Arthur took Alexandra and Hilary out to lunch on Christmas Day, but it was more depressing than joyful. And Alexandra saw it. Her eyes moved seriously back and forth between the two of them and then she looked up at Hilary with sorrow and confusion.

"Why are you mad at Uncle Arthur?"

"I'm not." Hilary kept her eyes on her plate and then glared briefly at her little sister.

"Yes, you are. You took your hand away when he tried to hold it."

"Eat your turkey, Axie."

Hilary seemed oblivious to the Christmas songs played by the violins in the Palm Court at the Plaza. She was lost in her own thoughts, and Arthur was sorry Marjorie hadn't come with him. She was having lunch at the Colony Club instead with another woman lawyer. And he had begged her to come, but she had flatly refused.

"I'm not interested in those children, and you shouldn't be taking them out either. You're not their family, they just have to adjust to the reality of their situation."

"At eight and five years of age? It's Christmas, for G.o.d's sake. The least we can do is ..."

"I don't want to hear it. If you want to play n.o.ble savior, don't drag me into it." And with that, she'd left the room so he had come alone, with Hilary and Alexandra.

In fact Marjorie's adamant stance vis-a-vis the girls was only an extension of her dislike for the Walkers generally, and more specifically her disapproval over his frequent lunches with Solange. It wasn't that she was jealous. It was more that she disapproved of her fawning French ways, and the fact that Sam was an actor, no matter how successful.

Sam had no contact whatsoever with the girls that Christmas. He was not allowed to call them, and wouldn't have anyway, he was too depressed to think of anyone, except Solange and why he had killed her. He couldn't even bear thinking of the children.

Arthur had tried bringing photographs of them to Sam, but he was totally withdrawn these days, talking only of Solange and the past, and chronicling his sins and mistakes and transgressions endlessly. He was like an old man, whose entire life was behind him. And Arthur was having a hard time getting him interested in the case. He seemed to have no excitement about his defense, and often said that he deserved to be punished, which was hardly encouraging for Arthur.

The rest of the winter slid by agonizingly. Hilary seemed to be running the household more than adequately, and the younger children were doing well, although Hilary had a constant look of pain and anguish around her eyes, which frightened Arthur. But she wanted no comfort from him, in fact, since her mother's death she hadn't come near him. He reminded her that he was her G.o.dfather and that he loved her very much, but she stood politely listening, and never responded. She was an odd, distant girl, unusually quiet now that Solange was gone, and she spoke of her father as though she no longer knew him, as though he had died years before her mother. It was obvious that she was deeply affected by what had happened, and it was difficult to remind oneself that she was only nine years old. She seemed so marked by tragedy and it was painful to realize how much it had aged her.

Arthur tried to have dinner with them as often as he could, and he was growing worried about paying for the help, their schools, their food, and the apartment. Little Megan had been sick several times, and there were doctor bills, and new shoes. Most of the money from Solange's jewelry had gone to defend Sam, and what was left was barely enough to make a difference. And their meager funds were dwindling. And there were times when he wondered if Hilary knew it. She was forcing everyone into economies, and had even learned to mend her own clothes, much to Arthur's amazement. Megan had already begun to regard Hilary as her mother.

By the spring, Sam had lost thirty pounds, and all the psychiatric evaluations had been completed. The doctors who saw him all said that he was suffering from a deep depression. They were also willing to say that he had acted, in killing Solange, under the pa.s.sion of the moment, and had perhaps been insane while he did it, although they all found him sane, normal and intelligent. His only problem was his very understandable depression. Arthur almost felt as though he couldn't reach him, and Sam did nothing to help prepare his own defense. He seemed uninterested in all of Arthur's efforts, and Arthur worked all night on his defense for months, looking up similar cases in the past, searching for improper technicalities, and desperately seeking new angles.

