"Here," Hud said, pulling off his denim jacket. Before she could protest, he slipped it around her shoulders.

She could feel the warmth from the fleece lining seep into her wet flannel shirt. "I'm fine. I don't-"

"Ah, pipe down," he said. "It's just an excuse to see you again."

She stared at him a moment, feeling vulnerable. But also, she had to admit, relieved. That it was over. That she'd survived. That she maybe had a shot at having a life.

"Thanks," she said finally.

"Go home, Melina Jane LeBlanc," he replied. "Get in your pj's and make yourself a cup of tea. Sometimes, as my own dear grand-mere used to say, that's just all a body can do."

"Yes," she said.

On the drive back, she tried to put her thoughts on hold. There was just too much to comprehend, too much she'd have to think about later. Right now it seemed imperative that she do exactly as Hud said: go home, get in her pajamas and make a cup of tea. Home. Yes, that's what it was, what this place finally was: home. She knew she'd need to call Love, that Rett would have told her everything and that she was likely worried sick. Mel was already going over the conversation in her head, the explanation, the explanation of the explanation. It was time to tell Love everything. She should have done it long ago.

The house was dark and cold when she walked in. She turned on the hall light and the heater, then walked into the living room. She sat down on the sofa that she'd bought for fifty bucks at the Salvation Army store in San Celina. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, shadowing the room. Her clothes were only damp now; the warmth of the car heater dried them as she drove home.

She pulled the denim jacket closer around her, its warmth coming from her own body heat now. But the scent of Hud was still strong: a sharp, peppery male scent. A sob gripped her throat, trying to escape. It reminded her of all the men she'd ever worked with, the locker rooms where they stored their gear, the scent of their testosterone, their sweat, their fear and their joy. The scent of her old life, the one that would never exist again.

But it had been replaced with the scents of leather and saddle soap, alfalfa and the salty-sweet smell of the sea. Not a bad trade. But she missed her old life. Oh, how she missed it.

"Sean," she whispered, pulling the jacket closer around her, turning her nose into the fleece collar, inhaling the scent of a man she barely knew, remembering another man she thought she'd known, but who had really been a stranger.

"Sean," she cried, louder this time. Her voice sounded harsh in the empty room. The third time she wailed his name. "Seaaan." She sank to the floor where she rocked back and forth, the stranger's jacket pulled tight around her shoulders. She rocked and rocked, not crying, not thinking, just pretending the jacket was her lover's arms. She sat on the cold, cold floor, rocking and pretending, rocking and pretending, until long after the shivering stopped.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

Love Mercy Mel, I'm still worried. Call me."

It was the sixth voice message Love had left on her friend's cell phone since she'd picked Rett up at the feed store five hours ago. It was past ten p.m., and the only thing that kept Love from calling the police was that Rett told her that Hud said he knew where Mel was going by the clue she left written on the counter. Besides, what could Love actually report? That a woman, a former cop, no less, had left under her own volition with some man that Love's granddaughter thought looked kind of creepy. Oh, and that Mel seemed a little nervous, even though the man didn't utter one threatening word. Love could almost hear the police dispatcher's annoyed response: And what, ma'am, do you exactly want the police to do?

Mel finally called her at ten thirty.

"I've been worried sick," Love said, trying to keep her voice neutral. She wished Mel was her daughter so she could really let go and give her what for. But that was something a person could only get away with if there was shared blood or, at the very least, a more intimate relationship than what they had.

"I would have called you earlier, but . . ." Mel's voice faded away, sounding as tired as if she'd run a marathon.

"You should have," Love snapped, deciding, what the heck, Mel was like her daughter. All this drama was starting to get on her nerves. "You shouldn't do things like that, take off with whoever this flaky guy was, and not let someone know where you're going to be. People care about you. I care about you. You could have been hurt . . . or . . ." Her voice faltered.

"I'm sorry," Mel said. "Hud caught up with me. I wasn't alone. Rett did the right thing by showing him what I'd written on the counter. Tell her thanks. Everything's fine."

