"Consider it done."

When Dana arrived at the hospital, Ellie Jo was in high spirits. Her thick gray hair was brushed and neatly pulled back so that, as she lay against the pillow, it was hard to see the part that was shaved. Her eyes were bright. "No rehab center," she announced. Her speech wasn't entirely clear, but it was rapidly improving, certainly enough to convey feeling, which, in this instance, was relief. "What I lost is coming back. I can use one stick to crochet," she said, gesturing toward a purple project on the bedside table. "Two sticks is next, knitting. And walking. Another couple of days and they'll send me home."

"That's good news, Gram," Dana said, realizing that she couldn't stay angry at Ellie Jo for long.

"I'll need therapy," the older woman went on. "I may have to sleep downstairs. But I'll hold little Lizzie."

Dana smiled. "You will.

"And be at the shop. I miss it, Dana Jo." She took Dana's hand. "Thank you."

"No thanks are necessary. You know how I feel about the shop. I've loved covering for you."

"Enough to do it forever?"

Dana went still. She knew that look. Something was going on in Ellie Jo's crafty old mind.

"I talked with my lawyer," her grandmother said. "He'll draw up papers. If you want, the shop is yours."

"But it's yours."

Ellie Jo's smile was crooked. "Would have been your mother's, if she'd lived. Do you want it?"

"Of course I want it," Dana said excitedly. She was a designer by training, but knitting was in her blood.

Ellie Jo was suddenly serious. "I won't live forever. This stroke may be the start."

"Gram-"

"It's the truth. We need honesty. Don't you think?" Her own eyes answered the question. "I have felt better since we talked about Earl."

Dana nodded.

"Do you hate him?"

Dana shook her head.

"Or me?"

"For doing what you thought was right?" Dana saw that now.

"He was a good man, and he loved you."

"And you, Gram. He loved you."

Hugh left Boston at noon, though only after a long talk with Crystal. She didn't like the idea of going public. She argued-correctly-that he had promised a private settlement. She was terrified that the media would make a spectacle of her.

He urged her to weigh the benefits against the risks. The benefits were obvious-the finest medical care for Jay. And the risks? Losing monetary support for Jay would be bad enough, but Hutchinson on the offense could be worse. He could attack Crystal's character in the press, calling her immoral, opportunistic, and money-hungry. He could paint her as a schemer and himself as the victim, and he could do it with pa.s.sion and eloquence.

In the end, it was Crystal's choice. "I can't force you," Hugh said. "I can only advise you. My advice is that going ahead with this now is the right thing to do."

She finally agreed. But she wasn't happy. That raised the personal stakes for Hugh.

He wanted this victory for Crystal and her son, but he wanted it for himself, too. He had taken his ability for granted. Clarkes had the golden touch. Knowing now that he was only part Clarke eroded his confidence.

He needed a win now. That meant he couldn't blink when his bluff was called.

When Dana left Ellie Jo, she headed for The St.i.tchery. Once off the highway, though, she turned in the other direction, crossing town to drop in on Corinne. She suspected she was going for her grandmother's sake. After all, Ellie Jo was the one who liked Corinne. Dana did not.

Corinne's property was surrounded by handsome wood fencing that dipped into a low curve on either side of a brick drive. Dana checked the number on the mailbox against the one she had taken from the store's files. Two twenty-nine. This was definitely the right address.

Turning in, Dana started up the drive. The grounds were lavish and well cared for, lawn neatly mowed, flower beds vibrant with the pinks and yellows of fall asters.

The house itself was huge, a stuccoed Tudor with a steeply pitched roof, tall multipaned windows, numerous side gables, and decorative half-timbering. Pulling up at the arched door, she left the car and rang the bell. A melodious chime was clearly audible.

When no one answered, she peered in. Polished wood floors gleamed; an exquisitely carved half-round table stood beneath a piece of art in the alcove of a bridal staircase. Sun spilled through the upper bal.u.s.trade.

There was no sign of life. She rang the bell again.

"Try the cottage," the groundsman hollered, and pointed behind the house.