But the trial itself was a nightmare. The prosecutor was swift and sure, and he had found every tramp, wh.o.r.e, and starlet whom Sam had ever slept with. There was a parade of women dragged through, testifying to the fact that he drank too much, was sometimes violent when he was drunk, and had no morals whatsoever. And the portrait of Solange painted by the prosecution was one Arthur could hardly disagree with. They described a woman of intelligence and wit and charm and almost saintly devotion to her husband, anxious to do anything possible for him, to help further his career, and keep him happy, while taking extraordinarily good care of their three daughters. She was said to have kept a lovely home, kept aloof from all the Broadway and Hollywood mischief most stars' wives seemed to get into, and it was bluntly said that despite extensive research on the subject, the prosecution had been unable to find anyone who was able to say they thought Solange had ever cheated on her husband. She was thought to have been entirely faithful to him, in fact everyone spoken to said that Solange Walker had adored her husband. The prosecution also pointed out that he had absolutely no reason whatsoever to kill her. There was no "crime pa.s.sionel," there was no justification she had given him for becoming crazed, or temporarily insane, he had simply wantonly, carelessly, wickedly killed her. They even tried to ask for a charge of murder in the first degree, suggesting that it was premeditated, and that he wanted to be free of her to pursue all his floozies. While Arthur, on the other hand, tried to maneuver a manslaughter charge, indicating that it had all been an unfortunate accident. But in the end, after less than a day's deliberation, and more than three weeks of trial, the jury convicted him of murder. Arthur felt as though a stone wall had fallen on his head, and Sam was led from the courtroom looking gla.s.sy-eyed and vague. It was obvious that he was in shock, and his depression had worsened considerably during the trial. It had been difficult to get any real feeling from him when he was on the stand, or to believe that he had actually loved his wife. But he was so far gone in his own guilt and depression that he could no longer depict any semblance of real emotion, and Arthur had feared that would hurt him terribly with the jury.

Arthur asked to see his client in the holding cell immediately after the verdict, but Sam had refused to see him, and a request from Arthur to see him in his cell had been denied. Arthur left in total despair and frustration, feeling that he had failed Sam terribly. But he had warned him, and begged him to get a criminal attorney. Arthur flailed himself all the way back to his apartment for having allowed Sam to force him into defending him. He had two stiff drinks, thought about going to see the girls, and then decided that he couldn't face it. Marjorie had left a message that she wouldn't be home for dinner. As he sat at his desk in the dark he decided it was just as well. She had never been fond of Sam anyway, and what Arthur really needed was the warm touch and unconditional love of Solange. It was what they all needed and what Sam had robbed them of. For a long moment, Arthur found himself wondering if the jury had been right, and as he shuddered at his own thoughts, the phone rang. It was the sergeant at the jail, and he said he had news for him about his client. Maybe Sam was ready to see him after all, Arthur thought as he squinted at his watch in the summer twilight. It was eight-fifteen, and he was exhausted and more than a little drunk, but for Sam, he'd go there.

"Your client committed suicide in his cell an hour ago, Mr. Patterson. We just found him."

Arthur felt his heart stop, and the bile rise. He was going to throw up, or faint, or maybe just die. "What?" It was barely a whisper. The sergeant repeated the same words as Arthur sank into a chair with a shudder, his entire body trembling. "My G.o.d, why didn't you watch him?" He'd been depressed for months, they should have thought of that. In fact, one of the psychiatrists had warned them. But no one had really thought ... and now they were both gone. It was almost more than Arthur could bear ... his only friend ... and the only woman he had ever truly loved ... and now he had the girls to think about. What in G.o.d's name was he going to do about them? He was going to have to discuss it seriously with Marjorie when she got home. They had no one else now. Sam and Solange were both gone, and their daughters were now truly orphans.

Chapter 6.

"Are you out of your mind, Arthur?" Marjorie was staring at him in complete disbelief. She looked as though he had just taken all his clothes off in public. He had been waiting up for her when she got home. And she barely reacted when he told her about Sam's suicide. What stunned her was Arthur's suggestion that they take in Hilary, Alexandra, and Megan. It was the only possible solution he could think of. They had no money and no family, and with a bigger apartment and a live-in maid, he and Marjorie could manage easily-if she would let him do it. "Are you crazy? What in G.o.d's name would we do with three small children? We've never even wanted children of our own, why would we turn our lives upside down for the children of strangers?"

