Just before the heavy oak lid darkened her face.

And on her tenth birthday.

Claire reached the landing of the great staircase, paused to catch her breath. Maybe she should have let the young man carry her bag. And maybe she should have taken the elevator. But it was the principle of the thing. And her stubbornness, she supposed. Whatever it was, it didn't matter now any-way. Tonight was special. She would enjoy every minute of the plans that she had so carefully made.

She rubbed her swollen, painful knee with the bent, ar-thritic fingers of her hand, took a deep breath, and headed up the final stretch of stairs to the second floor. She stopped at the top for a quick look down over the edge of the balcony. How had they done it, she wondered? The races up and down the stairs always left she, Simon and Elinor in a pile of breathless laughter at the bottom. Now the breathlessness came all too easily. And with little exertion, if any.

She waited while her eyes adjusted to the darkness, then turned into the hallway. Small, candle-shaped lights mounted in brass cast her silhouette in distorted gray shadows on worn, somber wallpaper as she passed by. She stopped then.

Room 209.

Grandmother's room.

Her room.

The brass numbers mounted on the solid wood of the door reflected dancing light from a sconce on a near wall. She hesitated, wondered if she were ready. Knew that she was. She fumbled with the large key in her pocket, then slid it into the lock. It turned easily, the door opened.

She dropped her bag in the sitting-room and went to the window. She pushed open the heavy drapes, blinked at the bright sunlight that filtered in through the glass of the French doors, and looked out over the back lawn and the little gar-den. It was still there. Still as beautiful as she remembered. She looked as far to the right as she could see. Smiled.

The croquet lawn was there too. She wondered if children played croquet anymore. Decided that they did. At the SeaHarp they would play croquet.

At the SeaHarp they would be happy.

She turned back to the room, looked at the couch, the arm chairs, the tea service. The TV. It wasn't all the same as it used to be. An edge of disappointment nagged her. Not all of it was the same anyway.

She reached for her bag, went through the door to the bedroom. Gasped. A body? No. An imprint. An outline. Only a human shape would make that kind of an impression on a down comforter. Someone that would have been bedrid-den for weeks. Months. A small body, frail. Weak. She blinked, looked again. The cover was smooth. Newly made and pulled taut. She shook her head, tried to recover the image.

Grandmother.

No. Grandmother was gone. It was a trick of the light. A game on tired, old eyes. She smoothed the comforter,tucked in the edges, smiled. Growing old wasn't so bad. Not if you didn't let it bother you. And what could you do about it any-way? There was no fountain of youth that she knew about. She wouldn't want one. Age was a special gift. It gave time to think, to remember, to make plans, and follow through on them.

She sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed. Ran her hand over the deep grain of the mahogany, then opened her suitcase. The framed photographs, yellowed with age, lay on top. Graying, tissue-thin paper rustled like dry leaves as she unwrapped the pictures. She softly stroked the faces of her Grandmother, Christopher, and the others before placing the pictures on the bedside table. She sighed, then hung the dress that she would wear to the dinner party in one of the cedar-scented wardrobes.

She went into the large, marble bathroom, and unpacked her makeup, moisturizer, and toothbrush, then placed them carefully, in order, by the sink, next to the claw-footed bath-tub. A glance at her watch told her there was no time for a relaxing bath now. Maybe later, she decided. After all her guests had left the dinner party.

She returned to the bedroom, unpacked her nightgown, and brushed away the wrinkles. She breathed deep to catch the scent of rose sachet imbedded in the splitting threads of the once-white, cotton material. She smiled at the hint of her past, then draped the gown gently over the bed. Looked at it with longing. Later, she told herself. Later.

The brown paper-wrapped box was recovered from the sit-ting room coffee table and placed on the bedside table next to her photographs.

Just where it should be.

Just where it had been before.

She patted the boxes, toyed with the idea of opening it, decided against it. Opening it now would spoil the moment.

And nothing would take away from this night. Nothing. Not even her own impatience.

It was all coming together. Finally. The years of planning had been worth the wait. She could tell. She patted the box one more time, then got dressed for dinner.

The guests would be waiting.

She walked the hall back to the stairs, considered the ele-vator, changed her mind. No, she would make a sweeping entrance-like her grandmother always did. And they always looked, always admired her beauty, her confidence. Her total control over her life. Men and women alike, the activity of the lobby stopped when she came down these stairs.

The men, souls bared in their appreciative stare, watched her every move. The women looked at her in admiration, and wondered what was missing in themselves.

"Beauty comes from within, my love," she had told little Claire. "It comes from being happy. Always happy."

