"I'm happy right where I am."

It was the kind of conversation married people often had when they didn't want to spell something out, but they wanted to get their point across. Message received, thought Sophie. She traced the line of his jaw, pressing a finger into the dimple on his chin. "My handsome, sophisticated, complicated man."

"That's right," he said, nuzzling her hair. "And don't you forget it."

When Sophie breezed back into her office after lunch, she found an unexpected visitor standing by the window.

"Nathan," she said, coming to a full stop just inside the door.

He turned around. "You never returned my phone calls or answered any of my letters. Why?" There was no preamble. No hello, how are you? He just launched into what was on his mind. He didn't seem angry, just baffled.

He looked tired, thought Sophie. His brown hair was shaved short, and his hands appeared rough, like he'd been doing a lot of physical work. Other than that, he seemed fit. He was wearing his usual jeans, chambray work shirt, boots, and thick leather belt. If she had her dates right, he'd been out of prison now for several days. She had expected to hear from him, but she hadn't figured on him showing up at the hotel.

"You know why I didn't answer your letters or return your calls," she said, wishing they'd had a few seconds to greet each other first, to normalize the situation. But Nathan had never been one to beat around the bush. He wasn't polished or urbane, like Bram. He didn't use words to hide behind. He said what he thought, unless there was a good reason not to. It was something Sophie had once loved about him. Now, it made him seem dangerous.

"You told me we could be friends," said Nathan, taking a few steps toward her. "I know I hurt you last spring, but I've explained all that. You said you forgave me. Can't we put it all behind us and start fresh?"

"You don't want a friend, Nathan, you want a lover."

"I want you to be my wife, Sophie. We'd be married right now if you hadn't been sucked in by that crazy Jesus Freak cult. And then, when you were finally free, you went and married somebody else."

"Nathan, when I married Bram, I hadn't seen or talked to you in over twenty years."

"I know it's not simple."

"That doesn't even begin to cover it."

"But you love me. I know you do."

It might be love he saw in her eyes, thought Sophie, or it might just be a bad case of indecision. Nathan thought he knew her, but he didn't. She was a middle-aged woman with an entire life behind her, not the seventeen-year-old blank page he'd fallen in love with. As much as she still cared about him, as much as she was still attracted to him, she didn't need this kind of complication in her life.

"You know, Sophie, I spent years cooking in France and Italy. Women there get married, settle down. Then they take a lover. It's commonplace, even expected."

"It's not commonplace in Minnesota."

"Europeans aren't tied heart and soul to all this puritanical crap Americans are so fond of. They don't have the same love-hate relationship with pleasure. It's a healthier way to live." He hesitated, then reached out to touch her hand. "We were close last spring. Why can't we be close again?"

"You get right to the point, don't you?"

"I've been locked up for months, Sophie. What do you expect?"

"I expect you not to come on to me like a character in a soap opera. I expect a little civility, a little understanding." She moved behind her desk and sat down. Seated, Nathan didn't tower over her in quite the same way. She hated being a shrimp. "We've already had this conversation. I'm married, and I love my husband. If you can't respect that, then you need to leave."

Nathan lowered himself into a chair. "Okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have exploded at you like that. I've made mistakes in my life, but loving you isn't one of them. Don't ask me to stop, because I won't." Pausing for a moment, he added, "But I do respect your feelings for your husband. Your loyalty is . . . admirable."

"It's more than loyalty, Nathan. That's what I need you to understand." He hadn't given in, she knew that much.

His expression lightened, signifying a change of subject. "I did a lot of thinking these last few months, about you, and about New Fonteney."

She nodded, wondering where he was going.

"I wondered for a while if I should open my own cooking school, but I'm not a teacher, Sophie. I'm a chef. And I've been away from it far too long. I want to get something going for myself again. I spent the past few days talking to people about renovating the main hall at the monastery, turning it into a spectacular dining room. I can finally put everything I've learned to use. I've got a great architect now, and I'm working with a contractor. It's time."

"A restaurant," she repeated. It didn't come as a complete surprise, and yet now that it was about to become a reality, she could feel the excitement growing inside her.

"I'd love for you to come out to the site and see the plans. We're going to break ground in late October."

"That's . . . incredible."

"I know." He grinned. "I want to call the restaurant Chez Sophia."

She just stared at him, feeling both touched and alarmed.

"It's just an idea, but I love the sound, the feel of the name. It's exactly right for the image I want to project. A mixture of French and Italian cuisine. Classic, yet warm, approachable. Like you. And . . . it's a way to honor what we once had. That's very important to me. It makes me feel like we're still connected on a deeper level than mere friendship. Not that friendship isn't good. I mean, it's great to have friends. You can never have too many."

He was babbling. He was also manipulating her and she knew it, but she was flattered nonetheless. "I think you better give it some more thought."

"Sure," he said lightly. "Nothing's written in stone. What do you say? You want to drive out to the site with me sometime soon? I should get my first set of blueprints by the end of next week."

It was tempting. But before she could answer, her cell phone rang. "Give me a second," she said, finding her purse and clicking the phone on. "This is Sophie."

"Is this Sophie Greenway?" asked a man's voice. "The one who works for the Minneapolis Times Register?"

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"The name's Morey Hall. I met your son last week. He was asking about Jim Newman, a guy I used to know. Had a picture of him from way back."

Sophie had to quickly change gears. "Yes, Mr. Hall. I'm delighted you called."