He gulped, trying to clear his head, and wishing he had waited till morning. He had had too much to drink by the time she came home, and he was afraid that his arguments wouldn't be convincing. "Sam Walker was my best friend. He saved my life during the war ... those children are not strangers to us, Marjorie, even if you'd like to think so."

"But do you have any idea of the responsibility involved in having one one child, let alone child, let alone three three?"

"Hilary is like a mother to them. She'd make everything easy for you, Marjorie. Truly." He felt as though he were sixteen again, begging his mother for a car, and not winning the battle either. "And I've always wanted children. You were the one who decided you couldn't handle kids and a career ..." He tried to look at her reproachfully but she seemed not to care. She had no guilt, only righteous indignation.

"I will not not take on three children. We don't have the s.p.a.ce, the time, the life-style. You're as busy as I am. And besides, raising three girls would cost a fortune. No! Just forget it, Arthur. Put them in an inst.i.tution." And the tragedy, as Arthur listened to her get ready for bed, was that she meant it. take on three children. We don't have the s.p.a.ce, the time, the life-style. You're as busy as I am. And besides, raising three girls would cost a fortune. No! Just forget it, Arthur. Put them in an inst.i.tution." And the tragedy, as Arthur listened to her get ready for bed, was that she meant it.

He tried again, the next morning over breakfast, but to no avail. Her mind was made up, and he didn't have the strength, or the ingenuity, to change it.

"I don't want children of my own, why would I want someone else's? And theirs theirs! My G.o.d, Arthur, I always knew you were blind but I never thought you were stupid. The man is a murderer, not to mention everything else, can you imagine what traits those children will inherit? And their mother ..." Arthur looked ominous as she got started again, but she was too involved in her own speech to notice. "She always looked like a French wh.o.r.e to me. G.o.d only knows what she did over there during the war before she caught Sam Walker."

"That's enough, Marjorie. You don't know what you're talking about. I was there when Sam met her."

"In a bordello?" she asked viciously and he suddenly wanted to slap her. But there was no point. She had won. He was not going to be able to take in Sam's children.

"I won't discuss brothels with you, Marjorie, and I can tell you for certain that Solange Walker was never in one. I'm just sorry you're not willing to be more compa.s.sionate about this, Marjorie. It disappoints me greatly." But she didn't give a d.a.m.n. She left for work without saying another word to Arthur.

As far as she was concerned, it was his problem. And it was. Their parents were his closest friends. He was Hilary's G.o.dfather. Those children weren't strangers to him, no matter what Marjorie wished. They were flesh and blood, and he loved them.

And Sam and Solange had loved them too. It was desperately important to Arthur that they not lose a sense of that, or feel that they were being abandoned. The idea of putting them up for adoption sounded barbaric to him, but he just didn't know what else to do with them. And things got even more complicated the following week when both the maid and the nurse announced that they were leaving. They had stayed long enough in terrible conditions. They both seemed outraged by the scandal that had been foisted on them them and had remarkably little compa.s.sion for the children. And for Arthur, it meant finding new people to care for them, which seemed even more complicated now. Finally, by week's end, he took out the name Sam had given him, of his sister. Eileen Jones. He wondered if he would even find her in Boston. But he thought that if he did, perhaps he could induce her to take care of them for a while. Then he could let the apartment on Sutton Place go, and it would save them a great deal of money. They were almost out of funds anyway. But having them stay with their aunt would give Arthur some time to make other arrangements, or convince Marjorie that they had to take them. Either way, he needed time, and having them stay with Sam's sister would give him the breather he needed. More than anything he wanted to convince Marjorie that what he wanted was right, and not crazy, as she kept insisting. It required some adjustments, to be sure, but they were three little human beings, and well worth adjusting for, even if she didn't think so. But then what? And if they didn't take them in, who on earth would? That was what worried Arthur. and had remarkably little compa.s.sion for the children. And for Arthur, it meant finding new people to care for them, which seemed even more complicated now. Finally, by week's end, he took out the name Sam had given him, of his sister. Eileen Jones. He wondered if he would even find her in Boston. But he thought that if he did, perhaps he could induce her to take care of them for a while. Then he could let the apartment on Sutton Place go, and it would save them a great deal of money. They were almost out of funds anyway. But having them stay with their aunt would give Arthur some time to make other arrangements, or convince Marjorie that they had to take them. Either way, he needed time, and having them stay with Sam's sister would give him the breather he needed. More than anything he wanted to convince Marjorie that what he wanted was right, and not crazy, as she kept insisting. It required some adjustments, to be sure, but they were three little human beings, and well worth adjusting for, even if she didn't think so. But then what? And if they didn't take them in, who on earth would? That was what worried Arthur.