Love swallowed hard, trying to dislodge an imaginary meat chunk stuck in her throat. "What was this all about? Who was this man? Rett said he looked like a hit man."

Mel's laugh sounded forced. "He's a cop. The older brother of a . . . a friend of mine. I have some stuff to tell you. It's about . . . my life before I came here. Can we talk tomorrow?"

Still irritated, Love almost demanded the whole story right then, but she'd learned from experience that difficult subjects really were best discussed when everyone was rested. It was late. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

"Of course," she said, her voice short. "Call me tomorrow. We can meet at Cy's bench."

Mel's relieved sigh was audible over the phone. "That would be good. I go there sometimes when I need to . . . think and stuff."

Love's anger subsided. "Me too."

"Is Rett okay?"

Love looked over at her granddaughter, who was giving Ace a neck ma.s.sage. His dark eyes were slits of pleasure. "Yes. She and the boy have come to an agreement. She's giving him his banjo back tomorrow."

"Yeah, she told me. I told her the sooner she did that, the quicker she could get on with her life."

"I agree. Sleep well."

Mel paused, as if she was considering Love's words. "You know, I think I will."

"What's the four-one-one on the mafia hit man?" Rett asked when Love hung up.

"Don't know yet." Love leaned against the refrigerator, her arms crossed over her chest. "Mel will fill me in tomorrow."

Rett stood up and grabbed Ace's leash from the hook. "I'll take the Flying Ace Ball for his last walk."

"Thanks," Love said, her mind trying not to dwell on what Mel would reveal tomorrow. Had she been a drug addict? An alcoholic? Had she killed someone? Was that why she was no longer a police officer? There were so many things it could be. An undercurrent of tragedy had always hovered around Mel. Magnolia and Love had pondered it many times.

"I bet she's got herself some kind of sad story," Magnolia said once.

"Doesn't everyone?" Love had answered, her mind drifting to the question, How would a person reveal someone's life story in a single portrait? The best photographers-like Judith Joy Ross-could reveal a person's backstory and also give a hint about what might come to be in her subject's life. Her portraits of the Hazelton public school kids were breathtaking in their simplicity and vulnerability. Every time Love looked at them, she felt she could see the future of each child. She'd always wondered if she would be able to discern Mel's backstory if she took her portrait. She had not yet had the nerve to ask her to pose.

Love had always suspected that Cy knew much more than she did about Mel's life before Morro Bay, but even he admitted to Love once that Mel had a sh.e.l.l like a Brazil nut: thick, jagged and hard to crack. Even as he neared the end of his life, he never revealed whatever he knew about Mel to Love, something she admired in him even as it frustrated her. Cy's word was something he'd always taken very seriously.

She walked into the living room to wait for Rett so she could lock the door behind her. The battered banjo case sat propped against the sofa. Rett had brought it back with her when Love picked her up at the feed store. Love hesitated, then laid the case flat and undid the clasps. The banjo that had started this whole adventure lay nestled inside its gray fuzzy coc.o.o.n, not one bit aware of the trouble it had caused.

She touched the strings gently. When she pulled her hand back, the slight give from her fingers caused a tiny hum. What did Rett sound like playing this instrument? Did she have talent or only wished she did? The occasional episodes of reality talent shows that Love had seen taught her that a person didn't always recognize the difference between wanting a talent and having a talent. The thing that wrenched Love's heart watching those shows was how surprised the untalented people where when they were told by the judges to do the world a favor and find another way to express themselves. It was obvious on the contestants' faces that they truly didn't realize that they didn't have something extraordinary to share. And, she wondered, what if, by pursing a talent they didn't have, they were neglecting one they did possess? How many aspiring singers might actually be extraordinary painters or dog trainers or gardeners or children's game inventors, but they'd never know it, because they continued seeking something they thought they wanted? Honestly, wasn't the invention of Monopoly as important a gift to the world as the songs of Elton John or Willie Nelson? A lot of families would never even talk to each other if it hadn't been for Monopoly.

