"Can't?"

"I'm tied up at the barn," he quickly added. "Besides, I wouldn't be a very good guide. I'll check with Frank."

Nora took in his nervous pacing. "No problem," she said. "I'll manage."

C.W. turned and looked out the window. Then, taking a final gulp of his coffee, he walked over to the sink, rinsed his cup, and set it beside an already rinsed and neatly stacked cup, bowl, plate, and spoon.

Nora watched him with disbelief. "Are you always this neat?"

"I like order. And it would be rude of me to abuse your hospitality."

"Why, thank you." An image of Mike's dishes, clothes, and papers scattered across the house flashed through her mind. He had always a.s.sumed someone-she-would pick up after him. "It's appreciated."

She tilted her head and sipped her coffee while she furtively studied him. He appeared to be a laborer: his clothes were stained by oil and iodine, his work boots were worn and muddy, and his hands were sc.r.a.ped. Both his hair and skin were a tawny gold, dried and colored by the elements. Yet beneath his weathered exterior Nora saw the spirit of a gentleman. Somebody had taught him manners.

"I understand you worked on some horse farm out east."

He swung his head around. "Where'd you hear that?"

"From Seth, of course."

The threat in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come. "That's right," he replied in a friendlier tone. "A private estate for leisure farmers." He tucked the tips of his long fingers into his waistband. "Cattle, sheep, horses, a little of this and that just for their private pleasure or consumption. Not commercial, like this."

Nora knew the kind of place he meant, and the kind of wealth it required. "I see."

C.W. was relieved she let it drop. Old Abe, the manager of his family estate in New Jersey, was a trusted friend of his, and his father before him. He'd finagled references for Seth. Abe would keep his mouth shut about his whereabouts, C.W. was sure. But snoopy letters to Agatha about a Charles Walker would set the hounds on his trail. Best to keep Mrs. MacKenzie off track.

Lifting his cup, he remarked, "Nice china." Then bringing it closer and turning it upside down, he studied its provenance. "Strange to see Meissen ware mixed with Pyrex."

Nora laughed. "I guess that's the story of my life."

They both smiled, yet measured each other like pugilists sizing up an opponent. He seemed as intrigued by her comment as she was that he could identify the rare German china.

She waved her hand toward the heavy mahogany table, chairs covered in needlepoint, and tall chests filled with china. "All this came from Oma's house-Oma is German for grand mother." Her eyes softened as she recalled the thin gray-haired woman with the una.s.suming manner and endless depth of love.

"My happiest childhood memories came from her kitchen. It was among these things here that I learned science, math, and reading. Not from textbooks, mind you, but from baking. The wonder of carbon dioxide from yeast, the fractions of a measuring spoon, and reading endless recipes in both English and German.

"That old oven over there," she said, indicating an iron industrial oven in the corner, "was always hot and filled with loaves and loaves of dark bread."

She closed her eyes and sniffed the air, but instead of fresh bread she smelled smoke from the wood stove. When she opened her eyes, she saw C.W. watching her with a strange expression in his eyes. Nora blushed and wiped an imaginary tendril from her brow.

"Anyway, that was how I always wanted my own kitchen to be. Busy and warm. That wouldn't be a bad description for a person either, would it?" she added.

He gave her a wry smile. "Nope. It sure wouldn't."

For a moment their eyes met and revealed their private yearning for a home and a family and a simpler life. Then they both quickly averted their eyes, as though they had both opened a hidden box and exposed their most private secret, before snapping it shut again in fear it would be stolen.

Glancing around, she found rea.s.surance in the familiarity of Oma's things: lemon squeezers, metal sifters, can openers, paring knives. Near the oven, the shelves overflowed with an odd collection of battered pots and pans, large flour bins, wooden spoons with chipped porcelain handles, and oddshaped bottles and baskets. Yet, it was all surprisingly efficient.

"Function, not aesthetics," she murmured.

"What's that?"

"Oh, I was just thinking how this kitchen reflects the code of farm life."

"Did you live on a farm?"

She shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. But I'm originally from Wisconsin. My father was a baker and owned part of a dairy farm. I used to love to go out and visit the cows and hunt for barn kittens. We didn't go that often, though. Mother found it boring and Oma didn't drive. So..." She sighed, running her hands across a tall cherry armoire. "No, I love these things because they belonged to Oma. This is her legacy. Each item is more precious to me than a jewel."

The bittersweet memories of her childhood played upon her features. C.W. watched with fascination, remaining silent, listening. She had no idea of the effect she was having on him as she spoke simply about her childhood. There was no subterfuge, no name-dropping, not a hint of the pretension he was accustomed to. Nor, he suspected, did she have any idea of the s.e.xual magnetism he felt. For under his impa.s.sive exterior he was struggling to deny it.

She turned her head away and wrapped her arms around her chest. Her wrists were frail and her long fingers with their short, unpolished, oval nails tapped gently upon her shoulders. As she stood, absently looking over her things, she invoked the image of the child she had just described. An innocent, perhaps even a timid girl. The kind of child who kept treasures in a box under her bed, who sang to the trees, and who knew the name of each of her dolls.

