A smile lingered on Ryan's face until he saw Josh watching him. Ryan nodded and returned to his seat.

"That was embarrassing," Josh said to Danny. "Everyone in the room saw it. It looks bad for all of us."

Danny just shook his head. "Anyone who would cheat on his wife would cheat on his friends."

"I hope you're not right about that," Josh hoped he hadn't made a mistake putting Ryan in charge of thousands of dollars of merchandise money.

When he finished eating, Josh glanced at the digital display on his cell phone. 2:40 p.m. He had enough time to grab a bottle of water from the cooler in the front of the bus before a courtesy car from the local radio station picked him up for a midafternoon interview.

As Josh approached the black Prevost coach, Mitch opened the airlock door and stepped off. The band and crew had begun to gather to leave for the venue and the afternoon sound check. Josh would meet them there after his interview.

He nodded silently to Mitch and then stepped up into the driver's compartment landing. The privacy curtain between it and the front lounge was drawn, and Josh heard several members of his crew talking and laughing behind it.

"So what's the deal with Josh's crazy wife?" He heard Ryan ask.

"She's sick." Shane came to Beth's defense.

"She's a junky," Ryan scoffed. "He needs to get over his obsession with the possibility that she will ever get well and get on with his life."

14.

Present Day The throbbing in Beth's temple pounded out an ugly rhythm. Would the pain ever stop? She had awakened with a headache each morning since returning home from the hospital more than two weeks ago. Her clothes no longer fit and, at this point, she looked fatter than she did pregnant.

Tugging at her bra did no good. It wouldn't stretch enough to fasten. She took it off, hurled it into the dirty clothes basket, and then stomped across the room to the antique chest of drawers where she kept her workout clothes. Digging through a stack of multicolored shorts and several pair of sports socks, she found the gray athletic bra her mother had given her last Christmas. It had been a full size too large.

Beth pulled the spandex halter over her head and adjusted it around her newly formed curves. It fit perfectly. Yes!

Her mood took a nosedive when she stepped into her favorite pair of jeans. The curves she had welcomed in her bosom were unwelcomed at her waistline. An inch of flesh stood between button and buttonhole. She shimmied out of the faded blue Levi's and flung them across the room. They missed the dirty laundry container and landed on top of the dog, who had been investigating alien smells in the corner of the walk-in closet.

Buster fought his way out from under his attacker and in true Boston terrier style decided to launch a counterattack. Beth's jeans flew through the bedroom as fast as little legs could carry them. She laughed, despite her headache.

Searching through another drawer, she found a pair of pink sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt. She donned the comfy clothes and caught up with Buster. He had finally tired and stood panting over his prey. She snatched the jeans from his mouth.

"Are you ready for breakfast, Budder?"

The black-and-white terrier yipped and spun around before bolting toward the front of the house. His paws slipped and slid across the hardwood floors in an effort to get traction. Beth straightened the wrinkled throw rugs he left in his wake.

"Slow down, Mr. B.," Beth said, following him into the kitchen. He ignored her admonition and headed straight for the dog food pantry.

"First things first," Beth said. "I have to take a pill before I fix you something."

The dog plopped down on the rug in front of the kitchen sink, not happy about waiting.

Beth reached across the counter for the Lortab Alex had agreed to keep in a bowl for Beth's breakthrough pain. She tried hard not to take the extra medication, but even Dr. Myers had said it would be necessary at times.

Popping the pill into her mouth, she gulped a glass of water from the faucet. A surge of fatigue sidelined her when she turned to continue her chores. She leaned against the kitchen cabinet to gather strength and mental acuity. Just getting dressed this morning had taken a lot out of her.

She glanced at the clock. She might as well feed Buster while she waited for Alex to return from home to prepare their breakfast.

The little terrier danced in circles on his back feet, eyes sparkling, as Beth poured brown nuggets into a stainless steel bowl.

"You're hungry, aren't you? Me too. I wonder what's keeping Alex."

While the little dog ate, Beth carried a bowl of fresh water to his feeding mat near the back door. With shaking hands, she bent to place the bowl on the floor. The world around her began to spin, and she braced herself against the back of the banquette.

Her balance had been off since coming home from the hospital. The handful of pills she took each morning was most likely the cause, but her blood sugar was also dropping. She needed to eat something soon.

Still holding on to the banquette, she maneuvered her body onto the cushiony seat of the handmade bench. The breakfast booth, tucked away in a cozy nook of the kitchen, was her favorite place in the house.

Beth ran her fingers along the beautiful finish her husband had applied to the premium oak wood. He had chosen each board with care and then stained it to perfection. He took pride in his carpentry. Few people knew that Josh had the skill to craft fine wood as well as songs. She smiled thinking about her husband. He had a knack for putting things together, whether it was words or lumber.

