"Hunerds," he said, then, "More'n hunerds."

Paige pulled up a chair and sat close beside him. "She must have liked that. She must have felt wanted."

He frowned. "She wazzz . . . wazzz . . .

wanted."

"Loved, too?"

"Loved. Mmmm." He frowned again. "She said I ruined things."

"Ruined what?"

"Us. That I always found ways to wreck things." He looked up at her and added, "With women," in a knowing way before returning brooding eyes to the photo. "Said I din't think I was worthy of anything good Zzzz'at stupid?" he asked, looking up again, but before Paige had to answer, he reached for the Scotch.

She held the bottle. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

"Never enough when you're lone."

"You're not alone. You have friends all over town."

"But she's gone," he said, and suddenly his face crumpled. To Paige's horror, he began to cry.

She touched his shoulder. "Oh, Peter. I'm sorry I'm so sorry."

Love.

Tragically so.

"She'zzz the'best," he said between sobs.

"I know."

"An' I never told her. She killed herself cause she din't think anyone cared."

"That wasn't why. It was a combination of things" "I did it I did it."

Paige gripped his arm. "No, Peter. It wasn't you any more than it was me or Angie or Mara's family. We all thought she was tougher than she was, so we made mistakes with her, but it wasn't any one of those that sent her over the edge. It was lots of things, some of which we had absolutely no control over."

Peter was shaking his head.

More softly, Paige said, "We don't know that it was suicide." "I did it, me."

"It might have been pure exhaustion. Mara was always pushing herself.

This time she might have pushed too far."

When he reached for the Scotch this time, she moved both bottles to the credenza behind the desk.

"I need it," he whined, then added, "I don' feel so good," just as he turned an ominous shade of green.

Paige got him to the bathroom just in time.

After he had lost the contents of his stomach, she helped him clean up.

Then she walked him to the kitchen, sat him on a chair, and made a pot of coffee, caffeinated and strong, which she proceeded to force into him until he was marginally sobered.

"Better?" she asked finally.

He had his head in his palms. His hair was sticking out every which way. "Hardly," he grumbled. "I can think now." He was silent for another little while, then, "Did I say much?" uNah.ss "No damning confessions?"

She smiled and shook her head. There seemed no point in kicking the man when he was down.

"Just that you did like Mara, and that you miss her, which makes me feel a little more normal. I think about her so much."

"That's your own fault," he grunted. "You're stalling on hiring another doctor."

"No, I put an ad in the journals, but they don't come out for another week. We'll get someone." aAnd you wake up and see her little girl every day."

"But I like that."

"She reminds you of Mara."

"She helps me over the hump. By the time they find an adoptive family for her, I'll be better." She was in the process of pouring him a final cup of coffee when she thought of the bottles of Scotch that should, under no conditions, be found.

"Drink up. I'll be right back."

She returned to his office and was taking the bottles by the neck when something on the credenza caught her eye. It was a letter, handwritten on fine pink vellum that had a familiar scent to it. When she tried to place it, she conjured up a picture of Mount Court.

Uneasy, she raised the letter. Center top was an embossed monogram so swirly it was indecipherable. The handwriting was not, though. It was neat and pretty, the kind of script that lacked the character of maturity.

"Dear Dr. Grace," she read, I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry if I put you in an uncomfortable position at the park. I only wanted to be with you. It seemed like I'd been waiting forever for you to see me like that. I'm not the little girl I was when I first came to Tucker. I'm grown up. You know that now. I'm sure that the pictures you took will be awesome.

Paige didn't read further. Furious, she stalked back to the kitchen and tossed the letter onto the table before Peter.

"What's this?" she demanded.

He frowned, studied the paper, mumbled, "A letter from Julie Engel."

"Obviously. But what does it mean?"

He held his head. "Don't shout."

"You said you didn't have a problem," she shouted.

He winced. "I don't."

"Then why is Julie Engel sending you scented letters?"