As he watched, mesmerized by her tapping fingers, the child became woman. Her innocence grew sensual, erotic, and he found himself imagining those fingers tapping upon his body. He stepped closer, with nonchalance, and smelled the sweet clean scent of soap. His physical response was immediate, forcing C.W. to reel back and create a distance. G.o.d, how long had it been since he'd been with a woman?

Looking up, Nora blinked, as one coming back from far away thoughts. No, he realized. She had no idea at all how she affected him. And he was glad.

Smiling, Nora said, "I had to fight Mike to keep this stuff. He thought it was all worthless junk."

"You obviously love your grandmother's legacy-and this place. Why did you stay away so long?"

Her face clouded and she looked away. "I had my reasons."

Nora ran her palm along the mahogany table. "I knew it was all here waiting for me," she added, more to herself. "I'd never throw anything out."

"So, you're the type that squirrels away old clothes, family photographs, and chipped china."

She offered a wan smile. "That's me. I keep it all. Everything holds some memory."

C.W.'s gaze swept over her old worn jeans and handknit sweater, to her small hand arced over the table. "Then, why did you remove your wedding ring? Isn't that usually the last vestige of sentiment to go?"

Nora blanched, her hand flying instinctively to her ring finger.

C.W. watched her and cursed himself for his bluntness. It was time to go.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. MacKenzie. That's none of my business."

He crossed the room with determined strides and paused only to grab a large crate of empty gla.s.s bottles.

"Recycling is going strong in Vermont," he muttered. "I'll take these down to the center. I-I left a list of recyclables on the fridge." He cleared his throat. Work, business, he thought-the great panacea. "Just rinse them out and toss them in here. I'll take them down to the center for you every Monday."

"Yes, fine," she murmured.

She was still rubbing her ring finger and staring out the kitchen window. Seeing this, C.W. gave himself a mental kick. He had hurt her with his careless comment, and he was sorry. All his life his blunt honesty had been praised, feared, even encouraged. It was viewed as a show of power and intelligence. Good for business.

He shook his head and with a firm grip, hoisted the bottles into his arms and left the house.

What a weak excuse for vanity, he berated himself. He knew better now. Sometimes silence and compa.s.sion required greater strength.

Nora finished her morning coffee hunched over Mike's ledger with her heels hooked on the chair's upper rung. From what little she could gather, the figures involved a bank transaction of some kind, or several transactions, it was hard to tell yet. Mike moved around unbelievable amounts of money. She munched on a piece of toast, careful to brush away the crumbs from the paper. Perhaps if she attacked it differently.

Nora flipped through to the last page. Once again she was struck by the difference in handwriting style as the months pa.s.sed. In May, she could make out the notations clearly. Yet by September, the writing was erratic, a shorthand of barely legible script. Nora struggled to decipher the ledger for over an hour before she closed it and rubbed her eyes.

She couldn't glean much, yet she felt certain she could figure out what had driven Mike to suicide from these pages. In all the deals and craziness, however, one name emerged as the villain. She recognized the name; it had been carved into her heart. She had traced the letters in the ledger to be sure she got it right.

Mike may have shot himself, but the man who pulled the psychological trigger was the man who singlehandedly, and with deliberate purpose, had brought Mike to financial ruin.

That man was Charles Blair.

8.

ESTHER WALKED THE DUSTY distance from the mailbox to her house. Repeatedly, she glanced back again at the tilting metal box with the red flag up and the three numbers half falling down. Inside was her application for a fellowship at New York University-her whole life in an envelope. Her one shot at a dream she'd held since her third-grade teacher, Mrs. Crawford, in the town's one-room schoolhouse told her she had real talent as a painter. She'd known, even then, that it was true.

She peered over her shoulder several more times, just to make sure that bent, rusty red flag stayed up. Then the road curved and her view of the box was lost in foliage. Esther sighed and picked up her pace. There was nothing more to do now but wait.

She had walked the distance from her house to the mailbox every day for twenty years. Once in a while the mail brought a glossy magazine or a letter from Uncle Squire in Florida. Most days there was nothing much except for ads, mail-order catalogs, and bills. The dirt road lined with maples, pines, and here and there seasonal wildflowers was repet.i.tive in its sameness, but never boring to Esther. In spring it was black with mud, in summer it was green, in fall it was orange, and in the cold of winter it was as gray as the sky. But the hues and values changed on cloudy or sunny days, or when the raindrops on the leaves glistened or when a bright red newt slithered into an ink black puddle. Esther approached the house as she always did, lost in her world of colorful thoughts.

"Hey, Es. I've been waitin' on you."

Her hand flew to her heart and she jerked her head toward the far side of the porch where a young man stretched out on the old sofa.

"You scared me, John Henry." She caught her breath, then asked with irritation, "What are you doing here?"

