He clutched the curtain tightly in his fist, then let it go. "That's a good idea, Cassie. I'm sure you don't want to be saddled with any of this old stuff."

Her gaze skipped around the room, taking in all the highly polished mahogany and cherry antiques. She felt a proprietary surge creep into her veins.

"It's not just old stuff, Ed. This furniture has been in the family for generations."

He nodded, his eyes filled with a knowing compassion. "Well, family heirlooms to you; just old stuff to other people. Personally, I love it. Just like I love everything about this house. But a prospective buyer might not have the same sense of history that you and I share."

She took another sip of coffee and found herself eyeing his suit-a double-breasted number with a tie that had reached its fashion zenith about five years previously. Feelings of doubt assailed her. Even though he was the only realtor in town, did she have to use him? Sure, they both wanted to keep the house intact, but was he savvy enough to attract a prospective buyer? She looked down at her bare feet on the wood floor. She would give him a try, even if only to redress the childhood cruelties she had undoubtedly inflicted upon him. If it didn't work out, she'd find another realtor in a different town if she had to.

"Do you need me to show you around?"

Ed shook his head. "Nope-I've been here before. You just go on about your business and don't mind me. I'll be fine."

She looked at him with a perplexed frown. "When . . . ?"

"Your father showed me around. When I was here to talk to him about selling that land."

"Ah, yes. Well, I'm going to use the phone in the study. If you need me, just holler." Holler? Why on earth did she use that word? "Um, yell. I'll be in here." Raising her mug to him in a salute, she headed for the desk.

As she sat down, the scent of leather and pipe smoke settled on her, making her feel her father's presence, if only for a minute. She looked behind her, half-expecting to see him standing there, an expression of quiet support and patient understanding crossing his face. She had the strongest urge to call Harriet to see if she felt their father still, too, but instead dialed Andrew's number.

It took a few moments for the receptionist to patch her into Andrew's office. Hitching her feet under her in the desk chair, she waited.

"Andrew Wallace here."

"Hi, Andrew. It's Cassie-Cassandra. Sorry I didn't call you last night-"

He cut her off. "I'm glad you called. I've got Joan Dorfman from BankNorth here in my office right now. We've got a problem."

She closed her eyes, her heart sinking with disappointment. This isn't what she wanted right now. She wanted soft words of warmth and love, not the frigid words of market share and the cost of full-page four-color print ads in Time magazine.

Pulling open a desk drawer, she slid out a pad of paper and a pen. "Okay, Andrew. What's the problem?"

Pushing aside the feelings of disappointment, she allowed the comforting, familiar lull of work to fall over her, obliterating all bothersome thoughts of her family, the house, and Sam. The pen scratched over the yellow paper; one page, then two. The back of the third page was covered in priceper-share calculations. Finally, she sat back in the chair and let go with what she did best: the negotiation.

Her voice soothed and cajoled the client on the other end of the line. Cassie was so engrossed in what she was doing that she didn't even look up at the brief knocking at the door. She ignored it and swiveled her chair so that her back was to the entranceway.

Cassie continued on the phone. "Joan, I'm sorry you didn't like the sixty-second spot. We had our best people working on it, and we were pleased. We just weren't aware of your negative feelings regarding John Tesh. It will take some juggling to replace him, but it can be done."

She turned the chair around so she could rest her elbows on the desk. As the client talked, Cassie doodled on the pad in front of her, not paying attention to what she was drawing. The Sedgewick twins, in matching sundresses, appeared in front of the desk, making her jump in surprise.

"We brought those Red Radiance clippings for your mother's rose garden and a few clumps of violas for that front bed. We were thinning ours out this morning and thought you could use them."

Cassie stared at them in horror, her finger to her lips to get them to be quiet. The older women managed to look like chastised two-year-olds.

Holding her hand over the receiver, Cassie whispered, "I'm sorry, but I'm on an important phone call."

Selma smiled. "Is that Lucinda? Please tell her that we said hello and that the bridge-club meeting has been moved from Wednesday to Friday."

Thelma broke in. "And please remind her that we need her black-currant-jam recipe. We're going to serve it on Tuesday at the Women's Guild meeting."

Keeping her hand on the receiver, Cassie vigorously shook her head at the two women.

Thelma stepped closer to the desk, reaching for the phone. "Well, I never! It's only a silly jam recipe. Please tell her that I would like to speak with her."

Cassie shook her head again and clutched the receiver closer to her chest. Thelma reached over to take the phone.

"No!"

Joan Dorfman, marketing director for one of the nation's biggest banks, stopped her diatribe. "Excuse me?"

