 
Hearts Unfold

### A Novel by

### Karen Welch

### Hearts Unfold

By

Karen Welch

Second Revised Edition

Copyright © 2012 Karen Welch

All rights reserved

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the authors, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only or provided by the author of publisher, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, to factual events or to businesses is coincidental and unintentional.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author.

Cover photography licensed through iStockphoto LP, 1240 20 AVE SE, Calgary, Alberta, T2G 1M8 Canada and Getty Images, Inc.(US). Photo credit-Tetra Images; Photographer: Rob Lewine.

Cover designed by C.W. Ferris

### Acknowledgements

My warmest gratitude to family and friends who have encouraged, supported and inspired me to make this effort. My husband John and son Chris have lived this adventure with me from day to day; and without their patience and interest, I'm sure I would have given up very early on. Special thanks are due to the brave friends who struggled through rough drafts and still found the courage to read more, in particular Martha Tilden, Sue Boyle and Rev. John Wilson, to husband John for providing enduring editorial support as well as musical and theological guidance, and last but far from least, to my son Chris for designing my cover.

This book is dedicated to John, who makes me possible.

"Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee,

Opening to the sun above."

Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee—

Henry Van Dyke, 1907

December 23, 1967

Sheriff Jack Deem had been on the job for more hours than he cared to calculate. A storm like this one brought on all kinds of emergencies at the best of times, but just before Christmas, with everybody and his brother trying to get home for the holidays, there were sure to be more than his little crew could handle. When the call came in just before dawn from a trucker who'd pulled over to put on chains and spotted what he thought might be an accident, Jack sensed this was going to be one of those holidays; the kind he always prayed wouldn't come his way.

He hadn't been wrong. The twisted carcass of a car angled halfway up a tree, two young people dead at the scene; his day started with a sick churning in his stomach that hadn't eased since. That had been over twenty-four hours ago now. In between, he'd seen two of his eldest constituents off to the hospital by ambulance, one with a heart attack, the other after a bad fall down some icy steps. With the power out over much of the county, there'd been dozens of calls from folks worried about family or neighbors without heat and expecting his office to have time to check on them. The dispatcher had been overwhelmed with reports of too many fender benders and cars in ditches to count. He'd taken a nap sometime during the night in an empty cell at the jail, only to be roused by a call about a woman ready to give birth at the truck stop out on the highway.

All part of a rural sheriff's life, he thought wearily. As he'd been a rural sheriff for thirty years now, one would think he'd have learned to just take it in stride. But this last call, which had come into the office just as he was telling himself the worst might be over, really had his gut tied in a knot. Old Miss Hagen, who kept him informed of anything she considered remotely suspicious, felt he'd want to know there was smoke coming from the house up at Valley Rise Farm.

Smoke. His chest constricted at the thought of what that might mean. The house, deserted now for two years, but still full of the treasures left behind. The house where he and J.D. played as boys, where he'd first seen Lilianne; the house where Emily had grown up. Miss Hagen had suggested hippies. He'd scoffed at the idea, but the more he thought about the alternatives, the more he hoped someone had broken in to get out of the storm. He might bring the full wrath of his office down on their heads, but he would secretly bless them for being nothing more than a nuisance.

The winding road to the farm took some time to navigate. As he eased the cruiser through the deep, crusted snow, letting the tire chains cut their way up the incline, Jack tried to think of any plausible explanation, other than the possibility Miss Hagen had just been seeing things. But now, as he approached the ridge on which the house was situated, he could see for himself the column of gray against the bright blue of the sky. The thin line of smoke could mean only one thing. Someone was using the fireplace. His anxiety began to morph toward anger and he primed himself to come down hard on some poor unsuspecting soul.

He stopped the car just inside the gate, scanning the yard. Nothing to indicate an intruder, no tire tracks or footprints. And then, just as he stepped out into the snow, the front door swung open. A girl burst onto the porch, a tall, lean girl, graceful as a dancer, her heavy, dark hair instantly swept behind her by the wind. She stopped at the rail, waving her arms and calling out to him before he was even in earshot.

He paused in the slow wade across the yard and stared. His heart lunging against his ribcage, he jerked off his sunglasses, making absolutely sure his exhausted brain wasn't playing tricks on him.

"What on earth are you doing here?" He realized he sounded gruff, something he'd never been with her, but just now he wasn't sure whether he wanted to hug her until she squealed, or give her a good shaking.

Without so much as a hello, she grabbed his hand, dragging him across the porch. "Never mind that now!"

Following her through the door, not bothering to stamp the snow off his boots, his gaze swept the room, taking in the furniture chaotically strewn out of place, the rug rolled to one side, and a pallet of some sort on the floor beside the hearth. He stopped in his tracks, instinctively pulling back to halt her progress toward the motionless figure on the floor, a bloodied bandage wrapping his head.

He had never in all her life raised his voice to her, but the shock was too much. With each explosive word rebounding off the walls, he shouted, "What in the name of all that's holy is going on up here!"

You Before Me. . .

### Chapter One

December 20, 1967

It seemed to Emily that her father must have known. He must have read the misery in her eyes and drawing on what little strength remained, he'd roused himself to give her the benefit of his wisdom one last time.

Three barely discernible words, stammering and slurred, forced from his unwilling lips with such tremendous effort, yet they had spun a web of possibilities in her brain. She argued with herself that it was her own directionless longing that magnified those words, transforming them into what sounded like fundamental wisdom. She was grasping at straws in her need to find some way to put her life back on track. She had prayed for a sign, for clarity, for a miracle. What she received seemed to be a mere suggestion, a few words uttered by a man who might not even realize what he was saying. But she couldn't accept that. Her heart urged her to believe otherwise. In the end, she had followed her heart.

Now here she was, at home as she had never expected to be again, and she was certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that her father had sent her. Pop must have known the future she was blindly seeking lay in her past, in the dreams and plans that once appeared shattered but were in fact hers for the rebuilding. Had he known that once she walked back into the house, saw that it was waiting for her to return, she would understand what she was meant to do? Perhaps he'd merely been encouraging her to come back, to see what was here and decide what she wanted for herself. It would be like him to tell her to try something, and if it didn't work out, chalk it up to experience. Failure was most often in the hesitation, he'd always said.

It hadn't been quite that easy. She'd fought a protracted battle with her more practical side. There were obvious flaws in the logic of just coming here alone in search of answers to questions too painful to put into words. She would have to try to explain something she couldn't make sense of herself. She would have to stand firm against the arguments that the house had been closed up for years, that a nineteen-year-old girl had no business alone in such an isolated place, that she should be spending the holidays with friends, not closeting herself away to brood over the past. In the end, coming here without telling anyone seemed by far the easiest thing to do. That led to the question of where to tell them she was spending the Christmas break. They would all want to know, Jack, Angela, the kids at school, especially Penny, even Mike and Sara. She had handled that with what she knew to be a despicable lack of honesty.

She'd never believed herself capable of a convincing lie, but evasion had become second nature since she'd been at college. Reluctant to expose herself as a lonely girl without a family or a real home, she trained herself to skillfully evade the issue. She was sure her classmates considered her a snob, but she dreaded the idea of their pitying looks, or worse still, their thoughtless gossip. Rather they wonder what she was hiding than suspect her of seeking sympathetic attention. So when she was asked about her holiday plans, she glibly alluded to a ski trip with some hypothetical friends. To those back home, the friends were assumed to be classmates. To her classmates, and to Penny, they were old chums from her childhood. She never actually said where she was going, just that she'd been invited, and that wasn't quite a lie. She _had_ been invited, by a boy who persisted in showing an interest in her, a boy with a huge ego and an overabundance of confidence in his own charms, a boy she wouldn't have considered walking across the street with. But it had been an invitation. She hadn't lied about that.

She knew once she armed herself with enough arguments to go to Jack with her plan, she would have to confess her deception. And she would also eventually have to tell Penny the truth. But for now, it was enough to know her dishonesty had been justified. The idea planted by her father led her back to her home, her past, and back to herself. This night's epiphany had brought her into her future, and she could only hope the people who loved her would understand why she'd chosen to make the journey on her own.

The actual miracle occurred—and she had no doubt it was a miracle—when she'd stood beneath the stars and whispered her own name into the darkness. In the cold night wind, the fog that had for so long bound her mind began to clear, and she looked up to the sky, a broad black bowl over the valley filled with stars she hadn't seen in years. The wind rustling in the branches above her seemed to whisper words of calm and comfort, as if to say don't rush, take time to be very certain of each step.

She thought then of her father's words. "You," touching her hand with a trembling caress; "farm," shaking his head sadly. And finally, after what seemed a herculean struggle, "home." There had been tears in his eyes, as though it grieved him to have to remind her.

Looking up to the sky again, she felt the surge of her reviving spirit. Overhead, familiar constellations winked in place. A sliver of a moon hung low over the trees, too pale to compete with the brilliance of the stars. This would have been the perfect cinematic moment for a star to arc from its orbit and trail to the horizon, she mused. But nothing moved, save the gentle twinkling and one small cloud sailing just below the moon. This, she believed, was the sign she'd prayed for. The sky she'd gazed up at as a child was unchanged. The hills had not shifted their positions. The winter cold had arrived in the proper season. Some things, the most essential of things, remained constant. In her short life, so much had changed. So much that she'd almost been uprooted and lost herself. In this familiar place was the direction she'd been seeking, the peace and stability she craved. Had her parents been standing with her there, she could not have felt more confident of the path she saw opening before her.

What remained was accepting that with this decision came a binding commitment. This was more than merely taking possession of what was already hers. Any plan to return to this place, to make it her home and build her future here, would not only include the promise to care for the house and the land. She must also submit herself to be further shaped by what was here. Just as it belonged to her, she knew she belonged to the farm. She would not be free to go elsewhere. It would always need her care, her companionship. It would be her family, her responsibility. Maybe this was why Pop had been so sad. What if she hadn't wanted this?

There beneath the infinite expanse of the winter sky, mindful of all that had gone before, she made her commitment. She would come home, build on what her parents had established, dedicate herself to a life they would have wanted for her. She would work through the practical problems of her decision in the days ahead, holding firm to the belief that things meant to be could be made to happen. The failure of her plan would be in the hesitation to take this first step into her future. Her father had taught her better, and she intended to make him proud.

### ****

On her pallet next to the hearth, Emily slept more peacefully that night than she had in years. She dreamed of the house as it was when there had been the three of them together. In her dream, she heard the sound of music, the piano and the violin speaking as surely as the voices calling from room to room. She smelled freshly polished wood, sun-warmed roses and the alluring scent of baking bread. In every room, as she passed slowly through the house, surfaces gleamed in the sunlight and a sweet breeze stirred the curtains at the open windows. In the oak trees outside, birds sang and the fields beyond the barn were green with the summer's abundant crop. The house seemed to glow, renewed, reborn.

### ****

Daybreak brought the full force of harsh reality to bear. The first of those practical problems she'd been so sure could be worked through met her waking glance. The house was cold, her fire now barely glowing ashes, and from her vantage point by the hearth, she had a view of the dust coating every surface and the delicate webs laced across light fixtures and clinging in corners. The musty smell of neglect filled her nostrils with each breath. With a resolute groan, she threw off the covers and scurried to the kitchen. Soon the copper kettle was heating water for tea, and slices of buttered bread were toasting under the broiler. She'd never been afraid of hard work; in fact it always helped her think. There was enough work here to last for days, plenty of time to formulate her strategies and test her arguments. By the time the house was clean, she should be prepared to march into Jack's office and present her plan.

Jack. The image of his wise, weathered face brought a lump to her throat. More than her godfather, Jack had been her third parent. For another two years, he was also her legal guardian, the one person whose support was essential for her to move forward with her plans. Just convincing Jack she was no longer a child would take some doing. Persuading him she could actually come home, take over running the farm and live here on her own would take much more. Better to get busy doing something constructive than waste energy quaking at the thought of the moment when he realized she'd lied to him and sneaked up here practically under his nose. If hard work could help her think, then the more hard work the better.

She made a mental list of the chores to be done, but first, she wanted to take a walk. When she had arrived, just before dusk, she'd rushed to prepare for the night, carrying in her supplies and enough firewood to last until morning. Now she walked deliberately to the gate, opening it wide enough to let herself out into the drive. Slowly, in order to enjoy the full impact, she turned back to gaze across the lawn. It was an image she carried in her mind, as clear as any photograph; the solid frame house guarded by two ancient oaks, flanked by the big red barn to the east and the little timbered smokehouse to the west. A large, graceful house, with a deep porch and big dormers lined in perfect symmetry across the front, it sat close to the ground, as if rooted there over time. Seeing it now after so many months away, she thought it seemed a little sad, but not at all unwelcoming.

Mounted on the rail fence by the gate was the hand-painted sign first put in place by the farm's original owner, her father's uncle. He had christened his home Valley Rise Farm, a name carried on when her father inherited the property. Repainted numerous times over the years, the sign was again in need of refreshing, the paint now faded and chipping. Beneath the title, the name of "J. D. Haynes" had almost disappeared. She would make the sign a priority, she decided. As soon as she could get to the hardware store, she would buy paint and brushes and carefully restore it. It would announce to all comers that "Haynes" intended to carry on here.

Reentering the gate, she followed the drive to the back of the house. To the east, beyond the barn, the land dropped away steeply to a wooded hillside. Below the woods, she could just make out the tall brick chimneys of what was locally known simply as "the springs." A hundred years earlier, Charlotte Springs had been an elegant resort, the destination of wealthy vacationers who came for the cool summers and the waters of the deep sulfur springs. Now all that remained were crumbling foundations and the sentinel chimneys, and the road to the springs was closed to all but local traffic.

The barn and the rail-fenced paddock seemed unchanged, but beyond, to the west, the overgrown furrows were a forlorn reminder of how long it had been since the lush rows of the garden flourished. Five years now, since that final planting; her father had lost interest after that, allowing the land to go fallow.

As she strolled across the yard, a fat gray squirrel paused in his brisk rummaging among the leaves and stood watching suspiciously for a moment, before scurrying up the huge oak at the back of the house. From his perch, he chattered furiously down to her. The invitation was irresistible.

"Not used to sharing the place, are you?" Emily called up to him. "Well, I won't be here long this time, but you'd better be prepared for company, come summer. And by the way, how about keeping this yard a little neater? Anybody would think no one lived here!" The squirrel gave her the benefit of his bright, inquisitive gaze, finally turning to race up to the nest high above, bidding her farewell with a grand flourish of his tail.

Turning to survey the yard, with its mounds of windblown leaves and remnants of long-ago flower beds, she shook her head. Her mother would be horrified that things had been so neglected after the years of careful cultivation. The rose bushes she'd so prized, now gnarled and overgrown; the beds of azaleas and rhododendrons in dire need of pruning, and the brick-lined borders where in summers past bright annuals had bloomed, all now cluttered with several seasons' worth of weeds and debris. In and out of the tangled beds, wrens, sparrows and chickadees darted for their breakfast, and a pair of cardinals dove gracefully into the dark green haven of a juniper. Not deserted, she thought, just in need of a loving hand to bring back its former beauty.

After walking a full circle around the house, checking for broken windows or loose shutters, she decided the house had fared amazingly well. A good cleaning and it would be almost as good as new. Of course it hadn't been new in almost seventy years, but it had been gently used, and in her lifetime, at least, much loved. A little of the same kind of attention should bring it back to life. With one last sweeping view of her surroundings, she drew a deep breath of the cold, clean air and squared her shoulders. Time now for some real work.

First checking the level of the fuel oil tank, she was satisfied she could safely raise the thermostat above the fifty-degree chill that greeted her last night. With the furnace humming along, her next chore would be getting water to the house. The pipes had been drained for winter two years ago. She would have to forego the luxury of running water. Her only hope, short of crawling into the root cellar to locate the proper valve in the maze of plumbing, would be to haul water from the pump by the barn. Bucket in hand, she approached the rusted relic braced for a fight. After several minutes of slowly forcing the handle, screwing up her face at the screeching protest, she was rewarded with a gasp of air, followed by a gurgle of dirty sludge spewing into the trough below. A few more strokes and she let out a triumphant howl as clear water began to flow. Filling the bucket, she carried it with careful steps to the house, repeating the procedure a half-dozen times, until satisfied the supply would last the day.

Pleased with her accomplishments so far, she turned her attention to digging for any cleaning supplies left behind. Crawling under the kitchen sink, she pulled out a plastic bucket filled with carefully organized brushes, sponges and rags. A box of baking soda, a jug of bleach and a somewhat cloudy bottle of pine-scented cleaner completed the kit she'd always carried from room to room. Digging deeper, she located a can of lemon oil, the only acceptable substance for polishing her mother's prized antiques. In the pantry she found the mop and broom, propped in their usual corner beside the ancient vacuum cleaner.

For the next two hours, Emily cleaned her house. It was an amazingly celebratory experience. As she worked her way across the long front room, she was convinced that with every pass of the vacuum wand, with every stroke of her dust cloth, the colors in the room came to life. The warm brick red of the drapes, the mossy green of the velvet couch, even the cabbage roses on the wing chairs glowed, once relieved of the layer of dust that had settled on every surface. Each small treasure she held in her hand to polish was returned to its place with a renewed presence, as if in response to her touch. By the time she stopped for lunch, the mustiness of neglect was banished, replaced by the warm scent of burning wood and the faintest hints of lavender and lemon.

From the hearth, flanked by glass-fronted bookshelves, to the west end of the room that was home to her mother's piano, the room seemed restored. As in her dream, the wood floors gleamed and the tabletops shone from a fresh coat of oil. Going to the piano, she carefully removed the dust cover. The ebony surface, smooth and cold, reflected the sunlight from the nearby window. Hesitantly, she opened the cover and touched a key with one finger. It might well have suffered from the cold and damp of the closed house, but she would contact the tuner who'd come regularly when her mother was alive. Emily herself could play only the most elementary of tunes, but the beloved instrument deserved to be maintained. With one more timid note, she closed the cover over the keyboard, passing her hand across the satiny wood in a tender caress.

Lined on the shelves along one wall, the extensive collection of recordings and the stereo purchased not long before her mother's death caught her attention. Hesitating for only an instant, she approached and after running her finger along the rows of jackets, drew one from its slot. Vivaldi's Four Seasons was precisely the sound she wanted filling the house today. Soon the chiming strings shattered the silence, invading every corner with glorious music. Collecting her rags and broom, she marched off to the kitchen to prepare her lunch.

### ****

After a quick sandwich and the promise of something hot for supper, Emily stood in the center of the room, surveying her handiwork. It would be all too easy, she knew, to sit down and enjoy the afternoon, listen to music, browse the bookshelves for old friends. "Coward," she prodded. "What are you afraid of?" Turning herself firmly toward the half-open door of the guestroom, she forced her steps in that direction. Last night she'd gone in just long enough to pick out the quilts for her pallet, choosing the least precious from her mother's collection stored on the shelves of the wardrobe. Certain she wasn't ready to sleep in this room, she'd chosen instead to make her bed on the floor by the hearth, arguing that she needed to stay near the warmth of the fire.

Now she opened the door wide, and going in, drew back the drapes to let in the streaming sunlight. It was a beautiful room, with pale yellow walls and blue and white toile draperies. The mahogany sleigh bed was another of her mother's antique treasures, as was the imposing walnut wardrobe. This elegant room had been reserved for those rare occasions when friends or relatives from far away visited the farm. In this room, her mother had slowly died that long summer five years ago. If there were ghosts in the house, Emily thought they would surely be here. Not only the ghost of her mother, but that of her father as well, keeping his hopeless vigil at her side. But she didn't believe in ghosts. Memories were haunting enough, she knew.

In the light of day, as she slowly turned to take in the entire room, she told herself it was really just four walls, filled with fine furnishings and nothing more. Try as she might, she could no longer honestly picture her mother in this room. She might be out there at the piano, an intensely focused expression on her lovely face, or perhaps sitting in the porch swing, her eyes closed as she listened to music through the open window on a warm afternoon. In this room, there was nothing but quiet calm, a welcoming sense of comfort. Going to the bed, she tenderly smoothed the white matelasse coverlet. Maybe, in another day or so, she could sleep in this bed. But today, she could open the windows and let the cold fresh air blow away the lingering scent of old sachets. Today she could sweep aside the last of the memories, move a chair, rearrange the pictures on the wall. One day at a time, living in this room would push back the past, making space for the future. With a squaring of her shoulders, she went to gather her supplies.

To complete the final chore on her list, she rolled up her sleeves and heated water in a stockpot. Throwing open the windows, armed with hot water and bleach, she attacked the two bathrooms, scouring tile and fixtures, wiping down walls and mopping floors upstairs and down. Her father had remodeled the rooms during her childhood, but the old claw-foot tubs remained, lending their charm to the bright spaces. When porcelain and chrome gleamed from her efforts, and the black and white tiles shone like new, she was convinced the house was glad to have her back.

At the end of the day, she longed for a hot soak in the depth of one of the tubs; her arms and back ached from unaccustomed labor. But the best she could do was a quick sponge bath at the kitchen sink, punctuated with cries of "brr" and "ugh" as lukewarm water met bare skin. She brushed out her hair and shampooed away the dust. As she dressed in her nightclothes, glad of her heavy flannel robe, she congratulated herself on having been truly content all day. No fog, no depression, even when confronted by the past at every turn.

For her supper, she'd opened a variety of cans from her stock of provisions—beans, tomatoes and corn, pouring the contents into a pot and adding a handful of rice. Now she lifted the lid to savor the aroma of her stew. Ladling a generous bowlful, she carried it into the front room. Seated at the table by the window, she ate, watching as the final red glimmer of daylight faded from the wintry sky. When the last drop was consumed, she took a notepad from the table's drawer. She would make a list, map out her strategy and plan her maneuvers. All day, shreds of argument and logic had been darting through her brain. It was time to get serious, before she was caught off guard and found herself tongue-tied and defenseless.

While she knew Jack's support was essential to her success, she would need other allies, Mike and Sara McConnell in particular. They were the ones who made it possible for her to stay on through her senior year of high school, who guided her during the confusing months following her father's stroke. When J.D. was admitted to a nursing home in Charlottesville, Mike and Sara had taken Emily into their home in the parsonage. With two sons, one a classmate of Emily's, the other four years older and just entering the Army, they provided a family environment, which Jack, as a bachelor, could not have done.

Sara had been so kind, so watchful, when Emily suddenly became part of her household, making every effort to see she had the privacy a girl her age needed. She understood and encouraged Emily's wish to visit the farm, to put things in order after her father's abrupt departure, helping her pack and clear the house, preparing it for an uncertain future. Mike offered Emily a sounding board, guiding her toward acceptance of the changes in her life in the context of her already well-developed faith. As her father's long-time friend, he shared her grief and understood her frustration at facing a future where the man they'd known was now so cruelly disabled.

Mike and Sara would understand her need to come home. Whether they would agree she was mature enough to take on so much responsibility, she couldn't be sure. But their support could serve as added ammunition against whatever doubts Jack might have about her readiness to live on her own.

Then there was Angela to consider. Where Jack would debate the wisdom of her plan with rock solid logic, her godmother would most like respond emotionally, with the sort of fiercely intense approach she took to everything in her life, from her music to her family. It seemed if her heart told her to do a thing, no matter how illogical, Angela did it. While her instincts usually proved to be wise in the end, there were often heated arguments or torrents of tears along the way. With her Italian husband, Sal, she frequently engaged in furious debates, before the predictably passionate reconciliation. Even with her teenaged daughter, Lil, the similarities between the two led to endless wrangling over the most trivial issues, generally concluding with Angela's taking the day.

The thought of seeking Angela's approval set Emily's stomach quivering and effectively cleared her mind of any and all coherent arguments. She might be able to stand up to Jack's reason, but she knew she was no match for Angela. The vision of Angela's dark eyes flashing as she bluntly spelled out the obvious made her cringe and retreat. No, she would go to Angela only if and when she knew she'd won over Jack. Emily believed Angela would likely accept a _fait accompli_ with good grace. She was a loving godmother and a caring ally. But she would much prefer informing Angela of her plans, rather than attempting to enlist her help.

She knew she'd been blessed initially by her parents' choice of Jack and Angela as her godparents, and further by her father's appointment of Jack as her guardian. They'd been closely involved in her upbringing, and remained faithful to her through all the changes. They were the only family she had now. The challenge would be convincing them she was ready to at least try life on her own terms.

She looked down the list of fragmented ideas on her notepad and shook her head sadly. There was nothing here that would stand up to the loving objections she could anticipate from the very people she needed most on her side. It would take clear thinking and firm resolve to face arguments which might make perfect sense to her mind, but were in complete opposition to what her heart told her was right.

Fighting the specter of inevitable defeat, Emily went through the house turning off lights, ending up before the hearth with only the firelight illuminating the room. Brushing her still damp hair, she tried to lull herself into a state of calm. Prayer, she knew, would order her mind and still her fears. But to pray, she needed to quiet her racing thoughts and banish the rising anxiety fueling them. She'd always found strength in her confidence that God was somehow involved in her day-to-day living, watching over her every step. Through all the challenges and the changes, her faith had held her fears in check. There was no reason this time would be any different. This assurance she felt, that she was making the right choice, that in fact God had guided her toward it, should be proof she would find the strength and courage she needed to go forward.

There by the fireside, in the absolute stillness of the night, the simple words of wisdom came stealing into her thoughts. Have faith, be still and let God be God.

### Chapter Two

Crawling into the back of the limo, Stani huddled in a corner, closing his eyes behind the lenses of his sunglasses. If he could only be still for a bit, he told himself firmly, he might yet avoid being sick. His head was exploding now and waves of nausea threatened to ultimately humiliate him. Robert, his dark face devoid of expression, gently closed the car door and slid in behind the wheel. Turning back to his passenger, he offered a bottle of mineral water and a hairbrush. "Young sir," he said softly, "you'll be needing these I think."

Stani opened one eye to accept them, pressing the cool bottle against his burning cheek. "Thank you, Robert. And thank you for waiting." He was relieved it had been Robert, and not one of the car service drivers, who'd been asked to wait. Officially Milo's chauffeur, Robert had been with them since their arrival in New York. He was by now a member of their already irregular family, although Stani knew the idea would have been resisted by both Milo and Robert. But just as he relied on Milo and Jana to keep his days and nights from running to chaos, he also depended on Robert, who'd gone far beyond his assigned duties on more occasions than Stani liked to recall. Laying the hairbrush aside, he mused that Robert would never permit him to exit his car looking like something picked out of the gutter. As soon as his head stopped pounding, he would try to bring some order to his damp hair.

The car began to gain speed on the freeway and he tried to relax, hoping to fall asleep. Five hours to DC should be long enough to see him back on his feet. If only he could get Milo's voice out of his head. Never in all their years together had he shouted like that. Oh, Milo might get very angry with him at times, but his voice tended to be ominously soft on those occasions.