"Your son, Rudy, asked me to find out any information I could on Viola Newman. Her maiden name was Little. Viola Little. She was our town librarian from the late fifties to the late eighties."

Sophie picked up a pen. "Is she still alive?"

"Sure is. My wife knows for a fact that she's living in a nursing home somewhere in the southern part of the state. I checked around a little, but I couldn't locate her."

"Don't worry about that. I'm just grateful to know she's still alive. Do you have any idea how old she'd be?"

"Well, let me think. Oh, I suppose maybe eighty. Maybe a tad older."

Sophie wondered if her memory was still intact. "This information is a huge help, Mr. Hall."

"I understand from your son that you're trying to find her husband. I always thought he was a decent guy, a hard worker, but when he took off on her like he did, my thoughts changed. I started seeing him for the slicker he was."

"Slicker?"

"You know. Con man."

"Do you know anything about their marriage?"

"Just what I told your son. When Newman married Viola, he moved into her house in town. Nice little colonial on a quiet street. The place was torn down a while back. Viola was a classy lady, Mrs. Greenway. Way too good for the likes of Newman."

Sophie could hear a horn honk in the background.

"Oops. There's a customer. I gotta run."

"Thanks so much, Mr. Hall."

"If you find that Newman, give him a kick in the rear from me."

"I'll do that." She smiled. "Good-bye, and thanks again." When she looked up, she saw Nathan studying her.

"What are you up to now?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Just an inquiring mind, huh?"

"It's business."

"Right. Are you going to answer my question?"

"What question was that?"

"Will you come out to the monastery one day soon to see the plans for the new restaurant?"

She felt the familiar trap door open beneath her feet. "I'll . . . think about it."

"I hope beyond the shadow of a dream."

"Excuse me?"

"John Keats."

"I take it you still read poetry."

"We like to think we change, but we don't."

"Is that Keats, too?"

A mischievous grin spread across his face. "No, Sophie. That's Nathan Buckridge. Feel free to quote me."

28.

"Get out here!" shouted Cora. She was standing in the Washburns' backyard, the shotgun gripped tightly in her hands, the butt resting against her shoulder. "Get out here or I'm going to blow a hole in your goddamn picture window!"

The first person to step out onto the back deck was Milton. He was holding a coffee cup in one hand and had raised the other to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. "What the hell do you want?"

"I got something to tell you, all of you. Anybody else in that house better come out now."

After her near-death experience last night, Cora realized she should be scared, but instead she was furious. The man who shot her in the head-or more accurately, in the wig-as she stood in the closet watching, had prowled around her house for nearly an hour before finally leaving. Thankfully, he was a fool. He never checked to see that she was dead. He either thought he was a crack shot, or he didn't like the sight of blood up close and personal.

Cora had spent the night in a cheap motel. She hadn't slept much, but she had done some important thinking. She should probably report what happened to the police, insist that they find out who the intruder was, that they protect her. But if she did, there was always the chance that they might find out about the hundred thousand dollars and make her give it back. That money was hers. She'd earned it.

The bottom line was, Cora-not the police-was the best captain of her fate. The Washburns had interfered with her life long enough. It was time she interfered with them.

Plato stepped out on the deck next. "What do you want?" he demanded, slipping on his sunglasses.

He'd turned into a real pork pie in his middle age, Cora thought, eying him critically. His mother and father were as skinny as a rail. So was his sister. What on earth had happened to him? "Is that it? Anybody else in there?"

"Why don't you lower the shotgun, Mrs. Runbeck?" said Milton. "Put it away in your car, and then we can talk."

She was standing in front of her Chevy Malibu, which she'd parked next to a derelict-looking vegetable garden. The cornstalks were high, but dry as sticks. The beans and tomatoes were lying flat in the dirt. "You think I'd come near this snake pit without protection? You must figure me for an idiot." She planted her feet firmly and regripped the gun. "I want you to know, I got your message last night."

"Message," said Milton. "What are you talking about?"

"One of you came to my house and tried to kill me. I imagine the fact that I'm standing here, alive and well, is causing one of you some real psychic pain."

"What do you mean, one of us tried to kill you?" said Plato. "That's ridiculous."

"Let's not play games."

"I'm calling the police," said Milton, turning toward the door.

"Stay put!" Cora thundered. She waited for him to do as he was told. "I got two big barrels here, and believe me, I'll use them both if I have to."

"She's insane," said Plato, looking a little shaken.

"Here's the deal. I've got the goods on John. I've read all the letters several times. I know what he did. I know what he is. Shame on all of you for trying to protect a man like that." She glared at them with as much venom as she could muster. "If anything should happen to me, copies of those letters will be sent to the police. Do I make myself clear? You harm one hair on my head and John Washburn will end up behind bars."

"What letters?" demanded Plato. "I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Neither do I," said Milton, with more indignation than his nephew.

They were a real pair, thought Cora. The son and brother of a bigamist and a murderer. One of them was a murderer, too. The very idea that something as evil as that could happen in a good Lutheran town like Rose Hill made her blood boil. And they had the gall to be indignant. "Ask John to explain it. Now, let's recap. I've got the goods. I've also come into some money recently, if you catch my drift. Leave me alone and I'll leave you alone. Oh, and one more thing. Just for my edification, what's John's middle name?"

The two men exchanged confused glances.

"Arthur," Milton replied finally. "John Arthur Washburn."

Hmm, thought Cora. That didn't fit. Maybe J. D. was a nickname.

"Why do you need to know that?" asked Plato.