"I can handle it," Cassie said, and followed Sam up the stairs, trying not to notice how nice his backside looked in those jeans as he climbed the steps. They walked down the long upstairs hallway until they reached the dark double doors at the end. Two girls sat cross-legged on the floor outside the door, leaning against the hallway wall, their heads propped against each other, their eyes closed. Cassie knew the older girl to be Madison, fourteen, and, by process of elimination, the younger one had to be Sarah Frances, nine. The younger one had honey-colored hair like Harriet, but Madison's hair was two shades darker-not dark enough to be brown but not light enough to be called dirty blond. It was no-man's brown, as Cassie used to lament over her own hair. At least before she discovered Jean-Paul and his salon on the corner of Broadway and West Seventieth.

Sam tapped lightly on the door, then pushed it open. He stepped back, allowing Cassie to enter first.

She paused on the threshold, her breath tight in her chest. Sam seemed to sense her hesitation and rested his hand firmly on her shoulder. The dark hues of the room-the burgundies, navies, and forest greens-underscored the fact that there had been no feminine influence on the decor for over twenty years. An old man, his emaciated frame barely making the covers rise, rested in the imposing four-poster bed. It stood high off the floor, a family heirloom in which generations of her family had slept. Cassie barely recognized the man as the robust father of her memory, but when he opened his eyes, almost black against the pasty white of his face, she knew him. Straightening her shoulders, she walked toward the bed.

A pale hand, the blue veins visible beneath the paper-thin surface, reached for her, and she held it, cupping it gently between hers like a child holding a butterfly.

"Hi, Daddy. I'm home." Her breath caught, and her father patted her with his other hand.

"It's about time," he said, then closed his eyes. His hand went slack in hers, and she turned to Sam in a panic.

"Is he all right?"

Sam stepped closer, pulling a stethoscope from his bag. "I'm sure he's fine. He was just waiting up for you to come home before he could go to sleep. Sort of like when you were a teenager."

She stroked her father's cheek before moving back from the bed to allow Sam to examine him. "Not likely. I wasn't the one with a different date every night of the week." She regretted her petulant tone. More softly, she said, "He'll even tell you that most of his gray hairs weren't caused by me."

Sam fixed her with a disbelieving stare before he leaned over the old man with his stethoscope. "That's not how I remember it."

Cassie crossed her arms over her chest. Ignoring his comment, she asked, "Is he okay?"

He straightened, taking the stethoscope from his ears. "He's fine-he's just sleeping." Sam fixed her with a steady gaze. "And when he awakes, we can talk about that unsolved incident our senior year when somebody painted Principal Purdy's front porch hot pink while he slept."

Cassie felt her ears go hot. "Oh, Lord, Sam. You're not going to tell anybody, are you?"

His shoulders shook with laughter as he put the stethoscope back into his bag. "Cassie, that was over fifteen years ago. Do you think anybody still cares?"

Her chin jutted out in the direction of the old man on the bed. "He would." She swallowed thickly. "Is he . . . is he going to be all right?"

Sam took her by the elbow and led her toward the door. He leveled his gaze on her and spoke quietly. "I'm going to be blunt with you because I know you want to hear the truth. No, he won't. His heart is too weak. I'm afraid it's only a matter of time." He lifted his hand as if to touch her cheek, then let it fall. "I'm sorry, Cassie."

She pulled back her shoulders. "Have you considered anything else? What about surgery or a transplant?"

He shook his head. "I've exhausted all options, Cassie. He wouldn't survive surgery, and a transplant is out of the question at his age. I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do."

Cassie held back the tears stinging her eyes. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get a second opinion. Not to sound rude, but where did you get your medical degree, anyway?"

He stared down at her, a small flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Harvard. Perhaps you've heard of it."

"Oh." Her fighting spirit deserted her. She looked down, feeling the tears start and not wanting Sam to see. "May I stay with him for a while? I promise I won't wake him."

Sam paused for a moment. "Sure. I'll be back in the morning to check on things. You try to get some rest." He opened the door, then turned back toward her. "And I'd bet my best hunting dog that the judge has known about the pink porch all along." With a wink, he stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Cassie turned toward the bed and saw her father's eyes open. She walked closer to him and sat on the bed.

