She snapped her fingers. "Oh! I just remembered what I had to tell you. We're all invited to the Elliotts'

for a little barbecue."

Sloan stared at her. "Who's we?"

"All of the old crowd, spouses and...significant others included. Even my mom will be there. They'd

love to have Lydia, but, well..." She fidgeted with her halter strings.

"Even Troy?" asked Sloan.

"Yup. Your homecoming is apparently a very big deal, Sloan Carver. It sounds like they're killing the

fatted calf and even allowing the prodigal son to return. Turning this down might be equivalent to turning

down tea with the Queen." "Is Bree going?" Her face fell. "I haven't asked her yet, but I assume so." He pondered it for a moment, and then flopped back onto the divan. "All right. I guess it's a good idea, considering..." His voice faded away. "Good." She swung the door open, and winked at Craig. "I'll see you both tomorrow at five." And she disappeared into the hallway.

"Bitch!" muttered Craig as he stalked to the window. He watched the street, in the hopes of catching a glimpse or her. He wanted to make sure she really left. "Huh?" "Nothing. I don't want to talk about it. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway?" "I don't want to talk about it," mumbled Sloan, apparently already halfway down the road to dreamland.

Craig didn't push it. He had other things on his mind as he watched the woman with the legs to her throat and the devious, scheming mind, slip into her bright yellow Isuzu and drive away. She had used him, but he knew it mattered more than it should. He knew that it wouldn't have mattered so much if he hadn't started to feel more for her than merely the hunger of an undernourished libido. He heard Sloan's soft snores and he knew that it wouldn't have mattered so much if he hadn't just let down his best friend.

But, most disturbing of all, he also knew that no matter how much it shouldn't matter, if Franki Waters wagged her fiery red fingernail at him again... Well, he'd always wondered how Pavlov's dog finally met his end. Did he respond to the wrong bell, and run out in front of a steam engine? Or did he just eat one too many bowls of doggie kibble?

Craig had the funny feeling that Franki had more in common with a speeding locomotive than she did with dog food. He sighed as he recalled the feel of that buttery smooth flesh beneath his fingers. But what a way to go.

Vance Elliott's fingers caressed the broad, elegant lines of an early seventeenth century Louis XIV armchair. The colors of the silk tapestry upholstery had faded, and a few spots had been worn through, but the dark walnut scrollwork looked as rich and lustrous as the day it was carved. It was in mint condition and would reap top dollar at the next Wednesday night auction.

"How much do you figure?" Perry had just sauntered into the preview room, munching on his favorite snack.

Vance drew himself up to his full, lean six-foot two-inch height. At sixty-four he could still outrun, out-lift

and out-play most men half his age. Except, of course, for his other son, he thought bitterly. Physically Troy Elliott was every bit the man his father was. It was a cruel irony that Perry, Vance's physically inferior son, had inherited all of his father's other traits.

"Are you asking about this piece or the entire agenda?" responded Vance.

Perry shrugged. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." Antiques and fine furniture did not hold any particular interest for Perry. His passions lay elsewhere. "I just came in to tell you that we're all set for the barbecue tomorrow night. As far as I can tell everyone is coming."

"Sloan is the only one that matters."

"I hope we're not overestimating his importance. The gay thing would explain a lot."

"We can't discount the possibility that Janelle followed through on her threats. Sloan may well know and merely be biding his time. You forget, Sloan is his father's son. Jonathan Carver was a risk-taker, but he always weighed his options carefully before acting. And when he did act, he did so quickly, with stealth and precision." Vance ran his fingers over the gold nail heads that held the tapestry to the chair's frame. "Jonathan was intelligent, patient and tenacious. And I've seen those same traits in his son."

"You still miss him, don't you?" said Perry in a rare reflective moment.

"I do. Jonathan balanced out my reckless ambitions. He was a good friend, and I hated to lose him. His death was tragic," he tossed a veiled glance at Perry, "and I feel that his son deserves the benefit of the doubt, and possibly an opportunity to follow in his father's footsteps."

Perry stopped munching his chips, his expression pensive. "Are you sure he does?"

"Does what?" puzzled Vance.

"Deserve the benefit of the doubt."

"What are you talking about?"

Perry shrugged, as if to negate the significance of what he was about to say. "I told you what I saw that night. I've never been as convinced as you that Sloan was blameless in her death." "You misinterpreted what you saw," said Vance firmly. "Your observations were colored by your envy of Sloan."

"I've never envied anyone," growled Perry.

Vance knew differently. "Sloan could never intentionally harm his mother." But Vance had never quite been able to shake the whisper of doubt that had nagged at him all these years.

