Chapter Four.

Bay's Haven, Ontario.

Bree snuggled the hand-blown glass vase in a nest of black velvet. The vase's spider-thin etchings and silver work picked up the sunlight and dispersed it into a million miniature rainbows.

She stepped back and smiled. Miriam Porter provided Bree with some of her best-selling stock, not to mention some of Bree's personal favorites. If this piece didn't go within the week, Bree promised herself that she would eat some of her mother's hospital meatloaf.

The vase appropriately displayed, Bree took another step back and scanned the rest of her shop. Bronze sculptures and soapstone carvings lined glass shelves and strategically stacked orange crates. Christmas ornaments crafted of blown glass hung from the low ceiling. And one glass case was dedicated to jewelry, crafted from pounded gold and silver, and polished stones that had been plucked from the waters of the Great Lakes. Watercolor seascapes and acrylic renditions of local wildlife dotted the walls. A few abstract pieces rounded out the paintings, but they weren't her best sellers.

Bay's Haven wasn't about being on the cutting edge. It was about tradition and simplicity. It was about finding beauty in the world around you, and the history that had forged you. And Bree cherished and cultivated that attitude in her artisans, as well as in her own work.

Bree had opened the Bree's Way Gallery and Gift Shop four years ago when a space became available on the town's main strip where gourmet food shops and restaurants were huddled beside craft markets and quaint four-star inns.

She had seen an opportunity to take advantage of the small bayside town's booming tourist trade. She looked for local artists and artisans who employed a variety of local textures and media, and her efforts had been well rewarded. The last two years she had seen a tidy profit despite the short season-enough to indulge her own passions during the slow winter season. Just like her father before her, Sabrina Hampstead loved to work with clay.

She glanced at the shelf where her own hand-painted vases and bowls advertised her skills. They were her pride and joy and she loved and nurtured them like they were her children. They were a part of her-every single piece demanding a tiny sliver of her soul.

Her father had poured his soul into his work as well, and she was determined to get those lost pieces of her father back again.

The wind chimes by the front door alerted her to her first afternoon customer. She looked eagerly to the door, expecting a familiar face and the warm glow of shared memories. But while the two women who strolled into the shop were definitely familiar, they weren't who she was expecting. And the smile she wore as she greeted them wasn't entirely genuine.

"Lois and Marie," she said, offering the obligatory hugs. "It's good to see you again. It's been so long." The barbs of sarcasm that pierced that phrase failed to prick her customers.

Lois Elliott drew away from Bree's arms and twisted her lips into her usual condescending smile. "I'm sorry, dear. But I don't have a lot of call to shop in town these days. I tend to make a couple of trips to Toronto and London every month, and that generally satisfies my needs." She sniffed and her tiny blue eyes peered out from beneath heavily penciled brows. Drooping jowls tugged at the corners of her smile, but it remained plastered on as if it had been painted on by a macabre clown. She waved a pudgy hand at the display in the window. "Still, you do put on quite a show, Sabrina. I hope you're not wasting your talents here in Tiny Town."

"Oh, now Lois," crooned Marie Waters. "You're just partial to the big city hustle and bustle. Plenty of people like to come up here to shop in peace."

Much like her daughter, Marie was tall and willowy, and Franki had inherited her slender frame and perfect thighs from her. Franki and Marie also shared an impressive stature that topped Bree's own five-foot-eight by a good two inches. However that was all that Franki had inherited from her mother. Other than their physical appearance, Franki and her mother had nothing in common.

"Yes," agreed Bree with a grateful glance in Marie's direction. "I'm not the only one who prefers the twitter of birds and the pounding of the surf to the roar of car engines and subways."

"I suppose," said Lois. She shifted her short, sturdy frame in the direction of the glass displays. "To each his own, as they say." And she waddled off.

Marie laid a liver-spotted hand on Bree's arm. "How is your mother, Bree?"

Bree's smile was tight. "The same, I'm afraid."

Apparently Lois overheard the exchange. She spoke as she handled an exquisite glass rose. "We really should get out there to see her, don't you think, Marie? Maybe in a few days, when the work at the house has been completed."

"Lois is having the gardens completely redone in an Oriental motif," explained Marie.

"Yes, and the pool needed a new fence and patio." She sighed heavily. "A property that size needs constant attention. Sometimes it can be such a burden."

Bree did not roll her eyes.

Lois Elliott was never satisfied with her home. The sprawling Tudor-style house that looked out over the bay from a hilltop vantage point, was constantly under renovation. Bree suspected that since Lois had been denied her dream of occupying a penthouse in Manhattan, she had decided to keep herself and her husband busy with a constant stream of landscapers, decorators and architects.

"I'm sure you're very busy." Bree said dryly. "Whenever you get to the hospital I just know Mom'll be thrilled to see you."

"It's so sad how time gets away from you." Marie was gazing out the window, as if she were looking into the past. "In the old days the eight of us were all so inseparable." She settled a fond smile on Bree. "And then our children became such good friends. And now..."