His voice sounded very far away, reminding her of their monthly phone calls. "You've cut your hair shorter since I last saw you. Makes you look more like your mother." He sighed softly. "Sure wish she was here. Then she could give you a dressing-down, since I don't have the strength right now."

"Thanks, Daddy. It's good to see you, too." She kissed him on his withered cheek, then bent her head, no longer able to contain the tears. Her father patted the mattress next to him, and she collapsed beside him, her head sharing his stack of pillows. She was a terrified child again, faced with losing a parent. She reached for his hand and held on tightly, one of her remaining anchors to her childhood.

"I miss Mama. I wonder . . ." Cassie sniffled, then snuggled closer to her father, smelling a faint whiff of laundry detergent and cologne. "I wonder if things would have turned out differently if she had been here."

The judge spoke with his eyes closed. "If you mean she might have known about Joe and Harriet and stopped them, I don't think so. Even you can see now that they were meant for each other."

Cassie turned away, but her hand still clasped her father's, the wrinkled knuckles somehow comforting.

"He was mine." She sounded childish to her own ears, as if they were talking about a favorite doll.

"Yes, Cassie. He was yours. But that was a long time ago. He and Harriet have a wonderful marriage now, and five children." He paused, taking deep, labored breaths. "It pains me to see how in all these years you haven't even tried to make peace with your sister. And you've made no effort at all to get to know your nieces and nephew. They're fine children, Cassie. You'd be proud of them."

Cassie couldn't hide a sob. "I know-and I'm sorry. I've kept all their pictures in my photo album, and I do think about them all the time. But it still hurts, Daddy. It still hurts. Sometimes I don't know if I'll ever get over it."

"What still hurts, Cassie? The fact that you lost Joe or that somebody got the best of you?"

She turned back to him, wondering if those dark eyes held the truth. "I don't know anymore. I honestly don't know. Maybe it's just an old habit that I don't know how to break. Or maybe I just can't get over the fact that you were on her side. You didn't do anything to bring them back."

The old man shifted in his bed. "It wasn't a matter of taking sides. I didn't like the manner in which they let their feelings be known, but I knew deep down that they were meant for each other. And that in time you would forgive them and find somebody who was really yours."

His voice sank to barely a whisper. "It's been fifteen years, Cassie. Not to be blunt, but it's time to get over it. Get on with your life."

Abruptly, she left the bed and went to the window, hiding her hot tears. "You always took her side. I guess that will never change. But I am over it." She had to be; it was fifteen long years ago. She swallowed the knot in her throat. "I'm thirty-five years old, Daddy. I've outgrown all that. I have a new life, and none of that matters any-more. This town, these people-I've left it all way behind me." She sighed, pressing her forehead against the glass. "And the more I've stayed away, the easier it became to not come back."

The judge struggled to sit up on his elbows. Alarmed, Cassie rushed back to his side to hold him steady and prop the pillows behind him.

He sounded strained. "You can go to the moon, Cassandra Lee Madison, but this place, these people, will always run in your blood. You can't get away from it, so you might as well come home."

Cassie helped him lie back against the pillows, the bright spots of pink slowly fading from his face. She'd never been able to back away from a fight with her father, and she was reluctant to start now. He was stubborn, but it was a trait she had inherited from him. Firmly, she said, "This isn't my home anymore."

His long, bony fingers tightened around her forearm, his voice quiet but still just as forceful and fearsome as it was when she was a little girl caught telling a lie. "The hell it's not. And there's nothing you can do that'll change that. If I have any say in the matter at all, you'll never leave again."

Cassie leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Gently, she said, "You don't have any say. I'll stay here until you get better, but then I'm going back to New York."

He didn't answer, and his eyelids fluttered closed. She lay back down beside him, holding his hand, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. She had spent many nights like this as a child, hidden under his bed, listening. Her mother had given up her long fight with cancer in this room, and Cassie, as a little girl, had thought that if she had been there, she would have heard the moment her mother stopped breathing and been able to awaken her. But she had died, and Cassie had vowed to herself that she wouldn't allow the same thing to happen to her father. While Harriet slept peacefully in her own room down the hall, Cassie had kept vigil over their father, doz-ing off and on, pinching herself awake as the night wore on, until gray dawn eased its way through the dust ruffle. When her father rose to take his shower, Cassie would escape to her room and sleep for two hours before Aunt Lucinda jerked open her curtains. She had done that up through the eighth grade until one morning her father had stuck his head under the bed and told her she was too old to be sleeping there anymore.