The front door opened again, and Harriet and Sam appeared in the foyer, carrying an assortment of large packing boxes. Sam set his boxes down on the floor, then reached for Harriet's. He nodded toward the two women. "Thelma. Selma. How are y'all doing today?"

Cassie was mortified to find that Selma had tears in her eyes. "Joan, I'm sorry. That wasn't meant for you. I've got to call you back."

Joan kept talking, ignoring Cassie's request.

Ed Farrell came down the stairs and joined the fray in the study. Sam, with his arm around Selma's shoulders, looked at him oddly. Cassie ducked her head in an effort to hear Joan better, and her gaze rested on her doodlings. Sam's name, in big block letters, danced across the page in thick black ink, while hearts, doodled in all different sizes, covered the rest of the paper.

She jerked her head up to see if anybody else had noticed, and her eyes met Sam's widened ones. She didn't know if he was surprised at what she had drawn or just wondering why she was making Selma Sedgewick cry.

"Yes, Joan. I'm still here. Yes. I'll talk it over with Andrew, but I've really got to go right now. . . ."

Her voice was cut off by the door flinging open, and a large animal- she wasn't sure if it was a dog or a pony-bounded into the house and into the study. It leaped on top of the desk, then onto Cassie's lap, toppling over her and the chair, and yanking the phone cord out of the wall.

"George-sit!"

At Sam's command, the beast trotted away from Cassie and sat down. Cassie struggled to get her T-shirt and robe over her thighs as she stood. Sam reached her side in one long stride.

"Are you all right?"

Furious, the disconnected phone still in her hand, she shouted, "What in the hell was that thing? And why are all you people in here? Doesn't a closed door mean anything to you?"

Selma and Thelma, their chins waggling like a pair of twin turkeys, pulled their shoulders back and left the room. The genteel ladies didn't slam the front door as they left, as if to show Cassie that even if she lacked breeding, they certainly didn't.

Sam scowled at her. "I hope you know you've just insulted two of the finest people I have ever met. Your father would be ashamed."

His words stung. It was one thing to feel ashamed, and that she did in spades. It was another thing to have it pointed out to you. That only made her angrier. She met his gaze head-on.

"You didn't answer my question. What in the hell are you doing here?"

Sam's jaw muscles began throbbing wildly. Harriet stepped between them.

"We came to help with the attic. Remember? We talked about it last night while Sam was patching your ankle. Sam mentioned he had some boxes at the clinic and offered to bring them here for me."

As if in response to Cassie's ungratefulness, the box at the top of the stack slid off and landed with a soft thud on the wood floor. The hairy beast gave one loud, sharp bark, then stumped its fat tail against the rug for an added effect.

Deflated, all Cassie could think to say was "Oh." She placed the telephone receiver on the desktop, but stopped herself in time from sitting down on empty air. Then she caught sight of the hairy mutt.

"What is that thing?"

Sam didn't answer, but seemed intent on staring at her scantily clad body. The scowl reappeared on his face. "And why is Ed Farrell coming down your stairs at ten-thirty in the morning when you're wearing next to nothing?"

Ed's eyes widened, accompanied by a smirk. "Come on, Sam. We aren't in high school anymore. Whatever Cassie chooses to do- whether to herself or her house-is none of your business."

Sam folded his arms across his chest, clenching his hands into fists. His cheek thrummed wildly. "Oh, really. And since when did Cassie give you permission to speak for her?"

"Enough!" Cassie moved to stand between the two men. "Sam Parker. You have some nerve. How dare you question Ed's or any-one's presence in my own house. It's none of your damned business. And besides, he wasn't the one ogling me in my nightshirt and robe." She waved her hand between them to stop him from speaking. "Look, I'm going to go take my shower, then make a phone call to hopefully repair a badly damaged client relationship." She took a deep, cleansing breath. "While I'm gone, Ed, I'd like you to finish up with the appraisal." Turning to Sam, she said, "And I would like you to bring those boxes up to the attic." He frowned at her, prompting her to add, "Please," as an afterthought.

Rubbing her hands over her face, she turned to her sister. "Thanks for your help, Harriet, but I really think I can do all this myself. But if you want to go up to the attic and see if there's anything you want, go ahead. Feel free to take everything. I'm sure there's nothing I'll want. My apartment has absolutely no storage space as it is."

Mustering all the dignity she could, considering she wore next to nothing and hadn't even brushed her teeth yet, she stepped over the hairy beast named George and headed for the stairs. "When y'all leave, please lock the door behind you. And don't forget to take that . . . that . . . him"-she pointed at the animal calmly appraising her from the floor-"with you."