Love always wondered what happened to those disappointed people who didn't have a chance at making the final fifty or ten or first in those talent shows. What did they go home to? What were their stories? Those were the photos she wanted to take.

She picked up her Nikon. She had ten shots left on this roll of black-and-white film. Holding her breath, she carefully lifted the banjo from the case and set it on the sofa. She took shots of it from all angles, capturing its glossy wood and the shadows the yellow lamplight made on its round body. Banjos were such funny-looking instruments, like a pear-shaped figure gone horribly wrong. She knew enough about music to understand that they were rarely the center of attention in a band, almost always were there to support the other instruments and the main event, the singer. Still, she'd heard some banjo solos in her life that amazed her. She smiled to herself. And they certainly got more respect than a ba.s.s fiddle.

There was a full moon tonight, and she would have liked to take it outside and photograph it in that interesting light, but she didn't want to risk harming something so valuable. Maybe before Rett returned it to Dale, she could get a few shots of it outside. For now, these inside shots would have to do.

Love knew Rett would be sad tomorrow. But what her granddaughter didn't know was that it would likely be one of the easier sad moments of her life. It would feel huge while it was happening, she would think her heart was breaking, but time would give her perspective. Maybe Love would give her one of these banjo photos then, and maybe Rett would laugh, recalling how important she thought this shallow young man was.

Love placed the instrument back in the case and sat down on the sofa. She leaned her head back, so weary she felt like she could sleep for days. Sometimes it overwhelmed her, all this sadness, when she studied photos from places around the world where poverty and war and the cruelty that humans manage to perpetrate upon each other is revealed, photos of tornadoes and tsunamis and floods. The wreckage of so many lives. She wondered where the G.o.d her mother trusted so faithfully was in all this. At times, Love despised herself for doubting. Other times, she just felt tired and wished G.o.d would give the world a break and erase all doubt. Just write across a big chalkboard in the sky who he was and what he wanted everyone to do. She smiled to herself. She should share that with Rocky. He loved stuff like that. He'd get a whole month of Sunday sermons out of that image.

Her mind drifted to the subject of gifts, the subject she'd suggested to Clint for February's issue. Appropriate for Valentine's Day, but her mind wasn't considering sentimental photographs of lacy hearts and chocolate candy or photos of couples walking on the beach. For some reason, her mind floated back to the first days after Tommy was killed, when for the first time since they'd known each other, she and Cy seemed unable to talk. Both of them were adrift in their own personal grief, reliving their moments with Tommy, wondering if there would ever be an end to the long bridge they were being forced to cross.

A sudden memory caused her to sit forward and move the wooden bowl filled with magazines from her coffee table trunk. Down at the bottom of tissue-wrapped family heirlooms of pickle dishes, embroidered pillowcases, her father's folded coffin flag, her great-grandmother's silver-plated cake server, next to her mother's letters was a large envelope of photos that had rested there for fourteen years. She pulled out the manila envelope and hesitated. She'd had the photos developed, then slipped them unseen into this envelope, taping it shut with brown packing tape.

Why now? Why would it occur to her now to search for the photos she'd taken while she walked up and down Morro Bay mourning her lost son? She really should have just thrown them out. Like the fish that Cy told her he caught when he took the Love Mercy out and floated in the open ocean. He'd fight to bring the fish in, he told her. The harder the fight, the better he felt. Once he won, he'd toss it back in without a glance. Over and over, he fought to capture a fish, then throw it back. At some point, he told Love, he just started feeling better. After that, he never fished again. Didn't have the heart for it.

While he fished, Love walked. She'd walked and taken roll after roll of black-and-white photos. Not color, because at the time, color seemed an emotional extravagance she couldn't bear. Mile after mile she'd walked on the beach or on the three-mile white sand spit that enclosed Morro Bay, taking photos of birds. Later, the metaphor seemed painfully clear to her, but at the time she just felt drawn to photograph birds. She concentrated on f-stops and lighting, framing and detail. The mechanics of photography took over, relieving her from thinking too deeply about the life that stretched out in front of her and Cy like a long, dark, treeless highway.