But first he had to find their aunt, and see if she would take them, even if only for the summer. She couldn't be as bad as Sam said. She was his sister after all, and blood was thicker than water. He had his secretary call Boston information, and they finally turned up a Jack and Eileen Jones in Charlestown, a suburb which boasted a naval yard, and which his secretary told him was right on the water. It sounded perfect for a little summer holiday, and Arthur called her up without preamble. She sounded stunned to hear from Arthur, and she said she had read about the trial, and her brother's subsequent suicide in the papers. She didn't sound particularly emotional about his death, and she asked Arthur bluntly if Sam had left any money.

"Not a great deal, I'm afraid, which is why I'm calling." He decided to get right to the point and see if she would help him. He had nowhere else to turn now. "As you may know, Sam and Solange had three little girls, Hilary, Alexandra and Megan, and for the moment, there is literally no one to take them. I want to speak to you about the possibility of ... to see if you might be interested in giving them a home, temporarily or permanently, whichever suits you."

There was a stunned silence at the other end. And then her sharp voice that had none of the polish of her brother's. "Holy s.h.i.t. Are you kidding, mister? Three kids? I don't even have kids of my own. Why would I want Sam's three brats?"

"Because they need you. If you just kept them for the summer, it would give me time to find another suitable home for them. But for the moment, they have nowhere to go." He tried to appeal to her sympathies, but another thought had occurred to Eileen Jones.

"Will you pay me to take them in?"

Arthur paused, but only for a beat. "I can certainly give you enough money to pay for their needs while they're with you."

"That isn't what I meant, but I'll take that too."

"I see." Arthur could see why Sam wasn't fond of her, but there was no one else for him to turn to. "Would three hundred dollars do as a fee for you, Mrs. Jones? A hundred for each child?"

"For how long?" She sounded suspicious of him. Suspicious and greedy.

"Until I find a home for them ... a few weeks, a month, perhaps the summer."

"No more than that. I'm not runnin' an orphanage up here, you know. And my husband won't like it." But she knew he'd like the three hundred dollars, and she was hoping they could squeeze some more out of Arthur.

"Do you have room for them, Mrs. Jones?"

"I got a spare room. Two of them can sleep in one bed, and we'll figure something out for the other one."

"That would be Megan. She'll need a crib. She's just over a year old." He wanted to ask her if she knew how to take care of a baby. He wanted to ask a lot of things, but he didn't dare. He had no choice. He just had to trust that she'd do the best she could, for Sam's sake. And the children were so adorable, he was sure she'd fall in love with them the minute she saw them.

But it was something less than love at first sight when Arthur drove the three girls to Charlestown. He had explained to Hilary the day before that they were going to stay with their aunt Eileen for the summer. He told the maid to pack all their things, and explained quietly that she and the nurse would be free to leave after the girls left in the morning. He suggested that Hilary and Alexandra take their favorite toys. And he did not tell anyone that he would be closing the apartment and selling everything as soon as the children had left it. They would be better off with whatever meager amount he could eke from the sale of the furniture, and not having their funds depleted by paying rent for a duplex on Sutton Place. Sam's debts were still astronomical, and there just was no money coming in from anywhere for them. He was glad to be getting rid of the apartment and the two servants.

Hilary had eyed him suspiciously when he told them about the trip to Boston. Much of her affection for him seemed to have cooled since her mother's death, but it was difficult to tell if that was just her way of expressing pain, or due to some other reason.

"Why are you sending us away?"

"Because it'll be nicer for you there than it is here. Your aunt lives near the water in Boston. It'll be cooler, if nothing else, and you can't just sit here in New York all summer, Hilary."

"But we're coming back, right?"