"You're convinced it was an accident."

"I'm not convinced of anything, but I don't want to make any judgments based on assumptions and hearsay. That's why I need to talk to Sloan myself." "He left town so suddenly. What if it was because he was running from the law?"

"If that's the case then why was there no investigation into her disappearance? No suspicions?"

"He covered his tracks too well."

Vance shook his head. "Bay's Haven may not have a crack police force but I find it hard to believe they could be misled so easily."

Perry's snort was filled with contempt. "Right, Dad. Whatever you say."

Vance turned away from his son and closed his eyes. Perry was his son and his partner, but they approached the business-and life in general-from completely different perspectives. He missed having a partner who shared his goals and his vision. He missed having friends he trusted and counted as equals. Occasionally the barriers fell and he allowed himself to grieve the loss of the two people that he had loved, perhaps more than anyone else in the world.

"I'll talk to him," said Vance softly. "And I'm sure we'll get this all straightened out."

"You have a lot to ask him," replied Perry. "What if you don't like his answers?"

Vance ignored the cold glint in his son's eye. "I refuse to speculate. I'll deal with him as the circumstances demand, once I have all the information." He forced a small smile even though his mind remained troubled. "I learned a few things from Jonathan, too. I intend to take this one step at a time, and weigh all my options." He glared at Perry. "I don't act rashly."

Perry crumpled the empty bag in his pale, doughy fist, and glared back at Vance. The message in his eyes echoed the words that Vance had heard too often from his son, No, Dad, you don't act at all. But out loud he said, "Well, you know how I feel about it."

"Yes. You've made your opinions abundantly clear."

"And Mom agrees with me."

The fact that Perry and Lois often allied their forces against him irritated Vance beyond words. "Luckily, your mother has no say in the matter. She is impulsive, and sees only the bottom line of the bank account."

"What else is there?" snorted Perry.

Vance dropped his gaze to the fluid elegance of the historic chair. He took in the intricate stitching and bold design of the tapestry. And then he surveyed the remainder of the week's collection.

Finally his eyes rested on the collection of porcelain and pottery that lined the shelves on the far wall. Therein lay Perry's passions-and his father's demons. After Russell Hampstead's death, they had recruited a new artisan, but his work lacked passion. Ironically, that did not affect their price tag.

He glanced back at his son. "If you don't know, I can't explain it to you, Perry." The implications of that saddened him deeply.

He turned and walked away.

Bree rested her wet hands on the lump of damp, shapeless mud. She gazed at it and took a moment to envision the clay coming to life. In her mind's eye she could see the lean, graceful lines of a pitcher. It was there, sleeping, hiding within the formlessness. It merely needed her to draw it out and make it dance.

She flipped the switch and the table slowly whirled to life. She took a deep breath and began the familiar routine of working and shaping the clay. The rough, wet mixture spun against her skin, sloughing away calluses and caressing her spirit. Gradually a form evolved.

Her fingers moved with the deftness and skill that came from years of practice and dedication. And an ocean full of passion. Even as she poured her soul into the clay, her mind wandered.

"I think you have clay in your blood," laughed Russell as he watched over his daughter.

She felt a surge of pride as her hands continued their work. "If I do, I got it from you, Dad."

"Oh..." His hand rested on her forearm. "Take it slow here. Be gentle with it. Don't become impatient.

When the walls get this thin, you have to treat it as delicately as spun glass."

"Do you think I can make it higher?" The vase seemed almost as tall as she, and yet she wanted to do more. Go further.

"You're never satisfied, are you, Bree? You're always testing your limits."

"I want to be as good as you."

He planted a kiss on the top of her head. "You've already surpassed my skills on the wheel, and you haven't even finished college yet. You've developed a feel for the clay and a flare for form that I envy, Sabrina." He flicked the switch and the table slowed its mindless spinning. "It's beautiful just as it is."

"It could be better," she grumbled, but secretly his words warmed her heart.

He grasped her shoulders and swiveled her chair to face him. "It's good to reach for the stars, but you must also learn the value of temperance and restraint." His smile faded. "It took me too long to learn that lesson, and I'm afraid the price was too high."

A little unsettled by his tone, and uncertain of the message, she re-focused on her vase. "It will be perfect for one of Mom's roses, don't you think? Mom's so happy that she can quit that job down at the store now, and spend more time in her garden."

"Mmm. Now that I've made a name for myself things are going so well. I'm so happy to be able to give you two all the things you deserve. Now that money's no longer a concern, everything's perfect." His gaze drifted away but his expression didn't quite match his words. "Everything's just...perfect."

