"Matthews, what is it? What's eating at you today?"

"Nothing, sir." Dayne hated this, hated the way the director down to him. Everyone had an off day, didn't they? He at his watch and stifled a sigh.

"Right, go ahead and look at your watch. If you want to call it you've got another thing coming." The director paused 156 and his body relaxed some. "Look, Matthews, I don't know what's going on, but I know this. I've worked with you before and something's off." His voice came down a few notches. "Take two hours and meet back at the set. It'll be four o'clock then, and I plan to get this scene on the first run-through, okay?"

"Yes." Dayne breathed in long and slow through his nose. He found the corner of the familiar building and stared at it. "Can I leave the set?".

"Leave the city for all I care." The director brushed his hand through the air, still frustrated. "Just be back here at four o'clock, ready to shoot."

Dayne thought about finding Sarah and apologizing, but he changed his mind. He could do that later. He went to his trailer and pulled open a drawer of old clothes and hats-the things he wore when he didn't want anyone to know he was Dayne Matthews.

In spite of the early May sunshine, he slipped on a worn-looking gray hooded sweatshirt and a baseball cap. He slid the hood up over the cap, slipped on a pair of sunglasses, and stepped out of the trailer. Onlookers were gathered around the far edge of the roped-off area; he couldn't go that way. Instead he opened the door of the building they were using for the shoot, walked through it, and exited on the other side.

People milled about, wondering what was happening inside, why the streets were roped off. But no one recognized him as he made a sharp right turn and headed down the sidewalk.

This Luke Baxter thing had gone far enough.

If he didn't get his head back in the game, the tabloids would catch wind of the situation. He could just see it: "'Dayne Matthews Falling Apart.' Sources say America's hottest actor may be on the ropes .... "

He worked his jaw one way and then the other. His career was everything to him.

After his parents died, he'd gone to an audition scheduled through the UCLA drama department, and that 157 kingsbury smalley afternoon he'd taken a call from Jerry Lituzza, one of the top talent agents in Hollywood.

Jerry had been at the audition, scouting talent for bigger projects. At their first meeting Jerry promised Dayne the moon: an ever-increasing presence in the industry, a fan base that would grow with each movie, bigger and bigger parts, and one day the top draw for a Hollywood actor.

Jerry hadn't been wrong about any of it.

Yes, there were times when Dayne ran a little wild. Hollywood was a playground and he was a kid who never wanted to leave. But he remembered his parents'

values, the principles they died for, and he never let his life get too out of control.

No matter how many young actresses came into his life, not one of them was as important as his career. Without his acting, he was nothing. A lonely man with no parents, no siblings, no family.

He, would find Luke Baxter, prove to himself that the picture didn't look familiar in the least, and be on his way. He simply couldn't afford the distraction, whatever was causing it. He kept his head low, his feet mov, ing at a good pace. Dressed like this, even the paparazzi wouldn't recognize him. He looked up, but only long enough to make sure he was headed in the right direction. Yes, he'd take care of this strange distraction and ben get back to the set, where he'd show the director and the Lmeramen and Sarah Whitley exactly what type of professional really was. He kept moving. After several minutes, he saw he was at the right place. Then ducked inside and slouched to the bank of elevators.

A heavyset woman was standing waiting. there, She looked at him and then took a step closer. "Hey, aren't you Dayne Matthews?"

, quick glance around the lobby told Dayne he had nothing to worry about. She was the only other person in sight, and she couldn't have a camera. She looked nothing like a photo hound.

158.

"Yes." He gave her a quick smile, but kept his face down, the hood still up over his cap. "That's me."

The woman gasped out loud and did a little scream. She covered her mouth with her hands. "Oh... my goodness ... the girls at the office aren't going to believe this." She began rooting through her purse. She found a piece of paper and pulled it out just as the elevator opened up. "Can I get your autograph, please Mr. Matthews?" She rolled her eyes, shaking as they boarded the elevator.

"The girls won't believe this."

She handed him the paper and dug around in her purse again for a pen. As they rode up he gave her his autograph, grateful no one had heard her. "There you go." He handed the items back to her.

Before the door opened she cocked her head. "You know what always surprises me?"

She studied his sweatshirt and hat, his worn jeans. "How raggedy you stars always look." She reached out and took hold of his chin. Her accent was heavy New York. "With a face like that? The last thing I'd do is hide it."

The woman was still talking at him, still giving her opinion of his wardrobe, when he stepped off the elevator. The entire floor was taken up by Morris and McKenzie. Dayne was relieved when the elevator doors shut and he could no longer hear the woman's chatter. The woman didn't get it. He wore the old hats and clothes to avoid people like her.

He removed his hood and hat and smiled at the receptionist. "I need to see Luke Baxter. Is he working today?"