"Of course you are." He felt a wave of guilt and terror wash over him. What if she could see that he was lying?

"Then why did you tell Millie to pack all our things?"

"Because I thought you might need them. Now, don't be unreasonable, Hilary. It'll be nice for all of you to get to know your father's sister."

Hilary was standing very quietly in the center of the room, in a yellow organdy dress with white pique trim, her shining black hair like Sam's perfectly combed into two smooth braids, her big green eyes as wise as Solange's had been, her little white anklets immaculate, and her patent leather Mary Janes shined to perfection. And she studied him, as though she knew he were hiding something from her. In a way, she frightened him, she was so knowing and so cool, and so fiercely protective of her sisters. She had taken the news of her father's suicide stoically. She had barely cried, and she had comforted Alexandra, and explained that Daddy had gone to heaven to be with Mommy. It all seemed terribly hard for Alexandra to understand, she was only five after all, but Hilary made everything easier for her, as she did for all of them. It was as though Solange had left her there to care for all of them in her absence.

"Why didn't we ever meet Aunt Eileen before? Didn't my Daddy like her?" She was perceptive just as Solange had been, and she didn't take any nonsense. The way her eyes flashed over him reminded him so much of her mother.

"I don't think they were close, Hilary, but that doesn't mean she's not a nice person."

Hilary nodded, she was willing to suspend judgment. Temporarily. But it was easy to see what she thought when they arrived in Charlestown.

The house was a small frame house on a dark street, with shutters that had fallen off in the bitter winds of the previous winters. The paint was peeling everywhere, the yard was overgrown with weeds, and two of the front steps were broken. It was a less than auspicious welcome, as Hilary walked up the steps, holding Alexandra's hand, and Arthur carried the baby. The nurse had come with them, for the trip, but she was returning to New York with Arthur.

He rang the doorbell ineffectively, and finally realized that it, too, was broken. And then he knocked hard on the window. He could feel Hilary's eyes on him and her silent question, asking him why they had come here. He didn't dare look at her now, he couldn't have borne to see Solange's eyes looking up at him, filled with silent reproach and unspent fury.

"Yeah?" The door opened finally, and a woman with blond stringy hair yanked the door open wearing a frayed dirty bathrobe. "What do you you want?" She stared at the crew on the front steps with obvious annoyance, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, her eye squinting shut to defend itself from the smoke wafting up, and then she realized who they were. She smiled uncomfortably then, and for a fraction of an instant, she looked like Sam, but barely. One had to be looking for the resemblance. want?" She stared at the crew on the front steps with obvious annoyance, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, her eye squinting shut to defend itself from the smoke wafting up, and then she realized who they were. She smiled uncomfortably then, and for a fraction of an instant, she looked like Sam, but barely. One had to be looking for the resemblance.

"Mrs. Jones?" Arthur's heart was sinking slowly to his feet, and he felt no better as they walked into the living room. There was a broken couch, three battered chairs with the stuffing pouring out, a coffee table that had seen better days, and a small Formica dinette set, with a television blaring in the distance. Inside, the house looked even worse than it did outside. Eileen Jones apparently did not spend a great deal of time keeping house for her husband.

It was a Sat.u.r.day afternoon and there was a baseball game blaring on the radio, at the same time as Gabby Hayes came on the TV. The noise was deafening, and the children looked stunned by it. Everyone stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, looking at each other.

"Want a beer?" She looked at Arthur, ignoring the children. And it was difficult to believe that this was Sam Walker's sister. He had been so impeccably groomed, such a handsome man, he had had such presence and power and magnetism about him. One had felt instantly drawn to Sam, and together with Solange they had made a dazzling couple. But this woman was a parody of all that was cheap and beaten and ugly. She looked well beyond her thirty-nine years, and the ravages of booze had taken their toll on her early. She might have been attractive once, but anything pleasant in her looks was long gone. She only looked hard and bitter and ugly. Her dyed hair was thin and dirty and unkempt, cut just below her ears, and hanging limp and greasy. She had Sam's brilliant blue eyes, but there was a dullness to them, with terrible bags beneath them from excessive drinking. Her skin was sallow, and her waist was thickened by beer, while her legs looked like two little toothpicks. She was totally foreign to everything the girls had ever seen, and Arthur realized that Hilary was staring at her in shock and horror.