Cassie snaked her hand over to her father's chest, feeling the reassur-ing beat of his heart. To her surprise, his hand covered hers. "I think painting Principal Purdy's porch showed a lot of spunk, you know. I just hope that by now you've learned there are better means to get your point across."

She looked over at her father in surprise. "So you really did know. Why didn't you tell me?"

He shifted under the covers. "Because then I would have had to punish you, and you didn't deserve it."

Cassie stuck out her chin. "You're damned right I didn't. He wanted to cancel prom because of some silly food fight in the cafeteria-and not even everybody was involved. It just wasn't fair."

The judge patted her hand. "It was a damned fine stunt. And you should know that I laughed for about an hour straight after I saw it."

They laughed quietly together for a moment, remembering easier times between them. Finally, Cassie said, "Thanks, Daddy. For not get-ting me in trouble."

He patted her hand again. "You're welcome." His voice sounded tired. "I'm glad you're home."

Cassie said nothing, but reached over and squeezed his hand. Then she rolled over, turned out the bedside light, and lay in the dark listening to him breathe until he finally fell asleep. Then she grabbed a pillow and lay down by the side of the bed, her feet tucked under the dust ruffle, until she, too, found sleep.

Cassie awoke to hear people talking outside the bedroom door, a triangle of orange sun slapping her in the face as she opened her eyes.

Harriet spoke in a hushed whisper. "Your aunt and grandfather are still sleeping, and you may not disturb them. I'm sure your Aunt Cassie is dying to see you, too, but she's exhausted from her long drive. Just give her time to get up and dress and I bet she'll even tell you stories about New York City."

A young girl's voice came through the door, dripping with sarcasm. "Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit."

"Madison Cassandra Warner! I'm going to wash your mouth out with soap if I ever hear you use that expression again."

"But it's already ten o'clock! Is she going to sleep forever?"

Cassie felt her lips turn up with a smile at the maternal sound of her sister's voice and wondered again why Harriet had chosen her firstborn to be Cassie's namesake. Still smiling, she listened to the reassuring hum of her father's breathing as she stiffly moved out from under the bed. She walked to the door and pulled it open, finding herself staring into two pairs of matching sea-green eyes. Cassie blinked, looking at her oldest niece. The resemblance to Harriet ended at the eyes. She could have been looking at a mirror image of a younger version of herself. The same no-man's-land brown hair, the pert, straight nose with a spattering of freckles, and the stubborn chin with the small dimple, inherited from Cassie's mother.

"Good morning," Cassie croaked, never a good conversationalist before her morning coffee. She gave her sister a quick peck on the cheek, then turned to her niece. "You must be Madison."

The young girl nodded shyly, her eyes bright.

Managing a smile, Cassie said, "I need a shower and some coffee before I'm fit company, so give me about half an hour and I'll come down, all right?"

Without waiting for an answer, she walked past them to her girlhood room, the pink canopy and rose wallpaper unchanged since she had last seen it. Her luggage had already been brought up, and she grabbed her overnight bag with shampoo, conditioner, and razor and stumbled into the bathroom.

She showered quickly, using a trick she had learned in graduate school of keeping the water cold. Not only did it cut down on show-ering time; it also made one alert and ready for the morning. Cassie was pretty sure she'd need every ounce of alertness she could muster this morning. The thought of seeing Joe again made her hand tremble, and she cut her leg with the razor, the trickle of blood pooling like a tear and snaking its way down her leg.

She turned off the water and opened the curtain, realizing there were no towels on the racks. Shivering, she remembered a clean towel someone had put on her bed.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath. She grabbed a wad of tissue and stuck it to her cut knee. Then, with wet hair dripping down her face, she stuck her head out the door. The hallway was blessedly deserted. She clutched her clothes in a ball in front of her and took two quick steps across the wood floor before her wet heel slid out from under her and she landed with a loud thump on her bare backside.