When the phone had rung, Stani was sprawled on the floor, having apparently fallen just short of the bed on his return home. He had no idea what time that might have been, but he was sure he'd only been asleep for a few minutes. He stared at the phone, unable to convince his body to respond. But it had gone on ringing until the pain in his head prompted him to at least attempt to make it stop.

He tried to force a normal greeting; one never knew who might be calling. But Milo had known, as he always knew, the nature of Stani's condition. He'd gone off immediately, demanding to know if Stani realized the car was waiting downstairs. Of course he didn't know! How was he to know what his day's schedule might be? That was what Milo saw to every day of his life. It was then he remembered. Milo wasn't there. He was in Aspen. He and Jana had taken their first vacation together in ten years, leaving Stani to go to Washington alone.

Milo was still shouting over the phone, "Stani, you must pull yourself together! Do you understand me?" As always when upset, his accent seemed more pronounced, clipped and authoritative.

"All right! I understand! Can you call the driver back, ask him to give me ten minutes? Ask him to wait. Please!" Suddenly afraid he might start to cry, he bit his lip, hard.

Dropping the receiver, Stani ran his hands through his hair, twisting his fingers into the curls and pulling. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but it might help him to focus. He took a deep breath, smelled the stench of cigarette smoke—and maybe vomit?—in his sweater, and bile rose in his throat. Struggling to his feet, he stripped off his clothes, stumbling toward the bathroom. Somehow, in the next few minutes, he managed to shower, brush his teeth and dress. Grabbing his bag, packed by the ever-thoughtful Jana before her own departure yesterday, he'd nearly reached the door when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the violin case. With a muttered oath, he snatched it up, slinging the strap over his shoulder, and jerked open the door, coming face to face with Mamie, her key in hand, a look of supreme disapproval in her knowing brown eyes.

With a sputtered apology, he pushed past her. "So sorry, Mamie. I'm late, of course!"

"You're right about that, Young Stani. Robert is standing at the curb." He was aware of the slow shake of the housekeeper's head as she watched him race toward the closing elevator doors. As he stood impatiently waiting for the next car, he turned back with what he hoped was a winning grin. "Don't worry about the mess I left. I'll take care of it when I get back." The effort of the words and of bending his face into a smile had been too much. He tasted bile again as he got on the elevator, thankful it was unoccupied. Mamie would clean his room, he knew, but at least he'd made the gesture. Like Robert, Mamie could be counted on to cover his tracks, although she rarely let him off without a mild scolding.

When the elevator doors opened on the lobby, he was blinded by the blaze of sunlight, and groped for the sunglasses he could only hope were in his pocket. They might be considered part of his celebrity disguise, but they were essential protection after the kind of indulgence he'd enjoyed last night. The banging in his head escalating with every step, he sped past the waiting doorman and dashed gratefully for the car, aware of Robert's solicitous nod.

### ****

Stani shifted his position, stretching his legs across the seat and trying to find a more stable resting place for his head. No longer panicked and angry with himself, now he was overwhelmed with shame. He was sure Jana would have been standing there by the phone, would have heard their conversation. His pathetic idiocy had spoiled their much anticipated vacation. It seemed he always understood, after the fact, how destructive his behavior had become. He just couldn't seem to remember by the next time he'd had a drink or two.

He'd fallen in love in recent months. Fine Scotch whisky had become his passion, the object of his obsession. He adored everything about it, from its amber glow in the glass, to the slow warmth spreading through his body as it went down. And of course, he loved the release of tension which followed soon after. Whisky made the clubs and parties he frequented seem so much friendlier; made him friendlier, more at ease around people with whom he had nothing in common. The only drawback to this relationship was the fact he never felt completely comfortable until he'd had too much to drink. He was dedicated to finding just the right balance between having a pleasant time and falling down drunk, but in the process, he seemed to always go too far.

Stani knew he'd inherited this love of whisky from his father. It was probably the only thing they had in common. He seemed to recall his father also having been some sort of musician, but that might just be something he'd made up as a child. He'd at various times invented stories about his father and mother, which he kept mostly to himself. Since he had so few memories of his early life, he filled in the details as best he could. His parents had been real at some point he knew, but he suspected the people he invented were much more interesting. A schoolmaster's secretary and an absent drunkard hardly measured up to the fantasy parents he'd given himself.

Again, Stani made a conscious effort to relax. He should feel right at home sleeping in the back of a car. He did it often enough. His life was one long line of endless cars, trains and airplanes, all going to or from equally endless concert halls. But somehow he never felt at home anywhere anymore. Only when he was standing before the lights, sensing if not seeing the faces turned up in anticipation, did he feel anything like his old self, the shy little boy who could make people like him just by playing his violin.

It was legend now, the discovery of that little boy's talent. He suspected that just as he had made up stories about his first few years of life, some of the details now printed in liner notes had been embellished over time. But he remembered, or thought he remembered, that day clearly. It had, after all, been a day of many firsts for him. The first time he held a violin, the first time his teachers seemed to take notice of him, and most of all the first time his mother seemed pleased with something he had done.

When he was five years old, his mother had enrolled him at the school where she worked as secretary to the headmaster. It was one of those elite schools popping up all over England, designed to attract upwardly mobile young parents in search of a more modern sort of education for their children. Eileen Moss could never have hoped to enroll little Stanley in such a school, had her position not allowed for a sizable break in the tuition.

A quiet, obedient child, Stanley received little attention or encouragement from his various teachers. In such an unstructured environment, it was the more lively students who commanded the most attention. Naturally shy, and well aware he was only there because his mother was just down the hall working, Stanley felt much of the time as if he were invisible. And he preferred it that way. He knew very well how to avoid drawing attention to himself. He had learned that trick early on, literally at his mother's feet.

Then one morning his class had been taken to the orchestra room. Too young to begin that type of instruction, they were merely on a field trip to see what they could look forward to in years to come. As the teachers fought to maintain order, protecting the instruments and music stands from their eager charges, Stanley caught sight of a violin. He knew its name because he'd seen a man playing one on a television screen in the furniture shop window near their flat. When he'd asked his mother what the man was doing, she had explained pointedly that he was a very smart man who had studied hard and now made a great deal of money playing his violin.

He remembered clearly the lightness of the instrument when he'd picked it up, the coolness of the wood as he'd tucked it under his chin. He had drawn the bow over the strings several times, then handed the violin to the nearest instructor, saying in his shy, soft voice, "It's wrong."

"That's only because you don't know how it works." The teacher had smiled, he recalled, and he'd been afraid she might laugh at him. Instead, she tuned the violin and handed it back to him. "Try again. See if you like it better."

He had indeed tried again, proceeding, after a few peremptory notes, to play several measures of a song he'd heard over the radio. When he finished, he looked up timidly to see if the teacher had been listening. There was an astonished look on her face; he wondered for a moment if she'd been struck by one of the children racing about among the music stands. "Stanley, can you do that again?" She was motioning to the other teachers in the room, urging them to come over. Always eager to please, he'd repeated the song note for note, inspired to add a little flourish at the end.

Suddenly, it seemed, although it must have been at least a few minutes, for his mother and the Master had been called to the room, he found himself in the center of a circle of smiling adults, all talking in hushed voices. Never mind that the other children were tearing about, yelling and screaming, sending music stands and chairs crashing to the floor. Everyone who mattered was hovering over him and talking, if not exactly to him, at least about him. His mother had a peculiar look on her face, almost as if she might cry. For the first time in his life, he sensed he'd done something to make her proud of him.

From that day on, his young life was centered on the violin. He was taken from one instructor to another, never staying with one for very long. It seemed after a few months, each one admitted to his mother that he'd learned all they had to teach him. Finally, his mother plucked up the courage to make an appointment with a prominent concertmaster. When he saw that she'd brought her little boy and his violin, he seemed about to leave the room without even talking to her. But after some pleading, he agreed to hear the boy play. After that day, Stanley began to study with a lady who had, his mother explained, taught many of the great violinists he heard playing over the radio. He learned quickly that she was not so easily impressed as the others. He had to work hard for even the faintest praise. And he did work, learning and practicing more and more music, until he could play for hours without playing the same piece twice.

At some point during this time, Stanley changed his name. He'd really done it himself, with his childish inability to pronounce his name properly. His mother often called him Stanny, like Danny, because that was what he called himself. When she read about a concert featuring a pianist named Stanislav, she was inspired to change the spelling in an uncharacteristic moment of imagination. Little Stanley Moss from East London became Stani Moss, a violin prodigy who might have been from anywhere, she said.

When he was eight years old, his mother took him to meet a man recommended by his teacher. An agent, she explained, would help him learn how to make money playing his violin. Milo Scheider, by that time, had already built a modest reputation in London. He'd assembled a small stable of artists, including his wife Jana, an accomplished pianist. Several of his flock had achieved notice with a recording of chamber music and toured the British Isles. Milo was in search of a soloist, someone young, who might attract the attention of a wider audience. What he found was Stani Moss. The pale, solemn boy, small for his age, with the perpetual curl of red hair falling over his eyes, was hardly what he envisioned, but after hearing him play, Milo knew this child was precisely what he needed to ensure a comfortable future. Not that he would ever exploit the boy strictly for his own gain. Milo was not without ethics. He talked gently with Stani about what would be expected if he chose to come to work with him. He explained that he wanted only what would be best for Stani and his mother. And Stani seemed to understand that Milo would be easily pleased if he just did as instructed. He'd never had a male figure in his life, and he was especially eager to win over this man, with his elegant clothes and his strange accent. They shook hands, the little boy and the man, and agreed to form a partnership. Each would work hard for the other, and together they would be able to make many people happy, just by letting them listen to Stani play his violin.

Before many months passed, Milo and Jana sat down with Stani's mother and persuaded her it would be more convenient if Stani were living with them. He could be tutored at home; his life would be more easily structured, rather than having to be rushed from school to lessons and back each day. It hadn't been difficult to convince her. After working all this time for what she hoped might turn out to be a good thing for them both, she was tired and ready for a little less structure herself. She was proud of Stani's talent, but he was still someone she was required to feed and care for. While she wanted what was best for her son, she understood she was not the person to get it for him. With only a little regret, she signed the documents giving Milo Scheider legal guardianship of her son.

Stani was secure for the first time in his life, sure of what to do to be loved. He missed his mother, but did not miss the feeling of always falling short, of never being quite what she wanted. Now with Milo and Jana, he felt an important part of something. He would never have asked to go back to live with his mother. He liked it when people mistook him for Milo's son, and he would gladly have lied and said he was indeed Stani Scheider.

### ****

Stani woke as the car began to merge into the heavy DC traffic. He tapped Robert on the shoulder, giving him the OK sign in the rear view mirror, which he would understand to mean he was ready to go straight to the rehearsal hall. Spotting the hairbrush, he attacked his hair, trying to bring the tangled waves under control. He was hungry, but knew there would be fruit and juice backstage for the musicians. He felt stronger, his head clearer now. He could still prove to Milo that he was capable of doing something on his own. He wasn't a child anymore. At some point he would need to learn to fend for himself, without Milo always there to point him in the right direction.

As soon as Robert wheeled the car up to the stage door, Stani jumped out and bounded up the steps. As if by magic, the door opened, he was ushered inside and relieved of his overcoat. He gulped down the requested glass of orange juice and unpacked his violin. He knew they'd been waiting for him, he was over an hour late; but he was greeted with applause when he strode onto the stage. He saluted the assembled musicians with a flourish of his bow, flashing a smile, and firmly shook the extended hand of the conductor, who fondly clapped him on the back. It was all part of the ritual, the acknowledgment, the greeting and finally the tap of the baton. Shaking his hair from his eyes, he tucked the violin, took a deep breath and waited.

Every thought in his mind fell away, leaving only the music, the swirl of energy from the musicians behind him, the gentle swaying of the conductor as he glanced his way, drawing him into the tempo. At last he was home, the place in which he would find the greatest joy and the sweetest peace. Every performance was an intensely spiritual experience; for though he had no formal religion, Stani had early come to recognize a force outside himself, profoundly present in music. It seemed to surround him, lift him away from the small, ugly places in his life. In the midst of music, he found the assurance of communion with his better self.

When the music ended, he was breathless and drained, but at the same time euphoric. That feeling might last for hours, but he knew eventually it would fade, leaving a void of longing and restlessness. Why couldn't he get to someplace in between, somewhere neither high nor low? How could he be certain the next time he played, he would be able to reach that incredibly sweet place again? As his arms fell to his sides, he dropped his head. With bow and violin in his hands, he brought them together on his chest, standing poised for several moments as though deep in prayer.

As he acknowledged the applause of the orchestra members, now on their feet, and accepted the conductor's embrace, he looked around for Milo. Where was he to go from here? Slowly, the memory of the morning returned. He was alone, on his own. He tried to remember what hotel he was to stay in, how he was to travel around the city for the next two days. They had discussed it, he and Milo. He'd been given his instructions, but now he couldn't recall the details.

Stepping out of the stage door into the sunlight, he was greeted by the miraculous sight of Robert standing next to the limo waiting for him. Of course, Robert would have his schedule, make certain he wasn't late or in the wrong location. Maybe he could have figured out something himself, but it was comforting to know there was someone watching his back. If he meant to prove anything to Milo, he couldn't afford to slip up now.

He would go to his hotel, eat and rest, even practice a little. He'd even avoid the hotel bar, order room service and go to bed early. Milo would be amazed when he listened to the concert over the radio on Christmas Eve. He would be proud of Stani for having turned this potential disaster into a glorious success.

### Chapter Three

The sun was already well up when Emily woke. For a while, she remained on the floor next to the barely glowing remnants of the fire, gazing at the shaft of light between the drapes. No bright sunshine this morning, and judging by the dampness in the cold room, there would be heavy clouds in the sky. The day of hard work, and the peace that had finally come in response to her prayers, had combined to ease her into a deep, dreamless sleep unlike any she'd known in quite some time. No need to hurry back to consciousness, she thought, stretching gently beneath the quilts. No one to jar her from her bed, no place to rush to, only another day at home.

Today, she knew she would not be anxious, she would not try to think her way to a solution. Today, she would watch expectantly, welcoming whatever came, knowing it was part of the design for her life. Not her own narrow-sighted plan, but a much grander scheme which would be revealed in its proper time. There had been signs and miracles enough already to convince her this journey involved much more than she could comprehend. Today she would eagerly greet the future, accept the challenges, and watch for more signs to lead her forward.

She smiled, drawing the covers closer around her ears. That sounded much more like something her mother would have said. Her mother, who ran out to meet adversity head on, armed with only her passion for living and her faith in a loving God; she'd found some cause for joy in every day, packed as much living as possible into every hour. Emily had always thought herself too down-to-earth compared to her mother's effervescence, wishing she had less of her father's practicality and more of her mother's free spirit. Maybe there was hope for her after all.

Finally crawling out from the warmth, she prodded the fire back to life and dressed quickly in the relative warmth of the bathroom's little electric heater. Urging up the dial on the thermostat, she peered out at the heavy gray clouds moving slowly across the valley. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she switched on the radio which had always sat on the kitchen counter, and tuned to the local AM station. She caught the last few words of the forecast as the set came to life.

". . .heavy accumulations possible."

"Ooh, that sounds ominous," she answered. "And exciting." The idea of being cocooned here by a winter storm, the wind howling and snowdrifts piling up outside the door, held a certain romantic appeal. It also called for some hasty measures to ensure she didn't romantically freeze to death.

Leaving the radio on as she ate her breakfast, she chuckled at the simplicity of the local reports of holiday gatherings and livestock for sale. An ad from the hardware store for snow-blowers, now in stock, reminded her that she'd best be prepared and she made a mental list. Water, wood, light and a means to get out once the storm was over. Bundling into her coat and gloves, winding her muffler up around her ears, she began by hauling in more firewood from the little lean-to shed, stacking it on the back porch. She knew she had her father to thank for the generous supply, which he'd put in that last spring when a tree near the gate had fallen. He'd lamented the loss of the old tree, but accepted it as a gift that would warm the house during the winter to come. Two years later, it was serving her well.

Repeatedly taking the bucket to the pump, she filled every available pot, even pouring several bucketfuls into the tub in the first floor bathroom. In the barn, after some searching in dim, cobweb-hung corners, she located the snow shovel, standing it next to the back door in readiness. She rummaged the kitchen drawers until she discovered a bundle of plain white candles, stowed away for just such an event. With her own supply of fresh matches, at least she was assured of enough light to move around the house in the darkness if the storm took down the power lines.

Satisfied she was as ready as she could be, she waited for a repeat of the weather forecast. At last, with suitable solemnity, the local broadcaster announced that a major winter storm was predicted for the entire listening area. Residents were advised to make preparations today, as the storm was expected to move in during the overnight hours. High winds, sleet and snow were anticipated over the next forty-eight hours. Law enforcement agencies were warning holiday travelers to leave immediately or postpone travel until the storm had passed.

At the conclusion of the forecast, she turned the radio's dial to the FM station broadcasting from the University in Charlottesville. A Radio Theater production of Dickens' A Christmas Carol was in progress. Leaving it playing, she browsed the cabinets for potential candle holders. In the pantry, her search was rewarded with the discovery of an oil lamp, its base full of golden liquid. This she carried to the front room, placing it on the table by the window. It could be safely burned at night, and would give off much better light than the candles.

Her plan had been to continue cleaning today; and now that she was prepared for the storm, she put herself to work in the dining room. She'd always loved this room, with its big bay window and built-in china cabinet. The long table and delicate chairs were part of her mother's legacy from her French grandmother, as were the china and silver. The cabinet was packed with stores of crystal and linens, all treasures the family used frequently, inventing special occasions to warrant celebration.

Smiling at the memories, Emily acknowledged there had been happy times here, in spite of her mother's always delicate health. Her mother had insisted life was to be lived to the fullest, every good day a cause for celebration. Even the days when pain slowed her pace or confined her to the house were spent in the company of her family. They had shared everything, spending hours just talking, reading, and playing games together, music always the background for every activity. For most of those years, there had been enough good days to offset the bad.

Gently dusting the gilt frame of the huge mirror above the sideboard, Emily paused to consider her reflection in the glass. While she wasn't dissatisfied with her looks, she would have preferred to be more like her mother. As it was, other than her pale gray eyes, she knew she was the image of her father. Her heavy dark hair, high forehead and straight nose were definitely his, as was the generous mouth that seemed to habitually curve up at the corners. She was tall and slim, as her mother had been, but she feared her angles rather than curves were more like her father. She looked well enough. Boys seemed to be initially attracted by her looks until they found out she had no interest in allowing them to paw over her.

### ****

After lunch, a bowl of last night's stew, she turned her attention to the kitchen. The classical music broadcast kept her company, filling the room with the voices of holiday choirs and familiar carols. She sang along, as she took down the muslin curtains and washed the windows, watching the gathering clouds moving ever lower on the distant ridge. In the yard, a flock of wrens dove in and out of the flower beds and her friend the squirrel, joined by his mate, rustled through the leaves. Otherwise, everything was still; not even a breeze stirred, as if the wind were resting, gathering its strength. The stillness seemed an ominous sign the valley was bracing for whatever Mother Nature had in store.

When she'd scrubbed all the cabinet doors and counter tops, polished the range and refrigerator until she could see her face in the surfaces and mopped the floor twice for good measure, she rested at the kitchen table, sipping tea and browsing through the collection of cookbooks which first introduced her to what had become a passionate obsession with food. Four-color prints of towering layer cakes, glistening meringue-topped pies and rows of perfect cookies made her mouth water. But at the sight of a succulent standing rib roast nestled on its platter with gleaming red-skinned potatoes and tiny fingers of orange carrots, she let out a moan of exasperated longing.

When the storm had passed, she vowed, she would drive into town, announce her intentions to Jack, and drop a hefty wad of cash at the market. She would prepare a feast, invite her allies, and renew her relationship with the old range, the scene of so many culinary triumphs in the past.

Laughing, she closed the cookbook and replaced it on the pantry shelf. Enough torture for now. She surveyed her remaining stock of cans, took ham and cheese from the refrigerator and decided a soup and sandwich supper would just have to do. If only her appetite were not so keen, and her tastes so well-developed; but a lifetime fascination with food, the preparation and the eating, had spoiled her for plain fare. She mixed a can of peas and carrots with one of chicken noodle soup, and grilled her ham and cheese sandwich in butter. Not exactly gourmet; but soon, she promised herself, there would be better meals on this old table.

Tuning the radio back to the local station, she sat at the kitchen table hoping for an updated weather forecast. The evening news was under way, and after a few moments, she switched off the set. She'd taken an informal vow to avoid the news while here. The events of the past several years, the seemingly endless conflict in Southeast Asia, social and civil unrest, political tragedies and violence had wearied her interest in what consumed so many of her fellow students. Political debate and activism were as much a part of campus life as classes and labs. She needed a break from the constant, unsettling conversation. Turning off the radio was a temporary but highly effective means of tuning out the grim and confusing reality of the world outside her valley.

Darkness came early, and she dressed for bed, prepared to spend her evening with old friends who resided between the covers of long-ago-read books. Her worn copy of "Jane Eyre" fit the bill. The gloomy weather called for something equally Gothic. As she read, she found herself listening, waiting for the first sounds of the approaching storm.

It would be a white Christmas, she realized. So unlike any Christmas here in years past, when there would by now have been a glowing tree next to the window, and the scent of evergreens throughout the house. Perhaps tomorrow she would search out the boxes of decorations, at least find the crèche figures and spread them across the room as she had done as a child. There was no reason she couldn't celebrate Christmas this year. In fact there was every reason to celebrate.

She dozed by the fire for a time, waking with a start. Somewhere a window rattled sharply. The wind had risen; the storm was moving in. Peering out into the darkness, she could see nothing beyond her own reflection in the glass. The lure was irresistible. She opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, drawing her robe tightly around her. Immediately the wind swept her hair behind her, and she smelled the icy promise on the air. The sky was thick and black, the clouds so low she could sense them, just above the treetops.

This was just the set of circumstances Jack and Angela would have cautioned her against. Here alone, no means of communicating with the outside world. She should be anxious, at the very least, for her own comfort and safety. Instead, she found herself hoping it would snow for days and days, burying her here where no one could interrupt her enjoyment of this homecoming. She craved more time to reacquaint herself with the house, the books, the music, even the furniture and the treasures in cupboards and closets. The storm offered the perfect opportunity to just be here, alone, to reestablish herself in the house away from watchful eyes.

She turned back inside from the frosty darkness, closing the door firmly against the wind. Going through the house, she made sure of candles and matches in every room, ready when needed. She would sleep here by the fire again tonight. Somehow her pallet on the floor had become the most restful place in the house. Her own bedroom upstairs, just across the landing from the one her parents had shared, held too many memories to be faced quite yet. And the guest room continued to feel more like a shrine, to be preserved for just a little longer.

Snuggling between the quilts, she turned on her side to gaze into the flames. Tomorrow, while the storm raged, she would bring a little Christmas to the house and prepare herself to greet the Christ Child. Another day or two here alone, and she would make her move. By the time the snow melted, she would be ready to go into town, talk to Jack and get on with her life at last.

### Chapter Four

When Stani checked into his hotel, the desk clerk handed him two phone messages. One was from Jana, letting him know she and Milo were taking a train ride over the mountains this evening and would be away from a phone until tomorrow morning. She added that she knew he would be wonderful in Washington, and to take care of himself. The other message was from Betsy. She said only that she needed to hear from him right away, and included two numbers. He was to keep trying until he got through to her.

Going to his suite, he immediately dialed room service, ordering steak and potatoes and a pot of tea. He was feeling a bit faint from hunger and his head had begun to ache again. Looking at Betsy's message, he tried the first number. It was busy. The second number reached her answering service. He left a message saying he'd tried to call, along with the direct number to his room. He couldn't imagine how she'd tracked him down. Or maybe she'd been at the party last night and he'd told her his plans? He couldn't remember. And he had no idea why she'd be so anxious to talk to him. He didn't hear from her often anymore. They seemed to end up at the same parties, but she was always hanging on the arm of some fellow or other. He had to admit he was curious to know what sort of scrape she'd gotten herself into now.

The year Stani turned fourteen Milo had moved them from London to New York. He felt it would be the best place to launch Stani's solo career, when the time was right. He enrolled Stani in a performing arts high school in Manhattan where for the first time in years he found himself among kids his own age. He'd been terrified, especially by the girls.

Betsy Mason was a year or two older, and she'd taken pity on the awkward little boy who seemed to be afraid of everyone and everything. Betsy was a self-described Broadway Baby. While Stani was enrolled in string and orchestra classes, along with music history and composition, Betsy was studying voice, dance and acting. She'd already appeared in a Broadway musical, when she'd been only seven. Now she was preparing for ingénue roles, spending grueling hours in tap and jazz classes, learning to sing in the style of the latest sensations currently starring on the New York stages. Her mother was acting as her agent and life at home was far from peaceful.

Betsy had taken Stani under her wing, letting him know the girls all thought he was super cute, with his amazing red hair and his cool British accent. He was pretty sure she was teasing him, but he took to meeting her in the canteen at lunchtime anyway. There she told him the latest gossip and shared her anguish at being dragged to auditions by her mother. They were just friends. Stani knew she didn't expect him to hold her hand or try to kiss her. He was actually at ease with Betsy, and secretly hoped the other girls would see he could at least talk to a girl without making an idiot of himself.

They remained friends for the two years he was at the school. At sixteen, Stani passed his equivalency tests and began preparing in earnest for his first concert tour. He heard from Betsy off and on for a while, but lost touch after the tour began. They met up again when he started making the rounds of the clubs in New York after his return.

They'd dated briefly, gotten their picture in the gossip rags, dancing and snuggling in the hottest night spots. She said it was good for her career to be seen with such a big celebrity, even if he was a classical musician and not a rock star. They even tried to become lovers, but in the end decided they were more comfortable just being friends. Stani wondered again what sort of crisis she was in now, that she would track him all the way to Washington just to talk on the phone.

Betsy's call came at around four o'clock. She sounded excited, even breathless. She needed a huge favor, she said. Stani braced himself.

The crisis, it turned out, was not of such grave proportions. She just needed him to go to a party with her. Tonight.

"You know I'm in DC, Bets. How's that going to work?"

"I'm in DC too, in the lobby of your hotel. I've come to pick you up. We're going to this big bash somewhere in the mountains. Given by a certain rock star who chooses to remain anonymous." She giggled at the gossip column paraphrase.

"I really can't, love. I have to stay here and get some rest. I got thoroughly wasted last night."

"Tell me about it! But Stani really, you have to go with me."

"Why me? What's so important about this particular party? Sounds like a long drive just to get your name in the paper."

"I might be hooking up with someone there, but I don't want it to look like I came just to see him. If you're with me, I won't get left flat if things don't work out. Come on Stani, you owe me one."

"How's that?"

"I pulled you out of the ladies' room last night. Don't you remember? You were throwing up in the sink."