The finish he had chosen for the benches matched the antique dining table that stood between them. The table had once occupied Rose Harrison's kitchen. Beth allowed her eyes to wander. Many reminders of family filled their home. From the table to the pie safe that stood in the corner of the butler's pantry. Josh had refinished it with Williamsburg blue milk paint and replaced the old tin with beveled glass. Beth loved the way it had turned out.

She had lined its shelves with crisp, white fabric runners and displayed colorful jars of canned fruits and vegetables from Josh's mother. Rose Harrison had packed the Mason jars with love and high-quality ingredients from her personal garden.

Josh and Beth ate the contents only on special occasions, because it was the last Rose Harrison had put away before her health deteriorated. A simple woman, church and family had been her life's priorities.

Beth owed Rose Harrison more than she could ever repay. His mom had encouraged Josh to cherish home and family. After he and Beth had bought their house, Josh had worked for months, building, sanding, and refinishing. Beth admired her husband's talent, as well as his determination. Nothing seemed out of reach in Josh's mind. He set his sights, and his standards, high. And he worked hard to achieve his goals.

Family had been important in Beth's life too. She studied the old wooden bowl now sitting in the middle of the table. The aged vessel was a McKinney family heirloom. It had been handed down through several generations on her father's side. Today, the solid hickory bowl held more than a dozen, delicious looking Chartreuse apples. She and Alex had bought them yesterday on an excursion to the Farmer's Market.

The scent of the spicy green apples flooded Beth's consciousness like an exotic perfume. The pain pills, at times, seemed to heighten her senses. Her tummy rumbled, and she looked at the clock for the third time. Where was Alex? Perhaps she should call her.

Beth was usually finished with breakfast by now. Hunger pangs would soon turn to nausea if she didn't put something in her stomach. Frustration replaced anxiety. It would be easier to fix something than to call Alex.

Josh and her caregiver sometimes treated her like a child. She was a grown woman and could do some things for herself. Even if she was shaky, she could surely fix her own breakfast.

Beth got up quickly, too quickly. Steadying herself with one hand on the back of the bench, she waited for the dizziness to subside before she walked to the kitchen cabinet. She pulled open the utensil drawer and picked out a paring knife. Then she spun a couple of paper towels off the roll on the counter.

The pattern on the black-and-white tile floor made her dizzy as she crossed it to take a seat again in the breakfast area. Plucking an apple out of the wooden bowl, she cut the first slice. Juice ran between her fingers. Her mouth watered.

Buster had long since finished his breakfast, so he ran to the table to investigate. The little dog had a bottomless pit for a stomach. Beth ignored him, and he jumped at her arm, landing a bump as she quartered the apple. The knife slipped.

"Ouch!"

Blood oozed from Beth's index finger. The blade had sliced about an inch of flesh. She knew it was deep, because she had felt the blade against the bone. Panic set in. This was not what she needed while taking blood thinning medication.

The bright red blood trickled onto the Chartreuse fruit. The sight caused a swell of wooziness. She dropped the knife, wrapped a paper towel around her finger, and rushed to the kitchen sink. Within a few seconds, the crimson beads of liquid had saturated the paper towel. Beth turned the faucet on, tore away the messy paper, and shoved her hand underneath cold, running water. The blood flow stopped temporarily.

She eased her hand out of the water to check the wound. Huge droplets again oozed from her finger like a rising tide, forming a pool of red lifeblood in the white porcelain sink below.

She knew she was going to be sick.

A rush of darkness filled her head and her knees buckled.

15.

July 29, 1975 Grandfather's stroke changed Isaac's life. Levi Ruben could no longer walk or speak. Short of a miracle, Isaac would be running the flower shop and providing for his family's day-today existence for the rest of their lives.

His hope of attending college, of living on his own, had been stalled, frozen in time. Isaac could not, would not, leave Mama Ruth on her own in such dire circumstances.

If there was anything positive about his situation, it was that he was now in charge. No longer would he have to listen to Grandfather's constant yapping and complaining. He could make the decisions and even try some ideas that had been brewing in his head for a while.

He was grateful to have the help of his Cousin Roi, the youngest son of Levi Ruben's brother Moshe. Grandfather and Uncle Moshe had worked together since the late 1940s. Moshe and his three sons, Eli, Chaim, and Roi, cultivated the flowers, plants, and greenery that Grandfather sold in the shop.

Although each operated his business independently of the other, their partnership had, on occasion, created contention in the family. When all was said and done, however, family blood-and the need to survive-kept them together during the difficult times. For that reason, Uncle Moshe offered his youngest son's assistance to Isaac.

Tall, lanky, redheaded Roi worked hard. In ordinary circumstances, Isaac would have enjoyed the companionship of a boy close to his age. Yet, business was brisk, and many days the responsibilities overwhelmed them both. Although three years older, Roi had no problem taking orders from Isaac, even doing the dirty work Isaac had once done.