He was quick to respond, but not before she detected the disappointment on his tanned face. "We're supposed to go to the movies. Your pa said to wait, you'd be right back. Come on, Red, don't tell me you forgot?"

She had. Completely. Her face said so.

"We don't have to go," John Henry said quickly. "We can just hang around here."

"No, that's okay," she replied in a colorless voice. "I'm sorry. I got all caught up in getting that application in the mail."

John Henry's face fell. "So you went and did it."

"I sure did." Esther's face flushed. She didn't like feeling vulnerable, telling someone that she actually sent out the forms. Win or lose, she didn't want anyone snickering at her high hopes behind her back.

Esther looked at John Henry. His slightly dazed expression was the same one he'd worn when she beat him in a fight in the first grade. But today John Henry was different. Twenty years of different. And so was she. A lot of time and love had pa.s.sed between them in those years. A lot of secrets shared. He'd never hurt her or break his word, she was sure.

"Don't tell anyone about them forms, now, promise?" She had to say it anyway.

"Of course I promise." He paused, then waved her over. "Com'ere."

Esther pushed air out through pursed lips. She just wanted to be alone right now. But she went anyway and plopped on the old sofa beside him. The sofa creaked, complaining at the extra weight on its already bowed out legs.

John Henry lay silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "What's the matter, Red?"

"I dunno." Then she said in a hushed voice, "I'm scared. What if I don't make it?"

"What if you don't? It doesn't mean you can't paint anymore. You can do that anywhere. Here."

Esther didn't reply. Instead, she tucked her hands tightly between her knees and looked off. How could she tell him that she had to leave here, soon, or she'd be so choked up she'd never paint again. Nora MacKenzie's return brought back too many memories, vivid recollections that she could not share with John Henry most of all.

It was desperation that had finally made her do what she'd been putting off for months: fill out the application for a fellowship in art at New York University. Her whole being was focused on that little envelope in the mailbox.

She felt John Henry's hands rubbing her back. Esther knew his touch so well by now that she read in his fervent strokes a plea that she love him. Any talk of her leaving made him nervous. Esther leaned over and pecked his cheek.

He held out his arms and Esther reluctantly slipped into them. He smelled of sweat and the sofa smelled of mildew. Esther lay in his arms long enough to give him a rea.s.suring squeeze. She sensed his need like radar. Wriggling her shoulders, she loosened his hold and quickly sat up.

John Henry grabbed her back, holding her squashed close with arms like bands of steel. His kisses were hungry.

"No," she said against his lips. "Not here."

John Henry drew back and swung his leg around, hoisting them both off the sofa. His hands remained around her waist in a possessive grip.

"Come on, then."

"I can't. I've got things to do."

"Come on," he drawled close to her ear, propelling her off the porch toward the barn.

Esther allowed herself to be led off to the dark corner of the barn that they often went to when they wanted to be alone. She didn't want to make love. She wasn't in the mood, but John Henry's persistence was not to be ignored.

And she loved John Henry, in her fashion. His need of her was obvious. He wanted so much from her, more than she felt capable of giving. John Henry was one more person who needed her.

Esther relinquished all resistance by the time they reached the dark recess of the ramshackle barn. She'd give in to him, as she always did when he wanted her. He was a good, kind man-her best friend. It was the best way she knew how to show she cared.

His kisses were urgent and his hands grew rough. He pushed her back against the barn wall, hard, and his hands trembled down to her belt and started unfastening it, squeezing her waist as he jerked the leather free.

So, he was going to be dominant today, she realized. He always was when he felt threatened. That application to New York University must have really set him off.

Esther put her hand gently on his, stilling him. John Henry sighed when he released her belt. Esther quickly finished the task and stepped from her jeans, looking over at John Henry as he fumbled with his b.u.t.tons.

He was a long sideburn kind of man. With his easy manner and his handsome straight nose, not to mention the dairy farm that would someday be his, most every girl in town had set her sights on John Henry Thompson at one time or another. And he strayed from time to time over the years of their courtship. Yet, Esther always knew that John Henry would find his way back to her, so she never worried or got jealous. Some called her lucky. Others called her a fool.

John Henry looked up, caught her eye, and smiled wide. Even in this dark corner, his bright blue eyes twinkled.

Esther smiled back. She really did care for John Henry. She welcomed him in her arms.

Afterward, when they were putting their clothes back on, an uneasy silence fell upon them. Esther b.u.t.toned her shirt back up, watching John Henry thrust one leg into his jeans. His leg was long and covered with fine brown hair the same dark color as the hair that spread across his thin, well-muscled chest and ma.s.sed upon his head and around his ears. Her hands stilled. How many times had they repeated this scene over the years, she wondered? How many more times till they realized that they could not go on like this forever?

As if he read her mind, John Henry shoved his other leg into his pants and said, "I'm getting pretty tired of pickin' hay out'a my b.u.t.t. What do you say we make some decisions? Get ourselves our own bed."