"This is Hilary." He tried to encourage her forward to shake the woman's hand, but she wouldn't budge. "And Alexandra," who sniffed the stale beer that seemed to permeate the air, and made a face as she looked up at Hilary's obvious disapproval, "and Megan." He indicated the baby, who glanced at the battered blonde with wide eyes. She was the only one who didn't seem worried by her summer home or her hostess. The other two looked terrified, and Hilary had to fight back tears when she saw the room they were to be given to sleep in. Eileen Jones walked them back to it without ceremony, waved in the direction of the sagging, narrow bed that stood unmade in one corner. The room itself was a narrow cell without windows, barely big enough for the bed it held, with a crib folded against one wall that looked as though she had fished it out of someone else's garbage, which is precisely where Eileen had found it, shortly after Arthur had called her.

"We'll get the sheets on the bed later." She smiled artificially at her oldest niece. "Maybe you can help me." And then, with no particular interest she glanced at Arthur. "Got her mother's eyes though."

Arthur looked puzzled. "You knew Solange?" Solange had never mentioned this woman to him.

"I met her once. Sam was doing a play up here or something."

And then suddenly Arthur remembered. Solange had hated her. But so had Sam. They had come by when he was doing summer stock in Stockbridge after the war. It seemed light years ago, but so did everything now. Arthur looked around him with a lump in his throat, hating to leave the girls there. And for a moment he hated his wife for condemning the children to this. How could she do this? But she didn't know, he reminded himself, as he fought back his own guilt and resentment. He had to force himself not to think about it and remind himself that this arrangement was only for the summer. And then ... that was the real problem. And then what? Marjorie was intransigent. And he had already put out feelers everywhere, for people who would help, people who might want to take them in, people who had large families of their own, or people with no children of their own, but who might be willing to have them. He had spoken to all of his partners at the law firm.

Hilary was still standing awkwardly in the doorway of what was to be their room, staring with dismay at their new quarters. There was no closet, no chest for their things, there wasn't even a chair or a lamp or a table. There was a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, which dangled near the doorway.

"You got the money?" Eileen turned to him, and feeling awkward handing it over to her in front of the girls, he reached into his jacket for an envelope.

"That includes a reasonable amount for their expenses."

Being far less genteel than Arthur, she opened the envelope and thumbed through it. He had given her a thousand dollars, including the fee, and if she played her cards right, and fed them nothing but macaroni and cheese for the next two months, she'd have plenty of money left over. She smiled happily at the girls, took a swig of her beer, and saluted Arthur as she tossed her cigarette into the sink with perfect aim. She did it often. "That's just fine, Mr. Patterson. We have any problems, I'll call you."

"I thought I might come up to see them in a few weeks, if you and your husband don't mind, to see how they're doing."

Hilary stared at him unbelievingly. He was actually going to leave them in this place, with the filth and the beer bottles and the unmade bed ... and that awful woman. And if she had been withdrawn before, she was icy now, as he left them. "I'll call you in a few days, Hilary, and don't be afraid to call if you need me." All she could do was nod. She couldn't believe he was doing this to them, after everything else he'd done. For a moment, she wanted to kill him. And instead she turned to look down at Alexandra, who was crying softly.

"Don't be silly, Axie. This is going to be fun. Remember, Uncle Arthur said we could go to the ocean."

"Yeah?" Eileen laughed raucously as they heard the car drive away. "Where you going to do that? In the shipyard?" She laughed again. A thousand bucks was a h.e.l.l of a nice price for a few months of inconvenience, and with luck they wouldn't be too bad. The baby looked like kind of a pain in the a.s.s, and the five-year-old looked like a whiner, but the oldest one seemed to have it all in control. With luck, she'd take care of everything. Maybe she'd even cook and clean house. Eileen fell onto the couch in front of the TV with a fresh beer, and lit a cigarette. Maybe she and Jack would go out for dinner.

"Excuse me." Hilary stood awkwardly next to the television, holding the baby. "Where are the sheets for our bed?"