He groaned. Oh God, what else had he done that he couldn't remember? "How long will this take? I have a rehearsal tomorrow at one. I can't miss it."

"We'll be back before noon, I promise. And you can sleep there. This guy's rented a whole ski lodge. I promise, Stani, I'll have you back in plenty of time. Just get your stuff and come to the lobby. I'll be waiting in the bar." She was gone before he could offer any further argument.

He grimaced as he hung up the phone. When would he ever learn to say no? It wasn't as if making Betsy mad would have meant the end of the world. But since she was already downstairs, he couldn't very well disappoint her. He'd go, not drink much, sleep and be back tomorrow before anyone knew he was gone. Milo was out of touch, so no danger of his checking in tonight. There was really no harm. It might even be fun. And it would make Betsy happy.

As they drove out of town in Betsy's car, a four-door sedan of undistinguished pedigree she'd borrowed from a friend, she told him about her latest audition. She thought she really had a shot at this chorus role. There might even be a solo number. As always, Betsy was dressed to impress, this time in a red jumpsuit that zipped up the front and shiny white boots. Stani was pretty sure she wasn't wearing anything else. She was evasive about exactly who she was hoping to meet at the party. He was someone she'd been seeing, but it was complicated. With Betsy, it usually was. But this time it sounded particularly so. This guy had been in some serious trouble recently, she explained, and his father had really put his foot down. If he made it to the party, he'd have to be careful it didn't get back to his old man. Hopeless at keeping track of gossip, Stani hadn't a clue who she might be talking about. It really didn't matter to him what she did tonight, as long as she got him back to town in the morning.

As she continued chattering on, he turned his mind to the music in his head. There was always something playing there, and now it was today's rehearsal. Something about the tempo, in just that one measure, had seemed off. Had he rushed his entrance, or had the conductor held back just a breath? He played it over and over, and each time he was more certain it had been his error. Nothing had been said, but surely the orchestra had noticed. He would have to be sure to mention it to the maestro before the performance, make his apology and see that it was corrected. It would never do to have Milo hear it like that over the radio.

The lodge, situated on a scenic crest, was ablaze with torches and strings of Christmas lights when they arrived just after dark. The party was well under way, judging by the cloud of smoke hanging over the crowd. Everywhere Stani looked, there were bodies moving, dancing, pushing through the press, glasses held high over heads. Somewhere out of sight, a live band was playing, the sound pumped through speakers surrounding the room. The volume was such that sign language was the only effective means of communication.

He followed Betsy to the bar along one wall. They ordered drinks, pointing to their desired selections, and then Betsy stood scanning the crowd for whatever face she was hoping to see. Finally, she nodded and waved, apparently having located her target. When she pointed with a smile to the direction she intended to go, Stani waved her on. He quickly lost sight of her in the crowd before she reached her mystery man.

Tossing down his whisky, he ordered a refill, hoping he hadn't seen the last of her. There wasn't likely to be anyone else in this crowd he knew, or at least no one he would trust to take him back to DC if Betsy disappeared. He called down a curse on his own head for letting her talk him into coming. This was just the kind of place he hated, loud and jammed with people already lost to their pursuit of oblivion. He could either join them, or try to find some place safe to wait out the evening.

He searched the room for a less crowded spot, preferably near one of the open windows. He would never have admitted it, but a room full of reefer smoke always made him slightly queasy. Setting his sights on a space along the wall currently free of leaning bodies, he skirted the dance floor, holding his glass a safe distance above his head. He'd gone no more than a few steps when a girl twirled out of the crowd, colliding with him and clutching at his sleeve to maintain her balance.

"Hold on there, love. Are you all right?" With his free hand he tried to steady her, no small feat as she continued to dance even as she attempted to put her arms around him. Blonde, with huge blue eyes already glazed by drink or drugs or both, she smiled vacantly up at him. Her body, smelling of sweat and the odors circulating in the room, pressed against his, not, he suspected, purely by accident.

Squinting at him, as if she thought she should recognize him, she asked, "Aren't you somebody?"

"Not really." He tried in vain to disengage the arm she wound around his neck, holding the glass as far away from her as possible.

"Ooh, but you're British. And cute." Her hand went up into his hair, and her eyes, crossing slightly with the effort, focused on his face. "Want to dance?"

"Not just now. Maybe later." Still attempting to free himself, Stani smiled down at her. "Why don't you sit this one out?"

"You are somebody. You're too cute to be nobody." She seemed to be developing a fascination with his hair, her fingers winding deeper into the curls. Obviously, she was not a girl to be easily discouraged. He knew the routine all too well. First she would hang on him, touch him and coo over him, or she would just proceed directly to blatantly groping him, as if there were no need for preliminaries. She was stoned; he could smell it on her. She had nothing more in mind than taking him to bed, or the floor, or any other available horizontal surface, for a few minutes of mindless copulation. And he was expected to be aroused by her overly accessible charms and perform to her satisfaction on command.

"Here, love, you're spilling my drink. Why don't you go find yourself another partner?" This time he managed to pull her hand free of his hair, not without losing a few strands, and backed a half step away from her.

"Oh, but I want to dance with you. I just love men with red hair. And you're so cute. Come on, dance with me." She was about to get a hold on him again, this time sliding both arms around his waist, when a hand came to rest on her shoulder.

Turning to look up at the man behind her, she giggled. "Oh, hi Benny. This is. . .what was your name again?"

But Benny didn't seem interested. "Come on. I want something to eat." Completely ignoring Stani, and the fact that the girl was otherwise engaged, he turned toward the buffet.

"Sorry. Maybe later?" Obeying some unspoken command, she started to follow, looking back over her shoulder with a grin. "You really are so cute! Call me!"

Brushing droplets of whisky from his coat, Stani made his way to the empty space along the wall. Wary of another such attack, he pressed his back in a defensive position against a window frame, where he could feel the cold air blowing across his face. He spotted the girl, now hanging on Benny's arm, popping food into her mouth directly from the buffet table. An involuntary shudder ran through him. No wonder everyone here was drunk. Watching this crowd while sober was enough to turn one's stomach.

He searched the room for Betsy, finally locating her swaying in the arms of a man he recognized after a moment as Mark Stevenson. He flinched at the realization that this was the man she'd come all this way to meet. She'd been right when she said he'd been in trouble. Although he rarely paid attention to such things, even Stani knew of Mark's recent arrest for cocaine possession. The son of a New York state senator, and the grandson of a state Supreme Court justice, his notorious conduct made for the ugliest kind of headlines. Despite the attempted intervention by his family, this offense, added to the long list already on his record, had very nearly earned him jail time. Stani wondered why Betsy was so anxious to date this man. He was bad news, not the sort of publicity she needed. Still, she looked happy, gazing up into Mark's face. Maybe she'd actually fallen in love with him.

From what little he knew of falling in love, Stani was convinced logic rarely entered into the process. People seemed to attach themselves to one another based on a random formula involving equal parts of fantasy and chemistry. Even his own mother must have succumbed to love's illusions when she and his father had married. As a small boy, he had overheard a neighbor describe his father as a lazy drunkard who had never done an honest day's work. He'd asked his mother if that were true, and with a strangely sad look on her face, she'd told him no, his father had been a lovely young man, but he hadn't finished growing up before they married and Stani had come along so soon after. While she rarely spoke of him, she never went out to the pubs with the men who invited her, and Stani had wondered if she hoped he might yet come back.

Perhaps Betsy was blind in the same way. Perhaps she'd fallen in love with Mark Stevenson and thought she could make him better by loving him, save him from himself. Rather, Stani suspected, she was letting herself in for a bad time of it. Mark's vices were not limited to recreational drugs, if everything said about him was true. There'd been an ugly story about a girl he'd gotten pregnant. She'd made a big scene in a Manhattan restaurant, threatening to cut her wrists right there at the table where Mark was dining with his family. Word was Mark's father had paid a large sum of money to send her away to have the baby. Looking at them now, Betsy's arms draped around Mark's neck, her face pressed close to his, Stani felt something close to pity. It was most likely Betsy would end up getting her heart broken at the very least.

He stayed there by the window, nursing his whisky, for what seemed a long time. He was hungry, but unwilling to give up his relatively quiet spot. If he made a run for the buffet, would he make it back before someone moved into his space? Before he could make a decision, he noticed a girl slowly pushing through the crush. He watched her, trying to recall if she was someone he should know. Small and slender, she seemed too young for this crowd. Wearing jeans and a white tuxedo shirt, in comparison to most of the other guests, she was markedly under dressed. In her hands was a loaded plate, and she was carefully threading her way toward his wall.

When she came to a halt in front of him, she looked up with serious, dark eyes. "You're Stani Moss," she said, as if he might not be aware of the fact himself. He couldn't help grinning.

"Yes. Is there a problem?" To his surprise, she thrust the plate toward him.

"Oh, no. I would just never have expected to see someone like you at a thing like this." The wave of her hand took in the whole of the smoke-filled lodge. "I have all of your records," she went on as if by way of introduction.

Turning, she tucked herself against the wall beside him. He wasn't sure what to make of her. She was pretty in a way that made him think of open green fields and sunshine. Her thick dark hair, curling softly around her face, and those searching brown eyes brought to mind a Spanish Renaissance princess—Goya or Velasquez, he couldn't remember which. She was completely out of place here, as if she'd wandered in from another dimension.

She seemed to have nothing more to say, so taking a cue from her last comment he asked which of the records she listened to most.

"The Mendelssohn, for sure. You were brilliant, you know."

Again, he grinned. "Thank you. Does that mean you don't care for the others?" He'd made the recording just before the first tour, at seventeen. The sales had been very good through the years, even after the release of several subsequent recordings. He still had copies thrust into his hands after concerts. He'd developed a rapidly scrawled autograph, "All my best, S.M." which seemed to please most fans.

"Oh, no, it was just the best," she replied matter-of-factly. "Aren't you hungry?"

He began to eat, asking between bites, "Are you into classical music, then?" So many of the girls who approached him didn't seem to know anything about what he actually did. They assumed he was in a rock band, or a Broadway show, although it never seemed to discourage them once they learned otherwise. It was rare to meet someone who even knew Mendelssohn from Mozart.

"I'm a viola student at the conservatory near here. I suppose you never had to study the way most musicians do." Her tone was vaguely accusatory.

"That's true, I guess." For a moment, he felt he should apologize for his success.

They stood for some time, silently watching the crowd. She didn't seem to want anything from him, other than to stand next to him and let him eat. It was strangely comforting, as if they were somehow kindred spirits. When he finished eating, he set the plate on the floor at his feet, retrieving his nearly empty glass from the window ledge. Another drink would be nice, but in the end he decided to linger there, in the pleasantly undemanding company of this odd girl.

Around the room a gradual procession had begun, as entwined couples and the occasional threesome began to pull away from the dancers and move up the stairway to the balcony around the perimeter of the lodge. One by one, they disappeared behind the numbered doors into darkened bedrooms.

"That's disgusting." She made a face, exactly as if she smelled something foul. "Most of them won't even remember what they've done tomorrow, or who they've done it with."

Stani felt a twinge of genuine remorse, knowing he could be included in those despicable ranks. He was trying to keep an eye out for Betsy, making sure he saw where she went if she too disappeared up the stairs.

"So why are you here?" the girl asked. She was nothing if not direct, he mused.

"Favor for a friend," was the simplest answer he could think of.

"Must be a good friend. You'd never find me in a place like this if I had a choice."

Stani was suddenly alarmed—was she in some kind of trouble? Surely she hadn't come seeking his help? "You were forced to come here?"

She nodded solemnly. "My dad is catering tonight. Since I'm home for Christmas, I had to come along to help." She pointed toward the empty plate.

He let out a little gasp of relief. "Ah, I see." He'd never fancied himself a rescuer of damsels in distress.

They continued to stand there together in silence, until abruptly she pushed away from the wall. Across the room, a small round man wearing a white jacket was waving his arms, apparently in their direction.

"That's my dad. I have to go." Starting to leave, she stooped to pick up the plate. A little smile of apology lit her eyes as she stood up. "Would it be too much if I asked for your autograph? I was thinking about telling the kids at school how we'd met, but they'll never believe me."

"I'd be happy to." He looked around, searching for something to write on. "Sorry I don't have a photograph, or something."

"Here. On this." Pulling the paper napkin from beneath the plate, she held it out to him. It bore the logo of "Ristorante Salvatore" on one corner. Not Spanish, Italian, he thought, reaching into his coat pocket for the ever present fountain pen. Turning to the wall to write, he asked over his shoulder, "What's your name, love?"

"Lil. Lilianne actually." She spelled it out for him.

"Pretty name." He wrote clearly on the napkin, so there could be no doubt, "For Lilianne, all my best," and signed his full name rather than the usual monogram.

As he returned the napkin, she said with a look of genuine pleasure, "Thanks. I was named for my godmother. She and my mom used to play chamber music together, in an ensemble." She pronounced the word carefully and Stani grinned.

"Ah, you have music in your genes. That's wonderful." Next to the buffet table, he spotted her father watching them closely. Following his gaze, she started to leave.

"I'm playing on Christmas Eve, on the radio. In case you'd like to listen in. From DC," he called after her, suddenly sorry to see her go. Once again she turned to face him.

"Thank you. I wouldn't miss it." She blushed, her eyes gleaming black with pleasure. "Take care of yourself, Stani Moss. God bless you and Merry Christmas!" She held out her hand and he took it in his, shaking it gently in a gesture of friendship, one musician to another.

Stani watched as she walked away, tucking the napkin carefully in the back pocket of her jeans. What an extraordinary thing, meeting a girl like that in a place like this. She was as honest and unaffected as most of the women here were artificial and jaded. In the time they stood together leaning against the wall, he'd come to feel better somehow, refreshed. She reminded him of himself, years ago, when he'd been totally focused on his music, before he'd become distracted by celebrity. Before his initiation into crowds like the one in this room; crowds of idle people too absorbed in the pursuit of pleasure to ever be satisfied with anything for long.

The room had cleared considerably now, and Stani caught sight of Betsy. Standing next to Mark, she was talking in a huddle with several other people near the door. He watched them closely, afraid they might be preparing to leave, until, the conversation apparently ended, Betsy came rushing toward him, gesturing for him to come her way. They met halfway, and she grabbed his arm.

"Come on, we're leaving now." She was already towing him toward the door, where Mark waited impatiently.

"What's the rush? It's the middle of the night." Stani was willing; he just wanted to know what she was leading him into now.

"Mark needs to get out of here so I'm taking him back to New York. We'll drop you off on the way."

He stopped her far enough away that Mark wouldn't hear them. "Bets, are you sure you want to do this? Mark Stevenson's trouble, you know that."

She turned back to him, her expression mutinous. "Don't believe everything you read, Stani. But he will be in trouble if we don't leave."

"What kind of trouble?"

In a flash, her frown turned to a winning smile. "Look, he had nothing to do with it. He was with me the whole time."

"To do with what?" he demanded.

"Some idiots took down the torches outside. They set somebody's car on fire. They got it put out, but the police are coming." As if addressing a small and not particularly bright child, she went on, "Stani, there are drugs all over this place. If Mark gets caught here, he'll go to jail!"

In the end Stani followed her, defeated by her obvious determination. He consoled himself with the thought that at least he'd get back to DC early. As he walked behind them down the hill, beneath the swirling cloud of greasy smoke, he was aware that Mark seemed oblivious to his presence. He thought again that Betsy was setting herself up to be hurt. Stevenson was using her, nothing more. And Betsy seemed more than anxious to be used.

With Mark behind the wheel, and Betsy snuggled close beside him, Stani settled in the corner of the back seat, bracing for a rough ride. To his surprise, Mark drove the sedan slowly down the winding drive, apparently on the lookout for something. Just after they turned onto the road leading back to the main highway, Stani saw the reason for Mark's cautious descent. A pair of police cars, lights flashing, sirens screaming, came from the opposite direction. Speeding past, they turned into the drive and proceeded toward the lodge.

Betsy pressed her head against Mark's shoulder. "I knew we'd be all right. No one could be suspicious of this old wreck," she told him sweetly. The car accelerated sharply and Stani closed his eyes. He might as well relax. Betsy clearly had everything under control.

Tuning out the conversation in the front seat, he turned his thoughts ahead to the rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. Robert would drive him to the church where he was scheduled to play for midnight mass, immediately following the radio broadcast on Christmas Eve. The evening would be hectic, he knew, but he never turned down the opportunity to perform in a church. He had played in cathedrals and synagogues, churches and chapels. The same sense of intimacy, no matter the size of the building, lent a unique depth to his performance, which he had never been able to attain in a concert hall.

Stani especially looked forward to this event. From that first Christmas Eve mass at St. Patrick's, just after they'd moved to New York, he'd had a fascination with this particular celebration. Jana had taken him, her one venture back to her childhood religion. The pungent-sweet smell of cedar, and the glow of hundreds of candles, along with the glorious music, made a profound impression upon him. He'd become curious for the first time as to what motivated so many people to come, year after year, to sing the same hymns and whisper the same prayers. He hadn't pursued religion; it didn't fit into his already over-scheduled young life. But he'd discovered performing in churches evoked the same emotions he'd experienced that night. He found himself looking forward to the prospect of spending another Christmas Eve among people who came to greet a child they believed had forever altered the nature of man. It would be a welcome change from the faceless crowds in dim, smoke-filled rooms, crowds which seemed to be drawing him farther and farther from his own humanity.

### ****

Stani dozed fitfully for a time, aware of the road speeding beneath the less than well-sprung car. When he opened his eyes again, Betsy was kneeling on the seat, facing the rear of the car, illuminated by the glow from the dashboard. She was gazing down at Mark, her expression one of tender passion. Stani tried to look away, embarrassed, but found he couldn't take his eyes from her. Caressing Mark's face, her slender, manicured hand traveled lightly over his temple, curving around his ear and brushing softly up through his hair. The front of the jumpsuit had been unzipped to reveal a glowing V of white skin. Never taking her gaze from his face, she gently pried Mark's right hand from the steering wheel and lifted it to rest over her heart.

In the midst of his fascination, it occurred to Stani that Betsy was making love to Mark as he drove the car eighty miles an hour down a darkened highway. For a moment, he considered offering to take the wheel himself, in the interest of self-preservation. But then she would know he'd been watching. It seemed wiser to close his eyes and pretend to sleep. For a time he tried but could not ignore the sound of escalating passion just inches away. He'd almost summoned the courage to suggest they pull over when the car abruptly slowed and bounced onto a graveled surface. Slamming the car into gear and turning off the engine, Mark pushed Betsy roughly down onto the seat, arching his body above her.

Stani grabbed for the door handle and flung himself out of the car, instantly regretting his hasty action. Surrounded by profound darkness, he was struck full force by a bitterly cold wind. He stood still, trying to get his bearings. They had stopped in some sort of roadside picnic area. He could make out a table and benches nearby, nestled beneath the trees. Fighting to pull his overcoat closer around him, he made his way carefully over the rough expanse of rock to one of the benches. He pressed his back into the edge of the table, bracing against the wind as it tore at his hair and caused his eyes to fill with tears.

He was angry, most of all at himself. If he'd only said no to Betsy's impetuous invitation, he'd be sleeping peacefully in a warm hotel room, instead of freezing on some dark hillside in the middle of the night. While Betsy and Mark expressed their ill-begotten passion like teenagers at a lover's leap, he was probably contracting pneumonia. How would he explain to Milo, when he collapsed with fever and missed his concert dates?

Not that he hadn't engaged in the same sort of frenzied, spontaneous sex himself. It seemed to be what was expected by the girls who approached him at parties, who dressed themselves in the provocative uniform of the current sexual revolution. They were warriors indeed, preferring aggression to seduction. Stani much preferred a gentler, more sensual form of lovemaking to that which always seemed to include the tearing of clothes and the biting of flesh. His first sexual experience had been with a much older woman, who taught him well the more considered methods leading to mutual pleasure, rather than frantic, uninspired coupling in dark corners with a perfect stranger. He found himself avoiding the inevitable pairing off. How had Lil described it? Disgusting? Whisky helped there, too. He'd discovered if he drank enough early on, by the time the offer came, he was in no condition to accept.

Stani knew deep down, he found casual sex offensive. How could anything so intensely personal be considered casual? Although he'd never been in love, he felt sure such an intimate act must be most satisfying when the man and woman involved actually knew and respected one another. Surely, through coming to know a partner's mind, their passions and aspirations, the act of lovemaking became something shared, not merely performed, something spiritual, even sacred. He had yet to experience anything remotely like his ideal. He doubted he would ever find it if he persisted in following people like Betsy and Mark to smoke-filled lodges, or drinking until he couldn't remember what he'd done the night before. Once again, he thought of the girl at the party. She'd been a flash of conscience, showing him his world through her eyes. He would do better, he promised himself. Exercise a little discipline, grow up. Just as soon as this unholy night was over, once he was back in DC doing what he'd come to do, he would try harder to be the Stani Moss Lil Salvatore would expect him to be.

Betsy opened the window and waved to him to return to the car. He got in silently, grateful to be out of the blistering cold. As Mark steered back onto the roadway, Betsy turned to Stani and smiled sweetly. "Thanks," she whispered. He hoped again that she wouldn't be too badly hurt by this man she believed she was saving.

In the warmth of the car's interior, Stani quickly fell asleep. The music from the radio, soft jazz, blurred the voices in the front seat. When he woke again, Mark had stopped the car close to the entrance of an all-night truck stop. They were near the junction with the interstate highway that would carry them back to DC. Betsy ran inside, he supposed to use the restroom, and for the first time since they'd left the lodge, Mark acknowledged Stani's presence. Meeting his gaze in the rear view mirror, he asked if Stani had known Betsy long.

"Since high school," he replied, implying a long relationship. For some reason, he felt Mark should know Betsy had friends who cared what happened to her.

"You're some kind of musician. Piano?"

"Violin."

"Bet that gets you lots. Chicks go for that kind of thing. Romance. You ever done Betsy?"

By this time, Stani was developing an intense dislike for this man. He wished Betsy would hurry, bringing this conversation to an end. "No," he said sternly, "we're friends, that's all."

Mark had lowered the volume on the radio. Now he turned the dial as the music was interrupted by a weather bulletin. They listened as the announcer read a winter weather advisory, urging holiday travelers to use caution or postpone travel until the storm had passed. Mark muttered an oath. "Just what I need, a snowstorm."

Betsy returned, crawling across the seat to snuggle at Mark's side. He shrugged her away angrily. "What took you so long? I've got to get back to New York before the snow hits. The last thing I need is to get stuck here. I'm supposed to do the whole family thing on Christmas Eve. How'd I explain to my father why I'm down here in the first place?" He was rapidly working up to a tantrum.

Betsy tried to calm him, stroking his shoulder, pointing out they should be in DC in an hour or so. They would be miles away from the storm before it started. He pulled out of the truck stop with a squeal of tires, bringing the car up to highway speed so rapidly that Stani had to brace himself against the door.

He was exhausted now. He hated any kind of discord, and he felt sorry for Betsy. There would be rough going ahead if she tried to continue a relationship with Mark Stevenson. He was spoiled and vulgar, and would always find someone to blame for his own mistakes. Not, he suspected, that anyone would ever convince her of that.

Stretching his legs across the seat, Stani leaned back on the door and tried to fall asleep. He could hear Betsy carrying on a one-sided conversation, her voice artificially bright. They should be nearing the outskirts of Washington, but through the window opposite, he saw nothing but the blackest of night skies. He heard Mark curse again, and saw the spatter of rain on the glass.

He must have drifted off. He woke with a start to Mark shouting, "You let me go the wrong way!"

"Just find a place to turn around. We haven't gone far out of our way."

The sound of the wipers scraping the windshield drowned out Mark's reply. Opening his eyes, Stani saw that streaks of ice had formed on the glass. Up ahead, the road glistened ominously. Without warning, Mark slammed on the brakes, turning the wheel sharply to the right. Thrown headlong across the seat, Stani struck his forehead hard on the window. He reached blindly for something to stop himself as he was pulled back again. The car seemed to be rocking wildly, side to side. Once again, he hit his head, this time on the frame of the door behind him. Bright points of light sprang before his eyes. Somewhere beyond the roaring in his ears, he thought he heard Mark's voice, swearing in terror now rather than anger and Betsy screaming his own name in warning. At the front of the car, something exploded, sending yellow fragments flying past the window.

A fierce blast of wind seemed to rush in from all sides, lifting him and tossing him about. Frantically, he grasped for some anchor, his head striking first one and then another unyielding object, his hair snagging on some sharpened edge. Just when he thought he'd found a hand hold, the wind tore him free with a vicious twist, hurtling him into blackness.

He lost consciousness then. Later, he remembered, or perhaps he merely dreamed, that he was falling, drifting slowly through darkness, at last coming to rest in a nest of soft, sweet-smelling branches. Engulfed by purest white, earth and sky, a distant light seemed to beckon and for a time he floated toward its ever-shifting beacon. Somewhere nearby, a soft voice spoke to him, pleading, calling his name over and over. He tried to answer, but found he was too tired to force the words from his lips. Gliding in and out of cold and warmth, he was content to let the dream carry him, until finally he sank into a place of complete darkness, not in the least frightening, but utterly peaceful.

### Chapter Five

At five Emily woke to the soft hiss of sleet striking the window panes. Bundling into her robe, she padded through the house for more firewood. It was still dark outside, but in the light from the back porch a layer of white pellets shimmered on the grass.

When the fire was crackling with fresh fuel, she snuggled back under the quilts, hoping to sleep a while longer. But she only managed to doze, keeping her ears open to the sounds of the storm. When the hissing stopped, the wind began to rise. Gradually, the whistling became a howl and the house shuddered and groaned beneath the assault. Outside, snow swirled so thickly that, as she drank her tea at the kitchen window, she could barely make out the shadow of the barn across the yard. The storm was living up to its forecast.

After a breakfast of toast and jam, she dressed in jeans and her favorite dark blue turtleneck sweater. Brushing her hair, she tied it into a smooth ponytail, adding a trailing bow of red ribbon. If she was going to decorate the house for Christmas, she intended to make it a festive occasion. Locating the recording of the Nutcracker Ballet, she set it spinning on the turntable, turning the volume high enough to send the melodies ringing throughout the house.

After some digging in the closet beneath the stairs, she retrieved the ornaments, garland and lights that had each year decorated a fresh evergreen. At last she found the crèche, tucked in its own box, each china figurine wrapped in tissue paper. She recalled packing it away, that first painful Christmas, when she and Pop had pretended not to notice the vast empty space where her mother should have been. By the next year, they had given up pretending and barely allowed the holiday into the house.

Setting out on her mission to bring Christmas to the room, she eyed the mantel wall first. The fireplace, flanked by glass-front cabinets and two high windows, would substitute for a tree, she decided. Humming along with the music, adding a waltzing step every now and then as she worked, she spread silver garland and glowing colored lights across the mantel and the tops of the cabinets. She added carefully spaced clusters of glass ornaments, shining spheres of red, green and gold, along with blown glass figurines of angels, stars and Father Christmas, all well-remembered from her childhood. When she'd achieved just the desired effect, she hung the delicate gold star that had always topped the tree, in the center of the chimney.

