At least she had finished high school during those torturous months.

Her second marriage hadn't been much better than the first. Dean Gardner had all the markings of her Prince Charming. A graduate of Berkeley and Stanford with degrees in business and accounting, he was already starting up the ladder in banking. As Dean's wife, she would have security and the opportunities she had lacked before. And so would Michael. She registered for college classes during the hours that Michael was in school. She took her son to all kinds of cultural events. She poured everything she could into developing her son and herself into people who could mingle in the best of society.

And all the while she was bettering herself, Dean was cheating on her. She hadn't learned about his affair with one of the secretaries in his office until several years later. She had only known something was wrong, but when she became pregnant with Anne, Dean had once again become the doting husband he'd been in the beginning. He'd been an even more doting father when Anne was born.

As soon as Anne was old enough, Nora resumed her efforts to see that Michael was given the best education possible. She began making plans for Anne as well. She played classical music during her daughter's crib time to increase her intelligence. Even the games she played with Anne were designed to develop mental skills and physical abilities.

Her children were going to have every opportunity she missed; their potential was going to be developed.

Dean came to resent the attention she poured on the children. Most of all he resented her love for Michael. "You never discipline the boy!" She'd never been able to understand that accusation when it seemed Michael's every moment was regulated. His life was one of discipline. Wasn't she seeing to that?

And yet, despite all her efforts, Michael had betrayed her too. He had searched for Bryan Taggart. Though they had met, no real relationship had grown from it. Yet it seemed something had broken between her and her son anyway. The more successful Michael became, the more distant he was. She had poured out so much love and effort on him, but he had no time for her.

Dean had never understood how torn she was, how wounded. She'd taken him at his word to do whatever she needed to find what it was she wanted. Unlike her mother, she brought Anne everywhere, even to the college classes she took. When that became impossible, she gave up her own dreams to make sure Anne would have the opportunities she had missed. Wasn't she doing as much for Michael?

And then Dean stunned her by saying he was quitting a job that paid six figures a year and starting his own business. She saw all her security going up in flames. The fights had started then and hadn't ended until he filed for divorce. Her lawyer had insisted that Dean was being more than generous, giving her the house and savings. Alimony would have been asking too much, especially since his only income then was the pittance he was making in his new business enterprise. The one good thing she could say about Dean Gardner was that he never quibbled about sending child support. The checks always arrived at the first of the month.

The year they divorced, she heard from Anne-then six years old-that he had moved in with the woman who had been his secretary at the bank. When he relocated his business to Southern California, the woman had stayed behind. Anne told her after a holiday visit that they were still friends. Nora could make no sense of her ex-husband's life, nor did she want to have anything to do with him, other than to receive her monthly checks. However, by court order, Nora had been forced to send Anne to spend the summer with Dean.

When she returned, Nora learned that he was living with another woman. He lived with that woman for several years before she apparently accepted a lucrative job in New York and left. Amicably, again. Now Dean was living with yet another woman, younger this time.

It had been fourteen years since their divorce, and still Nora would sometimes feel the hurt that he hadn't loved her enough to make their marriage work. The things he had said were so cruel, so demeaning, so completely untrue. And still, even after all this time, she felt jealous every time she heard he was with someone else.

What sense was there in that when she loved Fred?

The third time is the charm, so they say. And thus far, she had thought her third marriage was perfect.

Until tonight.

Where was Fred? It was after two in the morning, and he still wasn't home.

Was he betraying her, too, just like everyone she loved had betrayed her?

God, why do they do it? Why do they all turn away from me? I pour out my life on them, and they turn away. My mother didn't love me enough to spend time with me. My father hardly ever said a word to me. Bryan deserted me. Dean cheated on me. Michael never has time for me. Anne wants to have everything her own way. And now Fred . . .

The garage door hummed. Her heart thumped crazily, mingling relief with anger. How dare Fred stay out this late? She sat in the wing chair facing the hall. He would see the light was still on and come in to check on her. She heard the door from the garage open. He appeared, his suit coat still on, his raincoat draped over one shoulder, a briefcase in his hand. He looked tired.

"Where have you been, Fred? I've been worried sick about you. It's half past two."

"I've been at Scoma's in San Francisco. The gentlemen from Japan arrived this morning. Remember?" His mouth was tight with irritation.

She frowned slightly, her anger seeping away. Something was wrong.

"You don't even remember, do you, Nora?" Fred said quietly. He just looked at her, waiting. She was at a complete loss for words. His smile was bleak. "You're so caught up in Anne's insurrection that everything else has gone bye-bye." His eyes darkened slightly. "I told you a month ago these men were coming. I told you how important this contract could be to the business. They'll be here through Saturday."

She saw accusation in his eyes. "Why are you angry with me? What did I do wrong?"

"Yesterday morning I told you I'd call and let you know where we were having dinner tonight. You were supposed to meet me there, Nora."

She felt cold, suddenly remembering everything. How could she have forgotten?

"Where were you, Nora?"