"On the back porch, I think. If you can find 'em." She never spoke another word to them, as Hilary quietly got them organized. She found torn sheets, but at least they were clean, and she put them on the bed, but there were no pillows and no blanket. And she put a makeshift sheet in the baby's crib, propping it between her bed and the wall, for fear it would topple over if she didn't. As she had suspected, it was broken.

She washed Alexandra's face then and took her to the bathroom, changed Megan's diapers, and gave all three of them a drink of water, as they sat quietly in their new room, looking around them.

"It's so ugly here," Axie whispered, afraid that the lady with the cigarette and the beer would hear her. "Is she really Daddy's sister?"

Hilary nodded. It was difficult to believe, and not pleasant to think about, but she was their aunt and they were stuck with her for the summer. There was no place for them to put their toys, and the dresses the nurse had packed for them had to remain in their suitcases. It was five o'clock before Eileen saw them again, and as she had suspected, Hilary had everything in control.

"Excuse me." She stood in front of her with her shining dark hair and big green eyes, like a miniature spokesman. "Could we give my sisters something to eat? They're both hungry." Eileen hadn't even thought of that. There was nothing in the house. She opened the fridge and there was nothing there except beer and some rotting lemons and stale bread. Eileen and Jack never ate at home if they could help it. All they did was drink there.

"Sure, kid. Which one are you?"

"Hilary." There was something very distant in her eyes, as though the last months had left her broken. She was only nine years old and she had already had more pain and grief than most people have in a lifetime.

"Can you go to the store for me, and get yourself something to eat? A couple of cans of tuna ought to do it."

"Tuna?" Hilary looked as though she'd never heard the word. She was used to hot meals prepared by the maid on Sutton Place, and her mother before that. Thick soups, and rich stews, and steaks cooked medium rare, and chocolate cakes with vanilla ice cream. "Tuna fish?"

"Yeah. Here's some money." She handed her a few dollars, as though she expected her to create an entire dinner with just a few dollars. Even Hilary knew that was impossible. Her nurse gave her more than that just when she went to get ice cream. "The store's on the corner, you can't miss it. And buy me another beer too, will ya?" She was always afraid of running out, even when she had plenty.

Hilary took her sisters with her, only because she was afraid of what would happen if she didn't. And the store looked as seamy as everything else around them. Most of the houses were either crumbling brick, or wood with faded, peeling paint on them. And everything in the neighborhood looked as though it was battered and beaten and broken. Hilary bought two cans of tuna fish, a jar of baby food, a loaf of bread, some mayonnaise, b.u.t.ter, half a dozen eggs, a container of milk and a can of beer for their hostess. Hilary figured she could make a halfway decent dinner out of all of it, and she could use the rest of the eggs and the bread to make breakfast the next morning. But as she came in the front door struggling to carry the package and Megan and still hold Axie's hand, Eileen asked her two questions.

"Where's my beer?"

"I have it in the bag."

"Then get it." She barked at Hilary, and Axie started to whimper. She hated people who shouted at her, or her sisters. Their mother never had, and even their nurse didn't shout at them, even though they didn't like her much and she said ugly things about their parents.

Hilary handed Eileen the beer as quickly as she could, and Eileen glared at her and asked the second question. "Where's the change?"

Hilary handed her three cents, and Eileen threw it back at her, hitting the baby near the eye with one of the pennies. "What'd you do, buy yourself a T-bone? This isn't Park Avenue, you know. Where the h.e.l.l's the rest of the money?" She seemed to have forgotten the thousand dollars Arthur had given her for just this purpose.

"I had to buy them dinner," Hilary explained. "And there was nothing for breakfast tomorrow morning."

"When I want you to buy breakfast, I'll tell you. You got that? And next time, don't spend so G.o.ddam much money."

Hilary was stunned at what she was hearing, and her hands shook as she made them dinner. With expert ease, she had food in front of them in less than ten minutes. A soft-boiled egg and toast and baby food for Megan, and tuna fish sandwiches with mayonnaise for herself and Axie, and big gla.s.ses of milk for all three of them, which they drank gratefully. They were hungry and exhausted after the drive from New York and the emotional shock of Eileen and Charlestown.