Dana headed back. Beyond the garage was a miniature of the main house-same stucco, same eaves, same tall, multipaned windows. The shades here were drawn.

She looked for a bell and found none. So she knocked lightly.

No one answered.

She knocked again and was getting ready to leave when she heard footsteps. One of the shades lifted, and Corinne looked out. At least, Dana thought it was Corinne, though there wasn't much of a swath.

Whoever it was didn't move for a minute or two. Finally the door opened.

It was indeed Corinne, but not the elegantly dressed woman that Dana had known. This one wore no makeup, no diamond studs. Her eyes were hollow, and her auburn hair was sc.r.a.ped back into a messy ponytail. She wore wrinkled jeans and a tee shirt, and looked like she hadn't slept in a while. She was leaning heavily against the door, a hand on the inside k.n.o.b.

"You shouldn't have come," she said quietly.

"I was worried," Dana replied.

"That's what Lydia Forsythe said when she showed up yesterday morning, but she wasn't worried. She was snooping. She wondered if I actually lived at this address, because I've never had the ladies here, but she really wanted to tell me that it would be best if I resigned from the board before anyone suggested I do it. She a.s.sured me that they'd be able to manage the gala themselves." Her voice fell. "But of course I knew that. I was their token newcomer. I did the grunt work. I was never one of them."

"Neither am I," Dana remarked, hoping to make Corinne feel better. "I saw the piece in the paper. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm not," Corinne said sadly.

"What happened?" Back at the shop, Dana had wondered if Corinne was too good to be true, but seeing her now was unsettling. "You were always so confident."

Corinne rubbed her eyes. When she dropped her hands, it was obvious she had been crying. "The way you saw me was the way I wanted to be."

"Wasn't it true?" Dana asked, actually disappointed. Corinne had added cla.s.s to the shop. "None of it?"

"Oh, some of it was," said Corinne. "I do live at this address, but in the guest cottage, and we rent rather than own. I do drive a Mercedes, though that's a matter of semantics, since it's just been repossessed. I am married to Oliver James, though he's gone so often I sometimes wonder. That'll only get worse now." She meant with Oliver in jail.

"Is the crime he's accused of that bad?"

Corinne hesitated. "I don't know. I worry there's more."

"What do you mean?"

"I worry he's into other things. There was never the money I expected, so I don't think it's drugs. But there were so many phone calls and sudden exits. The police are asking me questions, like I know something, like he confided in me. But he didn't. We had a talk before he was taken into custody, and I asked what was going on. He said I didn't want to know. So was he protecting me? Does keeping me in the dark make me safe?"

Dana tried to think of what Hugh would say. "By law, a wife can't testify against her husband."

"She could be charged as an accomplice."

"But you're not an accomplice."

"Not with regard to what he did. But I'm not innocent," she said in self-reproach. "I wanted the life he offered. I wanted it enough not to ask questions. I didn't ask where he got the jewelry or the cars. I didn't ask why we were still renting the cottage rather than buying the main house, like he said we would. I didn't ask how we were going to pay the bills, and when my credit card charges were denied, he just blamed it on the company, cut up the card in question, and gave me another. And I used it."

Dana was mystified. "But how did you do it-like, with the board of the museum?"

"Oliver secured a piece of art that the museum wanted. Maybe it was hot, I don't know. He donated his commission back to the museum, which they loved, so they put me on the board. That's how it works. It's all about money. For us-for me-it was part of the image."

"You carried it off well."

"People see what they want to see. I was an actress once. So I could do it. Only the worry kept growing. We built the proverbial house of cards. One goes and the rest follow."

"I'm sorry, Corinne."

"So am I. I have to be out of here by noon tomorrow. I don't know where to go. If they decide to charge me as an accomplice, I don't know what I'll do."

"You'll call Hugh," Dana decided, "and as for where to go, try my grandmother's house. She'd love to have you there until you figure things out."

Corinne was looking at her strangely. "Why are you offering this? You don't like me."

Dana felt small. "Did I ever say that?"

"No. But I sensed it. You knew I was a fake."

"I was jealous. I was feeling scattered, and you were together. And about staying at Ellie Jo's-" She had been about to say that Corinne could be a help when Corinne cut her off.