The young man behind the desk was flustered but professional. He checked a board and shook his head. "He's already gone home for the day."

Disappointment rocked Dayne, and he glanced around the office until an idea hit him. "I need to leave him a note." Dayne took a few steps around the reception desk and pointed down the hallway. "I know where his office is. I'll just go on down there myself and leave the message on his desk, okay?"

proud "By all means, Mr. Matthews." The receptionist looked 159 of himself. He had granted access to the great Dayne Matthews. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Dayne stopped and thought. "Yes. Could you get me a bottle of water? I'll pick it up on the way out."

For reasons Dayne couldn't fathom, as he headed to Luke Baxter's office his heart beat hard against the inside of his chest. he doing, anyway? His director had called a two-hour because he couldn't concentrate through a single action and now he was strolling through his lawyers' offices for a clerk he'd met just one time.

Dayne pushed the thoughts from his head. The mission was perfectly sane. He needed to see the picture, needed to know if it was his imagination or if he'd seen something strangely familiar Eyes were on him; eyes were always on him. Dayne didn't care. He kept a steady pace as he found Luke's office and stepped inside. He shut the door behind him and turned to the photo-His eyes found it immediately: the old picture of a young Luke Baxter's parents, taken the year they'd first met. that what Luke had said?

Dayne moved to the edge of the desk, picked up the five-by-seven photograph and studied it. The feelings that made their through him were the same as last time.

A familiarity with especially. Something that defied both logic and ex-Had he seen her picture somewhere? met her some-when he was a kid? He stared at the woman, her dark and delicate features. Had she been a missionary with his A memory came to him, distant and fuzzy. Somewhere in his he had, indeed, seen a picture of the woman. The very same But where.., and why?

He lowered the photo just enough to see the other pictures on pictures he hadn't noticed the first time. There was shot of Luke and his wife and baby, of course, but there was must're been his sib 160.

lings back when Luke was a teenager. His parents were at the center of the photo. Dayne couldn't decide which face was more haunting. Luke's mother's...

Or Luke's.

It hit him all at once why the photos had caught his attention, why the images had stayed with him since the last time he was in Manhattan.. Luke Baxter was the mirror image of Dayne, a younger version whose teenage photograph looked exactly the way he himself had looked as a boy at boarding school in the mission field.

No wonder the woman looked familiar. Her face was Luke's face.

And Luke's face was his own.

The resemblance was strange, really. Far beyond the general way that people might look alike. Dayne lowered himself into the chair, the same one he'd sat in the last time he was in this office. Where had he put the box of pictures his parents left him? That whole awful summer was still a blur, even seventeen years later.

One day he'd been in algebra class, watching the minutes tick by at his boarding school in Southeast Asia, and the next he'd been in the headmaster's office, hearing the news about his parents: Bad weather over the jungle, engine failure, no sign of the plane. Wreckage found, but no survivors.

His parents had never spent enough time with him, preferring the mission field over being with him. But they loved him. They definitely loved him. And when they died, whole years of Dayne's life seemed to die along with them. Memories of the months and years after their deaths were almost dreamlike, with little substance or framework to remember them by.

He'd been given several boxes of their belongings; he remembered that much.

Material goods were never something his parents cared much for, but still they'd kept the boxes in a storage unit. Important papers, keepsakes, and photographs.

An official from the missions board had put his name on the storage unit.

161.

The cost came out of his savings account automatically every month, and occasionally he remembered the things that were locked away.

It still felt like yesterday, the news about the crash, the reality that he was alone in the world. He'd gotten accepted to UCLA on a hardship vote, and immediately he'd fallen into drama. Dayne loved it because onstage he could express the emotions he kept bottled up; he could be angry and sad and passionate, and all anyone ever did was clap for him.

One thing led to the next and in no time he was busy making movies. The storage unit full of his parents' things was safe; it would be there if he ever needed a reminder of them. But never had he simply taken the time to go through it all.

Until now.

Now he wanted to sort through every last picture until he found the one he was thinking of. It was a picture of a woman by herself; Dayne was almost certain.

He was maybe six or seven the last time he saw it, and the memory of it had all but faded from his mind. But something about the picture had been important to him. Even back then.

Maybe the woman had been related to his parents. The resemblance was certainly strong enough.

Dayne looked at the clOck on Luke's desk and shot to his feet. He had thirty minutes to be back on the set, ready to film. He set the photograph back on Luke's desk. There. He'd satisfied his interest; he could put the image out of his mind now. At least until he found time to visit the old unit and find the he to storage picture he was sure would be there.

