He took The Washington Post from the pile of daily mail and felt an instant comfort. The Post was a relic of his life before Mount Court.

It represented a world that valued Noah and awaited his return.

Whether he chose to return to it was another matter, but the choice was his, and in the meantime the knowledge that he was appreciated somewhere was a solace.

He headed for the kitchen, intent on reading the paper at the round table in the glassed-in breakfast nook. The sun had fallen behind the trees. Dusk was approaching. He flipped the switch to illuminate the lamp that hung over the table. When nothing happened, he jiggled the switch, and when nothing happened still, he swore.

He dropped the paper on the table, unscrewed the bulb from the lamp, tossed it into the wastebasket, and took a new one from the storage closet in the back hall. The lamp remained dark when he flipped the switch, so he removed the bulb and tried another.

This time when he tried the light, fireworks flew from the switch on the wall with such force that he jerked back. He swore again and louder, then stood with his hands on his hips, his heart banging an unhappy message against his ribs, and his head bowed in defeat. He knew enough about electrical systems to know that this particular light switch would have to be rewired. He wondered how many others were in like state.

He didn't understand how a house that was so beautiful on the outside could be so broken-down insideand, in his frustration, he wondered if there might be a broader message in that. He had come to Mount Court with the best of intentions. If they, too, blew up in his face, he didn't know what he would do.

Hating decrepit things, detesting snotty little rich kids, and, mostly, despising the thought of failure, he grabbed his car keys and made for the garage. Soon after, he was in his Explorer, winding over the Mount Court roads, curving around the main drive toward the wrought-iron archway. He kept his eyes straight ahead and his foot on the gas, and didn't let up for a minute until the image of Mount Court, as seen through a rear window dotted with decals from another life, was a memory.

"She's been dead more'n a week now. So how's it going?"

The question came from Charlie Grace. As one or another of Peter's three older brothers often did, he had slid into Peter's booth at the Tavern uninvited. Normally Peter didn't mind. His brothers had made so much less of their lives than Peter had that letting them sit with him was an act of charity. But Peter was tired. He had just ended another long day filled with questions about Mara from parents of her patients.

"It's going fine," he told Charlie, but he didn't gesture the waitressBeth was on that nizhtfor a beer for Charlie, as he usually, benevolently, did. He was in no mood to encourage his brother to stay.

He needed time alone before Lacey arrived.

"She was a strange one," Charlie mused. "She could be a class-A bitchJamie Cox is the first one to say thatbut her patients loved her. My kids think she's the greatest." He gestured Beth for a beer.

Peter wished he hadn't. More than that, he wished Charlie wouldn't put him down. "They think Mara's the greatest simply because I precluded myself from being their doctor. If I hadn't, they'd think I was the greatest."

"They still think you're the greatest," Charlie said with a sincerity that made Peter feel like a heel, "but she was a woman, and a woman has something else going for her. She was like a second mother to the kids. She had half the men in town in love with her, too."

"If you're going to tell me about Spud Harvey, save your breath.

That's old news."

"Spud? Him, too? I was thinking about Jackie Kagen, and Moose LeMieux, and Butchie Lombard.

She dated them all."

"Once or twice, each one, that's all," Peter specified. "You make her sound loose, but she wasn't. She was decent when it came to men.

She never led one on. She never promised more than she was willing to give."

"Hey," Charlie said, raising a pacifying hand, "I'm not accusing her of anything.

Besides, Norman agrees. She didn't have any enemies. He told me so at the doughnut shop this morning. He checked it out." He grinned an over-the-hill football hero's grin at Beth.

"Thanks, doll."

Peter felt an uncertain alarm, though he was careful not to let it show. "What do you mean, Norman checked it out?" he asked with commendable nonchalance.

"Checked out her love life. Talked to the guys she dated. Talked to the guys she didn't date but who wanted to date her. He didn't talk to you?"

"I'm her partner. I didn't date her."

"Come on, Pete," Charlie chided in a lowered voice, "I saw you two out on the old covered bridge at dawn more than once."

"We're both camera nuts. We used to photograph it."

"At dawn?" he asked skeptically.

"Pictures are always more interesting when the lighting is oblique.

Dawn and sunset are the best Trust me. Mara and I didn't date. So Norman had no cause to talk with me. He must have annoyed the others but good."

"Nah. They had nothing to hide. They knew Norman was just doin' his job. Poor guy. I half hoped for him that he'd come up with something exciting."

"Like what?" Peter asked against the rim of his beer.

"Like Mara had something kinky going on with someone in town. Like that person knocked her out and left her in the car with the engine running."

Peter choked. He coughed, cleared his throat, then shook his head.

"Coroner ruled that out.

There wasn't a single bruise on her body."

"I know that, Pete, but where's your imagination?"

"I'm a doctor. I'm not into imagining ugly manners Charlie sighed.

"All I'm saying is that Norman could have used the excitement. Hell, we all could have used it. This town is pretty quiet." He looked up.

"Hey, Donny. Go on back.

I'll be along."

Donny swatted Peter's shoulder as he passed Peter raised a hand in greeting.

Charlie leaned forward. So, tell me the truth. I swear I won't tell anyone. Was she good?"

"Who?"

"It's me. Charlie. I'm your big brother."

"Was who good?"

Charlie sat back. "Okay. I can play the game.

But I have to warn you that when old Henry Mills gets a couple under his belt, which is nearly every night right over on that barstool, he starts to talk. He says he used to drink with her and that when she was half-crocked she'd be talking about you. He says if there was any man in this town she loved, it was you."