"Roi, I need the roses stripped and cleaned as soon as possible. I have lots of orders to fill this morning." Isaac pointed toward the pile of multicolored flora in the back corner of the shop that Roi's oldest brother, Eli, had delivered a few minutes before.

Isaac was thankful he could now delegate his least favorite chore, dethorning the spiny stems. Roi considered it simple work compared to the hours he often labored in the hot sun working for his father, watering and pruning plants each day.

No job in the flora business was easy. You would tear your flesh stripping flowers, and then need nimble fingers to design delicate bouquets.

While Roi stripped the roses, Isaac prepped the design table. He cleaned his workspace before organizing his tools and replenishing his supply of glass containers, floral paper, tape, and wire.

The heat from the late July morning had filtered into the shop, and Isaac welcomed the rush of chilly air when he opened the door to the large cooler. Grandfather and Uncle Moshe had built the closetlike structure into the back wall of the shop the year Isaac was born. Three years ago, he had helped his grandfather install a commercial chiller. The chrome box with its beveled glass doors now displayed fresh arrangements.

Isaac chose blooms for his first few orders of the day and transported them to the worktable, the way he had watched his grandfather do every morning for the first sixteen years of his life. Levi Ruben was a master at floral arrangements. He created living works of art from the blooms in season, adding twigs and leaves to complete his masterpieces.

Grandfather's work was renowned within their multicultural community. People from all walks of life came to the shop to purchase bouquets and centerpieces for gifts and special occasions, such as birthdays and anniversaries. Some even used Grandfather's creations as conciliatory offerings to end a lovers' quarrel or pledge their lifelong love.

Isaac had come to understand a lot about humanity during his years of working at the shop. Many people lived a lie-and flowers were sometimes used to perpetuate their fraud. Men and women alike purchased Grandfather's beautiful arrangements to bridge the gap between truth and desire, to conceal their indiscretions, and to hide the real agenda in their relationships. Complete strangers walked into the shop daily to reveal secrets about themselves, laying bare privileged information that belonged on a psychologist's couch.

"Young man, I need your help. I want to send a dozen roses to, ahem, a friend. Here is her address-and cash. Of course, you won't keep a record of the transaction?"

"Never, Mr. Stein. I understand. And how is Mrs. Stein, by the way?" Isaac enjoyed watching the cheaters squirm.

Although he would never reveal to anyone that Mr. Stein had a mistress, he thoroughly enjoyed the irony of the situation. If Mrs. Stein should eventually learn of the affair, chances were good that her husband would return for amnesty flowers. It was a never-ending game of human chicanery with flowers as the pawn.

Of course, greenery and blooms were also used in ritual worship, for funerals and celebrations of religious holidays.

Religion was, perhaps, the biggest illusion of all.

If there was a God, and man was made in his image as the Torah taught-from what Isaac had seen of human motives-he would have a hard time trusting him.

16.

Present Day The back door opened, and Alex ran to Beth in time to catch her fall.

"What's wrong?"

"I cut my finger," Beth muttered. "I need to sit down."

"Let me help you." Alex grabbed a clean dishtowel from the cabinet drawer, threw it over her arm, and half-dragged, half-carried Beth to a bench at the kitchen table. She pulled up a side chair for herself and sat down. "Let me see the damage you've done."

"It's bad." Beth's hand trembled as she held it out for Alex to examine. Red globules continued to ooze from the cut.

"Hold this towel around the wound," Alex directed. "I need to clean the blood away so I can see it better." Seconds later, Alex returned with a bowl of warm water and a roll of paper towels. She cleaned the wound, while Beth explained how she had injured herself.

"This is all my fault. I thought I had time to do a few things at home while you were still sleeping."

"I could have fixed cereal." Beth did her best to smile, although her finger now throbbed more than her head.

"Keep holding your hand up," Alex said. "I've got to get this bleeding stopped."

"I'm sorry I was so stupid. I can't do anything for myself." Beth fought back tears.

"Relax, girlfriend." Alex stroked Beth's hair. "Everything will be okay." She removed the damp towel to see if the blood was clotting. "We're making progress." Alex reapplied pressure to the wound. "Where do you keep your first-aid kit?"

"In the hall bathroom." Beth started to get up. "I'll go-"

"Whoa . . . you stay put. Hold your arm up and keep pressure on this. I'll be right back."

Beth held the towel firmly until Alex returned with a bottle of antibacterial spray and a box of bandages. She disinfected the cut and wrapped a large bandage around Beth's index finger.

"Is this too tight?"

"No. Feels good."

"You know you're going to need stitches on this? It's deep."

"Please, no. I don't want to go to the emergency room again," Beth pleaded.