jane were their names-wanted me to sneak away to Ca.s.sel Creek." Patsy's face held a faraway expression until she said, "Oh, my. We had so many white acre peas that summer. I remember thinking my fingers would fall off from the picking and the sh.e.l.ling." Patsy looked down at her hands-gnarled with age-then laid them in her lap. "But when I got home, Mama said for me to get in the car, that we had somewhere to go. So I did as I was told. I always did. Children in those days didn't argue with their parents like they do nowadays.

"Mama said my little brothers were at a neighbor's and that we had to go to a place called Slim's. Slim's was a service station and a bus stop. I remember Mama bought me a Nehi Peach before . . ." Patsy brought her hands up and back down to her lap again. She looked away from me, toward the sliding gla.s.s doors and the marsh beyond. "On the way there she started telling me about my little brother like I hadn't remembered him, and that he was living with these good people and that those good people were going to let me come and live with them too." She brought her fingertips to her lips and cut her eyes to me. "I cried, of course."

"Of course."

"But Mama said not to. She said she didn't have time for my tantrums. I knew she wouldn't whip me. She just couldn't bear to see me cry like that." She sighed. "I begged her to go get my little brothers and to go with me. We could leave Ira Liddle, all of us together. But she wouldn't do it. I can still see her standing outside the bus when it pulled away from the station . . . waving good-bye and blowing kisses."

I waited in the moment's silence until Patsy was ready to continue. "When I got to the Buchwalds' house, Mrs. Buchwald-who I called Mam-took me into the kitchen while Papa took my suitcase into their room." Patsy laughed lightly, though there was little humor in her tone. "Mam told me something that night I didn't even know before."

"What was that?"

"My brother's name." She sat quiet until she continued, "Mam unpacked my suitcase for me, what little bit I had in it. I found out later that the suitcase had been my mother's. That she had used it when she and my father had gone on their honeymoon."

"How'd you find out?" I kicked off my shoes and curled my legs up under me.

"Mam told me. When I married Gilbert she brought it down out of her closet. Still in pristine condition. She said, 'Patsy, I've been saving this for you.' Then she told me what Mama had told her. That it had been hers and that there was a gift wrapped up for me on the inside. Mama had told her to give the suitcase and the gift to me when I married." Tears pooled under her eyes, and, using those precious old fingers, she brushed them away, seemingly without thinking. "Inside were the lipstick holder and the lipstick. She'd seen me playing with it once, I guess. She knew I thought it to be the mark of a real lady."

She became silent again, then patted my hand and forced a weak smile. "Look at you. A young woman listening to the ramblings of an old woman."

"Patsy, I hardly think of you as old."

"I'm old enough."

"Never mind your age. How are you feeling today?"

"Much better. That doctor called while you were at church, by the way. He wants to come by to check on me later this afternoon, but I told him I was feeling so much better that he didn't really need to."

"So is he coming or not?" I asked.

She looked at her watch. "He said about 3:00 he'd come by anyway." She laughed. "He told me that he is the doctor so let him do his job."

"You gave in that easily?"

"Of course I did. Never mind my health. He's gentle on the eyes. Reminds me of my Gilbert."

I reached over and hugged her. "Oh, Patsy. You're so cute." When I drew back I said, "Now I need your help if you're up to it." I looked over to the computer and back to her.

Her eyes brightened. "You're ready for Facebook?"

"Not quite," I said. "But I could stand to use your computer to look up something."

She scooted to the end of the sofa. "What's that, hon?"

"Cirrhosis of the liver," I answered. "I need to do a little research."

26.

After doing my research, helping Patsy to her bed for an afternoon nap, and sending Oreo outside, I went home to let Max out for playtime with his neighborhood friend. Inside the house, I went to my bedroom closet-the one my mother had kept her clothes in once upon a time-reached for a large vintage hatbox-the one decorated with tea roses and teacups-and pulled it toward me and off the shelf. I took it to my bed, slipped the top off, and then dumped the contents all over the comforter.