As she climbed the steps, a stunned expression came over her face. Y'all? Had she really said that? Oh, Lord. She'd been in Kansas way too long. She'd better leave soon before it was too late.

The attic door in the middle of the hallway stood open, puddling light onto the floor. Quiet voices slid down the stairs, like ghosts from her past, drawing Cassie toward the attic. The large space with the sloping ceiling and porthole window had been her sanctuary-hers and Harriet's. At first it had been their playroom, and then, as the girls got older and Lucinda had decided she was too old to be climbing so many stairs, it had become their refuge. The attic walls held all the confidences of adolescence and the tears of frustration, disappointment, and loss, as only a young girl could express them. Facing the attic now was like opening the cover on a dusty and cobwebbed scrapbook album. She took a deep breath and began her ascent.

Her high heels clicked on the wooden risers. Her ankle still felt a bit tight from twisting it the night before, but well enough to wear heels-as long as she walked slowly. Which was a good thing, con-sidering she didn't own anything else and going barefoot was not an option.

The voices grew louder as her head reached the attic-floor level. Her view was blocked by the railing slats, and she didn't spot Harriet and Sam until she reached the top step. They were kneeling on the floor in front of a trunk, apparently oblivious to the thick carpet of dust that lay everywhere, and they were laughing at something Sam held in his hand.

Cassie stayed where she was, watching them. It was such an unguarded moment-a sweet slice of time spent in the company of a friend, reliving shared memories over a good laugh. It was almost like a damned Hallmark commercial. She tried to reach for her protective cynicism but only came up with a longing to be a part of that closeness, that sharedness, that belonging.

Acloud of dust drifted across the floor and tickled Cassie's nose. She sneezed, turning both heads in her direction.

"God bless you," they said in unison. Harriet sent a guilty look toward Sam, then stuffed something back inside the trunk.

"What are you looking at?" Cassie tap-tapped her way across the attic floor.

"Oh, nothing. Just some old high school stuff."

Cassie peered into the trunk. "What was so funny?" She looked at where Harriet's hand seemed to be covering something. "What's this?" she asked as she reached under Harriet's fingers and pried something soft and white out of the trunk.

"Oh . . . my . . ." The bra inserts were still in pretty good condition- still white, fluffy, and perfectly round, like oversized tennis balls. "I can't believe somebody saved these."

Harriet wasn't being completely successful about hiding her laughter. "I think Aunt Lucinda is responsible. She doesn't like to throw away anything."

Sam didn't even try to hide his mirth. With a broad grin, he said, "Harriet and I were just reminiscing about how you went from an A cup to a double-D cup overnight your freshman year. Like nobody would notice."

They both gave up all pretense of hiding their merriment and let out big roars of laughter.

Cassie stood with her arms folded, feeling her anger rise. They were laughing at her, not even trying to hide it. She looked down at the inserts still clutched in her hands, remembering how ridiculous they had looked under her sweater, and felt her lips twitch. Now that she thought about it, it was really pretty damned hysterical. She tossed them back into the trunk, trying to remain stern, but the memory overwhelmed her, and she was soon joining them, laughing until the tears rolled down her face.

When she could breathe, she nudged her sister. "It was all your fault, you know. It was embarrassing having a younger sister with bigger boobs. I was only trying to even the playing field."

Sam looked up at her, his eyes sparkling. "Instead, it looked like you took something off the playing field and stuck it in your shirt."

All three of them buckled with laughter again. Cassie punched Sam on the shoulder as she leaned over the trunk and pulled something out. It ruffled like taffeta, but whatever the fabric, it had been covered with green plastic kudzu leaves all sewn closely together. The only thing that verified it was actually a dress was the neck and armholes.

"My Kudzu Queen gown!" Harriet reached for it, and Cassie dropped it in her waiting arms.

As Cassie rooted around the trunk, she said, "I wouldn't go modeling that to Maddie if I were you. I think she's pretty much kudzu-festivaled out."

Harriet was standing now, holding the dress in front of her. "I know, but it's not all my doing. Lucy Spafford is mostly to blame."

Cassie examined a bundle of Barbie dolls, all roped together with rubber bands at the neck, and dropped them on the floor outside the trunk. "You can have those." She wiped her hands on her skirt. "Who's Lucy Spafford?"