"I was at my mother's," she said in a shaky voice, horrified that she had let him down so badly. It was Anne's fault this had happened! If Anne hadn't run off and put her through an emotional wringer, she would have done her duty by Fred.

His expression altered. "Is your mother sick?"

"She looks worse than I've ever seen her." It was true. She had been shocked at how her mother had aged since the last time she saw her.

"Did she call you?"

"No. I just . . . I just had a feeling something was wrong." Thinking about Anne's betrayal, she put her hands over her face and started to cry. "I had to see her. Everything else just went out of my head. I've just had the worst day of my life. And now, to top it off, you're angry with me."

In the past, Fred had always been quick to comfort her. Tonight he stayed where he was. With a sigh, he dropped his raincoat over the back of the sofa and set his briefcase down. "I need a drink." He went behind the wet bar, took a bottle of scotch from the lower cabinet, and poured himself half a glass.

Sniffling and dabbing her nose with a lace hankie, Nora couldn't stop the twinge of resentment that Fred hadn't even thought to offer her one.

"It's going to take some doing for me to save face." Fred's tone was grim. He took a swallow of scotch and put the glass down on the bar. He looked across at her enigmatically. "Face matters with the Japanese. Since Mr. Yamamoto's wife was there and anxious to meet you, the fact that my wife didn't show up said more to them than the hundred pages of documents I've been working on for six months."

It wasn't just anger in his eyes. It was hurt and disappointment. She had let him down badly. Fear curled in the pit of her stomach. Would he leave her like all the rest? She tried so hard and nothing ever worked out the way she planned. "I'm sorry, Fred."

"It's a little late to be sorry." He took up the glass again, swallowed the rest of the scotch, then put the glass on the counter. He looked at her again and shook his head slowly as though trying to make sense of everything. "Nora, sometimes I wonder . . ."

"Wonder what?" she said softly when he didn't continue.

He looked weary and older than his fifty-seven years. "It's better if I don't say anything more right now. I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

What was that supposed to mean? That it was all her fault? Why couldn't he try to understand how horrible her day had been? He would understand then how the dinner this evening had slipped her mind. Despite all her efforts, all her sacrifices for those she loved, no one seemed to care what she suffered.

Fred took up his raincoat from the back of the sofa and bent for his briefcase. "We'll talk more in the morning."

Somehow, those few words held an ominous sound.

When he walked out of the room, Nora wept, this time in fear of what the morrow would bring.

Chapter 9.

Corban pulled into Leota Reinhardt's driveway, noticing there was a car with a Christian fish symbol on it parked in front of her house. He noticed other things as well. The lawn was freshly mowed, and the bushes in front of the house were pruned neatly and low enough now that the front porch was visible. The hanging pots had been removed.

As he went up the front steps, he saw that the rocking chair had been washed. The seat was still wet, as was the entire front porch. No spiderwebs, no dust, just the smell of dampness and fresh-cut grass.

Had another volunteer come over? He felt a twinge of irritation that someone was intruding. Ringing the bell, he waited. On the third ring, he became worried that something might have happened to Mrs. Reinhardt. Why wasn't she answering her door? Hearing no sounds from inside, he moved to peer through the window beside her front door, but remembered her remarks upon their first meeting. If she didn't want to answer, she didn't have to answer.

Resigned, he went down the steps, wondering what to do next. Just as he was opening his car door, he heard voices at the back of the house. Squeezing past the hood, he strode up the narrow driveway.

"Mrs. Reinhardt?" he called out as he came around the back corner. She was standing in the garden above the small patio area outside the back door; she was wearing a flowered, polyester dress and a white sweater. A girl was with her.

A very pretty girl.

"Corban, what are you doing here? It's Saturday."

"Just thought I'd drop by," he said, trying not to stare at the old woman's companion.

"This is my granddaughter, Anne-Lynn Gardner. Annie, this is Corban Solsek. He's from a charity that sends volunteers to help old people."

The girl had a trim, athletic figure and long, strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a soiled, white T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and dirty tennis shoes. She removed a gardening glove and stepped forward, hand extended. "I'm pleased to meet you, Corban." Sweat dampened her forehead and dirt smudged her cheek. Despite her disheveled appearance, she glowed with innocence and an open friendliness that made him smile back.

"Likewise," he said.

"You've arrived just in time," Leota said, a gleam in her eyes.

That remark was enough to snap him back to full attention. Raising a brow, he looked at her. "Dare I ask?"

She chuckled. "We were about to prune the trees in back. It's not the best time of year for it, but they're in dire need. And you're just the man for the job."

"I seem to be the only man around."

"Don't spoil the compliment."

He laughed. She looked better than he had ever seen her. Being outdoors seemed to agree with her.

"We're going to bring the garden back," Anne said, smiling.

What was he getting himself into? "I don't know the first thing about gardening."

"I don't either." Anne sounded positively delighted. She pulled the glove back on. "We're about to learn. Grandma supplies the brains. We supply the brawn."

"Corban will take exception to that, Annie." Leota smiled straight at him. "He's a senior at the university, and you know how smart they all think they are."