Going to the other end of the room, she spread a shawl of fringed red velvet on the piano, just as her mother had done every year, and placed an open book of carols on the music rack. Finally, she took her father's violin from its case and gently nestled it in the folds of the shawl, laying the bow carefully across the strings. Stepping back, she let out a sigh of satisfaction. She had paid tribute to the past, mindful of the obvious changes; but she'd also taken a step toward future Christmases.

Finally, she positioned the figurines facing the fireplace where the little wooden shed waited, well out of harm's way, on the hearth. Mary and Joseph with the donkey near the front door, the shepherds and their flock of three sheep on the piano bench, and the wise men with their camel on the table next to Pop's chair. The solitary ox rested in the stable, next to the tiny cross-legged manger filled with paper straw. The figure of the newborn baby with his outstretched arms she tucked on the mantel near the heralding angel, hidden from sight for now. Gazing back at the travelers journeying toward her, she laughed softly. She was truly home for Christmas, as she had never expected to be again.

Outside, the storm showed no sign of letting up. Snow covered the ground now, and clung to the bare tree branches. Already the line between lawn and driveway had disappeared. The dull gray daylight barely penetrated the frosted panes of the back porch windows. She switched on the light as she went for more firewood, welcoming the warm yellow glow in the coldness. Through the swirling curtain of snow, not a shadow of the surrounding valley could be seen. The house seemed to float in a cloud of white, disconnected from the fields and the woods. She imagined she might be the only creature stirring for miles, and shivered with pleasure at the sense of solitude.

Her reverie was interrupted when the lights blinked off, then quickly on again. Any time, she knew, she could find herself without the warmth of the furnace, or the comfort of lamplight. After depositing her load near the hearth, she headed back to the kitchen, determined to have a hot meal while she still could. Craving a thick, juicy hamburger, she settled for a sandwich of fried ham and melted cheese, promising herself ham would be off the menu for the next month, at least.

Eager to enjoy the festive atmosphere, before the storm deprived her of the colored lights and holiday music, she gave in to the temptation to curl on the couch and relax for the next few hours. Wrapped in a quilt, the sound of English carolers filling the room, she thumbed through an old seed catalog she'd discovered under Pop's chair. It was like looking through a picture album of old friends. Luscious red tomatoes, golden crook-necked squash and deep purple eggplant, all so familiar she could almost feel them in her hands. Her father had tried his hand at several areas of farming, he said, but his only talent seemed to lie in growing vegetables. During her childhood and adolescence, his garden provided produce to the market in town, as well as several others around the county. She'd spent many summer mornings and evenings following him down the rows, first planting, then weeding, tying up trailing vines, turning fruit as it grew, and finally picking each tomato, cucumber or bean at just the moment of ripeness. Several afternoons a week were spent loading and transporting the carefully packed harvest, borne into town in the bed of Pop's rattling blue pickup truck with the name of Valley Rise Farm proudly displayed on the side.

Emily had enjoyed the sense of importance as they drew up to each storefront and the proprietor came out to choose from the baskets lining the truck bed. She'd worked hard and been rewarded for her labor at the end of each month during the season with an envelope of cash, her percentage of the profits. Maybe, she thought, drowsily leafing through the catalog, she might try to bring the garden back to life someday.

She must have drifted off in the warmth, before a sudden sound entered her vivid dream. She'd been standing outside the barn door, her father beside her. They had just put Stubby the mule back in his stall after the first spring plowing. He'd accepted his rubdown and box of fresh feed with docile gratitude. Now they waited, eyes twinkling, for the inevitable clatter of his hooves on the stall door, his one-two salute, as if he wished to remind them he was not totally resigned to such menial servitude. He still had his mulish pride. Laughing together, she and Pop had started walking back to the house, arm in arm.

Sitting up slowly, she realized the thump of the seed catalog falling to the floor had startled her awake. She was stiff and chilled, and a glance around the room told her she was without light from the lamps. The Christmas bulbs on the mantel were dark. The storm had finally taken down the power lines.

Stirring the fire, then lighting the oil lamp on the table, she saw the room begin to cheer, but she shrugged on an extra sweater against the chill. Her watch told her it was only a little past one. She must have dozed just long enough to dream. Poor Stubby, short for Stubborn, had gone to live on a farm across the valley after Pop's stroke. She wondered how he had fared with his new family, which she recalled included several young children. Did they ride on his broad back, swaying behind his bobbing head as he pulled the plow through the hard ground each spring? She hoped they loved him as she had. Despite the mildly disgruntled air he assumed, she believed he had enjoyed her attentions, as well as the service he provided for them. Would he remember her if she went to visit him? She was considering such a visit when spring came, as she went to the porch for more wood.

Through the frost-rimmed window, she saw that the snowfall had slowed, though the wind still whipped the tree limbs and spun little white cyclones across the yard. Beyond the barn, just where the land dropped away to the hillside, a moving shadow caught her eye. A deer, or maybe a cow, strayed and lost in the storm? Stepping to the door for a closer look, she tried to focus past the blowing snow. The shadow moved steadily upward over the rise, until she saw what could only be a human figure, trudging slowly in the general direction of the house. Head down, swaying slightly, as if unbalanced by the force of the wind, he—or at least she thought it must be a man—was dressed all in black, the windward side of his long overcoat etched with white, and his bared head capped with snow. There seemed to be something odd about his stance, and then she realized one arm was crossed over his body, as if bracing the other to his side. In what must have been only a few seconds, she tried to assess his size—not very tall; his possible intent—obviously seeking shelter; and where he could have come from. He had to be coming from the road below, but why would anyone have walked up a steep wooded hillside in a blistering storm?

As she watched, scarcely drawing breath, it seemed he raised his head and gazed for a moment toward the house. Then in a slow, graceful spiral, he sank to the ground, disappearing into the snow. If she had not been watching his progress across the yard, she realized she would never have seen him from the house, once he'd fallen. Blinking, she wondered for an instant if she might have only imagined him, if he had been a mirage in the featureless white of the landscape. But the pounding of her pulse told her otherwise.

Propelled by some force outside herself, Emily bolted out the door. Instantly, her loafers filled with snow, and she struggled to make any speed to where he'd fallen. When she finally stood over him, blinking snowflakes from her lashes, she faltered. With a gasp that seemed to expel any remaining air from her lungs, she froze, gazing down in horror. He was dead. His skin was colorless, his lips blue. Blood smeared his left cheek and matted his hair. A dark, shiny stain streaked the front of his overcoat.

For what seemed an eternity, she hovered over the sprawled body, watching for any sign of life, a hint of breath, any movement at all. She was afraid to touch him, to confirm that he had died right before her eyes. Then, just as suddenly as she'd launched from the house, she dropped to her knees in the snow. Her fingers searched just under his jaw for a pulse, finally detecting the surprisingly strong throb. Scooping snow in her bare hand, she gently touched it to his face.

"Can you hear me? Oh, please hear me! You're going to be okay. Just let me know you can hear me!" She stopped herself. She was babbling. Trying again, she said firmly, "Open your eyes!"

Mesmerized, she watched as his lids fluttered, the faintest sweep of his lashes, and his lips parted. In what was little more than a breath, she heard the word "Light." Then once again his features relaxed into what could have been a death mask. She waited for more, trying to pray but too stunned to form any coherent phrasing. Snowflakes stung her bare skin, and at last she grasped the fact that she was kneeling in the snow watching for some sign of life while in truth his life might be slipping away.

Struggling to her feet, she told him breathlessly, "You're going to be okay. I'll be right back," and turned toward the house. Her progress up the hill was painfully slow, yet she felt as if she were flying. Rapid thoughts formed a plan of action, thoughts which seemed to come from a knowledge she hadn't known she possessed. She could see clearly in her mind just what she needed to do. Without hesitation, she raced through the house, straight to the guest room, where she pulled the white coverlet from the bed. It was light, but strong. It could work. Dashing back to the porch, she stopped long enough to hunch into her coat. Her knitted muffler fell to the floor, and she grabbed it up as she ran out the door.

By now her feet were numb with cold, and she stumbled in her rush down the hill. She would have to take care not to hurt herself, she warned. She had to be fit to care for him. He was her responsibility now. She had to do everything in her power to keep him alive until help came, however long that might be.

Trying to calm herself as she came closer, she braced for the possibility he had died during the minutes she'd been gone. Kneeling again, she touched his face with her icy fingers, and was rewarded with the faintest grimace.

"I'm going to move you now. I'll try my best not to hurt you. Just let me do all the work." She continued to talk to him as she spread the coverlet on the snow next to him, explaining every move.

She had learned from the nurses who came to care for her mother the method of changing the bedding without the patient ever leaving the bed. Roll to one side; put the folded sheet under the body. Turn to the other side; pull out the sheet. She began to push him onto his side and felt his left arm twist limply in his sleeve. He groaned softly as she ran her hand into his coat, gently probing his shoulder. Something felt very wrong, out of place. Broken collarbone, separated shoulder? She drew back her hand, trying to think. Would she do more harm by moving him? What would it matter, if he froze to death here in the snow? With greater care, she reached under him, straining to lift him onto his side. She pushed the coverlet as far as possible beneath him, trying to avoid scooping in too much snow, then rolled him toward her. Side to side, she repeated the process, until he was finally stretched full length on the quilt. Going to his feet, she lifted the bottom edge over his boots, then proceeded up each side pulling the coverlet across him, until he was tightly wrapped within its folds. All the while, she talked to him, reassuring him, and herself, that she knew what she was doing.

Turning the corners at right angles so his head was all that could be seen in the cocoon of white quilt against the snow, she took off her muffler and secured the bundle, tying it just above his knees. Standing over him, she waited for her breathing to return to nearer normal. Her lungs were scorched by the frigid air, her legs ached from kneeling in the snow, and her fingers were painfully numb. Rummaging in her pockets, she pulled out her forgotten gloves and worked them onto her hands, more for traction now than warmth. With one last resolute gasp, she went to the head of her burden. Grasping the edge of the coverlet, she began the journey across the lawn. Walking backwards, pulling gently, she managed a few feet at a time. The conveyance held together better than she might have expected, had she taken time to give it any thought. Every ounce of energy was geared toward forcing her legs to move steadily, her arms to keep pulling and her fingers to maintain their grip on the thick twists of fabric.

From what little she could see of his face, he had not reacted to being moved. He must be deep in unconsciousness, which was fortunate, she reasoned. She no longer allowed the thought that he might die. His dying would be an unjust end to all her efforts. He was hers now, to keep alive. He would live if she could just manage to get him inside. As she struggled and strained toward the house, she doggedly focused on the image of him stretched by the fire.

Reaching the back porch, she allowed herself to sit for a few minutes on the snow-covered stoop, gasping for air, close to tears from the burning pain in every limb. It would take all her strength to pull him up the two shallow steps and over the threshold. Resting her head against the door frame, she closed her eyes, trying to visualize the move. So close now, where was the adrenaline she needed to go the next few feet to warmth and safety? She considered all she could see of him, wet curling hair spread on the white of the quilt. If he had somehow walked all the way up the hill, injured and dazed, surely she could muster the strength to go the last short distance.

Still seated, she began to pull. Up the first step, his head rolled to one side. Then the next step and he slumped forward as his body angled upward. She leaned over him and pulled the quilt more tightly around his shoulders. A trickle of fresh blood had begun to flow from his hairline, streaking dark red along his cheekbone. The sight was all she needed to make her forget her weariness. Crouched on her heels, she pulled with all her remaining strength and fell backwards, her burden sliding across the floor toward her. With a sob of relief, she was on her feet, pulling him through the kitchen and dining room, passing with relative ease over the smooth floor.

In the doorway, she released the quilt and ran to stir the fire. Again, some force outside her exhausted brain seemed to take control. She shoved aside furniture and turned back the rug, clearing a path to the hearth. Reversing the earlier process, she unwrapped him, freeing him of the sodden coverlet. His overcoat was heavy with melting snow and she took great care to ease it from his shoulders, cringing at the unnatural twist of his left arm. Finally, she grasped his ankles and slid him close to the hearth.

She covered him with the quilts from her pallet, and tucked her pillow beneath his head. Sitting on the floor beside him, she laid a hand on his chest. Through the lightweight sweater, his body felt cold. How long had he been out in the storm? It would have taken thirty minutes for a strong, healthy walker to climb from the road below the woods. But he must have been out there for much longer.

Catching sight of the red smear on the pillow, she ran her fingers gently under his hair—long auburn hair, now wet with melting snow and clotted blood. Her fingertips found the stickiness of an open wound, just above his left ear. Drawing her hand back gingerly, she looked for other injuries. An ugly bruise was darkening over his right eye and another marked his cheekbone. She'd noticed his trousers were torn at the knees, the skin beneath bloodied. He must have fallen in the tangle of underbrush as he made his way up the hill. She felt for a pulse again, listened to his shallow breathing. Head trauma, separated shoulder, exposure, shock, maybe internal injuries as well. She fought back tears of panic. He needed a hospital, and all she had to offer him was the meager warmth of the fire and the few first aid skills she could recall from school.

"What happened to you? How did you get here? And what am I going to do with you?" She wiped at her tears, disgusted by her own cowardice. "I'm going to do the best I can. Just promise me you won't die on me, not here in my house. Please." She studied the expressionless face a moment longer, then got to her feet and went to the window. Turning up the flame on the lamp, she pushed it closer to the glass. Going systematically through the house, she lit candles, carefully lining several along the back porch windows. Surely someone was searching the area if there had been an accident on the road below. Lights in the windows would signal someone was here, even though everyone knew the house was empty. Jack would be heading any search party, she reasoned. He would certainly come to investigate when he heard there were lights here. It was only a matter of time, she told herself, before someone came.

Satisfied she'd put out a sufficient distress signal, she went back to check on her patient, trying to think what she could do for him, other than pray for help to come. The answer was immediate. The bright stain spreading on the pillow was a call to action. Pressure, she thought, he needed some sort of pressure bandage. Starting to the bathroom, she remembered there was little left in the way of first aid supplies. She went to the wardrobe instead, pulling out a sheet, and snapping it open on the bed. Reaching into the drawer of the bedside table, her hand came in contact with the cold metal of the sewing scissors her mother had kept there. She made several precise cuts along the edge of the sheet, tore off strips, and wrapped them into squares around her hand. In the bathroom, she caught up several bath towels, dampened a cloth with water from the tub, and headed back to the fireside.

It was then she first realized she must have lost her shoes somewhere in the struggle across the yard. Her socks were soaked and her toes tingled painfully. Frostbite! Immediately, she knelt on the floor, pulling off his boots and sodden socks. His feet were icy, but she seemed to remember heat was not the proper treatment for frostbite. Wrapping each foot gently in a towel, she tucked them back under the covers.

She slid across the floor until she was sitting cross-legged near his head. Clenching her teeth, she again ran her fingers under his hair, lifting it to expose a jagged gash. An involuntary groan escaped her, as she laid a thick square of cloth over the wound. "Be glad you can't see this," she told him. "Good thing for you, I'm not the fainting kind." Carefully, she wound another strip over the square and around his head several times, making sure not to blindfold him in the process. "There, that's not so bad." She eyed her handiwork, gently rearranging the curls around the bandage. With the dampened cloth, she cleaned away the smear of blood from his cheek, more for her own comfort than for his, she knew.

Really looking at him now for the first time, she decided he was young, maybe only a little older than herself. The long hair, curling softly as it dried, and a scattering of fading freckles across the high cheekbones only added to his boyishness. His features were classically handsome, straight nose, generously sculpted mouth. Even in his current battered state, there was a beauty and gentleness about the finely lined brows and strong chin. He was no poor college boy; that was for sure. His clothes were the best quality, stylish and expensive, and the overcoat, now soaked with snow and blood, appeared to be tailor made. His hands were manicured and soft, no sign of hard labor there. Everything about him seemed refined, almost elegant. How on earth had he ended up in the middle of nowhere, walking alone in the storm?

He was still deathly pale, but his lips were showing more natural color now. She consoled herself with the thought that as long as he remained unconscious, he would not suffer the pain from his shoulder. There was nothing she could do except to see that his arm rested in a more or less natural position at his side. And as long as he wasn't aware of his surroundings, he would not be afraid. If he knew he was trapped in an isolated farmhouse, with a girl who had little to offer in the way of aid, for what might be hours before help came, he might understandably fear for his life.

Laying a hand on his chest, she said softly, "Just rest now. Everything will be fine, you'll see."

She had done the best she could for him, and now she turned her attention to her own condition. Soaked from head to toe, her clothes cold and stiff, she was beginning to shiver uncontrollably. With no concern for modesty, she stripped off her wet things and dug in her duffel bag for jeans and a sweatshirt. Standing close to the fire, she rubbed her arms and legs to rid them of dampness. When she was dressed again, she sat down near him and dried her hair with a towel, combing out the tangled length with her fingers.

It was rapidly growing dark. Her watch read four o'clock. Could it really have been three hours since she woke from that sweet dream? In such a short time, everything about her homecoming had been changed. Now all that mattered was this stranger, keeping him alive and getting him to a hospital. She longed for the sight of Jack at the door, no matter how upset he was at finding her here. She needed him, this boy needed him, and she would explain what she had believed were her reasons for coming home once he had been taken to safety.

Slipping her hand under the quilt, she let it rest on his chest. His breathing was shallow, and his body was still cold to the touch. She considered for a moment, hoping this idea wasn't merely the result of some writer's device for furthering a romantic plot, and pulled back the cover. Carefully, she stretched beside him on the floor and drew the quilts under her chin. Sharing the warmth of her own body was the only other means she had of warming him now. She knew she would be mortified if he woke to find her here. But that seemed unlikely at this point. As soon as she lay down, she realized how exhausted she was. She would rest here a while, listening to his breathing and the crackle of the fire. What if she didn't know his name or where he had come from? He would be gone as soon as help came, and she might never know. It didn't matter, as long as he survived. Her eyes went to the angel she had placed on the mantel this morning—was it really only this morning she had decorated the room for Christmas? The angel stood with arms raised, her wings spread in splendor behind her, ready to declare joy to the world. If she had ever needed an angel, it was now. She would dispatch the angel to find Jack, to tell him she desperately needed his help.

Emily fell asleep picturing Jack's tall figure coming through the snow, following the beautiful angel up the hillside. The angel looked remarkably like her mother, with honey-colored hair and sparkling gray eyes; and her gentle smile seemed to say there was nothing to worry about. Everything would be fine.

### Chapter Six

Milo phoned Stani's hotel room at midnight. He had worried all day that he might have gone too far with Stani. He knew anger was not the best way to motivate him. He'd always been able to move the boy with encouragement and praise. Stani was a pleaser. He strove to please everyone around him, from world-renowned conductors to stage hands. He especially sought to please Milo. He'd used Stani's desire to please all through the years with great success, but lately he'd become concerned by Stani's lack of discipline. His drinking, in particular, seemed to be increasingly out of control. It was coming dangerously close to affecting his career.

When there was no answer in Stani's room, Milo asked the desk clerk to check the bar. Stani was not there, he was told, and the doorman had not seen him leave during the evening. Perhaps he had turned off his phone, the clerk suggested.

Not completely satisfied, but with little choice other than to wait until morning, Milo had gone to bed, planning to call again first thing in the morning. If necessary, he would have Robert go to the hotel to check Stani's room. He felt certain Stani would never do anything to harm himself, but it was possible if he'd been drinking he might have fallen. He would never forgive himself if something had happened to the boy, all because he had wanted some time away.

At seven, he called the hotel. Still no answer in Stani's room, but this time he was told a member of the hotel staff had recalled seeing Stani in the bar around four-thirty the previous afternoon. He'd left the hotel with a lady, a very stylish young lady. No one could recall seeing him return. Would Milo like for security to check the room?

The result was the discovery that Stani had indeed been gone all night. In his room, they found only his bag, never unpacked, and his violin. There were two telephone messages, which had come in before his arrival, one from Jana and one from someone named Betsy. Milo phoned Robert at his hotel, asking if he had heard from Stani, already sure of the answer.

Who Betsy might be, Milo had no idea. He'd never known much about the young people Stani met since returning from the world tour over a year ago. He'd encouraged the boy to go out, to join in the night life New York was famous for. He felt it would be good for Stani's career to keep his name before the public; it might even attract a broader following. Stani was an appealing young man now, with his elegant figure and his striking auburn hair. Certainly, women of all ages found him attractive. After concerts all over the world, eager fans, many of them young girls, flocked around the stage doors seeking autographs. In some cases, there had even been overzealous fans who sought to get closer, to touch him or place some token in his hand. But as far as Milo was aware, there'd never been one particular girl.

It was possible, as the desk clerk implied, that Stani left the hotel with a call girl. Milo had never known him to use prostitutes. He rarely spent much of the generous allowance he received every month. But if he'd been feeling rebellious after being so harshly scolded, he might have done something out of character, just to prove he was his own man. At twenty-one, Stani had yet to declare his independence, seemingly satisfied to let Milo direct his every step, not only in his career, but in every aspect of his life.

Milo called the hotel again, this time requesting the telephone numbers of the mysterious Betsy. No answer at the first number, he dialed the second. An answering service operator informed him that Miss Mason, who was available for auditions the week after Christmas, had not picked up her messages since noon yesterday. Milo left a message, stating he was Stani Moss's manager and to please return the call as soon as possible. He hesitated to say the matter was urgent, but he was more and more concerned it might be.

They waited all morning, he and Jana, huddled together near the phone in their hotel room. Milo wanted to return immediately to New York, but Jana urged him to at least wait until one o'clock. If Stani failed to appear at the church for his rehearsal, they would have real cause for alarm. At one ten the call came from Robert. He had gone to the church as instructed. Stani was not there. What did Milo want him to do next? They agreed Robert would inform the music director that Stani had been taken ill. Nothing serious. He would definitely be able to make the performance tomorrow night. That would at least buy a little more time for a response from Betsy. Even if she and Stani were involved in some impulsive tryst, surely she would check her messages.

While Jana called the airport to place them on stand-by to return to New York, Milo debated the wisdom of filing a missing persons report. But if Stani were somewhere with this girl, he would eventually have to surface. He might yet make the concert on Christmas Eve, and no one would need to know he had ever disappeared. There was no reason to create unwanted publicity for either of them if they were only guilty of being in love.

But in his heart, Milo believed he would have known if Stani had become emotionally involved with this girl. He was not an impetuous boy. Rather, he was too cautious at times. He had been so painfully shy as a child, always tucking his head as if he had something to apologize for. It had taken a great deal of careful coaching to transform that timid boy into a confident performer. Milo had enlisted able help to prepare Stani for the world's great concert stages. When his training was completed, the little boy who had once shaken Milo's hand and agreed to become partners had become a young man far exceeding anyone's expectations. Even Jana, who had taken the role of mother to heart, expressed amazement at this newly charismatic Stani. Yet inside, Milo suspected, the boy who had sought approval above all else remained unchanged. He could not accept the image of a rebellious Stani, who would intentionally disappoint a conductor and orchestra he held in highest regard. He would not simply ignore his commitments. Still, the thing which most alarmed Milo, though he did not mention it to Jana, was the fact Stani had left his violin in the hotel room.

They arrived at the apartment late that night, with no idea where to look next. There was nothing in Stani's room to indicate he had made any plans other than to go to Washington. Afraid to look into one another's eyes, they wandered about the apartment, with its spectacular view of the city lights, scarcely noticing that snow had begun to fall.

### Chapter Seven

Emily woke with a start, stiff and sore, and confused at the presence of something next to her on the floor. The dim light from the fire and the oil lamp cast shadows around the room; and for several minutes she stared up at them, trying to remember how she had come to be here. Then with her heart in her throat, she raised herself on one elbow and searched the face beside her. She touched his cheek and was rewarded by its warmth. His color, in the firelight, seemed a little better, too. When she moved against him, he drew a deep breath, as if in response to her touch. Slipping from beneath the covers, she knelt on the floor and carefully tucked the quilts around him.

"It shouldn't be long now before help comes. I know they're looking for you. I've put as many lights as possible in the windows. Someone's sure to see them and come soon." It sounded reassuring, she hoped, assuming he could hear her. She'd read that even comatose patients could hear, so it was worth trying to comfort him. And talking broke the unbearable stillness of the room.

The fire was low again; she'd slept for almost two hours. The candles must have burnt down as well. Making the rounds, she replaced as many as possible from her dwindling supply, added logs to the fire and made a sandwich for her supper. She couldn't just sit and stare at him all night she decided. Still, she needed to stay awake to keep the fire going and tend the candles.

She had to face the fact that with nightfall there was little likelihood anyone would be out there searching for him. The wind continued to blow, piling the snow in drifts across the yard. The house was cold now, with only a capsule of warmth around the hearth. She gathered blankets from the wardrobe, spreading two more over him, and reserving two for herself. As added protection against the chill, she put on her robe and an extra pair of socks. Not much of a fashion statement, but she felt sure he wouldn't notice.

Looking around the room, she saw for the first time the mayhem she had created in her struggle to get him to the fireside. She began to put the room to rights, gathering up the sodden coverlet and both of their wet coats from where they had been cast aside in heaps on the floor. As she shook out his black wool overcoat she felt something in the folds, a stiff rectangle—a wallet? It hadn't occurred to her until now that of course he would be carrying some form of identification. If he had died out there in the snow, it wouldn't have mattered whether she knew his name or not. Now, reaching inside the breast pocket of the coat, her pulse began to race. Opening the cold leather folder cautiously, she found a considerable number of large denomination bills, and a New York driver's license. His name, according the license, was Stanley Moss. He lived in Manhattan. The only other item was a worn cardboard pass of some sort to Lincoln Center, with the words "stage #4" and perhaps a signature handwritten on the faded lines. It probably wasn't anything of importance, she decided. But at least now he had a name, though she would never have pictured him as anyone so ordinary as a "Stanley."

Something about the information she'd found nagged at her memory. She let the words toss about in her brain, said them aloud, studied his sleeping face with new eyes, now that it had a name. Drawing one of the wing chairs close to the fire, she sat hugging her knees, watching him, willing him to move, to open his eyes, to make some sound. Anything to reassure her he was going to live through the night. She longed for something to break the silence. Music, it occurred to her, would be so comforting, for both of them.

"Music!" she said aloud. "Moss. Stanley Moss. Stani Moss?" She leaped from her chair, going to the other end of the room. Taking the candle from the windowsill, she held it high over the records lining the shelves, searching. It would have been one of the last acquisitions, she knew. She only half remembered her mother telling her about this boy, a violinist, near her own age, who was setting the concert world on fire. Her fingers flew over the album jackets, finally locating what she thought must be the right one. Pulling it free, she carried it to the lamp, studying the photograph on the cover—a serious young boy cradling a gleaming violin, a frame of curling hair, a scattering of freckles. Her eyes went back to the fire-lit face of the man on the floor. Sinking into her chair, she clutched the record jacket to her chest. How could it be possible the boy in this photograph was lying injured and unconscious in front of her fire?