And Claire was happy. Then. Even at her grandmother's death, with the woman's whispered last words ringing in her ears, she was happy.

Through the scarring pain of inflicted wounds that never healed.

Always happy.

But never happier than right now.

She held her head up high, and walked across the hall to the dining room. A uniformed man snapped his heels, nod-ded and opened the door for her. She thanked him graciously and greeted her guests.

Mother and father sat at the end of the table. But they would, she knew. Always as far away from her as they could get. Even in a small room . . . especially in a small room, until they could send her away. This time leaving was her decision. She nodded to them, saw the coldness in their eyes. They only tolerated this situation because they had to.

Be-cause she made them come. Wouldn't let them rest until they listened to what she had to say. She nodded again, curtly this time. They responded in kind.

A waiter wearing a white tuxedo pulled out her chair, waved her into it with a small bow, then leaned with an air of conspiracy towards her. "Just nod and I'll have the meal served immediately."

"Thank you kindly, sir. I think now would be just right."

"Now, ma'am?""Yes. Now please."

He looked around the room, raised an eyebrow. "As you wish."

"And please, leave me to my guests after they've been served."

Another nod, and he was gone. Within minutes a parade of staff converged on the room placing plates of steaming food on starched linen-covered tables, decorated with bright, cut-flower arrangements. From the garden, she knew.

"And the dessert?"

A pause from the waiter, then a snap of his fingers. The staff reappeared, placed sampling of desserts at each place setting.

"Thank you, sir. That'll do quite nicely."

He bowed at the waist, and pulled the door closed with a barely audible "click."

"Now then," she said, raising her wine glass to the guests, "a toast." She looked about the room for compliance, frowned at her parents' refusal to participate, then spoke. "To what was. To what will be." She drank deeply, smiled at her company, then waved them to their meal.

She winked at Christopher over another sip of the wine. Admired his looks in his black tux and brilliant red cum-merbund. He was just as handsome as she remembered. Just like the photograph. He winked back, then smiled with ap-proval. She felt a hot flush redden her cheeks at his attention, then smoothed an imagined wrinkle in her dress.

She looked back, and followed his gaze to her two old friends.

Rose and Constance were using the dinner opportunity to bicker over the last bridge hand they played as partners.

"I led with hearts," she knew Rose was saying. "That was not the signal I gave you," Constance would argue, "You never read my signals right. No decent bridge player leads with hearts when I give them a signal. I should have partnered with Claire." Claire stifled a laugh at the look of disgust on Rose's face, then saddened at the thought.

It never ends for them. Not even when it's over.

But it wasn't going to be like that for her. It would be different.

She tapped a salad fork on her wine glass for their atten-tion, and stood. Nervousness tightened her throat. She cleared it, and looked around the room. "Thank you, all of you, for being here. This last time together means a lot to me." She saw her parents turn away. After tonight she'd let them go. Let all of them go. But only after they heard what she had to say. She raised her voice. "Each one of you touched my life in an important way. It took a lifetime to understand how these events, both joyous and tragic, molded me into what I am." Her voice faltered, stopped. She looked around the room at her invited guests. Looked closely at their faces, as she remembered them, and saw them clearly for the first time.

The anger in her parents at a child they never wanted.

Emptiness, filled only by a bridge hand, in Rose and Constance.

Unresolved confusion at events unforeseen, and unex-plained, in young Christopher.

And the two guests added at the last minute. Their coer-cion by inheritance of a life they never chose. His bitterness at his responsibility to his father, to the hotel. Her lonely spinster life.

The faces. All memories that she clung to, savored, as one long day on her tenth birthday turned to a week, a year, a lifetime, of unanswered questions. And now it was time to let them go. All of them. Time to meet what she had planned for all these years.

The faces shimmered in the dim light. She reached out to touch them once more, to feel again what they had given her, then hesitated. It didn't matter anymore. Not now.

She sighed. Stood to leave. She pushed open the door that led to the hallway, looked back over her shoulder one last time, then closed the door silently behind her.

She took her time going up the staircase. Wanted to feel her every step deepen the thick carpet-wanted to touch the worn, thick wood of the balcony. She sorted the various smells of the hotel as she climbed. Dinner being served tothe other hotel guests. Perfume. Furniture polish. The deep scent of rose buds opening to reveal their deep reds and yel-lows. Salt from the bay seeped deep yet subtle in every pore of the SeaHarp.

Down the hall to her room, she tried to imagine the activity of the place as she had once known it.

The stately gentlemen in the Club Room sipping their brandy and breathing deep the aroma of imported cigars.

