Her protest fizzled. His directness was sobering. "Yes," she said quietly and with some surprise. She hadn't pegged him for the insightful type. "How did you know?"

"I lost a close friend once, too. It's been six years, now."

"Was it suicide?"

"In a way. Gin was his thing. He swore he never had more than one or two with dinner and explained away the occasional late night drunk driving citation as an aberration. I took him at his word until the night he drove into the back of an eighteenwheeler at a toll booth, and then it was too late."

Paige couldn't deny the analogy to her situation with Mara. "I should have done more for her while she was alive. I should have been more aware of her state of mind. I should have been able to help. But I wasn't, and I didn't." Flexing her back, she braced her hands on the tired muscles above her waist and ran her eye up the winding staircase.

"This is all that's left. And I feel guilty about that, too. I promised I'd have the place painted and get a new screen for the door and replace one of the shutters upstairs. But if the family that's coming tomorrow loves the place and buys it, I won't have time."

"Use my kids."

She had no idea what he was talking about and said so with a look.

"Community service. It's my thing. They may kick and scream, but they'll have the place painted in a week."

She shook her head. "If they're going to paint any house, it should be one in lower Tucker. The people there could use the help.

Me, I can afford to pay. And I may have time.

Who knows, the people tomorrow may not be the right ones. The house may be on the market for months."

"I hope not, for your sake. You need closure."

It was another direct eye-to-eye statement, a succinct summation of the problem. "Closure," she said with a sigh. "Painful, but it needs doing. Like the oven." She gestured toward the kitchen. ill have to get back."

"So what can I do?"

"Nothing. Really."

"Please," he insisted, "I have to do something. It's either help you here, or drive around for another few hours. I can't go back.

Not yet."

Paige wondered why but didn't ask. She didn't feel strong enough to take on his woes. She had work to do, and the longer she lingered, the later it would be before she finished.

"Upstairs," she finally said with a wave toward the cleaning goods.

"There are four bedrooms. Two are empty. You can start with thosedust, vacuum do anything that might make them look more inviting.

The realtor suggested putting a small piece of furniture in each, but I can do that later. I'll be up to do the other bedrooms myself when I finish with the kitchen."

"Can't I help with that?"

She shook her head and set off down the hall feeling sadder than ever.

There was something about Noah's unexpected kindness that was touching.

It wrenched her at a time when she didn't want to be wrenched. She wanted to do the job she'd set out to do and go home.

So she finished the oven, scrubbed the stove top and the counters, then wiped out the refrigerator, which looked as forlorn as she felt with its single carton of milk, half loaf of bread, quarter stick of margarine, and gouged wedge of cheese. At first she left them there and mopped the floor. Then she returned, sniffed the milk, and, in a burst of furious action, dumped it into the sink, stuffed the bread, margarine, and cheese into the disposal, and ground it all up. They smelled of things gone bad. She was devastated.

Desperate for fresh air, she went through the bowed screen door to the back porch. She kneed the swing and watched it creak back and forth, but the knowledge of Mara's fondness for it brought her no solace. An empty swing was a desolate sight.

With a sound of despair, she left the porch and, by the frail light that filtered from the house, wandered into the yard. The birds were still for the night, leaving a hollowness in the air that the chirp of the crickets and the rustle of dying leaves in the breeze barely touched. It was a warm night, but she was chilled. Rubbing her arms, she walked farther into the dark.

At the spot where grass gave way to the woods, she sank to the ground.

The black of night matched the dark thoughts she held, enlarging them until they encompassed the whole of her future. The years lay before her, a continuation of the ones that had gone past, yet different.

More quiet and, like Mara, alone. Increasingly empty. Profoundly sad.

She heard his footsteps but didn't look up.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

ill needed air.

She heard him settle in the grass and wanted to protest. Noah Perrine, with his rules and regulations, wasn't the kind of person she was normally drawn to. But he was human and alive.

His presence made the night less ominous.

His voice came from that softer place. "Was she a childhood friend?"

"We met in college. Something clicked."

"Were you very much alike?" "In looks more than personality. She was more feisty than me. More intense. And selfless. Of all the things I remember about Mara, that's the best. She put most anyone else's welfare before her own. If the tables were turned and I was the one who had died, she'd probably be out there trying to memorialize my life. She wouldn't be sitting here brooding about her own future."

He pulled up a blade of grass and tossed it aside. "Reflection is inevitable, when a friend dies."

"Is self-pity?"

"Sometimes, when the reflection shows us things we don't like."

"But I like my life. It's a fine one. I'm doing worthwhile things."

He pulled up another blade of grass.

She heard herself say, aBut there's an emptiness that's been there since Mara died.

I'm busier than ever, especially now with Mara's little girl. Still, there are times when I feel I'm drowning in it, drousning in it, and I keep wondering whether this was what Mara was feeling when she drove into the garage that night."

She took a breath. When it came short and hard she took another.

He touched her neck.

al'm okay," she said, but she wasn't sure.