Now, you can't find five minutes to spend with one of your best friends who just happens to be dying right under your noses, Bree finished for her silently.

And then she chided herself for being overly judgmental. Out of those who remained from the four sets of parents, Franki's mother was Bree's favorite. She was sweet and kind and always ready with a hug and a listening ear. However, she was also mousy and spineless. Since her husband, Joe's death, she had become little more than Lois Elliott's lap dog-her constant companion and simpering sidekick.

Marie drew a heavy sigh. "Now there's barely half of us left to carry on the traditions. And even our children are scattered."

"Oh, Marie," scolded Lois. "You're getting morbid in your old age." She set down a sculpture she'd been fondling. "Nothing lasts forever, you know. People die. People move on. It's just the way things are."

"But for so many to die so young..." lamented Marie.

"Well, you can hardly count Jonathan Carver in those statistics, can you?" said Lois with a sneer. "I mean, after all-"

"Was there something specific you wanted?" interrupted Bree. She refused to rehash the tragedy of Sloan's loss with these women.

"Uh...yes," said Marie, obviously picking up on Bree's intent. "Lois wanted a housewarming gift for a new neighbor who just moved into the old Wilson place."

"That's right." Suddenly Lois swept up the vase Bree had so lovingly tended to just moments before. "I'll take this. I can't be bothered with any more trinket hunting today."

Bree had to hold herself back from snatching the masterpiece out of Lois' pudgy fingers. "Uh, are you sure you want to spend so much on someone you hardly know?" It just about killed her to think of that delicate piece of art in the hands of someone who would treat it with no more tenderness than she afforded a casserole dish.

Lois glanced at the price tag. "Oh." Her eyebrows lifted high into the creases of her forehead.

Bree's hopes were kindled.

"That is a little dear, isn't it?"

But then Marie threw a wrench into the works by injecting a dose of her ubiquitous sweetness. "But just think how pleased your neighbor will be when she unwraps such a lovely thing. She can't help but be impressed by your impeccable taste."

"True," said Lois with a slow smile. "You do have a way of looking at things, Marie." She turned to Bree. "I'll take it."

"Of course." Defeated, Bree accepted it and walked heavily to the counter. "I'll have it ready in five minutes."

Lois had just finished paying and had cradled her package under her arm when the wind chime tinkled again. This time, when Bree looked up she felt a surge of warmth.

Lois Elliott, however, tensed visibly. "Troy." The name dropped from her lips like a lead weight.

"Mother." Troy Elliott stepped back and held the door open for the two women.

Lois and Marie wended their way through the displays toward the door.

"It's nice to see you, Troy," said Marie as they approached. "I so rarely get down to the store. Selling all that jewelry and managing all those employees must keep you very busy. I just-"

"You're taking a rather long lunch today," interrupted Lois. "I thought you chained yourself to that desk."

Troy's lips set into a hard line. "You know me so well, Mother. I positively live for bondage. However, my secretary does have a key. The shackles come off once a day so I can eat and take a piss. Which is more than I can say for the apron string I can still feel wrapped around my throat."

Lois's mouth dropped open, and then snapped shut again. "You just look for ways to hurt me, don't you?"

"I learned from the best, Mom."

Without another word, Lois stomped out of the shop. Marie eased past Troy, stopping briefly to touch his hand and try to communicate her sympathy with a smile.

Troy smiled back. At last they were gone and he allowed the door to swing closed. He wilted against the wall.

Bree chewed on her lower lip. "I'm sorry, Troy. I wouldn't have asked you here if I'd known she would come in."

He waved away the apology. "Don't be silly. I can handle her."

Bree raised her eyebrows.

"All right," he chuckled. "I can put up with her. Is that better?"

"I thought it might have gotten better by now," she sighed. "I guess I hoped it would." Bree had never been clear on the origins of the feud that had developed between Troy and his family. Troy had always evaded her questions, and downplayed its importance. But Bree knew better. Whatever had come between Troy and his family ran deep. Deep enough for Troy to disavow any claim to a potential six-figure inheritance from his father's share of Lakeside House. She had only gained that little tidbit by plying Troy with whiskey at his thirtieth birthday party. It had cost her an entire fifth of Crown Royal, and a half a dozen aspirins the next morning.

"No way. My family wrote the book on holding grudges. We-notice I include myself in that pronoun-truly excel at hanging onto our anger and our enemies."

"How about hanging onto friends?" She extended her arms and with a smile he complied.

She wallowed in the strength and warmth of familiar arms. He squeezed hard, in the intimate way of old friends. He pulled away and his eyes scanned first her and then the room. He nodded approval. "I don't get in here nearly enough. The shop looks great, Chicky-Bree." The incident with Lois already forgotten, she reached up to tousle his blond curls. "So do you, Troy-boy." She held him at arm's length and looked him up and down. "I heard talk down at the cafe that you started running marathons. I thought they were kidding, but obviously they weren't." Bree hated the fact that she had learned this little tidbit from a waitress instead of from Troy himself. "No, they weren't kidding. I run eight clicks a day," he said, striking a virile pose. His conservative blue suit stretched over well-developed shoulders. She even had a hint of the muscular thighs that hid beneath the razor-sharp crease of his trousers. "Not bad considering I waddled down the aisle to pick up my high school diploma, eh?"