"The bane of Maddie's existence. Since the beginning of junior high, she's made the cheerleading squad, and Maddie hasn't. It wouldn't be so bad if she were a nice girl, but she's real snotty about it to Maddie. Drives her out of her mind to see Lucy in her cheerleading skirt. Maddie swears it's because Lucy's mom-do you remember Doreen Cagle?-is the squad leader." She placed the green dress over her arm and reached for the Barbies. "I don't want to fuel any rumors, but let's just say that I wouldn't be surprised if Lucy being on the squad and not Maddie might have something to do with Lucy's mother. But it's not nice to gossip, so I won't."

Cassie and Sam looked at each other with eyebrows raised. "So what does that have to do with your kudzu dress?"

Harriet kneeled in front of the trunk next to Cassie. "Lucy's the Kudzu Queen this year. I think Maddie's planning on coming down with pneumonia on the day of the festival so she doesn't have to go and see Lucy on her parade float."

Sam stood, brushing dust off his jeans. "I remember the year you were queen, Harriet. That was when somebody dressed the Statue of Liberty in a woman's bra and panties and filled the fountain with bubble bath. I thought I'd bust a gut laughing. But then, when Cassie showed up behind your float, walking a pig dressed in kudzu, I just about died." He shook his head, smiling broadly. "They never did find out who did that to the statue and the fountain."

Both Sam and Harriet looked at Cassie, but she remained silent, pointedly studying the inside lid of the trunk. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her as she rooted under a pile of stuffed animals. Her hands touched something curved and smooth, and she pulled it out. The old pipe still hinted of the aroma of tobacco, and Cassie closed her eyes, the picture of her father as clear to her at that moment as if he were sitting next to her.

Harriet came and knelt next to her. "It's Daddy's old pipe. Remember when you hid it in here when you were trying to get him to stop smoking?" She smiled gently, taking the pipe from Cassie and running her finger slowly down the stem. "I think he tried to quit, for a week or something, but he ended up just buying a new one." She handed it back to Cassie. "You can keep it if you like."

Cassie nodded, her words crammed into her throat with unshed tears. She took the pipe and held it closely to her chest. "Thanks," she managed.

"Hey, what's this?" Sam had walked past the area illuminated by the bare bulbs overhead and pulled out a wooden box from the dark corner of the attic. "It looks like an antique writing box."

He walked over to the sisters and placed it on the floor, a billow of dust rising in its wake. It was made of a dark wood, probably cherry or mahogany, with tarnished brass hinges and a nameplate on the front. It was sloped on top with a ledge at the bottom, as if to hold reading material. Sam pointed to a key sticking in the keyhole. "That's certainly not much of a challenge, is it?"

Cassie moved to get a better look at the nameplate: HRM. "That certainly narrows it down to about fifty people. There's been a Harrison Robert Madison in our family in every generation-except for ours. Daddy didn't have a son to leave the name."

Harriet interrupted. "So I got stuck with it. I always wanted a pretty girl's name like you, Cassie, and instead I got stuck with Harriet. Please give me credit for not inflicting such torture on my own children."

Absently, Cassie rubbed the nameplate. "I guess he was waiting for one of us to use it."

She looked up at Harriet. "Well, this could be Daddy's, although I don't ever remember seeing it before. Do you want to open it?"

Harriet shook her head. "No. You're the oldest; you do it."

Kneeling in front, Cassie gingerly turned the key, half-expecting it not to work. Like Sam, she felt there needed to be more of a mystery to finding a locked writing box in the attic.

With one last glance at Sam and Harriet, she opened the lid. The smell of old wood and stain wafted out of the box as the three of them peered inside. Scattered around the bottom of the box were stamped envelopes, with an elegant handwriting on the front. The capital letters in the words were enormous, with swirled tails and large loops. It could only have been written by a woman. On top of the pictures lay an old black-and-white photograph of a man and a woman standing in front of a small two-door sports car.

Gingerly, Cassie lifted the picture and showed it to Harriet. "Look, it's Daddy and his old car, but I'm pretty sure that's not Mama." She peered closely at the woman, her head swathed in a chiffon scarf knotted under her chin, and pointy cat's-eyes sunglasses blocking her eyes.

Harriet took the picture and stared at it for a moment. "That's definitely not Mama." Her gaze met Cassie's, an unspoken question between them.

Cassie reached inside and sifted some of the envelopes off the top, only to find more of the same underneath. All were addressed to her father, at this house. She checked the postmarks. All she could see were postmarked in Walton except for one that came from Atlanta. The dates on all of them were from 1962 to 1963. She did a mental calculation. Her parents were married in 1965, and she was born in 1966. She looked up excitedly.

"These might be from Mama!"