She sat there for a long time, trying to make sense of what she could piece together. He lived in New York, yet here he was, hundreds of miles away, alone, lost in a storm, injured in a car accident, she had to assume. People like Stani Moss didn't go around the country alone. They traveled with managers or assistants, didn't they? Everything was arranged for them. They were pampered and protected, not left to wander the countryside in the dead of winter without so much as a hat or gloves.

She studied the liner notes on the recording. "He has been earning accolades since the age of ten for his brilliant virtuosic rendition of the classical repertoire," she read under her breath. "At fifteen, he is considered a modern prodigy, acclaimed by critics for his skill and passionate interpretation."

Kneeling beside him, she gently touched his shoulder. "Stani," she said softly, testing the name. "Stani, can you hear me? I don't know how this happened to you, but I'm sure everything possible is being done to find you. I know someone out there must be moving heaven and earth to find out where you've disappeared to." She waited for a sign that he had heard, but there was no reaction. "Oh, Stani, please wake up, just for minute, just to let me know you can hear me! Just to make me feel better. I'll never be able to forgive myself if you don't wake up! You're so special, people will think I should have done more to save you." She was babbling again, she knew. But maybe the urgency of her voice and the sound of his name would get through to him. Now that she knew who he was, it seemed much more personal, more terrifyingly important for him to survive. She hadn't wanted to think of an anonymous man dying on her hearth, but she knew she could never live here again if this brilliant musician breathed his last in this room.

"Stani!" she tried again. "Open your eyes!" Nothing.

She must have knelt there for some time, watching him breathe and trying to imagine what he would look like if he opened his eyes and smiled. He seemed to be drifting farther and farther away; now that she knew his identity, the gravity of their situation came into sharper focus. Now he was somehow someone she had known, not a stranger anymore. His life had already affected so many others, including her mother's. His loss would be felt by a world of people he had touched with his music. And yet here by the fire, he seemed to be just a gentle boy who had suffered a horrible misadventure and now lay fighting for survival.

Emily reached out to touch a curling strand of red hair clinging to his cheek. "Stani, if you can hear me, please understand I've done everything I can to keep you safe. I promise I won't leave you, not until someone comes who can really help you. But you have to promise me to hold on. Please don't leave me, Stani. Promise me?"

Eventually, she made another circuit of the house, extinguishing many of the candles. It was late, and the snow was still falling steadily. No one could possibly be searching now. She gave up trying to make sense of whatever events had brought Stani Moss to her valley. If he survived, perhaps she would eventually learn the details. More likely, she would never know. If only she could get him to a hospital, to doctors who could make him whole again, she would be satisfied.

Determined to stay awake, to watch over Stani and keep the fire going, she curled in the chair and began to talk. She told him how she had come home because she too was lost and how she had found herself here. She talked of her parents, how they had raised her to love this place and all the things they treasured. She told him the story of how they had met and fallen in love; how they came to the valley to start their life together in a new place and how much they had wanted a child to share in that life. It was a story she had heard many times. She told it to him now, careful of detail and description. She wanted him to know about this place he had come to by whatever twists of fate, even if he never remembered being here.

Her voice growing hoarse and every muscle aching for rest, she went on talking; her favorite books, the music she most loved. The places she had read about and dreamed of visiting someday. The paintings and sculptures she imagined she'd see, in her someday world travels.

In danger of lulling herself to sleep, she paced the floor, repeatedly going to kneel beside him, touching his now warm cheek, tucking the blankets ever closer around him. He never moved, never gave any sign he heard her voice or even sensed her presence. After midnight, the snow slowed to a flurry and the wind died completely. The silence was profound, as if the house were wrapped in cotton batting, insulated from the world outside. Inside, only the crackle of the fire and the soft sound of his breathing broke the stillness.

### ****

Emily had given up trying to stay awake. Just a few minutes and she would be refreshed. Curling in the chair, she closed her eyes. As soon as her head dropped, she woke with a start, her eyes immediately going to the figure on the floor. How could she possibly consider sleeping? He might wake and she would never know it. He might need her and she would not be there to help him. With her lids drooping, she began to talk again. This time she told him about Jack, who would soon be there to rescue him. Jack, who had been her father's lifelong friend, who was her godfather and had been there in every crisis of her life. Jack would see her lights and come to investigate. She would have a lot of explaining to do, she assured him; but in the end, Jack would take care of everything.

Her ramblings were interrupted by a sudden soft noise. A log had burnt through and fallen on the grate, scattering sparks. She saw, or imagined she saw, Stani's lips part. His eyelids fluttered open and he seemed to gaze toward the fire for moment, before his eyes closed again.

On her knees in an instant, she watched breathlessly for further movement. Very slowly, as if coming to life, his right hand moved under the layers of quilts. Throwing back the cover, she stared, fascinated, as his fingers slid across his chest in search of the source of his pain. He was frowning, his jaw clenched.

Racing to the kitchen, she grabbed the kettle and a clean dish towel. By the time she returned, he had begun to probe the injured shoulder, his face contorted with the effort. Wetting a corner of the towel, she touched it to his lips. "Stani, you're all right. You've been in an accident, but you're going to be all right. Don't try to move, but please open your eyes if you can hear me." She felt tears welling and knew she was going to cry, no matter what he did next. Touching the towel to his lips again, she watched his face twist as if in surrender and relax. "Stani, please stay with me!" Her plea was punctuated by a sob she couldn't hold back.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, surprisingly dark, brown eyes; she was momentarily stunned by the depth of their pained focus. For just an instant they seemed to stare directly into hers. Then again his lids drooped and he frowned. She touched his face and realized he was very warm. Fever? Or just the warmth of sleep? She laid her hand on his chest. Warm, but not feverish, she decided.

Gently grasping his hand to move it back to his side, she was surprised when he resisted. As if intentionally, his long fingers wove into hers. It wasn't much, but it was enough to convince her he knew she was there. She dissolved into tears, great sobs of relief echoing in the cold silence. She had worked so hard, been so determined to get him to safety and keep him alive. Now the touch of his fingers on hers brought every emotion crashing to the surface and her self-control shattered. Dropping her head on his chest, she cried as she had not done in years.

The hand she still held in hers pulled free. Slowly, but deliberately, it found its way to her hair, resting there while she wept. She was barely aware of the gentle pressure as his fingers slid down to her neck and came at last to curve around her cheek. Ashamed of herself, and struggling for breath, she raised her head. His palm remained on her cheek for an instant, sliding away in what felt very much like a caress. His eyes were closed, but there was a look of alertness, as if he were listening.

"Stani, you can hear me, can't you?" But after another moment, he seemed to drift off to sleep. His breathing was deeper now, his color a little more normal. She told herself he needed time to recover from hours of wandering in the cold; that maybe his injuries were not so serious after all. He had responded to her voice, taken notice of his surroundings. He had reacted to her ridiculous breakdown. Embarrassed as she was, she had to admit she felt much better able now to face the coming hours. "Thank you, Stani." Tucking the covers back around him, she touched his hair with the thought that he really did have the most beautiful hair.

She stirred the fire, adding fuel. Turning the lamp low, to conserve what oil remained, she curled on the couch. Dawn was still hours away. Who could say what morning might bring? She would have to get some rest, so she could care for Stani tomorrow until help came. Lying on her side, where she could see him clearly, she thought about those few moments and realized that on some level they had entered into a relationship of sorts. No matter that they would never meet again once he was taken from here to be cared for by his own family, they would always share these hours. Though she doubted he would remember much about them, she would certainly never forget.

This would not be a story to share, but something she would keep close. She had been given the opportunity to save a life, an extraordinary life. She'd come home to find herself, and indeed had done just that. But in comparison to the past few hours, that somehow seemed trivial, even selfish. It was as if, by having this terrifying emergency thrust into the midst of her joyous homecoming, she'd been shown things about herself, things she would never otherwise have seen. There was something to be learned from everything in life, she'd been taught, both the bitter and the sweet. This encounter with Stani Moss, she suspected, might well contain a little of both.

Glancing over at his face, she had to smile. He seemed to be sleeping so naturally now, she half expected to hear an occasional snore. Drifting to sleep to the rhythm of his breathing, she could still see those dark eyes gazing up at her, and feel the soft touch of his palm against her cheek. It would be a very long time before that image faded, she was sure.

### ****

Emily woke at daybreak. Clouds still hung in the sky, but the snow had stopped falling. Stani had not moved. He still slept, but a little frown creased his face. She knelt beside him, carefully touching his cheek, and was relieved to feel his skin was still cool. If he continued to sleep, it would be better for him, she knew. There would be no way to relieve the pain of his shoulder if he woke. She quietly tended the fire and extinguished the lamp and the remaining candles.

Rummaging in her duffel bag, she took out a flannel shirt and a heavy dark brown sweater. She couldn't go around all day in her bathrobe. Today Jack would come and she wanted to be prepared. She dressed, brushed her hair and silently went to the kitchen for bread and jam.

Sitting by the fire as she ate, she found she couldn't take her eyes from his face, afraid to miss the blink of an eye or even a grimace of pain. She remembered the thought she'd had yesterday, as she struggled to pull him across the yard. He was hers now, to keep alive. She did feel a kinship with him and a need to protect him. But she couldn't let that feeling leave this room. Once they were found and he was taken to a hospital, she would have to let go of him. In the real world of their respective lives, there was no relationship. She was a girl alone, just starting to make her way to an uncertain future. He had already achieved fame and success in a world far removed from this valley farmhouse. Assuming he was able to return to his career, she would have the gratification of knowing she had played a part in making that possible. But he need never know anything about her or what had brought her here in the first place.

In that moment, she made the decision that she didn't want anyone to know what had happened here. Always reserved, if not precisely shy, she was sure she didn't want to face questions or have to tell this story to strangers. Anonymous; she wanted to remain anonymous, out of sight. Someday, Stani Moss, world famous violinist, might make a great comeback from this accident; but the girl who dragged him out of the storm need never be named.

"Okay, Stani? Do we have a deal?" she whispered. Sweeping crumbs from her sweater, she let out a resolute sigh. That settled, now all she had to do was wait for Jack, or someone, to find them.

Thankfully, there was work to be done. The supply of firewood on the porch had dwindled to a few sticks. She would have to bring in more from the shed. The trouble was she'd lost her shoes. And they were the only pair she'd brought with her. She looked around the room, searching for inspiration. It was then she spotted the boots, cast off in her frenzy and now lying near the hearth. Why not? They might be a little big for her, but they were certainly better than nothing. Stani would not be needing them this morning, she was sure.

With her feet in the once-fine boots and bundled in coat and gloves, she took the snow shovel and dug her way to the woodshed at the side of the porch. Several trips back and forth and she was satisfied she could keep them warm for the next few hours. The cold air had made her hungry again, and she fixed a sandwich to eat while she warmed herself, sitting at Stani's feet on the floor. She would be able to eat, she decided, in the midst of even the worst disasters.

### Chapter Eight

They never went to bed that night. Jana wanted to drive to Washington. It was unthinkable that they would sit here waiting. They should be doing something, searching, asking questions. She tried to pray, to find assurance that just as God had given Stani his extraordinary talent, he would not allow him to come to harm. A loving God would watch over him, protect him, and permit him a long life in which to share his gift. In answer to her prayers, she felt a little calmer, comforted by her once-strong faith in the God she had all but forgotten at times.

For Milo, she was more than a little afraid. Milo kept his emotions so rigidly in check, never letting anyone, not even herself, see when he was anxious or worried. Even early in their marriage, when they had struggled to survive on the little she earned teaching and performing, Milo never let her see anything but his vision for the future, always looking ahead to a better life if only they worked hard. After Stani came along, Milo had gained more and more confidence. As each carefully measured step brought this amazing child closer to a career on the concert stage, Jana watched her husband transformed from the struggling immigrant student she'd first fallen in love with to a powerful and highly respected figure in the most elite circles of classical music. He was welcomed into the offices of the great music directors, embraced by world-famous conductors, and regarded as a force in the movement to bring classical performance to a broader audience.

Yet tonight, as they waited for some word of Stani's whereabouts, Milo sat at his desk, head in hands, unkempt and brooding. He seemed to be searching inside himself for some comfort, some hope; a logical explanation for this unexpected turn in their lives. He'd always been able to make things happen, to devise and implement a plan, meeting with success at every calculated turn. Now he had lost control, without means to bring these events into line with logic.

Jana feared if indeed the unspeakable had occurred, if Stani had come to some harm, Milo would not be able to deal with the consequences. He believed himself responsible for whatever followed his conversation with Stani, blamed himself for having been too harsh. She prayed again, that even now, Milo would turn to God for strength. Though he had long ago abandoned the religion of his parents, surely he had not also abandoned God? They never spoke of it. Each had too much respect for the other to intrude on something so private. But now Jana worried he might feel he'd been too long away from God to accept any comfort.

Because she could think of nothing to say, she busied herself in the kitchen. Preparing a tray of coffee and toast, she carried it into the living room. Milo remained slumped over his desk, staring out at the dull gray sky. Dawn had come. It was past seven on the morning before Christmas Eve. Jana switched on the television, and keeping the volume low, tuned to the morning news show. The broadcast was focused on the prospects for a white Christmas in New York. It seemed that during the night, the entire Eastern seaboard had been blanketed by a sudden storm. In areas south of Washington, widespread power outages and road closures had severely hampered holiday travel.

Jana gasped. "That's it! Oh, Milo, that has to be it!"

He looked up with glazed eyes. "What?"

"The storm. They must have been trapped somewhere by the storm. With the phone lines down, they wouldn't be able to call either. They're probably bundled into some hotel, waiting out the storm."

The more she talked, the more convinced she became. Crossing the room, she stood behind him, gently kneading his shoulders. "As soon as he can, I'm sure Stani will call us. He must be frantic, knowing how worried we must be. Poor Stani, you know how he hates to cause any bother."

Milo considered the idea, trying to rally his thoughts. If they'd gone somewhere, maybe the mountains to the west of DC, with the romantic notion of a country inn or mountain lodge, they might indeed have been trapped by the fast-moving storm. It would have been foolish to set out in such conditions. Stani was not an experienced driver. It would have been sensible to stay put until the roads were cleared. Yes, he finally agreed, in the absence of any other explanation, this at least offered the prospect of Stani's safe return.

They decided to prepare to travel to Washington as soon as they heard from Stani. They would attend the concerts and spend Christmas there with him. During the morning, they showered and Jana repacked their bags. All they needed now was a call from Stani, full of apologies, and this nightmare would be behind them.

### Chapter Nine

Gradually the clouds lifted, and, as is often the case after a violent storm, the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky. Emily's spirits began to lift, as melting snow dripped from the roof and songbirds took to the air in search of their breakfast. Her only hope now was that someone out searching would see the smoke from her chimney. Jack would most certainly come to investigate that.

She stayed on the floor near Stani, watching as he continued in what appeared to be a deep, peaceful sleep. He never stirred, and the frown of pain had not crossed his face for a long time now. His breathing was regular and his pulse was strong. His condition seemed stable, she assured herself. Touching his cheek, which was beginning to show a shadow of rusty beard, she wondered again what he would look like, awake and smiling. He was as familiar to her now as any old friend would be. After watching him for so many hours, his seemed to be the face of someone she had always known, and most definitely someone she would never forget.

Late in the morning, her waiting was finally rewarded by the appearance of the big brown sheriff's cruiser approaching the gate. In her excitement, she flung open the front door and ran out onto the porch, waving her arms and calling out to the tall man wading toward her through the snow.

Jack looked none too happy to see her. His first words were hardly welcoming. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Never mind that now!" Grabbing his hand, she pulled him through the front door.

His gaze went immediately to Stani, and he stopped in his tracks, pulling back on her hand. And then Jack did something he'd never done before. His eyes wide with horror and his face actually turning red, he shouted at her. "What in the name of all that's holy is going on up here?"

She raised her own voice, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "Stani Moss! You're searching for him, right? The car accident on the Charlotte Springs road?" Jack was supposed to know all this, not stand there asking questions!

They stood there for a long moment, staring at each other, before Jack took a deep breath, laying his hands gently on her shoulders. "Okay, slow down. Tell me what's happened here. Slowly!"

She tried to calm herself. "Aren't you searching for someone who wrecked a car?"

"No. We found them yesterday. They're both dead. Are you trying to tell me this guy was in that car?" As his expression changed from questioning to incredulous, she urged him on, nodding her head violently.

"Yes! He walked up the hill into the back yard and collapsed. I thought he was dead! He's badly hurt, his head and his shoulder, at least. I thought you'd be searching. . .oh, Jack, just call for help, please! Then I'll explain it to you. He needs to get to a hospital! Please!"

"All right, Em. I'll be right back." Giving her shoulders a little squeeze, he turned, heading back out the door. "What did you say his name is?"

"Stani Moss."

He stopped, giving her a keen look over his shoulder. "How do you know who he is?"

Emily pointed to the wallet and the recording, still on the table. "He's a musician, a famous one. Mother had one of his records."

Jack picked up first one and then the other, rifling the contents of the wallet and studying the photograph on the jacket. "I'll see if anyone's looking for him."

### ****

After calling for the ambulance, Jack radioed the Virginia Highway Patrol, relaying the information from the New York driver's license he'd slipped into his pocket. As he trudged back to the house, he primed himself to begin the interrogation. How Emily had ended up in this situation, he couldn't imagine, but he had every intention of getting to the bottom of things quickly.

At the open doorway, he paused. Emily was talking, her voice low but not so low he couldn't hear what she was saying to the man on the floor. "It won't be long now. The ambulance will take you to the hospital at the University. It's a really good hospital. They'll take the best care of you there. I know there's someone out there frantic to hear what's happened to you, and they're going to be so thankful to have you back." Bending over him and laying a hand on his hair, she said softly, "God be with you, Stani."

Jack stood silently, captivated by the scene. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting the two of them in a glowing circle. Emily was gazing down at the man beside her with what could only be called tenderness. It struck him suddenly that she'd grown up. She was a beautiful young woman now, not just the lovely girl he'd sent off to Williamsburg. She turned to meet his gaze and for a fleeting instant, he saw her mother looking up at him, her wise gray eyes reflecting the same remarkable spirit. What had happened here he might never know; but if he knew anything about Emily, it had been intense. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, moving a cautious step closer, all thought of interrogation vanished.

"I've called for an ambulance, but it'll take a while on these roads. And I put out a bulletin, in case anyone's looking for him. Is there anything I can do for him, or for you, in the meantime? Can you tell me something about his injuries, Em?"

Without leaving her place on the floor, she described the ugly gash on his scalp, the probability he'd lost a considerable amount of blood, and what seemed to be a badly separated shoulder. "He must have been walking around out there for a long time. He was half frozen. I can only imagine how much pain he must have been in. He's been unconscious most of the time, but I think he's sleeping now. At least he doesn't seem to be too uncomfortable." She glanced down as if to reassure herself of the fact. "Surely his family's looking for him. Did you say there were two other people in the car?"

"Yes, a man and a woman, both young. We've already gotten ID's on them. No obvious connection to this boy. The only thing I can figure is he must have been thrown from the car. Hard to imagine how anyone could have survived. What time did you find him?"

"A little after one yesterday afternoon. Not long after the power went out, I guess. When did the accident happen?" Jack took note of the way her hand rested on the man's shoulder, almost as though she were trying to comfort him.

"Sometime before dawn. A trucker pulled over to put on chains, saw that the barricade at Charlotte Springs had been crashed and radioed me. We found the car just a little ways down. It had gone off the road on the ice, flipped and hit a tree. Like I said, it's hard to imagine how he walked away from that."

"So he could have been wandering around for hours. He must have been confused, but he certainly seemed determined to make it up the hill."

"How did you get him into the house?"

She seemed to take a minute to compose her answer. "I wrapped him in a quilt and dragged him," she said simply, as though it was something she did every day. When his jaw dropped in astonishment, she shrugged her shoulders. "Lots of adrenaline, I guess. I was so scared he'd die out there."

"Want to tell me how you happened to be here?"

"Not right now, if you don't mind. I will after he's been taken care of." Now as she looked up into the sunlight, her eyes, a liquid, silvery gray that again reminded him of Lilianne, were pleading with him in a way he'd never been able to refuse.

"Do you want to go to the hospital with him?"

"No. You'll go, won't you? There's no need for me to go."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. Do you think it will be much longer?" As if on cue, the sound of a distant siren reached their ears. With one last look, she got to her feet, gathering up a long black overcoat and the wallet. He watched her hesitate, staring down at her badly worn boots. "Do you think it would be okay if I kept these? They're his. I lost my shoes in the snow yesterday, and I don't have another pair with me. I put these on to get more firewood this morning."

Jack blinked at her in amazement. "Yes, I think it'll be okay."

The ambulance was in the yard, the attendants rushing through the door with an oxygen tank, a stretcher, and a big box of gear. Emily stepped back, watching as they rapidly worked over the patient. One of them asked about his injuries and she went calmly through the list again. Within minutes, they lifted him onto the stretcher, placed the oxygen mask over his face, and secured him beneath a mountain of brown blankets. Only the top of his head was visible, the makeshift bandage still in place, as they carried him toward the door.

"You're sure you don't want to go?"

"I'm sure." She went to the window to watch the progress down the steps and across the yard, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Okay, but I'll be back. And then we have a lot to talk about, right?"

Emily turned to him with a tight little smile. "Right."

Jack could see her, as he backed the car slowly out of the gate, standing at the window watching as the attendants finished loading the stretcher and closed the rear of the ambulance. Tall and straight, her head high, she raised her hand in a tentative wave of farewell. Bone weary as he was, he knew he wouldn't rest until he found out at least a little about what had been going on here for the past few days.

### ****

Emily stayed by the window until the blare of the siren could be heard and she knew the ambulance had reached the highway. He was gone, on his way to safety. She could let go of him now.

Turning back to the room, she surveyed the displaced furniture, the quilts and towels littering the floor. Just under the edge of the couch, she spotted the blood-stained pillow, pushed aside when Stani was placed on the stretcher. Picking it up, she hugged it to her chest, feeling the circle of warmth where his head had rested. "Godspeed, Stani Moss."

She allowed a moment or two to fix him in her memory. The fine features, the dark eyes and his remarkable red hair, the feel of him beneath her as she wept on his chest, strong and warm, and the soft touch of his hand. Then, straightening her shoulders, she let out a long sigh. There was nothing left to do but pray for him.

She began to put the room to rights. Folding quilts, rolling out the rug, and moving the furniture back into place. As if a sign that things were returning to normal, the lights blinked on and she heard the welcome rumble of the furnace as it came back to life. When Jack returned, she wanted to be able to sit down by the fire with him and explain what had happened here before the storm came. In order to do that, she would need to remove all evidence that Stani Moss had ever been here. The sooner things looked as they had before, the sooner she could pretend nothing had been changed by his presence.

### ****

Emily ate her lunch, gazing out over the back yard where the sunshine now beamed off the blanket of snow. Warmed by hot soup and the golden light flooding in the windows, her spirits continued to rise. She wondered how Stani was faring, now that he was in the hands of doctors who could start him on the way to healing and getting back to his life. It would take time, but he was young. He would recover and look back at this accident as a tragedy he survived. Would he wonder about the person who pulled him in from the storm? Maybe; but if she kept her promise to remain just some unknown girl on a farm in the foothills, Emily was certain it would be best for both of them.

Turning her thoughts to exactly what she would say to Jack, she acknowledged his discovery of her here with Stani hadn't been the ideal way to begin her campaign to win his support. Best to be honest about what brought her here and go forth on the theme that she was mature enough to handle even the worst situation. And mature enough to know her own mind. Poor Jack, after he got over the shock of finding her here, he might at least give her a fair hearing.

In the meantime, she needed to get on with the work at hand, wash her dishes and bring in more firewood; and it was time to move the little figurines along their way to the stable. Tomorrow, she realized, was Christmas Eve.

### Chapter Ten

The telephone finally rang at one fifteen. Jana ran into the bedroom to pick up the extension, as Milo answered at his desk. It wasn't Stani. The man on the line identified himself as a member of the Virginia Highway Patrol. He asked if he'd reached the residence of Stanley Moss. For a moment, Milo couldn't draw a breath to answer. He felt suddenly cold, as if he'd been struck by a blast of icy wind. Through the open door, he saw Jana sit down abruptly on the bed, staring straight ahead.

He must have replied because the officer then asked him for his name. He asked if Mr. Scheider was a relative, to which Milo heard himself respond that he and Stani were business partners. By this time, the pounding of his own heart threatened to prevent him from hearing what the officer was telling him. He knew he must listen very carefully; he was responsible for whatever had happened to Stani. There had been an accident, the man was saying, early yesterday morning. A man carrying a driver's license issued to Stanley Moss had been found after wandering away from the site. Could Mr. Scheider give him the number for a member of Mr. Moss's family?

The officer was obviously taking great care not to say too much. Milo fought the rising urge to scream into the telephone. He needed to know what had happened, where he would need to go to get Stani back. He couldn't stand here any longer doing nothing. He heard himself calmly explain to the officer that there was no family. He and his wife had raised Stani.

At last, the officer seemed to let down his guard. He told Milo that Stani had been taken by ambulance to the hospital at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, where he was being treated for injuries and exposure. He offered to give Milo the phone number for the hospital's emergency room. Jana spoke breathlessly into the phone. How seriously was Stani injured? Responding to the maternal concern in her voice, he replied "Ma'am, from what I understand, he's lucky to be alive. It's a miracle he was able to walk away from that car. The driver and another passenger were killed instantly." Jana whispered her thanks and dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

Once Milo had spoken to a doctor who could tell him more about Stani's condition, he began to make rapid preparations. Finally, here was something he could do, the kind of thing he did best. He contacted doctors he knew through their mutual involvement on various arts boards, was referred to the needed specialists, then in turn telephoned them, explaining the situation, asking them to contact the emergency room doctor in Virginia. At their recommendation, he made arrangements for a private ambulance to bring Stani back to New York. He wanted as much control as possible over Stani's initial treatment. He couldn't trust the doctors in Virginia to recognize how essential the treatment of the shoulder injury in particular would be to Stani's ultimate recovery.

Lastly Milo telephoned Robert, still awaiting his orders in Washington. He was to pick up Stani's bag and his violin from the hotel and return immediately. He recognized the shock and concern in Robert's voice, as he promised to go right away. Milo then contacted the radio production office and the music director at the church. Both assured him they would be praying for Stani's recovery.