To her horror, she watched the door to her father's bedroom open, and Sam appeared in the doorway. His gaze searched the hallway until it finally rested on her, lingering far too long on her chest area. Cassie held her underwear to cover her breasts, the other hand clutching the rest of her clothes in her lap.

Sam cleared his throat. "Is that a New York thing?"

Her voice was unnaturally high-pitched. "Is what a New York thing?"

"Doing yoga while naked and dripping wet in the middle of a hallway."

She narrowed her eyes. "I slipped."

Sam left the doorway and began walking toward her. "Are you hurt?"

Cassie held her hand with the panties in front of her, then quickly pulled it back. "I'm fine. Please go away."

She could see he was trying to hide a smile. He turned back to the door. "You haven't changed as much as you think you have, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean? Besides, I'm two dress sizes smaller than I used to be. And I don't wear glasses anymore."

"That's not what I meant. But don't worry. It's a good thing. You were a pretty neat kid." He twisted the knob and opened the door. "Now go put some clothes on before somebody sees you."

She heard the laughter in his voice, but before she could reply, he had closed the door behind him.

As soon as she heard the latch click, Cassie bolted into her room and got dressed as quickly as she could. She dried her hair, taking care to curl the ends under, and put on her makeup. She'd need all the defens-es she had to get through this day.

The smell of frying bacon wafted up to her, causing her stomach to rumble. She stalled in her room, hoping Joe and anybody else would be gone by the time she got downstairs. She certainly couldn't face him on an empty stomach.

She left her room and went to check on her father. She paused on the threshold, seeing Harriet sitting by the side of the bed, holding his hand. Cassie turned to go but was called back by her father.

"Come in, Cassie. I want to see my girls together."

She walked over to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge, digging her heels into the side rails, as she had as a child. She slid her hand into his and watched his face break out into a broad smile.

"I can die a happy man now."

His hand squeezed Cassie's hand, the pressure so faint, she cast a worried glance at her sister.

But Harriet was leaning forward, smoothing the hair off her father's forehead. "Don't say such things, Daddy. You're going to be just fine, you'll see."

Harriet turned away to pour water into a cup from the bedside table, and Cassie's eyes met her father's. She read the love in them, and the fading strength. She also saw the good-bye.

The judge took a sip of the water, Harriet holding up his head. When she put the cup down, he held his hand in hers again. "My girls," he said, his eyes moist. "You've given me such joy all these years. Your mother would have been so proud."

Cassie looked down at a spot on the Oriental rug, blinking rapidly.

"Tell us about this Andrew you're thinking about marrying, Cassie. Is he planning on coming down for a visit? Because if he wants to ask my permission, he'd better hurry."

"Daddy," Cassie started to protest, then stopped when she noticed he had closed his eyes.

"How many kids are you going to have?"

Her hand felt sweaty, trapped in the warm cocoon of her father's big fist. "We, um, we haven't really talked about that yet."

He nodded, his eyes still closed. "They'll need to know their cousins and their aunt and uncle."

"We'll visit." Cassie used her other hand to wipe her eyes. She caught her sister's gaze and gave a weak smile.

Her father's voice had sunk low in his chest, his breathing raspy. "Do you still laugh a lot, Cassie? I've missed that the most." He swallowed deeply, then continued. "It was like that rush of popping bubbles after you pour a Coke. Effervescent. Yes, that's what he called it."

Cassie waited for him to catch his breath before asking, "What who called it?"

When he didn't answer, Harriet's spoke softly. "Sam. He and Sam talk about you a lot."

Cassie flicked her sister a questioning look and was about to ask why Sam would have any interest in her when their father spoke again, his voice so low that Cassie had to lean down to hear.

"So, Cassie-do you still laugh?"

She sagged against the bed. "Sometimes, Daddy. Sometimes."

His eyes flickered open briefly, then closed again as he set his mouth in a stubborn line. "Mm-hmm," he muttered, and Cassie squirmed. That had always been his sign that he was about to mete out punishment following a confession he had forced out of her.

When he didn't say anything else, Cassie relaxed, feeling the stress leave her shoulders.