"I can't, Dana. You're sweet to offer, but I can't."

"Why not?"

She smiled sadly. "I can't face those people. It would be too humiliating."

"They're good people. They'd understand."

But Corinne shook her head with conviction and finality. "Thank you. Your offer is kind. But I can't."

Dana was humbled. Nothing she had experienced in the last month-not even the DNA test-came close to Corinne's problems. The self-pity she had felt seemed petty, the anger pure spite. In comparison to Corinne, she had so much.

Driving back to the yarn shop, she remembered her grandmother always saying, Things happen for a reason. That boy did you a favor by not asking you out, because look at the boy who did. Or, That college rejected you because this one's far better for your skills. Or even, You would not be as independent or strong a woman if your mother hadn't died.

Dana had lost the Cunningham job and, soon after, a place at the Designers' Showhouse, which meant that other than wrapping up a few last jobs, she had no commitments. Being free, she couldn't think of anything she wanted to do more than run The St.i.tchery.

She wouldn't change much, but there would always be new yarns to buy, new patterns, notions, and books. She might increase the inventory of decorative b.u.t.tons for cardigans and specialized ribbons for scarves. She would attend buying shows twice a year, and her shopping sprees with Tara would produce new designs. Dana might even introduce a line of patterns based on things, like the Faroese shawl, that her mother had made.

It was an exciting prospect, a Joseph heritage to pa.s.s down to her own child one day.

Later, outside the shop, she found a patch of sun and propped Lizzie on her lap. "This is good, sweet baby."

And it was. Dana was finding herself. She was getting answers to questions that had plagued her for years. She felt more in control of her life. She was continuing to talk to Father Jack, and while she still didn't know if she wanted him in her life, she did know who he was. And his advice wasn't bad.

Lizzie made a cooing sound. She was clearly enjoying the air. Smiling at her daughter, Dana thought of Hugh, who was on his way to Lowell-reluctantly, if she interpreted his message correctly. But he was doing what he believed was right.

So here was another good thing about Hugh. Once he made up his mind, he was committed. Now that he had accepted Lizzie, he would always take care of her.

A breeze rustled the trees, sending out a wave of fragrance. The orchard was ripe with apples, nearly every variety ready for picking. On a screened-in sill of the house, Veronica dozed in the shade.

Dana smiled when Tara's silver van turned off the road. She got up to greet her.

Tara rolled down her window. "You called?"

Dana nodded. It wasn't official yet, but if she was going to own the shop, she wanted Tara on the payroll. That would mean Tara could quit the accounting job that she hated, and though Dana didn't know if she could match the pay, Tara was already spending so much time at The St.i.tchery that what she netted would come close. Dana wanted to tell her this. But it was too soon to break the news.

So she smiled. "Just wanted you here," she said, and stepped back to let Tara climb out.

The instant Hugh turned the corner and got a view of the courthouse, he spotted the media. He wasn't surprised. He had figured that the press would get wind of the possible lawsuit. The same whispers that had prompted Sean Manley's call would have been buzzing around the courthouse. The senator might not be mentioned by name, but a lot of folks would guess.

Hugh found a s.p.a.ce down the street and parked, but he didn't climb out. It was only one-fifty. He had told Drummond he would file at two.

One-fifty-one. Hugh drummed a finger on the wheel. One-fifty-four. Several more reporters arrived. One-fifty-seven. The hot-dog vendor wheeled his cart closer.

At one-fifty-eight, Hugh grabbed his briefcase and climbed out of the car. He fed the meter and set off.

"Hugh!" came a call.

Ted Heath was a local lawyer with whom Hugh had worked. Hugh put out a hand but didn't stop walking. "How's it going?"

Ted shook his hand and he fell into step. "Can't complain. What brings you here?"

"This 'n' that."

"Hah. Confidential. Must be something big, with the vultures circling over there." He spotted his client, slapped Hugh on the shoulder, and trotted ahead.

Hugh kept walking. He avoided many of the reporters, but two flanked him as he reached the stone steps.

"What's the case, Hugh?"