As he made some final notes on the list he'd compiled in the course of arranging for Stani's return, Milo was struck by the universal response to the boy's situation. Everyone, from his driver to the finest physicians and surgeons in New York, not to mention his musical colleagues, had reacted with the same genuine concern, offering whatever support might be needed. He often worried that he had isolated the boy, in the effort to protect him from exploitation; but now Milo had to acknowledge that Stani was respected and loved for himself. Those prayers offered might well be needed in the days ahead. But more than that, Stani would need to be shielded from too much attention until the extent of these injuries could be determined. Making an additional note at the bottom of his list, one word—Security—Milo packed his briefcase and went in search of Jana.

### Chapter Eleven

It was past dark when Jack returned. Standing at the window, Emily watched the beam of the headlights bounce across the snow-covered yard, and her heart began to pound against her ribs. It seemed to take hours for Jack to pick his way through the now-icy path created by the earlier traffic. The once pristine blanket of white was a churned-up maze of tire tracks and footprints, the only thing left behind that she hadn't been able to clear away.

Before she could ask, Jack answered her question. "He made the trip just fine. They were very impressed with what you did for him. He was still unconscious, but they didn't seem to think his injuries were life-threatening. And we were able to contact his manager through the state police."

The news brought a lump to her throat, and she fought for composure. He was all right. He was safely where he would be taken care of now. She could let him go.

Jack held out a bag, watching her eyes widen at the sight of the greasy spots on the paper. "Hungry?"

Peering inside, she let out a long, low "ooh." "How did you know I was starving for a hamburger? And fries, too? Oh, Jack, thank you!" She threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance. "Come on! Let's eat them while they're still warm!" Taking the carton of colas from his hand, she headed for the kitchen.

While she unpacked their dinner, Jack sat down wearily at the kitchen table. "You know you should get a medal or something for what you did?"

Caught in the act of cramming fries in her mouth, Emily frowned, her dark brows lowering expressively. "About that. I really don't want anyone to know. I don't want to have to answer a lot of questions. It would be too embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? You saved a man's life. How could that be embarrassing?" Jack eyed her skeptically, immediately suspicious.

"It's my business. I don't want to become the topic of conversation at the coffee shop on Monday morning."

Jack nodded, knowing she referred to the group of town fathers who gathered every Monday to mull over the problems of the world. "I see. I suppose that makes sense. It would be pretty sensational. 'How about the Haynes girl rescuing that handsome young fellow from the blizzard?' They could make something of that for sure."

Emily grinned at his imitation of the eldest member of the group. But Jack couldn't help seeing the color rising in her cheeks. Lowering her eyes, she took a delicate bite of her burger. "This is so good! You wouldn't believe how many ham sandwiches I've eaten in the past few days."

"So how long were you planning to stay here before you let me know what you were up to?"

"Oh, just a few more days. But then I prayed you'd come, after. . .after the storm came." Again she blushed, this time much more deeply.

"We have a lot to talk about, Em. Where do you think we should start? Maybe with the fact that you lied to me?" Despite the grimness of his expression, she thought she detected a familiar twinkle in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Jack. But it was the only way. You'd never have let me come alone if I'd told you what I wanted to do. And it wasn't exactly a lie."

"You said you were going skiing with school friends. Poor Angela was worried you'd break a leg. She said you'd never skied in your life." The glint in his blue eyes was sparkling a bit brighter.

"Correction. I told you I'd been invited to go skiing. That was true."

"Ah, getting off on a technicality, I see. I take it you turned down the invitation?"

"Oh, yes, immediately. Then I decided I needed to come home, and it served as the perfect basis for my little white lie."

"Emily Haynes, what would your father say?" Now the twinkle was at high beam.

"He told me to come. That's what gave me the idea in the first place." She popped the last of the fries into her mouth. "When I tell you, Jack, you'll understand."

"Tell me what? Honestly, Em, you can't expect me to believe J.D. knows you're here?"

"He might. At least I think he must have hoped I'd come. But before we talk, can we clean up this mess and go sit by the fire? This may take a while, and we'd be a lot more comfortable in there."

With a sigh of resignation, he helped her clear away the waxed paper wrappings and watched with some amusement as she thoroughly wiped down the table top.

In the front room, Jack pointed to the Christmas decorations. "So you came home to decorate the house for the holidays?"

She knew he was trying to find some way to ease back to the point. "I had to clean first. The place was a mess, dust on everything. And cold! I've gone through a lot of firewood."

"And you think that's what your father wanted you to do this Christmas, come here alone and play house?"

Immediately, her gray eyes sparked. "I'm not playing, Jack. And it is my house!"

"Another technicality. Right now it belongs to a trust, which I'm technically the guardian of."

"You know what I mean. It's my home. Oh, Jack, I've been so unhappy. No, not just unhappy. I've been depressed. I was so lost. Then I went to visit Pop over Thanksgiving, and I think he must have known. He talked to me, Jack. He said words that meant something. I knew he wanted me to come home and figure out how to get on with my life."

He waited, listening without saying a word, as she told him about the visit. Encouraged that he was willing to hear her out, she described her elation when she'd realized she could build a life here, and that this was the life she was meant to have all along. When he continued to sit in silence, staring at the lights on the mantel, she hoped he was at least thinking over what she'd said before he started pointing out all the flaws in her plan.

"I'm so much happier here. I know I'll still have to finish school and get a job, but I'm sure I can figure out how to make things work as I go along. I'll need your help, Jack. But think about it; think about all they taught me. I know this place inside and out. Why not come back sooner, rather than later?"

She was shocked by his first words. "Have you ever considered becoming a nurse?"

"Not really. Why would you ask that?"

"Well, for one thing, you just saved a man's life. And I remember how great you were with your mother." He continued to stare into space, his face unreadable.

"I suppose I could look into it. Right now my major's human biology. I had some notion of doing medical research someday. A lot of my credits might transfer. There might be jobs around here, public health, or maybe home health. You know, the more I think about it, it just might work."

"You know how much work this place is. It wouldn't be easy for just one skinny little girl to do it all." He grinned down at her, where she sat cross-legged on the floor.

"I managed okay so far. And you'd be here to help me, wouldn't you, if I really needed something?" She returned his grin, sensing she'd at least made some headway.

After another silence, he leaned forward. "I'll tell you what, Em. If this is what you really want, I'll do everything in my power to see you get it."

So stunned at her victory that at first she could scarcely accept it, she gaped up at him. "You mean it? You really will help me?"

"I always figured it would come to this. I just didn't expect you to take matters into your own hands quite so soon. You caught me off guard."

With a little yelp of joy, she jumped to her feet and threw herself on his neck. "Oh, Jack, you can't know what this means to me! I was so afraid you wouldn't understand!" Just as she had as a child, she kissed his cheek, hugging him tightly. It felt so good, she thought, to hug somebody again. It had been a long time.

"Oh, I understand. I still think you could do better than this old farm, but what do I know?" He shrugged, as she again knelt at his feet. "But let's get one thing straight. Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes again, okay? I can't take too many shocks like the one I got today. When I heard there was smoke coming from up here, I was prepared for the worst. And poor old Miss Hagen was sure some of those awful hippies had moved in on you."

Emily had to laugh. "I promise. And I hated lying to all of you, really I did. It just seemed the simplest thing to do. I thought about telling you I was invited to Florida for Christmas, which I was, but I knew you'd never believe that." Turning wide eyes up to him, she wondered what his response might be. That brief visit to the home of her only aunt had been a memorable disaster.

He scowled down at her. "You're darned right. I still think I should have called the authorities down there. You sure can get yourself into some fixes, young lady. First your aunt and her 'parties' and now a half-dead boy wandering into the yard. You sure you can be trusted on your own here?"

"I'm sure. Pop knew what he was doing, don't you think?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it was just time. Maybe you're ready now. I know one thing, it was lucky for that boy you were here. But Em, that could have been a real tragedy. You two could have been stuck here for a lot longer, or he could have died."

Emily smiled up at him, a sweet little half-smile that instantly made him think of her mother again. "But he didn't, Jack."

They continued to sit by the fire, talking of things past and things to be done. He would have the phone turned on, he said, so he wouldn't have to drive up here to check on her every day. She insisted that she'd be fine.

"All the same, the next man who wanders this way might not be so helpless."

"I think I could defend myself," she protested. To which Jack replied with a grunt that she probably could at that.

"You've grown up to be quite a force. How are you handling those college boys?"

"Just the way I handled the high school boys, I guess. I don't. I really haven't met anyone I wanted to waste that much time on."

"Sensible; but don't think you won't fall for someone someday, usually when you least expect to. And when you do, all of this may not seem so important." His gesture took in the whole of the valley. "Land and a house won't substitute for a family, Em. Don't expect them to." She made no reply, but they both stared into the fire for a while, each considering what they knew of loneliness, she suspected. Finally, he stirred and in a weary voice said, "In the meantime, I think I'd better turn the water on for you."

With a laugh that brought a dimple to one cheek, she nodded. "I really do need a shower."

"And I guess I'd better see if Martha Jean's has some shoes that'll fit you." The only ladies' clothing shop in town, the boutique was run by the very enterprising Miss Martha Jean Clark. "What size do you need?"

"Eight, but I'm sure I'll find mine when the snow melts." She couldn't imagine Jack picking out shoes for her.

"Well, you sure can't wear those things to church tomorrow night." He pointed to her feet, still clad in Stani's ruined boots.

"Oh, dear. I never thought of that. I don't have anything with me I could wear to church. I only brought jeans and sweaters, and most of those are dirty now. I'll have to stay home, but thanks for inviting me."

"I wasn't inviting. Your father would never allow you to miss a Christmas Eve service. If he sent you up here, he surely expected you to go to church. I'll just have Martha Jean get something together for you. What size dress?"

She knew when she'd been overruled. "Martha Jean will know, and you'd better tell her 'from the skin out'."

Jack grinned. "Got it. Now let me see if I can find a pipe wrench."

### ****

Emily slept that night on a pallet of clean linens. She had repeated dreams of snow, falling and blowing, and finally gleaming in the sunlight. But there was no fear in her dreams. She woke sometime during the night to stare at the moonlight streaming through the window. The angel on the mantel glowed in the soft light, and she thought sleepily that it was smiling down at her. She had always believed in miracles, and now she believed she had lived through one. She looked forward to being in church late on Christmas Eve, to singing hymns about angels and shepherds, and to giving thanks for prayers answered and a miraculous homecoming.

### Chapter Twelve

That night the two of them waited at the hospital in Manhattan for Stani's arrival. They said little to each other, blessedly occupied filling out various forms and arranging for the private suite Stani would stay in while he recovered. When the ambulance arrived at well past midnight and the stretcher was rolled in, they rushed to meet him, concerned smiles glued to their faces. Not until that first sight of him, only his face visible beneath the bandages, his motionless body completely swathed in layers of white blankets, did they grasp the gravity of the situation. His face was pale and bruised. His eyelids, almost translucent, never fluttered. There was no indication he knew they were there. Milo was reluctant to touch him, but Jana sought under the blankets and found his hand.

Once Stani was taken into a treatment room, where the doctors and nurses began to work over him, stripping away the blankets and hanging the IV fluid bag and the sack of dark red blood above him, they were allowed to come to his side for few minutes. He seemed so small, Jana thought, as if he had been deflated. His breathing seemed normal, but other than the rise and fall of his chest, he was absolutely still. A doctor talked to Milo, explaining that Stani was heavily sedated, but not in a coma. Although his head injury was serious, it did not appear life-threatening. As soon as the surgical team was assembled, they would operate to repair his shoulder.

Escorted back to the corridor by a sympathetic young nurse, they discovered the Virginia State Trooper, who had accompanied the ambulance, waiting for them. In his hands were Stani's blood-stained overcoat and a bag containing some of Stani's clothes and his wallet. He talked with them briefly about the accident, and Jana asked how Stani had been found.

Though the details were still sketchy, he explained, it seemed Stani must have walked a good distance from the car. Yesterday at around one in the afternoon, six hours after the car had been discovered, he was spotted by a local resident. He had been taken into a farmhouse and there he spent the next eighteen hours. The power had been knocked out by the storm, and there was no telephone in the house. Earlier today, the county sheriff, a personal friend of this resident, had come by to check on things and discovered Stani there. The ER physician credited Stani's condition at the time he finally reached the hospital to the quick thinking of the woman who found him.

"A woman?" Milo pictured a strong country woman, with weathered face and rough hands, carrying Stani in out of the storm.

"I can get her name for you if you'd like to get in touch with her."

"Please. That's an amazing story." Milo's voice trailed off as the doors opened and Stani was wheeled past them, now prepared for surgery. The officer looked after him, shaking his head.

"It's really a miracle he walked away. The officer at the scene said he must have been thrown from the car before it hit the tree. The other two died on impact. There was nothing to indicate a third person was ever in the car, or there would have been a search party. The whole thing defies reason, when you think about it."

"Who were the other two people in the car? We don't even know where he'd been that night." Jana struggled to understand as much as possible of what had happened. She would need to explain these things to Stani when he woke up.

Consulting his notepad, the officer read off the names of the victims. The driver had been Mark Stevenson of Albany, New York. The other passenger was a woman named Elizabeth Mason, from Manhattan.

Milo recognized the man's name immediately. The already notorious son of a powerful political family, his death would be headline news. But what possible connection could Stani have had to him? Whatever the circumstances, he would need to act quickly to shield Stani from the kind of publicity this was certain to generate.

Betsy was dead. Jana's first thought was to wonder if Stani had been in love with her. If so, how would he react to the news of her death? She began to prepare herself for what lay ahead. The next weeks, perhaps even months, would require all of her energy. Stani would need her, not only to nurse him back to health but also to help him accept the inevitable changes in his life.

They followed Stani through the swinging doors and into the surgical unit of the hospital. A nurse directed them to a sitting room where they could wait; or if they would prefer to go home, she would see they were called when the surgery was over. It would most likely be several hours, wouldn't they like to go home and get some rest? They would wait, Milo said. The streets were treacherous. Better not to risk going out now.

They sat side by side, each beginning to absorb the reality of this night. Glancing at Milo, Jana recognized the look of grim determination in his tired face. She placed her hand over his, without saying a word, letting him know she understood how difficult this was for him. To have to sit and wait, when his mind was already running to all he would need to do to safeguard Stani's career until he was healed. They had been together for so long, they easily read each other's thoughts. She knew Milo was blaming himself, fearing that the boy he'd invested his life's work in might never be the same, even when the doctors had done their best for him. She would need to be strong for Milo as much as for Stani. As if in response to her promised support, Milo patted her hand gently, continuing to stare at the blank wall opposite. She knew that in fact he was staring at the vision in his mind, planning, calculating, reasoning his way around the fear.

She had known him all her life, it seemed. She was twelve years old, barely adjusted to her new life in the strange little world that was Oxford, when her father brought home a student, a Hungarian like themselves, he said by way of introduction to the tall, gaunt boy who still wore the wariness of a refugee in his dark eyes. She had come to England in a move sanctioned by her father's position at the university, while Milo had arrived by a very different road, as he and his parents slipped out of Eastern Europe just ahead of the rumbling which threatened the security of even the most prosperous Jewish households. For over a year, they had journeyed quietly, finally reaching out to Jana's father, an old acquaintance from that other world, now forever closed to them.

Twelve years old, and a tiny girl at that, she knew Milo Scheider saw her as a mere child, yet he was none the less admiring of one who had already committed her life to music. But Jana had instantly fallen in love with his intense dedication, his aspirations to make a mark in this new world, and of course his dark good looks. Already elegant in dress and manner, with much of the old world reflected in his impeccable English, he was her girlish fantasy, quickly becoming her womanly ambition. If the truth be known, had he not come for her once she was old enough to be interesting, she knew she would have found her way to him.

Milo had dedicated himself to acquiring an education, to building a new life and to providing for his parents and making them proud of his efforts. He had shown little interest in the daughter of his mentor until years later, by which time Jana had absorbed all there was to know about him and expanded her commitment to include joining him in whatever endeavor he chose. Always, what Milo wanted had come first, ahead of any ambition of her own. Ironically, it had been her talent as a pianist that eventually provided him with his direction.

The life they built did not allow for the addition of children, which suited both of them; but then Stani had come along to force them into at least the semblance of a family. Stani had focused the two of them on one goal, had in fact brought warmth to the businesslike rhythm of their marriage. Just as in those early years, when they had carefully molded a space around the gifted little boy, reshaping their routine and always considering the next move with an eye to his future, tonight they sat together in the stark, sterile waiting room, both afraid to anticipate the next turn.

Looking again at Milo's profile, Jana tried to swallow the tears that threatened. She rarely cried. Why the sight of his finely sculpted features, etched now with lines of weariness and worry, should cause this overpowering sadness, she wasn't sure. Most likely, it was the knowledge that behind the tightly held composure, Milo's heart was weighed down with as much fear as her own. What would they do if Stani's career, or God forbid his life, were over? He might not have been the child of their bodies, but he had been the child of their mutual effort. His sweet willingness to become whatever they required, his undemanding adoration, expressed in childish gestures and the unwavering effort to please, had been their reward. Without Stani, who would they be? How would they identify themselves without Stani's career to move their lives forward into comfortable old age? It was those questions—born of fear as Stani passed through those doors to an uncertain future, fear she would never voice to Milo—that brought tears to her eyes. It was that same fear which made her certain she would do whatever she could to see they never learned the answers.

### ****

Three hours, Milo thought, then the recovery room, the nurse had said. He could have accomplished a great deal in three hours. But it was the middle of the night now. There was no one to call, in an effort to learn what had happened in the past two days of Stani's life. They were so much together, the three of them, traveling, touring, rehearsing, performing. Even at home, they were in constant discussion over new music, tour schedules, arguing amiably over the merits of this conductor or that orchestra. It was unusual for them to be separated for more than a day or two. Milo had been tired lately, lacking his normal energy. He was after all getting older. He and Jana had talked for years of taking a vacation, just the two of them. They decided at the last minute to take four days and go to Aspen. Stani had not objected to going to Washington on his own. He'd made other overnight trips, to perform in Boston and Philadelphia. They should go, he said, have some fun. He would be fine. What had happened? How had he ended up lost, wandering in the woods, miles from Washington? How had he come to be in a car with Mark Stevenson? If in fact he was the son of that state senator, what was he doing traveling with Stani and the girl, Betsy?

Stani had obviously been acquainted with Betsy Mason; she had phoned him at the hotel. They'd been seen leaving together. But where did this other man come into the picture? He would never know until he could find someone who had seen them along the way. He didn't even know where they had been that night, where to begin looking for the trail. He would have to hire an investigator, who could make discreet inquiries on his behalf. He'd had great success with that sort of thing in London when he'd found John Kimble.

During the year Stani turned ten years old, Milo had received a series of disturbing letters. The first, from a man identifying himself as Harry Moss, had been a birthday card for "my son." It had arrived in July. Stani's birthday was in April. Milo hadn't mentioned it to Jana, but it had concerned him enough that he stopped allowing Stani to ride the bus alone to his lessons. By that time, there had been several publicized concerts, featuring a formal photograph of Stani in his tuxedo, proudly holding his violin. There had also been a small layout in one of the pictorial magazines, showing the boy as he went through his busy routine of lessons and rehearsals, as well as a photo of him with Jana at the park near their flat. Milo couldn't imagine this man wanted to harm Stani, but still, one could never be too cautious.

When the second letter came, a brief note stating that he "knew what Milo was up to" and he intended to take care of his own, Milo tried to make some inquiries on his own. The letters had been postmarked from a little town in the Scottish lowlands, not far from the border with England. He'd had a vague impression Stani's father had returned to Glasgow when he left his family, but a small rural village might be an easier starting place. Telephoning the post office, he asked if by chance Harry Moss was known to them. He said he was an old friend from Harry's days in the London pubs, and had heard Harry might be living there now. He might have some work for Harry if he could be located.

The woman at the post office had said with some disdain she might have heard the name, but she didn't give out that kind of information over the telephone. If he was so anxious to find this Moss, he could direct a letter to him in care of the post office, and she'd see if he could be located.

Milo had done just that, composing a very sympathetic letter assuring Harry Moss the boy was well and happy. While he could understand a father's concern for his son's welfare, he wrote, he felt it would be in the child's best interest to leave him in the secure environment he'd come to consider his home. He'd sent the letter off, and at the same time he'd begun to look around for someone to act as bodyguard for the boy.

They had been fortunate indeed to find John Kimble. A former police investigator, John offered his services as a security escort and did a little private investigation on the side. He'd been intrigued by Milo's offer to take on the job of watching over a small boy whose talent impressed even his untrained ear. John quickly became part of the household, making himself useful as he kept an eye on Stani and Jana when they were home alone. Stani was fascinated with this mysterious man, who showed him how to lurk about unseen in the bushes at the park, but also had time for lengthy chess games, and even tried to teach him to play football.

Milo asked John to make some inquiries through those channels open only to the police. In the midst of this period, yet another letter arrived, stating Harry had an opportunity to talk to a journalist about "their situation" and was seriously considering exposing Milo's "exploitation of the lad's God-given talent." At last John had run him to ground in a tiny village on the southern coast of Scotland. Milo merely wanted proof, John told Harry Moss, that he was in fact Stani's father. Then he would be willing to work out an arrangement satisfactory to them both. All Harry could offer, other than some vague stories of Stani's first year of life, the color of his hair and the memory of Stani's mother as a cold, selfish girl, was a faded photograph of a toddler who could have been anyone's child.

Nevertheless, Milo had sent John back to Scotland with a generous sum of cash. In exchange he wanted Harry's assurance that he would not come near Stani without first obtaining Milo's permission. He never told Jana about the cash, though of course she understood why John Kimble had become a member of their household. Nothing more was heard from Harry Moss.

They had been in New York for over a year when Milo received a letter from John, with a newspaper clipping enclosed. John wrote that he thought Milo would like to know what had become of the man who claimed to be Stani's father. The clipping was a piece from a small local paper, detailing the death of a familiar figure in the community. Harry Moss, long known for his fine fiddle playing, had been killed one night recently. While walking along a dark road, coming home from playing his fiddle in a nearby town, he had been hit by a car. The driver had stated he never saw the man until he stumbled into his headlights. Harry Moss and his music, the article concluded, would be missed. John closed his letter with a reminder that he would always be available should Milo need his services for Stani again.

When they moved to New York, Stani chaffed at no longer having John to play chess or cards with. He worried that without John he would never learn to get around in a strange city. Even Jana said she missed having a man about who knew how to use a hammer and take out the garbage on the proper day. Now Milo wondered if John would be interested in making an unexpected trip to the States over the Christmas holiday.

### Chapter Thirteen

Christmas Eve dawned clear and very cold. Emily was thankful for the constant soft rumble of the furnace, knowing today her fire would be no match for the near zero chill. She had enjoyed a long hot shower, dressed in her last clean clothes, and devoured a stack of toast and jam by the time Jack's car pulled through the gate. He came to the door, his arms loaded with boxes and bags all bearing the familiar logo of "Martha Jean's Boutique" and a broad smile creasing his face.

"Good morning, Miss Haynes. I see you're up with the birds." His eyes traveled from her still damp hair, to her William and Mary sweatshirt, and stopped at her fuzzy pink bedroom slippers.

She tried to relieve him of some of the packages, but he pushed past her to the table by the window. "Wow, you sure gave her holiday sales a boost! What is all this?" As quickly as he set down his load, she began to peek into the bags.

"Now wait just a minute. Some of these can't be opened until tomorrow. It's not Christmas yet!"

Her eyes wide, she stepped back. "You bought me presents? Oh, Jack, you didn't have to do that."

"Sure I did. You may not have a tree, but you can still have presents." He nodded toward the decorations on the mantel, at the same time pulling out two large boxes. Handing her one, he said, "Here, try this on, just to be sure. And take this too. I have no idea what's in here. Martha Jean took care of the unmentionables." Again, his face was stretched in a wide grin, as he passed her a small bag rustling with tissue paper.

Within minutes she returned from the bedroom, standing at the foot of the stairs for his inspection. The dress, red and gray plaid trimmed in black velvet, was perfectly suited to her tall, slender form. Jack paused for a minute to take in the effect, caught off guard.

"This is beautiful, Jack. I would never have chosen anything so nice. Does it look all right?"

In answer, he held out the other box. "Try these on."

She sat on the couch to pull on the tall, black high-heeled boots. Standing, she smiled into his eyes. "I'm almost as tall as you are." Twisting and turning, she inspected herself with a look of increasing awe. "This must have cost a fortune. I'll pay you back, I promise."

He frowned down at her. "Don't be silly. We're family, remember? You're the only person I'm going shopping for. You can count on that. I must say, we didn't do too bad, me and Martha Jean. You look like. . .what is it I want to say? Like a young lady? You've grown up, Jiliand Emily." His tone was half-teasing, but there was a hint of disappointment, too.

Emily giggled. "Ugh! No one's called me that in a while."

"They were very proud of that name. 'J and D surrounding Lilianne, and Emily because it has a nice literary ring'. . .," he quoted sternly.

". . .as in Emily Bronte or Emily Dickinson." She chimed in. They laughed together at the shared memory of her parents' frequently repeated explanation of their choice of names for their daughter.

"I haven't felt so spoiled in a long time. Thank you, Jack." She hugged him, sensing they were both dangerously close to tears.

"You've more than earned a little spoiling. Now I've got to get back to work. I'll pick you up at ten tonight, okay?" He watched as she walked gracefully toward the bedroom. "Your folks would be proud of you, you know that. You've turned out just like they planned."

She wanted to say "thank you," but the words wouldn't come. She was sure he understood.

### ****

When dark came, she prepared her supper, thinking it was a sad day when her Christmas Eve feast was yet another in a long line of ham sandwiches. She switched on the radio and sat at the kitchen table to eat, listening to a live holiday broadcast from Washington. When the operatic soprano had concluded the program with "O Holy Night," the announcer returned, and Emily turned up the volume to catch what he was saying.

"We regret that Stani Moss was unable to appear tonight as planned. The young violinist was seriously injured in an automobile accident several days ago and is currently being treated in a New York hospital. All of us here wish Stani a speedy recovery." She turned off the set, trying to grasp what had been said. He was gone, hundreds of miles away. She might never know how he was now. A sudden sense of loss, of bereavement, flooded over her. Seeking some way to relieve the ache in her chest, she told herself she would pray for him. Instead of torturing herself over his well-being, she would place him in God's hands, where he'd really been all along.

Prayer, as always, calmed her. She wasn't sure how prayers were answered, but she knew the act of praying invariably eased her fears and cleared her mind of worry. She asked God to guide the doctors caring for Stani. She prayed he would find comfort and strength as he went through the pain of recovery. And, if it were part of the plan for her own life, she added the request that maybe, someday, she would know he was well again. She felt better about Stani, knowing he was in far more capable hands now. As to her own bruised feelings, she was confident they would heal in time as well.

### ****

Ready long before Jack's car pulled through the gate, Emily ran out to meet him. As soon as she slammed the car door against the bitterly cold wind, he said, "I have some news about your patient."

"So do I. You go first."

"He was taken by private ambulance to New York yesterday afternoon. His family must have arranged it as soon as they got word he'd been found."