She carefully tore away the tape, curling at the edges after all these years, and opened the envelope, expecting somehow the brackish, salty scent of the ocean to rise up to greet her. Instead, there was only the smell of old paper. The photos fattened the bottom of the envelope, and she pulled the first one out. She stared at the picture of the one-legged seagull perched confidently on a rock. A memory hit her like an electric shock. She dumped the photos out on the floor, sifting through them until she found what she was seeking. Two other photos. Two other seagulls. Each of them one-legged. She remembered that day like it was last week. What were the chances of her photographing three different seagulls in one day, each with only one leg?

The second gull she'd caught in flight at just the right angle so that its footless stump was outlined against a bright afternoon sky. The other stood next to a discarded McDonald's bag, precariously balanced on one leg, its head half hidden, searching for leftovers. She laid all three photos on the closed trunk lid, staring at them. Two of the seagulls-the one flying and the McDonald's bird-were busy doing what seagulls do: looking for food. The third one, the one posed on the rock, stared directly into the camera's lens, looking-if a seagull could-defiant and strong and, it seemed to her, confident.

She remembered something else. The gulls had caused her to recall a Bible verse that she'd memorized as a child. It was a practice that Mama encouraged, telling her and DJ they'd be grateful someday that she made them do so, that memorizing G.o.d's words was like saving quarters for a rainy day.

Love closed her eyes and whispered out loud, "Purify me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Make me hear joy and gladness; that the bones which Thou hast broken may rejoice."

Psalm 51. Was it verse eight? Nine? She didn't remember exactly. But she did remember that at the time, the verse that the injured gulls flushed from her memory had made her angry. Had G.o.d been trying to communicate with her? If so, it was a message she had refused to accept. She didn't want to have broken bones, and she certainly didn't want to rejoice. The whole idea of being happy about affliction seemed sick and horrible and wrong. She just wanted her son back.

Love stared at the photos, wondering what she was supposed to learn from them after all these years. Maybe she'd ask Clint to do something a little different and print three photos. Three one-legged gulls. Gulls that were going on with their gull business despite their broken bones. Because that's what you do. You go on. You put one foot in front of the other. You trust that there's a reason, even if you don't get it. You trust there is someone in control. You go on because the only other choice is to give up, to believe that there was no reason at all that bad things happened. That seemed the most hopeless thing of all to believe. Maybe that was the gift right there.

That would be her caption, her mini essay: "Let the bones which Thou hast broken rejoice." Let people stew on that one. If they asked her what she meant, she could honestly say, I'm not really sure. Could you tell me?

By the time Rett came back from walking Ace, Love had scooped up all the photos and put them back in the envelope. Except the three of the one-legged gulls. She left those on the top of the trunk to take to Clint.

"What're those?" Rett asked. She picked up the one of the flying gull. "Wow, cool."

"Just some photos I took a long time ago," Love said.

The next morning at seven a.m., Love was up before Rett. She heard Ace pawing behind Rett's closed door. He was used to taking his morning const.i.tutional right on time. Love opened her bedroom door, and he bolted out, scampering toward the back door.

Rett lifted her head slightly off the pillow. "Ace?"

"Go back to sleep," Love whispered. "I'll let him out."

"Okay," she said, her head dropping back down on the pillow with a thump. "Thanks."

About an hour later, Rett wandered into the kitchen, her hair pulled back in one long braid. She was dressed in jeans, sneakers and the Morro Bay sweatshirt Love had bought her.

"Yum," she said, sitting down, picking up one of the cinnamon rolls Love baked earlier. "I have a question."

"What?" Love asked, pouring her a cup of coffee.