Eel,. He was almost ready to turn around when he did something d never done before. Glancing once over his shoulder, he took the picture of Luke's parents and slid it beneath his jacket. Then he rearranged the photos on the desk so the empty spot wasn't so obvious, and he quickly left the room.

the The photo frame jabbed into ribs, but he pressed his arm hi,s l en harder against it. One day he d bring it back, after he had a 162 chance to compare it to whatever lay in storage. Luke would never know it was gone, or if he did, he'd figurehe must've misplaced it. No one would ever suspect that Dayne Matthews "borrowed" it for a while.

On his way out, the receptionist called after him. "Wait..." Dayne's heart raced faster than before. He'd been caught! They probably had cameras in every office.

He stopped, swallowed hard, and turned around. "Yes?"

"You forgot your water." The man held up a small bottle and smiled.

"Oh." Dayne willed himself to look at ease. Happy and relaxed. "Thanks anyway. I have to get back to the set."

163.

L1 N O'CLOCK EACH MORNING was the worst and the hour of the day for John Baxter.

Worst because that was when he took a break from his pa-and met Elizabeth in the chemotherapy lab. Watching the nnect her from the empty bag of poison hanging head was like somehow being a party to her torture.

But once he wheeled her out of the unit and down the corri-away from the hospital and out to their car, the hour be-almost magical. The nausea was different for. every cancer , and with Elizabeth it didn't hit her right away.

Her sick:hours would come later in the afternoon.

from eleven to noon, she would hold his hand and believe with him that everything was going to work out. It was the she would share her heart with him, the hour when him her fears and dreams and deepest desires about the long they had together.

it it was Monday, the middle of May now, the last week of treatment, and when John arrived at the chemo lab he was ' what he saw. She'd gotten worse over the weeksmany 164.

REUNION.

one could see that. Dr. Steinman had called him a few weeks earlier and hinted that he was afraid the new round of tests weren't going to be good.

Still, not until that moment did John see Elizabeth for what she had become.

Whereas for most of her weeks of treatment she had sat in a chair and read a magazine, now she was stretched out on a table. Her frame was painfully thin, and when she recognized him standing there, she barely had the strength to smile.

The tech showed up, his voice pleasant. "Looks like we're all done for another day, Mrs. Baxter."

Elizabeth had a Pic-Line in her arm, a permanent opening to her vein. That way the technician didn't have to" start a fresh intravenous line every time he transferred a bag of the toxic yellowish substance into her body. The tech unhooked the bag line from the tubing in her arm.

John stepped up and put his hand on her shoulder. "She... she doesn't look good.

Did something go wrong today?"

"No. Her condition is fairly normal for someone at the end of a chemo run." A shadow passed Over the tech's eyes, almost as if there was something he wasn't saying.

Not that he could hide much from John. He didn't need a chemo tech to tell him his wife wasn't doing well.

When Elizabeth rolled onto her back, panic punched John in the gut. She looked paler than before, almost gray. He leaned over her and searched her eyes.

"What's wrong, honey? You don't look good."

A long sigh left her lips and she looked at him a long time. "I'm fine, John."

She ran her tongue over her lips. 'I wanna go home."

John wanted to carry her in his arms, run as fast and far away from the hospital and the chemo lab and the sad-faced technician as possible. Instead he brushed his fingers across her forehead. "Okay. I'll get the chair."

The tech offered to help transfer her from the table to the wheelchair, but John politely brushed him off. "I've got it." He 165 lifted her, wincing as he felt her ribs and hipbones sticking out.

He set her into the chair and didn't say another word to her until was in the car.

"Maybe you're hungry." He slid behind the wheel and put his seat belt on. "Did you get breakfast this morning?"

"Yes, John." She pressed herself into the seat and stared out the window. "I told you, I'm fine."

But she wasn't fine; she couldn't fool him. He'd seen cancer patients who looked like Elizabeth before. They had a name for the way she looked: endstage. John waited a minute before the car. He wasn't sure what to do, where to go. He wanted to race her back into the hospital and scream at some-demand that Dr. Steinman or one of the other cancer spedo something. How was he supposed to casually drive : when his wife was dying right beside him?

"Go, John." She turned to him and the corners of her lips "I know what you're thinking. There's nothing you or else can do." She stopped, exhausted from that small bit conversation. "Please, John. Take me home."

John clenched his jaw and started the car. "I can't hide any-from you, can I?"

She managed a small laugh.

said little on the way home. John thought about calling Steinman and ordering the tests immediately. They had to why she looked this way, why her color was gone and the ; were falling off like autumn leaves.

But Elizabeth wouldn't let him. He held her hand as they the stairs, and when she stopped to catch her breath, i swept her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way. 'How chivalrous, John." Her smile was weaker than before.

as he laid her in bed. "You haven't carried me into r bedroom in years." John didn't laugh. "I should've done it more often." He pulled a chair next to the bed and studied her, searching 166 REUNION.

sign-any sign-that she was turning a corner, gaining ground on the enemy inside her.

There was none.

"When do I see Dr. Steinman again?"