"I heard it on the radio. He was supposed to have performed in DC tonight. I guess that's the last we'll hear, now that he's gone." Her voice trembled in spite of her efforts at control.

"You okay with that?"

"Sure, as long as he's being taken care of. That's all that matters," she said bravely, wishing she could manage to sound more convincing.

"It's only natural you'd be worried about him, Em. Give yourself some time, okay?"

For most of the fifteen-minute drive, they rode in silence, Emily staring out the window as they turned off the highway and the car slowed, making its way along the quiet streets into town. The lights of the church were coming into view. Taking a deep breath, she turned her attention to the sight of people making their way to the open door, holding onto one another as they navigated the slippery stairs, laughing and talking. Calls of "Merry Christmas" met her ears as she stepped out into the cold night air. Taking Jack's arm, she took her place in the procession, aware of a growing tingle of excitement as they climbed the steps. This was her church; she had been baptized here, attended worship every Sunday with her parents. Her mother had served as church organist and her father had taught a Sunday School class for as long as she could remember. She loved the cool interior of the little stone church, the rich sound of the pipe organ and the comfort of friends and neighbors in nearby pews. The church was like a second home, always welcoming and always the same.

In the narthex, the smell of pine boughs and the glow of candlelight wrapped around her, drawing her in. The sanctuary was already crowded. Local families swelled with out-of-town guests, sleepy children in the arms of proud grandparents, several young men in uniform, their mothers or sweethearts clinging to their arms, all gathered in anticipation of the hour to come. From her seat next to Jack, she searched the familiar faces. Down front, Sara McConnell sat between sons Peter and James. Peter had let his hair grow longer, now that he was at college, and the blonde mane was very becoming. He was even better looking than the last time Emily had seen him, which must have been almost two years ago. James, home on leave from Southeast Asia, was in uniform. Thin and deeply tanned, he looked older, and there was a tense, haggard expression on his face as he gazed down at his mother.

They'd been close friends; Peter and Emily the same age and James four years older, they had played together as children. She'd even dated Peter briefly during their sophomore year, ending the relationship with an uneasy truce after some awkward attempts at romance. She smiled as she recalled telling a red-faced Peter he could keep his sweaty hands to himself if that was all he was interested in. But they had put that aside during their senior year, when she'd been struggling to adjust to life alone and James had been preparing to go overseas. The three of them had supported each other, finding comfort in the fact they were each moving into a future filled with uncertainty.

Slipping closer to Jack, she looked around in amazement. This gathering looked like every other Christmas Eve service she'd attended through the years. The same smiling faces, some looking a bit frail now with age; the same murmur of voices, using every moment to visit before the first notes sounded from the organ. There were smiles of surprised recognition, and she knew the news of her presence would spread through the congregation by the end of the service.

Behind her, a man and woman were deep in soft-spoken conversation, commenting on the artificial trees with their tiny electric candles that stood grouped behind the crèche figures at the front of the church. The man was saying what a pity about those cedar trees. His wife whispered, "You did your best."

"But it's still a shame not to have real trees. I just couldn't get to 'em before the ice came. Guess they're still stacked up on the side of the road by the springs. Pity, wasting all those trees." The woman shushed him softly.

Emily gasped at the vision of a black clad figure, sailing through the darkness and coming to rest on a nest of soft cedar branches. She looked at Jack's profile, but he seemed not to have heard. Could that have been what happened? If the trees intended to decorate the church had indeed cushioned his fall, how could anyone deny Stani had been saved by an act of God?

The organ came to life, and she saw Pastor Mike step to the pulpit, raising his hands for silence. Over the soft music, Emily listened to his warm, strong voice as he called the people to worship.

"This is the night of our savior's birth. Let us open our hearts in welcome as we come together to worship God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit on this most miraculous of nights."

### ****

During the ride home, Emily told Jack what she'd overheard. Skeptical at first, he agreed that certainly something had broken Stani's flight from the car. "He had to have been thrown clear before the car rolled and hit the tree. I've seen a lot of accidents, Em, but this was one for the books. And since there were no witnesses, unless he remembers what happened, we'll never know for sure."

She decided she would accept her own theory until someone could prove otherwise. It was comforting to think a divine hand had been there to save him. She would choose to believe God had a plan for Stani Moss. Believing that made giving him up so much less painful.

### Chapter Fourteen

Milo realized immediately following the surgery on Christmas Eve that he and Jana would never be able to provide all Stani would need in the weeks and months ahead. Stani's doctor had taken Milo aside, while Jana kept her bedside vigil, and talked frankly of what they might expect during his recovery.

Obviously, the shoulder injury was of primary concern, given Stani's profession. Once it had sufficiently healed from the surgery, there would be weeks, possibly months, of rehabilitation. Not only had the joint been separated and the collarbone fractured; but the arm had been severely twisted, wrenched from the shoulder; and the resulting damage to soft tissue, muscles and tendons, as well as nerves, would need time to heal. Nerves could take as long as eighteen months, he said. So they could not expect to see immediate results but rather slow return of strength and motor function over time. Refusing to consider anything less than full recovery, Milo had not asked questions about the possibility of permanent damage.

Going on to describe the head injuries, the doctor explained that X-rays showed Stani had suffered multiple blows to the front and back of his head, as well as the wound above his ear. Fortunately, there was no sign of skull fracture or bleeding in the brain. Concussion took time, but usually healed without long-term effects. It would not be surprising for Stani to experience some difficulty with balance at first, and headaches might persist for an extended period. The laceration, while certainly responsible for a significant loss of blood, was superficial.

There was another area for concern, one which might not be immediately evident, the doctor went on—the emotional and psychological impact. First, Stani had survived an accident where others involved had died. Such survivors often experienced depression, even guilt; Stani might well need help coping for a time. Secondly—and here the doctor acknowledged Milo must be aware of this possibility already—was the effect of losing the ability to play the violin, even for a short time. For someone like Stani, whose life centered on his extraordinary talent, the fear of no longer performing could be devastating. He urged Milo to be as encouraging as possible, without offering any guarantees for the future. It would require patience and hard work before they could be certain what the outcome might be. Everyone around Stani should be aware of the need for support and encouragement during the lengthy recovery.

Milo knew Jana would not leave Stani's bedside unless she felt sure he was being cared for by equally loving hands. She would need someone else, someone she trusted, to relieve her from time to time. Milo himself needed someone to gather information and help protect Stani's privacy during his recovery. He would prefer to have someone who already knew Stani and understood the nature of his talent and the demands of his career, rather than bringing in a stranger just now.

The day after Christmas, Milo received a telegram from John Kimble. News of Stani's accident had reached London. He asked that Milo let him know the details of Stani's condition and how he might be of service. He could be in New York in a matter of days.

While arrangements were being made for a plane ticket and accommodations for John in New York, Milo received a message via his answering service from Peg Shannon. She was returning from Florida the following day and would come straight to the hospital, prepared to remain for as long as she was needed. He was surprised, though he had hoped Peg might offer her services in some way. Milo knew she had been fond of Stani and devoted to his success when he was still just a boy. From the time she'd been enlisted to raise funds for his first major tour, Peg had remained Stani's staunchest supporter. Milo had suspected there might have been a more personal involvement as well but had not wanted to pry, for fear of insulting Peg and losing her as a valuable ally. Now she was offering to sit by the boy's bedside, knowing Jana would need a partner in Stani's care.

John arrived and after a brief visit to the hospital left in the company of Robert to retrace Stani's movements and gather whatever information he could; anything that might shed light on the almost two days before Stani had been found and returned to New York. Peg had come as promised, bag in hand, and established herself in Stani's room. After persuading Jana to go home and rest for at least twenty-four hours, she had sought out Stani's doctor, insisting on being told first-hand what would be needed to restore him to health.

With John dispatched to Virginia and Peg on hand to relieve Jana, Milo could turn his full attention to the press coverage of the accident. The death of one of the sons of a prominent politician was sensational news, particularly given Mark Stevenson's already high profile. It was fortunate, Milo considered, that most of the articles which appeared over the Christmas holiday dealt with Sen. Stevenson's statements to the press, the recapping of Mark's colorful history, and speculation regarding his relationship with a little-known actress. Those articles gave only one line to the fact that Stani Moss, concert violinist, had been injured in the accident.

Milo knew the news of Stani's injury had been announced over the radio on Christmas Eve. He'd issued an official statement that afternoon, once Stani was safely out of surgery, emphasizing their appreciation for the concern expressed for the young artist and requesting respect for his privacy at such a difficult time. He also extended condolences to the grieving families of the other two young people, refusing to comment on the relationship between Stani and the others, out of respect for the tragic nature of the events.

Milo had always sought carefully constructed publicity for his young charge. He knew how quickly one name could be replaced by another in the minds of the concert-going public. While avoiding overexposure, he never allowed too much time between interviews or press releases. Now he needed to keep Stani's name out of the ugly tabloid press certain to be generated by the accident that killed Mark Stevenson. As for Betsy Mason, he had no idea what to expect. He would have John look deeper into her relationship with Stani as soon as he returned from Virginia.

It would be essential to maintain privacy without appearing to hide anything. If word began to circulate that Stani's injuries were severe enough to end his career, it could forever tarnish the reputation he'd already established. Not to mention the psychological effect on Stani himself, if he believed his career might be threatened. Carefully, in the next weeks and months, Milo knew he must balance the information he made available to the press against the inevitable sensational speculation that a brilliant young talent had been tragically silenced.

### Chapter Fifteen

When Jana returned to the apartment, relieved to let Peg Shannon take over the grim vigil at Stani's bedside, she wanted nothing so much as to crawl into bed and lose herself in sleep. She mentally counted the days since she and Milo had gone to await Stani's arrival at the hospital. That had been the night before Christmas Eve, and it was now December twenty-eighth. Only four days, yet it seemed an eternity. While Stani remained unconscious, the doctor assured them he was progressing, healing, and the heavy sedation was only aiding in the process. But she longed for him to wake up. He was so unlike himself, lying there still and unresponsive, and she ached to see some sign of his usual vitality. To make matters worse, Stani, always so meticulously groomed, so elegant, even in casual dress, was now unpleasantly unkempt. The sight of him, his magnificent hair a tangled mass, a growth of rusty beard covering his face, the disfiguring bruises on his forehead and cheek, somehow made her uncomfortable. Worst of all, she was sickened by the tubes draining golden urine and bright red blood from his shoulder into bags attached to the side of the bed; even the IV needle in his forearm repulsed her.

She had failed him. She was in no way cut out to act as a nurse to Stani. Of course there were plenty of nurses on hand, but she had expected to be able to do more for him herself. As it was, when they came in to bathe him, she excused herself; and she left it up to the nurses to turn him and adjust his bed, finding herself reluctant to touch him. When Peg arrived, with her air of quiet authority, Jana had been thankful to surrender her place by his bed. Let Peg take charge; she had experience nursing her father, and she seemed undaunted by Stani's condition. She had even gone to the bedside and kissed his cheek, murmuring words of greeting as she smoothed the wild curls above the bandages. She insisted Jana go home and rest. She would take the night shift from now on, she said, since she was such a night owl anyway.

The apartment was a welcoming cocoon after Stani's stark, colorless room. Or maybe it had just been the exhausted state of her mind, after so many hours there, that drained all the color from her surroundings. Settling on the cool leather of the couch, she let herself sink into the cushions. There were things to be done, calls to make; but for just a few minutes, she wanted to let herself drift. Time enough, after a shower in her own bathroom and a nap, to go down the list of people she would have to call, canceling lunches and meetings, postponing appointments. Milo might be able to go back to the routine at his office in the name of safeguarding Stani's career, as well as those of his other clients; but she would not be able to continue rebuilding her own career until Stani was well. She might not be giving him the hands-on care she'd hoped to, but she was still the one in charge of seeing to his needs.

It suddenly occurred to her there remained the unresolved issue of contacting Stani's mother. Milo had talked about it while they waited during the surgery; she should be called, not read about it in the papers. Whether he'd followed up or not, she had no idea. Nothing more had been said; and when she'd seen Stani, so lifeless after he was brought from the recovery room, the reality of his condition had overshadowed everything else in her mind. Until he woke up and spoke to her again, all she could think to do was watch him, and watching him had paralyzed her with the fear he might not wake up at all.

The grate of a key in the door startled her. "Mrs. Scheider? Don't get up, now. I just went out for a few things. I didn't expect to see you today." Mamie, her long-time housekeeper, was struggling through the doorway with a grocery cart. "How is Young Stani today, ma'am?"

Jana watched as Mamie shed her coat and hat, hanging them carefully on the peg in the pantry, and proceeded to unpack the sacks. How was she to answer that question? She had not tried to quantify his condition. He was not worse, he was not better, certainly; in fact he was not at all. But with a sincere smile, she said now, "Doing as well as can be expected, Mamie. It's early days yet to see any change, the doctor says."

"Yes, ma'am. There've been calls. I took messages for you." She nodded toward the little stack of notes on the table by the phone. "And the mail is on Mr. Scheider's desk there. I think he must have been home last night."

Going to the phone messages first, she leafed through them. Sure enough, there was one from Eileen Moss. "When did this one call, Mamie? Mrs. Moss?"

"Earlier this morning, ma'am. Is that his mother?" There was nothing in her voice, but Jana thought the way her brows arched spoke volumes. Mamie had been with them from the time they arrived in New York, referred to them by Milo's chauffeur, Robert. She had a particular fondness for Stani, which she demonstrated by gently scolding him for his absentmindedness and making sure his favorite foods were always in the refrigerator.

"Yes. This is all she said?" Scanning the message, Jana wasn't sure what to make of it. Eileen had said merely that she heard on the radio Stani had been in an accident. Please let him know she had called.

"Yes, ma'am." Mamie seemed to consider for a moment, then added, "I didn't think I should be the one to tell her anything more. But I guess she should know, shouldn't she?"

"Of course. We'll get in touch with her." The thought of trying to describe Stani's condition to his mother was too much just now. Later, Milo would have to take care of it.

"I gave his bedroom a good, deep cleaning yesterday. It should be about as clean as a hospital room, now. It's all ready for him, when he comes home." The question in her sharp eyes was undeniable. Would he be coming home?

"Thank you, Mamie. It may be some time, yet. The doctor said two or three weeks. He has to wake up first." Without any warning, her breath caught in a sob and she dissolved into tears, covering her face with her hands.

They stood together, the tall, strong Mamie gathering the tiny, sobbing Jana to her breast, holding her like a child. "There, there," she muttered over and over again, almost singing in her low, rich voice, "the good Lord would never take him yet. He still has work to do. You're just overtired, now. Come on, I'll run a bath for you and then you need some nourishment. I threw out everything in the icebox this morning and got in fresh. Can't have the two of you getting food poisoning on top of everything else. I'll fix you something to eat, and then you're going to bed. Who's with Young Stani at the hospital now?"

Sniffing and wiping at her eyes with the tissue Mamie produced, Jana told her Peg Shannon would be staying with him at night now.

"Well, that just goes to show you. There's always help when we need it." Turning toward the master bedroom, Mamie paused. "Speaking of help, Robert brought that Mr. Kimble to look around in Young Stani's room. He seems like a real nice man. Is he going to stay long?"

With a weak smile, Jana replied, "Oh, I hope so, Mamie. I hope so."
Chapter Sixteen

At the beginning of the week after Christmas, Jack took Emily into town. If she was serious about taking charge of her affairs, she needed to get started, he said. "No time like the present, before you start making too many plans. You're smart enough to know it won't be as simple as packing your things and moving back to the farm."

He'd arranged a meeting at the bank, where she sat down with her father's lawyer, Tom Jeffers, and the bank's trust officer, Emory Harris. Both men had been instructed to speak frankly with regard to the arrangements her father had made and the details of the financial trust. While Jack was now Emily's guardian, that would end when she turned twenty-one. At that time, she would be a woman of means, with a choice of options for both her own and the farm's futures.

Emily listened closely, as both men talked to her with gentle respect. At first she feared she would find herself impoverished or worse, in debt. Growing up, money had never been a topic of conversation at home, but she'd always believed her parents lived frugally out of necessity. Economy had been practiced in the house, with an emphasis on preserving the treasures her mother had inherited from her family; and rarely had anything been purchased without a lengthy debate over value and cost. Her father had always insisted on farming without costly chemicals or fertilizers, instead following time-honored organic methods. The garden had more than paid for itself each year, but there had been little concern about making a profit anyway. It was his passion, rather than a means of supporting his family.

Now it was explained to her that in fact her parents had been very comfortably fixed, if not precisely wealthy. They'd each made substantial investments during the years before their marriage, and those made up the bulk of her trust fund. Her father had inherited the farm, and it remained free from debt. Emily's college and personal expenses, as well as her father's care, were provided for out of money her mother had inherited from her parents, invested many years earlier.

In answer to her questions, she was assured that while she was far from rich, there was no danger of running out of money and having to dip into the principal of the trust before she could begin to earn a living for herself. There were adequate funds to provide for her father's nursing home care for years to come, and enough capital on hand to meet any repair needs at the farm.

With a timid smile, she asked Mr. Harris if there might be enough for the purchase of a new washing machine. The old one had put up great resistance when she tried to do her laundry, producing a huge puddle of water on the pantry floor.

Returning her smile, he leaned on his desk and met her eyes. "Emily, you can buy as many washers as you need. I'll set up accounts in the stores here in town for you, so you can shop whenever you like. Is your allowance still adequate for your needs in Williamsburg?"

Her allowance, she assured him, was more than adequate. "I opened a savings account at the bank there, too. I've been putting away what was left each month, so it could draw interest. I hope that was all right?"

Jack snorted. "That's J.D.'s daughter for you, gentlemen. 'A penny saved is a penny I won't have to earn again.' But seriously, Em, you don't have to pinch every penny. A girl your age should be buying clothes and stuff. If I'm not mistaken, that coat is the one you left for college with."

She blushed. "I wasn't sure how much I could spend without finding out I was broke. You should have told me, Jack, that I'm practically an heiress."

All three men chuckled and her blush deepened. Tom Jeffers spoke up. "Emily, if there's one thing your parents were set on, it was raising you to appreciate the value of what you have. I guess they just never gave you that value in dollars and cents. Now you'll learn a place like yours is worth a lot, but at the same time costs a good bit to own. Being an heiress in your case means you've inherited a lot of responsibility."

Later she thought about what had been said, as she walked the blocks around the courthouse. Her parents had already provided so much for her, a home, land and money. While the idea of taking on the management of all that was daunting, it was also exciting. Passing the hardware store window, she eyed her reflection in the glass. Emily Haynes, she told herself, you look like a girl with a future. Going inside beneath the tinkling bell above the door, she greeted the welcoming face behind the counter. "Good morning, Mr. Gibbons. I need some paint. That sign by my gate is in serious need of some attention."

### ****

By the time Emily was due to meet Jack at the Town Square Cafe, she had walked the four blocks of shops and offices surrounding the white brick courthouse. From the hardware store she went to the drugstore, buying a roll of her favorite mints from one of her former high school classmates. Was she home for Christmas? Oh, yes, but she'd be back again this summer for good. Had she finished school already? No, but she was planning to transfer to the University next fall, so she could come home more often until she finished. The look of mild envy in the girl's eyes surprised her. Did her life sound as promising to this old friend as it did to her?

Her next stop was the new flower shop, opened only recently by a returning native—a middle-aged widow who had run a successful business in Richmond, before deciding to come back to small-town life. Emily introduced herself, explaining that she was away at school but would eventually be returning for good. She admired the gift selection, higher-end merchandise than had previously been sold anywhere in town, and the lady seemed pleased that here was someone who appreciated her taste. When Emily left, selecting a small enameled box to take back to Penny as a way of saying she was sorry for lying to her, the shopkeeper wished her a happy new year and said she looked forward to seeing her in the spring.

With an increasingly light step, she went into the post office. Just telling Myrtice Green, the postmistress, that she planned to come home again would ensure all her neighbors and indeed the entire community would soon be informed of her return. Myrtice didn't gossip, Emily's mother had always pointed out, she merely shared. It was her civic duty to pass on any news along with the stamps and the mail. After enjoying a nice long chat through the metal window grate, Emily left feeling pleasantly confident the details would have spread before she left to return to Williamsburg.

Her final stop was Martha Jean's Boutique, where the welcome was enthusiastic. Martha Jean Clark, a transplant from Asheville, North Carolina, was a vivacious, talkative little woman with springy graying curls and a sharp mind. It was said in the ladies church circles that if a thing needed doing, just let Martha Jean know. She would see it got done, not necessarily with her own hands, but done none the less. The merchandise in her shop brought new fashion sense to the sleepy little village. She religiously took buying trips to New York each season, riding the train from Washington and coming back with a taste of the outside world and a supply of amusing stories to entertain her customers as she sold them on styles their husbands might consider extravagant, but never dared question, since every other wife in the village was equally well turned out.

"Emily, I have a pile of things here for you to try on. Jack told me he was bringing you into town. I've missed having you here to dress, honey. Nobody can wear clothes like you can. But have you lost weight? You look a tad boney to me." As she rattled on, she went to a dressing room, where Emily could see the hooks were already loaded with garments.

"Maybe just a little. But don't worry, there's nothing wrong with my appetite. Oh, Martha Jean, these are beautiful. All my favorite colors. But where on earth would I wear all this? My uniform seems to be jeans and sweaters these days." She peered at the skirts, dresses and even lingerie, feeling suddenly tempted to play dress-up.

"Shame on you. Oh, you look great in jeans, but with those legs, you ought to be showing them off. Did you like the dress we picked out for Christmas Eve?"

"Loved it! And those boots are wonderful, even though they make me tower over everybody." Setting down her parcel, she shrugged out of her coat. When Martha Jean took it from her, she clicked her tongue in dismay.

"Emily Haynes. You're not leaving in this old thing. What did you do, roll around in the snow in it? Let me see what I have out here on the rack." Eying her reflection, Emily smiled. Not exactly rolling in the snow; but if Martha Jean could only have seen her dragging Stani Moss across the yard, she'd understand the sad state of her coat.

### ****

Jack was just crossing the street from his office at the rear of the courthouse when Emily reached the entrance to the cafe. Standing in the warmth of the winter sunlight, she watched him coming toward her, feeling her face stretch into a smile. It was so good to be home, to see all the old familiar places and faces, and most of all to see Jack grinning at her again.

Pointing to her little bag from the flower shop, he asked, "Is that all you could find to spend your money on? I expected you to buy out the town after Harris gave you carte blanche."

Emily's smile turned sheepish. "There's more, at the hardware store and at Martha Jean's. I hoped we could pick it up on the way out."

Holding the door for her, he chuckled. "Will it all fit in one load?"

After they'd ordered, he asked about her morning.

"I hit all the shops, just to say hello. Even the post office."

"Ah, so the word is out. Emily Haynes is back in town."

"Right. Pop used to say Myrtice was better than any newspaper. I stopped in at the church, too, but Pastor Mike was out."

"He's over at the hospital seeing Horace Bradley. He had a stroke last week. Pretty bad, from what I hear." Emily flinched at the news. Stroke, that silent, merciless thief, had taken another of the church's most faithful members. Mr. Bradley had been a deacon for as long as she could remember, a kind, soft-spoken man who kept careful watch over the needs of his neighbors. He'd been a regular visitor to the farm after her mother's death, talking with her father as one widower to another.

Jack took a deep breath, and she knew he had something more to tell her, something he would rather not have to say. "Em, I need to warn you," he began, "there've been some newspaper types snooping around, asking questions about the accident. They seem to be mostly interested in the man who died. Turns out his father's a politician of some kind. Pretty high profile. If anyone shows up at the farm, you call me."

"Jack, how would they know where to look?" Instantly, her heart began to race.

"It would be a stretch. I doubt they'll give you any trouble. But just the same, don't open your door to any strangers. I'll take care of it. Now don't look so worried. I'd much rather see that big smile you had on your face earlier. Tell me about all this shopping. You didn't let Martha Jean talk you into anything too fancy, did you?"

Squaring her shoulders, Emily tossed her head, throwing off the threat of anything spoiling her day. "A new coat. She wanted me to wear it now, but I managed to get out the door with this one. I think she would have thrown it away by the time I got back. Martha Jean could convince a duck to buy an umbrella, you know."

"Ha! You've got that right. Still, she has a good heart. That charity clothes closet project has really taken off. She's got it set up like a regular store now, so when folks go in they don't have to rummage through boxes of stuff anymore. She's really good at organizing things, takes charge at the drop of a hat."

Emily gave him a long look. This was the first time she could remember Jack talking about a woman in that particular tone of voice. A confirmed bachelor, as far as she knew Jack had never even dated, although there had been plenty of matchmaking attempts. Still a handsome man, tall and lean with light brown hair and bright blue eyes, Emily had always seen him as a sort of knight in armor, even if it was brown twill rather than shining.

They talked as they ate their fried chicken specials, discussing Emily's idea to apply to the University nursing school. She would have to live in Charlottesville, the commute being too long to be practical, but that had the advantage of putting her closer to Angela and to J.D. "I guess I'll have to let Angela know what I've decided. I just hope she doesn't try to change my mind. She can be pretty forceful."

Jack grinned. "I think you can hold your own. You're pretty forceful yourself. When did you get to be so stubborn?"

"Stubborn?" Her expressive brows flew up.

"Well, maybe determined is a better word. I always thought you were more easy-going, like your Pop, but now I'm beginning to see a little more of your mother, more spirit, maybe?"

Again, she gave him a searching look. Something in his voice, a tenderness, reminded her of his devotion to her mother. Close friends, they'd shared a warm, often laughing relationship. It was Jack her mother turned to, entrusting the care of her husband and daughter at the end of her life. Jack had been her father's boyhood friend, but her mother had made him part of the family.

"I'll take that as a compliment, although I hope I'm not as volatile as Mother was. She could go from sunny to stormy pretty fast. And I know I don't cry the way she did. It seemed to me she could be reduced to tears at the drop of a hat."

"Maybe that went along with her talent. As far as I know, you didn't inherit that from either of them."

Emily grinned, shaking her head. "I can't play much more than chopsticks, no matter how much she wanted me to. It's funny, because I love music so much, but I never wanted to play. Having the two of them in the house, I suppose I didn't need to. I miss hearing them, though. Especially Mother. There was something so personal about the way she played. Every piece of music seemed to be her own. I plan to have the piano tuned. Then at least my chopsticks will be on key." She laughed to hide the lump rising in her throat.

"Still have J.D.'s violin?"

"Of course. I put it on the piano, just the way Mother used to for Christmas. He never played you know, after she was gone." They were entering dangerous waters and she looked away, searching for a way to change the subject. Through the front window, she saw Peter and James McConnell passing and pointed them out to Jack. "How long is James home this time?"