"I'm supposed to meet Dale at the b.u.t.tercream at one to give him back the banjo. But I want to play it a little before I do. And, uh, just kinda be alone, you know? Maybe somewhere outside where, like, no one would be around. In nature or something?"

"Morro Rock," Love said. "It's a weekday and not tourist season. It would probably be you and a bunch of birds. Maybe an old guy or two taking photos, though they usually do that at sunup or sunset. There are always a few folks watching the peregrine falcons. You should be able to find a quiet spot."

"Can I walk there?"

"You could, but it'd be, as we say in Kentucky, a fur piece."

Her lips turned down slightly, a stubborn expression that Love was starting to recognize. "I can make it."

Love pulled a set of keys from the hook next to Ace's leash and tossed them on the table. "You can drive my Honda." She looked Rett in the eyes. "Providing you have a valid driver's license."

"I do," she said, standing up. "I can show-"

Love waved at her. "I believe you. Just turn left out of the driveway, then left again at the next street. That'll take you to the Embarcadero. Turn right on Embarcadero and follow it north. You'll see the road that leads out to the rock. It's a couple of miles."

"Wow, thanks. I'll be real careful. I promise."

Love smiled at her. "I know you will." Then she made a mental note to herself. Call insurance agent and have Rett put on my policy.

When Rett was halfway through the door, she turned around and asked, "You and Grandpa. How'd y'all meet?"

Her question caught Love by surprise. "He was visiting in Redwater with one of his friends from Fort Knox, Jim Sh.o.r.e, a boy who went to my church. They were on leave before going to Vietnam. We saw each other in the Redwater Drugstore. He was drinking a c.o.ke float. I was buying some nail polish."

"So his friend, the guy from your church, he introduced you?"

Love smiled. "No, actually, he wasn't there. Cy just started talking to me. Said he liked the color of red polish I was buying, that it was the color of Pacific sunsets where he grew up."

"Grandma! He so totally picked you up."

Love faked a grimace, then laughed. "Yes, I guess you could say he did. He asked for my phone number, and he called the next day. He wanted to go out that night, but I was already busy with the Vacation Bible School fund-raiser pie social. He came with Jim, whose father was our head deacon. Your crazy grandpa paid seventy-five dollars for my rhubarb pie."

"Wow, he must have really liked you. That's a lot of money for a pie."

"Especially in 1967. After church, he and I and Jim went to a road-house to hear a bluegra.s.s band play. But we told your great-grandma we went to a movie."

Rett leaned against the doorjamb and giggled. "You were a bad girl!"

Love winked at her. "Only semi-bad. I didn't touch a drop of liquor, and he had me home by ten p.m. Then he left, came back here to visit August and Polly, then he was off to Vietnam. I wrote him a letter every day for the whole year he was gone."

"No e-mail? Harsh."

Love started stacking the breakfast dishes. "Yes, hard as it is to imagine, we actually had to wait a little longer than thirty seconds for a reply."

Rett shook her head, the concept beyond her comprehension. "Then what?"

Love turned around and started rinsing plates. "When he returned, we got married. It was small, mostly my family. His parents couldn't leave the ranch to come out, so when we got to Morro Bay, we got married again by a minister here under the lightning tree. We used to celebrate two anniversaries every year."

"That's pretty cool."

Love opened the dishwasher door and started filling it with dishes. The dishwasher had seen more action in the last week than it had in a year. "I loved living here on the Central Coast. I mean, who wouldn't? It's beautiful. And Polly and August were wonderful to me from the start. Then your daddy was born, and everything was perfect." She didn't mention how glad-no, relieved-she was to leave Kentucky. Yes, she'd missed her mother like a physical pain, but she was glad to be thousands of miles from the earth that swallowed her beloved twin brother and rotted her daddy's pink lungs.

"Did you ever go back?"

"Once a year until Mama died when Tommy was five years old. Then, not as much. I have relatives there-Mama's two sisters and a pa.s.sel of cousins-but by the time Tommy was born, my home was here."

She was silent for a moment. "When my dad died, how did you . . ."