"It's probably some schmuck wanting to sell us aluminum siding," Michelle joked.

"Or someone doing a survey on cat food."

But Jenny noticed that neither one of them took their eyes away from the kitchen telephone.

Michelle edged herself from the chair on the third ring and reached the phone. "Hello, this is Jenny and Michelle's place," she said cheerfully in a perfect rendition of the efficient secretary.

Jenny studied her friend. Afraid to hope. Afraid to care.

"It's for you," Michelle stated, and handed her the receiver. Then she mouthed, "It's a man."

Jenny pointed her finger at her heart, wondering if she'd misunderstood. "For me?"

Michelle nodded.

She took the phone and said in a friendly but professional-sounding voice, "This is Jenny Lancaster."

"Hello, Jenny."

Trey.

Jenny couldn't have been more shocked if it'd been Andrew Lloyd Webber himself, wanting her to star in his next musical.

"Trey!" she said, barely managing to hide her shock.

"I got your note," he announced.

"It was a surprise to get your Thanksgiving card," she said, holding the receiver with both hands. She felt lightheaded and wasn't sure if it was the shock of Trey's call or the fact that she hadn't eaten all day.

"You aren't coming home for the holidays."

Trey, her family. Everyone seemed to be pressuring her. It felt as if the walls were closing in around her. "I can't come," she told him, unable to disguise her own bitter disappointment. "I want to be there. More than anything, but I can't."

"That's what your note said. So the bright lights of the city have blinded you?"

"No." She longed to tell him how she hungered for the peace and solitude of Montana. New York City held its own excitement, its own energy. So often she'd walked down the crowded avenues and felt a rhythm, a cadence, that all but sang up from the asphalt. For three years she'd marched to that beat and hummed its special brand of music.

Yet the lone cry in the barren hills of home played longingly to her soul, its melody haunting her.

"Your family misses you," Trey said, tightening the screws of her regrets.

Jenny bit into her lower lip.

"I miss you," Trey added.

Jenny's eyes flew open. Trey, the man who'd invaded her dreams for weeks, admitted to missing her. He'd as much as said he wanted her home.

Regrets clamored against her chest, their fists sharp and pain-filled. "I can't come," she whispered miserably.

Her words were met with silence.

"Can't or won't?" he asked starkly.

Brynn Cassidy crossed the street in front of Manhattan High and St. Philip's Cathedral. She found Father Grady, the gray-haired priest who'd become her friend, in the vestibule.

"Hello, Father," she said.

"Brynn, it's good to see you, my girl." His green Irish eyes lit up with warm delight.

"I got your message. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Come over to the rectory and I'll have Mrs. Houghton brew us a pot of tea."

Brynn glanced at her watch. She enjoyed visiting with Father Grady, but the older priest liked to talk and she didn't have time that afternoon.

Father Grady's eyes followed hers. "Do you have an appointment?"

"I have to stop off at Roberto Alcantara's this afternoon and pick up my car."

"I know Roberto well," Father Grady said, and motioned for her to precede him out of the church. "He's a fine young man." He paused to glance her way, and it seemed to Brynn that the priest was looking for her to elaborate. She didn't.

"Emilio's in my class."

"Ah, yes, Emilio. Roberto's done his best to keep his brother out of trouble. There haven't been problems with Emilio, have there?"

"No, no," Brynn was quick to tell him.

Father Grady's face relaxed.

Brynn lowered her gaze. It wasn't Emilio she'd clashed with, but Roberto. "I'm afraid Roberto doesn't think much of me."

Father Grady opened the door to the rectory. "I'm sure you're mistaken."

Brynn followed him inside. She preferred not to tell him about their brief confrontation. It rankled still. Roberto Alcantara had been both rude and unreasonable. But more than that, he'd been wrong.

"I'm not sure I have time for tea," she reiterated when she realized that Father Grady fully intended for her to stay and chat anyway.

"Nonsense." He escorted Brynn into the parlor and left her while he went in search of Mrs. Houghton, the elderly housekeeper who cared for Father Grady and the bishop when he was in residence.

Father Grady returned shortly with a tray and two cups. "I was hoping you'd be able to stop over this afternoon," he said as he set the tray on the coffee table. He handed Brynn a delicate china cup and took one himself before sitting across from her on the velvet settee. "The church is sponsoring a dance this Friday evening for the youth group."

Brynn had seen the posters. "I've heard several of the kids mention it."

"We generally have a good turnout."

Brynn was sure that was true.