While Anne laughed, Corban glowered at the old lady, feigning annoyance with her. "I don't suppose it would hurt me to get my hands dirty just this once."

"Good boy. Rise to the challenge. Tools are in the shed to the right of the gate."

He could care less about gardening, but he could see that today Leota Reinhardt was in the mood to talk. Maybe it was the presence of the little dish walking along the cobblestone pathway ahead of him. Whatever it was, he intended to hang around and take mental notes.

"There's a ladder on the back wall," Leota called, following at a much slower pace. She had her hands out slightly as though to balance herself better. "And a saw. It should be hanging on the wall to the right of the door. And a can of latex paint and a brush."

Corban wondered why she was talking about paint. They were going to prune trees, not touch up the stucco.

"Watch for black widows in there," Leota called, standing at the open gate beneath the sagging arbor. "They like dark places."

"We will, Grandma."

Groaning inwardly, Corban hung back, hoping the girl wouldn't expect him to brave the arachnids. She didn't even bat an eye in his direction. Without the least hesitation, she picked up a broken branch and opened the door. She attacked the webs like a warrior with a sword-upward, downward, forward, moving fearlessly into the dim, dusty environs. She banged around briefly and handed the saw out to him, then came out carrying a ladder.

"Don't just stand there, Corban," the old lady said. "There's an extension pruner mounted on the wall. And we'll need the can of latex paint and a brush. Should be on the shelf."

"What's an extension pruner look like?" He looked around cautiously before going inside the dusty, shadow-filled shed.

"Two poles that fit together after you get them outside. On the end of one are clippers."

He found the pieces and became entangled in the rope attached to the lower part of the clippers. Winding the rope quickly around his hand, he picked up the two poles and brought them outside, thankful to be in the sunlight again. He didn't feel anything crawling on him.

Anne had already set up the ladder near the biggest tree in the center of the walled-off garden in back. "What kind of tree is it, Grandma?"

"Apricot. The one over there is a cherry tree. The other one is a plum." She shook her head. "What a tangled mess . . ."

Corban couldn't have agreed with her more. The trees had branches pointing in all directions; the ground was covered with weeds, some knee-high, though those toward the back were higher than that. Worst of all was the layer of shriveled and rotted fruit beneath the tree-several years' worth by the looks of it. Small trees had sprouted here and there.

"Okay, Grandma. We've got all the tools. Now where do we start?" Anne stood there, saw in hand, looking ready for almost anything.

Leota Reinhardt made her way carefully toward them. She reached up to one of the branches sagging down and snapped off a portion. She looked at it and then around and up through the tree. "First thing you have to do is remove all the dead, broken, and diseased branches. That one and that one-" She pointed. "Start up there and work your way down and out. Find a growth bud and cut just above it." She glanced at him. "Corban, put that pruner together and use it. Annie can't do it all by her lonesome."

"Watch out below," Annie said as the first branch swung down.

"Easy," Mrs. Reinhardt said. "You don't want the branches banging into each other. Hand the can up to her, Corban. Annie, you need to paint over the cut so no germs can get in and the sap won't bleed too long. Use the pocketknife I gave you."

Annie took the knife from her back pocket, pried open the small can, and tucked the knife away again. Corban watched her dab paint onto the cut branch. Setting the can into a joining of branches, she leaned down for the saw she had put on the ladder tray.

"The pruner, Corban. The pruner!"

The old woman was like a general mustering her troops! She stood on guard at the gate, watching the battle. "Leave that one, Annie. Cut the one to the right. We want to thin the tree so that air will circulate and there'll be more light to all the branches."

"This one, Grandma?"

"Yes, that's it. That's the one. Corban, see if you can get the one over there. Pull. Don't be afraid of it. See how that limb is rubbing on the bigger branch? It's doing damage. There's probably a wound there. Annie, you'll need to paint over it so there won't be any decay. There's a branch right there that needs cutting. The wind must have snapped it. See it? The one with the brown leaves. Can you climb, honey?"

Annie laughed. "You betcha." Stepping off the ladder into the tree, the saw dangling from a hook on her belt, she moved through the tree with grace and ease. She paused briefly to get the can of paint and hook it to her waist along with the saw. She didn't seem to care that some paint was getting on her Levi's. Corban worked below, glancing up at her. She was like a kid at a picnic.

"Heads up!" Annie called as another branch took flight.

As the old woman tutored her minions, the tree took shape. It began to open from within, light filtering through the green leaves and making the edges shine gold. The branches no longer spread in all directions, unwieldy and out of control, but were contained, rounded upward, flat on top like a wineglass.

"Now," Mrs. Reinhardt said with a sigh of satisfaction, "there she is. That looks just right."

Annie came down from the ladder. She stepped back almost to the gate, where her grandmother stood, and looked up. The smile the old woman wore was childlike in its pleasure.

"The tree will bear fruit this year," Mrs. Reinhardt said. "Lots of it."

Corban frowned. "I'd think with fewer branches, you'd get less fruit."