Hundreds of photographs.

I spent the next two hours shuffling through them all, sorting them until I'd found enough evidence. Subtle hints of a problem I'd denied for years. I then bounded off the bed, went to the framed photo of the gla.s.ses marked with lipstick, and ripped it off the wall. I returned to the bedroom and promptly called Anise. I asked first if she was with Dad.

"He's napping in the bedroom," she said. "I'm in the living room reading. But I can wake him if you need me to."

"No," I said, maybe a little too quickly. "Anise, I'd like to ask you a question. What can you tell me about how Mom died?"

She didn't answer at first, no doubt trying to determine how much I might know already. Then she said, "I know it was very painful for her. And for your father to watch . . . he loved her very much, you know that, don't you, Kimberly?"

I knew it. I still didn't understand why he'd married Anise so soon after Mom's death, but I knew for certain he had loved her. "And?" I asked. "What else?"

I heard her sigh. I made out the sounds of her sitting up, closing her book, and placing it on the coffee table. Buying time. "You've spoken with Andre."

"Yes. And I want to know the truth."

"It's too painful for your father."

"I'm looking at no less than fifty photographs presumably taken by my father, and one framed taken by my mother, that tell me my mother was an alcoholic. That she didn't die from liver cancer but that, instead, she died from cirrhosis."

"The picture of the gla.s.ses near the bar."

"Yes." I picked it up with my free hand and studied it again. Those were my mother's lips; I had no doubt about it.

"Your father took that photograph, Kimberly."

"My father?" I dropped the picture.

"He should be telling you this," she said. "But I know he won't. The . . . fights between the two of them about her constant drinking or her binge drinking are things he has shared with me. But he's never wanted you girls to know the full brunt of it."

I didn't know whether I should ask her to thank him for me or to shake him for not tearing away the veil sooner. "And the picture?"

"Those were the gla.s.ses from one night . . . a bad night, he told me . . . when she kept pouring drinks into new gla.s.ses, saying that as long as she wasn't drinking from the same gla.s.s, it didn't count."

My heart hurt. I looked at the picture again. "That's ludicrous."

"But it's true. You should know, Kimberly, that alcoholics need no real reason to drink, but they are masterminds at excusing their behavior."

I wanted to cry. The knot formed in my throat, threatening to overtake me, but I pushed it down and tried to force my words over and around it. "Why didn't Dad-"

"Tell you?"

"Stop her."

"Oh, Boo. You really must understand. Your father enabled her."

Enabled. There was that word again. "Then he killed her."

I heard a quick intake of breath. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare speak ill against your father. You obviously know nothing at all about the disease, about the people who are affected by those with it, you would never say such a thing."

"But if he had told me just how serious-he is a doctor, after all-maybe I-"

"No. Listen to me. This is one thing you could not fix. No one could fix it. Not your father, not you, and certainly not your sisters. Not even Joan's parents could stop her. Only your mother could have fixed this, and she chose not to."

This is one thing you could not fix. There it was again. "But maybe I could have . . . maybe she would have listened."

For a while, Anise said nothing. Then, "Kimberly, I want you to listen to me very carefully, and I'm not kidding when I say this. I don't want you to discuss this with your father if you are going to say anything to hurt him. He went through enough with Joan. He loved her, do you hear me? He loved her. In his mind, that love was not enough to stop her from drinking. He begged her . . . for his sake . . . for their sake . . . for the sake of you kids . . . but Joan wasn't able . . . wasn't willing to even try." She took a deep breath. "They say you have to hit bottom. Unfortunately, for Joan, the bottom was death."

"Anise . . ."

"Do you hear me, Kimberly? If you hurt your father any more than he has already been hurt, I won't forgive you."

I shook my head. Yes, she would forgive me. It was her Christian nature to forgive. But she wouldn't forget, and our lives together would be difficult. Forever different. "I won't say anything to him."

"Talk to him, yes. Discuss it. But don't accuse him of any such nonsense as killing Joan."