The smack of billiard balls as they touched, then formed intricate patterns on the tables.

Beautiful women and their men moving to orchestral music in the Ball Room. Their eyes sparkling from the light of over-head chandeliers. Their fluid movements whispered on the walls in shadows of dance.

She unlocked the door, walked through to the bedroom and stood in front of the vanity mirror. She pulled the pins that held her hair, and let the long, thinning gray strands fall about her face and shoulders. She leaned into the mirror, smiled and remembered.

It had been a deep auburn once, full and beautiful-like her Grandmother's hair had once been-and pinned up, al-ways pinned up in a braid around her head so that it wouldn't get in the way. Mother wouldn't have it hanging down like some street urchin, she always said. But this time it was down. The soft, late summer breeze tousled it, set it free to capture the sun's rays. Christopher had noticed. More than noticed. He fell in love with her that day, she knew. And what a marriage it would be. Full of life and happiness. Until the accident.

She stroked the brittle gray of her hair, stared at the mirror that showed an old, wrinkled woman where seconds ago it was a young girl.

But there would be no sadness. She wouldn't allow it. There was only that to come.

Her hands went to her face, pulled back the loose skin until it was taut and forced an affect of a grin. She reached for the wisp of Kleenex, contained in a little brass box on the vanity, and dabbed away her makeup. A stroke across her forehead, down the side of her face.

She never bothered anyone. Couldn't they see that? So why did the neighborhood children play practical jokes on her? Call her an "old maid"? She chose the life she wanted. Made it comfortable.

Another tissue rubbed over her chin, the other side of her face.

It wasn't a punishment was it-what happened to Christo-pher? The horse bucked, threw him. His neck was broken like a dry twig. Her parents had claimed it was her fault. But it wasn't.

Was it?

No, she decided, closed her eyes tight at the thought, at the sound. Of course not. She loved Christopher, and he loved her. Her parents had no right to blame her, to force her to carry that burden over the years. But she had. Until now.

A final brush to her face, a final layer of unresolved ques-tions removed. She stared at her own pale skin, saw faint blue veins traverse the surface. Saw the face of her grand-mother on yet another night, a face of calm, a look to the future. Finally.

She slid out of her dress and into the white, cotton gown. It crinkled with her movement and fit just as she knew it would. Just as it was meant to be on the night celebrating her wedding. A wedding that never came. But tonight was a celebration as well.

She stroked the material. Turned this way and that to catch herself in the mirror as if she were a young girl again, felt her long hair brush against her face.

It was time.

The brown paper-wrapped package opened easily at her touch. She pulled out the wooden box, ran a finger around its smooth, polished edges. It glistened a deep rosewood red at her touch. The music inside waited for her. Waited for her touch that would open the box and free it. Free her.

Just like it had freed Grandmother.

It was the music of a thousand bedtimes as a young child nestled in the loving arms of her Grandmother.Warm.

The music of a willing end to what was. A closure to a life.

Safe.

Music of souls that traveled as she did. Clung to an expec-tation of what would be.

Happy.

She lay down in the soft folds of the comforter. Turned her head for a last look at the photographs, at her friends and family. Faces caught for eternity on paper behind glass. Caught unwilling when it was time to say goodbye. She would say goodbye to them. For them.

To her parents. To Rose and Constance. To Christopher.

To her two added dinner guests, Simon and Elinor.

All taken away from her before they were ready. Before she was ready.

She could let them go now. On to the paths that they had chosen for themselves. They had kept her company long enough, had pushed away the loneliness until it had become a dim light in the distance. Now it was time to set them free as well. She rubbed a hand, swollen and bent with disease, across her moist eyes, and mouthed a silent farewell to them.

The whisper from Grandmother came to her then. A whisper as quiet as the bay breeze, as soft as rain on the garden Claire opened the box, closed her eyes, lay still on the four-poster bed. And waited to meet her grandmother.

The sound poured out of the box, surrounded her. Covered her. Caressed. The music of generations past, stroked her gray hair and turned it auburn with the touch. Smoothed the wrinkled skin. Massaged bent joints.

She sighed deeply, felt her life slip into darkness. Into happiness.

Some felt them as a gentle wind in a still room. Others heard the small, light sound of children's laughter in the dis-tance, yet somehow near. Still others caught a flicker of movement from the corner of their eyes, but dismissed it as a trick of the light from brass sconces.

But those who looked closely into the shadows of the old hallways, around the corners, and deep into the heart of the SeaHarp Hotel saw more. They alone saw the figures hidden by darkness.

Two little girls, their auburn hair loose about their face and shoulders, held hands.

And smiled.