Bree shook her head. "You never waddled anywhere. You were always far too hard on yourself." "Right," he said through a grin. "I was just...husky." "You weren't even that. You just always compared yourself to a guy whose mother couldn't cook and refused to buy junk food." She refused to refer to Sloan by name. "And besides, it's been ten years since

you had an ounce of pinchable fat." He held up a long, lean finger and his brown eyes twinkled with that old, familiar mischief. Even months of detentions and parental reprimands hadn't been able to quell the irreverent spirit of the Fearsome Foursome, or keep them from pursuing their perpetual quest for adventure.

"Pinchable." He nodded sagely. "You hit the nail on the head there, Bree." She laughed. "Carolyn?" "Mm hmm." He dropped his hand and picked up a polished soapstone sculpture of a great blue whale.

"When I met Carolyn she persuaded me that I'd get a lot more pinching if I had a little less that waspinchable." "Ah, the power of sex strikes again." "Where do you think I get all the energy to run those marathons?"

"Here I thought it was those protein drinks."

He set the sculpture back in place and his voice took on a note of wistfulness. "I owe her so much. I don't know where I'd be without her."

"I hardly think you need to worry about that," said Bree with a poke to his ribs. "She adores you. And you're a wonderful father. She'd be crazy to let you go."

Troy's smile broadened. "All right. What do you want?"

Bree laughed. "Nothing. It's the simple truth. Speaking of fatherhood, how is that little monster of yours?"

Troy's eyes rolled back. "You have no idea how accurate that description is. David is eight going on thirty. He's headstrong and completely fearless. He's giving me premature gray hairs."

She didn't bother to hide her grin. "Fearless, eh? Hmm...I just can't imagine where he gets it."

Troy's face remained deadly serious. "It must be some mutant gene of Carolyn's because it couldn't possibly be from me."

"Right. Of course."

Suddenly Troy turned around. "Enough about me and my idyllic suburban existence. You asked me here for a reason, and I think it's about time I knew what that was." To her surprise, he added, "It has something to do with Sloan, doesn't it?"

Bree's eyes went wide. "You mean you'd guessed that before you got here?"

"Call it kismet. There was just something about your voice on the phone. And I had a funny feeling that we were all going to be together again very soon."

She sat down on the bar stool she kept behind the counter. "Honestly, Troy, I wasn't sure if I should pull you in on this, but I guess it's a good thing I did. You obviously would have found me out sooner or later."

He crossed to the counter and braced his hands against the glass. "Why wouldn't you have told me? You couldn't possibly stage a reunion without me."

"No, of course not."

"So?" he asked when she said nothing more. "What's the scoop here, Bree? What's the big mystery? Did he finally call and you were afraid I'd be too pissed off to want to see him?"

No doubt Troy harbored some resentment for his friend-cum-boss. Technically, Troy had worked for Sloan for the past eight years, and still the two had barely spoken. Only in very rare, and very dire instances had Troy managed to catch his boss for a person-to-person telephone conversation, and even those were frustratingly brief. Usually Sloan was "out" or simply unreachable for such chats. He said he trusted Troy to manage his stores. Implicitly. But the excuse seemed hollow. After a few maddening years Troy had simply accepted it. Bree wasn't quite so tolerant.

"No, no," she replied. "He didn't call. This was all my idea. And, in fact, he probably won't be too happy about it all when he gets here."

Troy shook his head in confusion. "Okay, you've stumped me. Why won't he be happy?" Then a slow smile spread across his face. "You're tricking him into coming, aren't you? I'm hurt that you pulled this off without me." He managed a pretty good pout.

"I had my reasons." She shifted on her stool. "See...the thing is, my reason for asking him to come back indirectly affects you."

He stood there, waiting, and she knew she couldn't put off telling him any longer. "And honestly, I'm not sure if you're going to like it."

Chapter Five.

Craig crinkled up his nose and sniffed. "What's that smell?"

"It's called fresh air, Craig." He rolled down the limousine window and let the wind flirt with his hair. He breathed deeply the scents of his youth. "It's called air without smog and pollution. We're almost to the lake, and I can smell the water and..." Unexpectedly his stomach clenched. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the buttery calfskin upholstery.

"And what?"

This was ridiculous. It had been years. It shouldn't still have such a stranglehold on him. He had to take control, and not allow his memories to consume him, and ruin his trip home. He pressed a hand to his gut. "And hay. Somebody's done a cutting of hay already. That's what that sweet, fresh-cut grass smell is from."

"Hey, man, you're pale as a ghost. You carsick or something?"