She drew herself back to the present, and the work in progress that swirled before her.

Suddenly she raised her fist and plowed it through the mouth of the pitcher. She flicked off the turntable and glared at the ruins. She felt a tear drip off her chin.

"I miss you, Daddy," she whispered.

She grabbed a towel and wiped the mud off her hands as she stood and strode to the window of her second-floor studio. The stars glittered above the treetops, and she could hear the rhythm of the waves like the faint strains of a distant lullaby.

How was it that Bree had lost so much?

The death of Russell Hampstead had cost her a father, a friend, a mentor and a teacher. His death had also left her and her mother to pick up the pieces and make their way with an inadequate life insurance benefit, and few marketable skills. Bree's college degree in art history was almost worthless and she had lost her dream of making potting her life. She'd had to resort to retail work in order to help her mother make ends meet. Pottery had become a hobby and, only now, had she seen a glimmer of the dream's return.

Now she faced the loss of her mother. While Lydia had never shared her daughter's passions, she had always been supportive and encouraging, and had loved her daughter to distraction.

And Bree had lost a husband. This, of course, was the most negligible of her losses. She had tried to fill a void in her life with a marriage that merely expanded the emptiness to include two people instead of one.

Looking back now, she had to admit to herself that the void she had been trying to fill had been left by none other than Sloan Carver. For years she had tried to negate the effect of his abandonment on her life. Sloan obviously didn't care about her, so she didn't care about him. But that had been a pathetic rationalization, and a blatant lie. The memory of her father's words had made it all painfully clear to her.

Her and Sloan's relationship had been volatile but passionate, and now she knew why. Not only did they share an artist's creative soul, but they shared the same driven, star-seeking nature. The same traits that had made their fathers fast friends had drawn them together. They both enjoyed a challenge. They both felt an innate need to test their limits and reach for the unreachable. They had different ways of expressing those traits and that difference had masked the truth from her.

It had taken too long for it all to come clear to her. And now it was too late. Sloan had taken a different path, and while she could feel no regrets over decisions he alone had made, she couldn't help but mourn the loss of yet another dream-the dream of sharing her life and her passions with someone who truly understood her, and whom she understood in return.

She set her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest. She had lost enough in this life. In light of all that, she felt a renewed sense of purpose and urgency toward her quest. Tomorrow she would press Sloan for a decision, and if he didn't make the right one, she would press him some more.

Bree would have those pieces of her father. Sloan Carver would help her. If he wouldn't do it for her, maybe he would do it for his father, and for the memory of another friendship that had ended too soon, and too tragically. Sloan would agree to it. There were no other options.

Chapter Ten.

"Hey there, kiddo!" said Sloan with a nudge to David Elliott's ribs. "Where are you putting all that food, anyway? You got a hollow leg or something?"

David only shrugged. He edged away from Sloan on the picnic table bench and continued to lick his ice cream cone. It was his second, and how he could possibly pack it in on top of two burgers and a hot dog mystified Sloan. As did his apparent aversion to Sloan's presence.

"David!" scolded Troy from the other side of the table. "That was rude. You should answer-"

"Troy," interrupted Sloan with a wave of his hand. "It's okay. I was just teasing."

"Can I go swimming now, Dad?" asked David.

Troy considered his son. "Okay, but you have to stay in the shallow end until your supper settles."

"Okay!" called the boy over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the enormous kidney-shaped pool in Vance and Lois' backyard.

The imposing edifice of the Elliott mansion loomed behind them, and before them, just beyond the pool and patio, a lush carpet of green stretched out toward the water. The lawn ended at a rocky bluff that towered sixty feet above the water line.

The view was breathtaking, but few of the guests bothered to acknowledge it. Lois and Marie Waters were sorting through uneaten burgers and greasy paper plates. On the far side of the pool, Derek and Perry gesticulated at each other as they discussed some mysterious and undoubtedly dull subject. Derek's buxom young wife was sunbathing beside the pool, a mere stone's throw away from where Carolyn, Franki and Bree had settled themselves after the gluttonous picnic. The only member of the party who wasn't readily visible was the lord of the manor. Vance Elliott had excused himself after dessert, and Sloan hadn't seen him since.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," Troy said as he watched his son drench the women with an enthusiastic cannonball dive that landed him squarely in forbidden deep water territory. The ladies shrieked, and Carolyn had to scramble to get away from her son who then tried to drag her in by her ankles. "He's usually so energetic and outgoing. He's usually great with strangers. I've never seen him act so shy."