"Only two weeks. He'll be getting out soon. None too soon, though. He's in pretty rough shape, from what Mike says. He's been in the thick of things over there." Emily watched as the brothers stopped to wait for passing traffic at the corner. Always very different, James tall and dark, Peter stockier and fair, now the contrast was startling; James was gaunt, his expression somber and guarded, while Peter grinned and waved at the driver as the car passed.

"My roommate's fiancé is over there. Do you think it will ever end?"

"Someday. But not before taking its toll, like all wars. Bad thing about this one is the way people here at home feel about it. The boys are going to suffer from that, just the same as being in combat. It's not their fault. They're just following orders." Noticing the sadness that had crept into her eyes, Jack pointed to her untouched apple pie. "Are you going to eat that, or just stare it down?"

She smiled up at him, a smile too wise for her years. "I'm going to eat it, silly. Have you ever known me to pass up anything wrapped in pastry? How much more time do I get before we have to leave town? I'd like to go by the parsonage and say hello to Sara. And tell her I can help with Vacation Bible School this summer." Slowly, the smile grew until that one dimple peeked out.

"Okay, you go to the parsonage and meet me back at Martha Jean's in two hours. I'll be done for the day by then and we can load up your loot and head for the hills. What about the market? I thought you needed some things there."

"I left my list and Mr. Brown said he'd have it ready whenever I wanted to pick it up. You should see the lamb chops he has! If you can stay for supper, I'll order some for us."

Helping her into her coat, he chuckled. "You twisted my arm. Can you fix some of those carrots with that glaze you used to make?"

"Why Jack, don't tell me you've missed my cooking? I would have come home a lot sooner, if I'd known that." Laughing, they went out into the sunshine. Talk around the square that afternoon was that Emily Haynes was coming home. And Sheriff Deem had actually been seen laughing out loud.
Chapter Seventeen

By midweek, Jack was encouraging Emily to telephone Angela with her news. "It's not right for one of us to know without telling the other one. I don't want her getting all over me for keeping your secret." Stopping by at lunch time, he'd been persuaded to have a bowl of beef stew. As he sat at the kitchen table watching her working around the kitchen, he grinned. "You don't need a step stool anymore to reach the counter tops."

"Hardly. In case you hadn't noticed, I grew. And grew!"

When she took her place across from him, he drew another of those sighs that always preceded a serious conversation. "A guy came in today, from New York, asking questions about the accident."

"Another newspaper type?" Her spoon paused in mid-air.

"No. This one was an investigator. He said he works for Stani Moss's manager. They're trying to figure out how he came to be down here in the first place."

Now she laid down her spoon and gave him her full attention. "Can't he tell them?"

"Apparently not. I didn't get much of an answer when I asked how he was doing. Just that he was still in the hospital recovering from some kind of surgery. But this fellow wanted to know about you. Or at least he wanted to know about the woman who found Moss."

"What did you tell him?"

"All I told him was you didn't want any publicity. I let him know I'm your guardian and I intend to protect you. He was a nice guy, really. I think he understood."

She stared out the window, wondering what condition Stani might be in by now. Why would an investigator need to come all the way down here to learn what happened that night? She'd told herself once he was back with his family, he'd move forward. It had never occurred to her they would want to look back to what had taken place here.

"Don't look so upset, Em. He won't bother you. I think he's just trying to make sure nothing happened that they need to cover up. I get the impression this Moss is something of a bad boy. The guy driving the car certainly was. It sounds like they were off on an adventure that went wrong."

It didn't fit, not with her impression of him. The face she'd watched all those hours did not belong to a "bad boy." "Maybe so. I guess I'll never know. At this point, I just want it to all go away, Jack. I want to get on with my life, without wondering who's going to come around asking questions next."

He reached across the table and took her hand. "I know, Em. This was likely the last we'll hear about it." When she turned her gaze out the window again, staring off across the yard, he patted her hand. "Eat your stew. I've got to get back to work. I'll tell you what. Instead of calling Angela, how about I take you to Charlottesville tomorrow? We can have lunch with Angela and stop by the nursing home. Maybe it'll be easier to tell her if I'm along, anyway."

Her eyes, dark gray with a worried reflection, met his. Slowly, her lips curved in a serious little smile. "You're too good to me, Jack. What did I ever do to deserve a godfather like you?"

"You'd have to ask someone else that question. I'm just doing what I can for my best girl. Besides, the food at Salvatore's is the best around. I always eat there when I have to go across the valley. Call Angela and make the date. Now give me a hug. I've got a ton of end of the year paperwork to dig through." He stood up, shrugging into his jacket.

"Poor Jack. All work and no play?"

"Heck no. I play. Just not when anybody's watching." He winked, something that had always gotten a smile from her. "Now wipe that worried look off your face. You want Angela to think you've got everything under control, don't you?"

She laughed softly. "That would be a lie, Jack. And I thought I was giving up lying. I'll be happy if Angela doesn't try to convince me I've lost my mind."

### ****

Angela Salvatore had always been involved in her life, from as early as Emily could remember. Although she lived two hours away, and had a demanding job and a family of her own, she made it clear she was interested in every aspect of life at the farm. Angela Pappas had first known Lilianne Goddard as her instructor while a student at the conservatory, before returning to New York to marry her childhood sweetheart. The daughter of Greek immigrants, her marriage to Gianni Salvatore, the son of an Italian restauranteur, was destined to be passionate and even stormy at times. By the time she'd obtained a position teaching piano alongside her former mentor, Angela was the mother of a young son and Sal had decided New York was too small for one more Salvatore's Ristorante. He had taken a small store front in downtown Charlottesville and established a little bit of Italy in the Blue Ridge.

Angela possessed all of the qualities Lilianne admired most. She was musically gifted, passionate about life and inclined to follow her emotions rather than the dictates of reason. They seemed to understand each other at a glance, to communicate without words; and the bond between them only grew stronger through the years. When Emily was born, her mother had been certain that in the event she could not see her daughter to adulthood, Angela would be the perfect surrogate.

Now as Emily sat across the table in the sunny restaurant, Angela seemed to be waiting, as if she already knew but was willing to let Emily put into words what was on her mind. The problem was the words wouldn't come. It had been relatively easy to tell Jack she wanted to come home, but the prospect of telling Angela left her strangely speechless.

As she pushed her salad around the plate, Jack cleared his throat. "Emily has decided to make some changes in her school plans."

Angela raised one finely arched black brow. "Really? What kind of changes, dear?"

"I'm going to transfer to the University, I hope."

"That would be wonderful, Em. But is that what your father would want?" The question was asked in the kindest of voices, but it cut like a knife through Emily's confidence.

"I think he would, if he knew it was what I wanted." Surprised by the resolve in her own voice, she went on. "I think he would expect me to take charge of my life. And I'm not happy in Williamsburg. I want to come home." There, it was out. The look of mild concern in Angela's eyes encouraged her. She had feared an instant expression of dismay, or even disapproval.

"I see. I can't say I'm surprised. It was only a matter of time. You were bound to find your way back to that farm. It's where you belong." In a characteristic move, Angela ran a hand through her long hair, twisting it in a rope over her shoulder. Her hair, black now streaking with silver, was as much a means of expression as words or gestures. With a toss, she could dismiss any argument; swept back with both hands, she eloquently displayed her anger or frustration, and with this gentle twist, Emily knew she was preparing to listen carefully.

With help from Jack, she explained her plan; and at each turn, Angela nodded, occasionally muttering a word or two of understanding. Emily thought she seemed to be reading between the words, interpreting the underlying emotions, and knew by the look in her eyes, she'd captured Angela's sympathy.

"Why nursing, dear? It's a noble profession, certainly, but I never knew you had an interest." After careful consideration, that seemed to be her only question.

"Jack suggested it. I think it will be a good fit. There will always be a need for nurses, even in the country." She felt herself blush at a sudden vision of Stani Moss stretched by the fire. That would not escape Angela's notice, she was sure.

"I see. Good for Jack. I know how well you took care of your mother. You have a gift, so calm and patient. You'll make a fine nurse. And the farm, will you try to make it grow things again?"

With a grin at her suggestion, Emily nodded. "Pop would like that, don't you think?"

Settling back in her chair, Angela smiled. "I think your father would be bursting with pride at what a strong daughter he raised. Don't you think so, Jack?"

"He wouldn't have expected any less."

Angela turned her attention to her son, who was just coming out of the kitchen. "Emily, dear, why don't you go say hello to Joey? And ask him to make cannoli for all of us, will you please?"

It was only after she had obeyed and was standing in the kitchen watching as Joey filled the pastries, that Emily realized Angela had sent her away in order to have a private word with Jack. She let out a little sigh of exasperation.

"What's up, Em?" Joey was focused on his work, but he looked up with a grin.

"Oh, nothing. Your mom just used my weakness for desserts to trick me. She and Jack are probably conspiring against me right now." Shrugging, she touched her finger into the creamy filling and raised it to her tongue.

"They just want what's best for you. Mom worries about you all the time. She was sure you were going to break an arm or leg, or worse, on that skiing trip. I told her she was all worked up over nothing. You're too smart to do something like that." Avoiding her gaze, he completed his work, his face a deeper shade of red than usual.

Carrying the tray of cannoli and coffee back to the table, Emily searched the smiling faces that turned in greeting. "Got my future all settled now?"

There was a definite gleam of satisfaction in Angela's eyes. "I think so."

### ****

On the drive home, they discussed their brief visit to the nursing home. It had been unusual, Jack admitted. J.D. rarely said more than a few syllables, but today he'd spoken the same word, very clearly over and over. At their arrival, he had looked questioningly at both of them. "Good?" When Emily explained that she'd been to the farm for Christmas, he looked pointedly at Jack. "Good?" Assured that it had indeed been good having her home, J.D. had smiled and nodded his head. "Good."

"Do you really believe he sent you home?" Jack was clearly reevaluating the situation.

"Yes! Didn't you see that look in his eyes? He was so smug, knowing he had manipulated the whole thing. Pop was always proud of his powers of persuasion."

Jack chuckled. "But he was no match for your mother. She could wind him around her little finger. That's another thing I see in you that reminds me of her. You realize you won the day with Angela, hands down."

"Did I? I was afraid the two of you were going to come up with some plot to change my mind."

"Oh, no. We just had a little talk, godparent stuff. We still have our jobs to do, no matter how independent you think you are."

Emily hesitated for a moment. "You told her about Stani Moss, didn't you?"

Without blinking an eye, Jack nodded. "She needed to know. That was too big to keep from her." When she didn't respond, he went on, "Angela thinks you need to have more fun. She plans to make sure you do, once you get to Charlottesville."

"I see. Well, forewarned is forearmed. But the kind of fun the Salvatores have, all that yelling, I'd just as soon avoid. I love them all, but it can get really chaotic. Poor Lil, no wonder she locks herself in her room and practices for hours."

"Just the same, I agree you need to get out more. Before you tie yourself down and turn into a weathered old maid in dirty overalls, why not give the opposite sex a chance? You might be surprised."

He knew he was doomed when she gave him a long, cool look and tossed her head. "Really, Jack. If a man is all you think I need to make me happy, you seriously underestimate me. And if Angela plans to play matchmaker, she'll be disappointed."

Admitting defeat, he held up one hand. "Okay, have it your way. But I warn you, love happens when you're least expecting it. And nobody is immune."

"Nobody, Jack? Not even you?"

"Nobody."

### Chapter Eighteen

John Kimble completed his investigation in only two days and sat down with Milo to go over the little he'd been able to learn outside of what the press had already reported regarding Mark Stevenson's movements that night. Stani left the hotel with Betsy, driving away in her borrowed car. They'd gone straight to a private lodge in the mountains southwest of Washington, which had been loaned for the evening to a popular rock and roll musician. There was no indication Stani had any previous relationship with this person, who had a reputation for outrageous if not quite criminal behavior. Stani and Betsy arrived together; but from that point on, as far as he could determine, Betsy had been seen exclusively in the company of Mark Stevenson. John had difficulty finding anyone who actually remembered seeing Stani during the party until he talked with the caterer who'd been on hand. The man's young daughter, a music student, had recognized Stani, standing off to himself, and approached him. They had talked for almost an hour, late in the evening. In addition, John learned the bartenders recalled seeing Stani only once, when he first arrived at the party. No one recalled seeing the three leave together, but the person Mark had traveled with to the party had already stated Mark told him he was returning to New York with a friend that night.

Unable to find any other witnesses to Stani's movements, John could only speculate on what might have happened. Stani must have gone to the party at Betsy's last-minute invitation. Jana had been able to tell him that yes, she recalled now Stani had dated Betsy briefly. John had easily found press photographs from a year or more ago, showing the two making the rounds of clubs and parties together.

His meeting with the county sheriff, Jack Deem, had been helpful, if somewhat surprising. He'd found Deem guarded, although he told John in detail of Stani's condition when he discovered him in the farmhouse. As it turned out, the woman who'd taken Stani in from the storm was a mere girl of nineteen. Sheriff Deem was her guardian, and he had gone initially to check on what he believed to be an empty house. He'd been completely surprised to find the two of them there.

The sheriff had been reluctant to release the girl's name, saying she had no desire for publicity. Even when John told him there would be a substantial reward for her efforts, he refused to give out her address.

Milo drafted a check, instructing John to forward it to the Sheriff's office. He was wary of this girl, who must by now realize the potential of her contact with Stani. He enclosed a note, stating in broad terms how grateful he was for her efforts on Stani's behalf and the value of her discretion in the matter. He was fully prepared to hear more from this young woman in the future. Perhaps she felt she had more to gain in exchange for her silence than from the brief sensational press exposure. He was sure he could deal with her when the time came.

### Chapter Nineteen

On New Year's Eve, Emily packed away the Christmas decorations and gave the house one last cleaning. She was just spreading the dust cover over the piano when a late model car, sleek and shiny, drove through the gate. From the window, she watched as Peter McConnell emerged and walked toward the house. Taken by surprise, Emily wondered what could have prompted this visit. They had talked briefly at the parsonage, and she was sure she hadn't said anything to encourage him. Quite the opposite, she had responded to his suggestion that they might see more of one another in the summer with a cool, "I'm sure we'll see each other in church."

Blonde, well-built and much more self-confident than she remembered from high school, Peter was on a full football scholarship at a college in Georgia. With his hair grown longer, and a winter tan bronzing his good-looking face, he was very much the golden boy. For a brief instant, Emily considered pretending to be in the shower, or the barn, or anywhere she would not hear his knock and have to answer the door. But in the end her curiosity and good manners won out.

Peter grinned as she opened the door to him. "Hi, Em. Hope I haven't come at a bad time. I just wanted to see you again before I head back to school. Can I come in?" She realized she'd been holding the screen door handle.

"Sure. I'm just cleaning house." As if he couldn't tell by the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the floor. And the bandana she'd tied over her hair. She reached up and pulled it off, stuffing it in her pocket.

Peter held out a long white envelope. "Before I forget, Sheriff Deem asked me to bring this out to you. He had a call over to Mason and since I was coming. . ."

She took the envelope, turning it over in her hands. It was addressed simply with her name, "Miss Emily Haynes" in a large, bold hand. On the back, the flap was embossed with a Manhattan street address. Her throat tightened. Whatever it was, she wanted to be alone when she opened it.

Peter had already seated himself on the couch, but she stood over him, anxious that he not settle in for a visit. "How's school? Do you like it down South?" That might be a safe topic. Peter had always been a man of few words. She hoped sincerely that hadn't changed.

Indeed, although he seemed to want to linger, he had little to say. After a few moments' discussion of warm winters and winning football teams, he rose as if to leave.

"Emily, I meant what I said about wanting to see you this summer. And not just in church." He stopped in front of her, putting a hand on her arm. When she stared at him, one brow slightly arched, waiting for him to go on, he blushed. "Dang, it, Em. Why won't you give me a chance?"

"A chance at what?"

"You know I've always had feelings for you. And not just friendly feelings. Couldn't you at least try to like me a little? Other girls don't seem to find me so repulsive."

She smiled, in spite of herself. "You're not repulsive, Peter. I'm just not interested. Not in you or any other boy. I have enough to keep me busy now with nursing school and with the farm."

He grimaced. "So there's no chance, is that what you're saying?"

"We can be friends, like we've always been. I need friends. I just don't want to be in love. It would make life much too complicated."

He looked at her with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Does that mean you could love me, if you'd let yourself?" His hand tightened on her arm.

She shook her head. "No, Peter. It means I don't intend to fall in love with anyone. Especially not you. We've known each other all our lives. You're the boy who pushed me in the pond when I was wearing my Sunday clothes, remember? And you're the one who tied my braids together with fishing line." She grinned, hoping to break his mood before it became any more serious.

"And you're the first girl I tried to kiss. That didn't go so great, either." Finally, he smiled. "Okay, so we can be friends. Good friends?" His eyes twinkled.

"Like brother and sister."

"Ugh! Now you're just being hard. But at least I can still see you. And I'll be there to offer a shoulder to cry on, when some medical student breaks your heart."

She turned toward the door, laughing. "Dream on, Peter. Now I have work to do, and I'm sure there's some nice girl back in Georgia, just waiting to fall in love with you."

When he was finally gone, turning more than once to wave goodbye, she closed the door and stood staring at the letter on the table. Picking it up, she ran one finger under the seal, aware that her heart was pounding. As she unfolded the single sheet of heavy vellum, something dropped to the floor. Bending down to retrieve the slip of paper, she began to read.

Dear Miss Haynes,

On behalf of Stani Moss and all of us who love and admire him, I wish to express sincerest gratitude. Without your heroic efforts following his unfortunate accident, his doctors assure us, the outcome might have been tragic indeed. As it is, although he faces a lengthy recuperation, we have every reason to look forward to the day when he is restored to health and able to resume his career.

We are certain you understand the importance of protecting his privacy during this difficult time. It would be most unfortunate if he were to become the focus of the exploitative press. We trust that we can depend upon your discretion should you be approached by these unscrupulous journalists.

Please accept the enclosed as a small token of our gratitude.

Yours,

Milo Scheider

She examined the paper that had fallen to the floor. It was a check, made out to her for two thousand dollars. She stared at it, trying to grasp the meaning of such a large sum. What was he paying her for, saving Stani's life or not telling her story to the tabloid press? As if she would tell anyone, even those closest to her, what had happened in this room. She had made a pact with Stani that no one would ever know her name. Not that this Milo, whoever he was, would know that. Still, it felt as if she were being warned, if not threatened, against doing something ugly and self-serving, by a man who had never even met her.

She stuffed the letter and the check back into the envelope and dropped it in her open purse. She wouldn't take the money, wouldn't cash the check, she resolved angrily. Surely that would tell him what kind of person she was.

Savagely dusting the mantel, she fought the overwhelming sense of disappointment that someone so close to Stani would think she wanted payment for trying to keep him alive until he could be safely returned to them. She wondered if Stani himself knew about this letter. Maybe he had even asked this man to write to her. After all, what did she really know about him, other than the fact that he was talented and famous? Those things didn't necessarily mean he was a nice person. On the contrary, maybe Jack had been right in saying he was a "bad boy." He could well be the spoiled, temperamental, self-important sort of person so often associated with such a meteoric rise to fame.

Sinking into the armchair nearest the fire, she sat staring into the flames. She would never know what sort of man he was. She was here and he was somewhere being pampered and petted back to health. What he thought of her, or didn't think of her, didn't change a thing. She had promised to let him go and prayed he would recover, and the letter at least assured her of that. She would look forward to the time when she stopped thinking about him, where he was and how he was. Surely with so many things to occupy her mind, she would start to forget him.

They had spent less than twenty-four hours together, and he had been unconscious virtually all of that time. She had never even heard his voice. Why did she feel she knew him, shared some bond with him? She'd never been inclined to be romantic, to fantasize over film stars or devour those silly romance novels. Surely, she hadn't developed a case of idol worship. No, even she had to admit, her emotions ran much deeper than that. The best thing to do, she decided, was just what Jack had said, give herself time. One day, Stani Moss would be just someone she'd had the opportunity to shelter from a storm, and she would forget those few shared moments when she believed he had tried to comfort her in return.

### Chapter Twenty

When Stani woke on New Year's Day, he had no memory of the past ten days. He thought he recalled waking up, or trying to, several times before. But each time a burning sensation had rushed up his right arm, followed by a shower of sparks behind his eyelids. In just seconds, he was floating above the bed, freed of the pain that seared his left shoulder and pounded in his skull. He thought he remembered trying to raise his left arm once, but it wasn't there by his side. Instead, he could see a tube draining bright red liquid from his shoulder into a bag nearby. The more he searched for his arm, the more frantic he became, until finally he thought he heard a scream. For a few terrified minutes, he'd been certain his arm was missing. Had he only imagined himself being held in the strong comforting arms of his old friend John? When he'd finally located his left hand, lying limp across his midsection, he'd held on tightly, as the shower of sparks lifted him above the pain again.

He thought he'd seen Jana beside him each time he'd tried to open his eyes. The worry and fatigue on her face told him it was bad, whatever was happening to him. Now that he was fully awake, he could see her there above him, watching him closely, tears in her eyes. She spoke to him, assuring him that he was going to be all right now. He knew he was hurt, his head, his arm, what else? He wanted to ask, but couldn't find words. So he listened, hoping to hear the answers.

Jana told him to wait, as if he could do otherwise. She was going to find Milo. When they stood, one on either side of the bed, Stani knew they were going to tell him what had happened. As he looked from one tired face to the other, he was suddenly very afraid. They explained to him—each finishing the other's careful sentences—that he had been in an accident ten days ago. He was in a hospital now in New York. He'd had surgery on his shoulder, and his arm was strapped to his body while his shoulder began to heal. He had suffered a concussion and a bad cut over his ear. It would take some time, but he would be fine they promised. Now he just needed to rest and let them take care of everything.

It never occurred to Stani to ask questions. The little they had told him, he found overwhelming. He clung to the thought that nothing more was expected of him. Just rest. He needed to rest now. He learned that John Kimble had indeed come all the way from London to stand outside his door. And Peg was there, sleeping in the room at night so Jana could get some rest. He never questioned how they came to be there. It was comfort enough to know they were, as they had always done, taking care of everything for him.
Chapter Twenty-one

Emily decided she would use the hours it took to drive back to Williamsburg for sorting her thoughts and planning what she would say about her holiday. She'd promised herself not to tell any more lies, so she'd just tell anyone who asked that she'd had a last-minute change of plans and gone home for Christmas. The only person she knew she'd have to tell the whole truth, or at least most of the truth, was Penny. Penny would know the minute she set foot in the room they shared that something life changing had occurred over the past two weeks.

Since almost the beginning of Emily's freshman year, they'd been roommates and best friends. Initially, Emily had been assigned to room with a girl who was much more interested in studying life on campus than anything contained between the covers of a textbook. Their room was the scene of nightly coed gatherings, and one weekend Emily was asked if she'd mind finding another place to stay while her roommate's boyfriend slept over. She spent all of her time outside of classes in the library, where at least she could study in peace. She was thoroughly miserable, far from home and worrying about her father, without a friend or even the comfort of her own room. After several late nights in the library, she'd been approached by one of the students who worked there for extra cash. Penny Riley was two years older, a pre-law student on scholarship. A tiny girl with a big voice and a bigger heart, she was always quick to detect a soul in need. She had noticed the pretty, sad young girl sitting alone night after night, and never one to be shy, slipped her an invitation to join her for coffee later.

Once Penny offered a sympathetic ear, Emily told her the problem, with the result that Penny suggested they try to switch rooms and bunk together. Secretly, the older girl was concerned the atmosphere in the dorm might drive Emily to abandon school altogether. With the help of an understanding dorm supervisor, they made the switch and been together ever since.

Emily smiled to herself as she acknowledged that Penny, of all people, would forgive her deception. Penny knew the value of a lie when used for a good reason. It was Penny who'd made up that outrageous tale to put an end to the gossip that had circulated the dorm. When Emily refused to discuss her family or her home, for fear of being pitied, rumors had started. They evolved into a broad fantasy, in which Emily was an orphan, a real orphan, who had grown up in an orphanage. A wealthy benefactor was paying her way through school, providing her with her nice clothes and her much-envied car. As with all rumors, this one eventually found its way back to Emily. She confronted the first person she could find who would repeat the story, unfortunately in the company of a dozen other students in the dorm's lounge. As the details unfolded, she'd been devastated. But with as much dignity as she could muster, she'd walked out of the lounge with her head held high, declaring she had never heard anything so ridiculous. Penny stayed behind, returning to their room later with a wickedly self-satisfied grin on her face.

Closing the door and leaning against it, she proclaimed, "I guess I fixed them."

Emily, curled on her bed with her face turned to the wall, had been wondering how much worse her life could get. Now she feared she was about to find out. "What do you mean?"

"I told them your secret." When Emily didn't respond, Penny prodded, "Don't you want to know what I said?"

"Do I?"

"Yes! It's brilliant, and I thought it all up on the spur of the moment." Taking a deep breath, she proceeded, her eyes gleaming. "I told them your father's in the diplomatic corps, somewhere on a top-secret assignment, so secret even you don't know where he is. I told them the only way I could room with you was if I let them do a background check on me. The administration is sworn to secrecy and there are agents on campus to keep an eye on you so you aren't kidnapped or something." Penny was positively glowing with pride, watching expectantly for Emily's reaction.

"You didn't! You lied to them all? Oh, my gosh, Penny, what if they go to the super? We'll both get expelled!" Rolling off her bed, Emily jumped to her feet in panic.

"But they won't. They bought it, hook, line and sinker. They loved it! It fed right into their 'big brother is watching' paranoia. And look at yourself, Emily. You could be somebody like that, with the way you dress and that car of yours. Your father obviously made a lot of money, why not give him a glamorous job. I just wish you could have seen their faces."

Dropping back on the bed, Emily stared at Penny in amazement. "I can't believe you would lie for me like that."

Penny grinned. "It wasn't a lie. It was a bluff. It's up to the prosecution to prove otherwise. I'm just honing my defense attorney skills. Now cheer up. Next time they see you, they'll all be looking around for your bodyguards."

They had laughed later at the change in the way Emily was treated. It was as if the other students were sharing some deep secret, greeting her with knowing smiles and, just as Penny had predicted, trying to detect the Secret Service agents on her trail. But Emily had felt guilty. It was a lie, no matter what Penny said, and it had only been necessary because she'd been secretive in the first place. Her father would have been ashamed of her, she knew. She had been raised to know better, he would remind her, and family came first, no matter the circumstances.

Penny also understood about family. She was just as fiercely loyal to hers and just as determined to live up to their expectations of her. The middle child of three, and the only girl, she was bent on making her parents proud. She and her brothers were all in college, and their parents were looking forward to the day each graduated and made a success of their lives. While Penny dreamed of being a public defender, she was well aware a better paying job would put her noble ambitions on hold. She owed it to her family to make money, she said, but someday maybe she could follow her dream of helping those most in need.

While Penny possessed a wickedly humorous outlook on her fellow students, and could impersonate faculty members with such sarcastic accuracy that Emily shed tears of laughter at her antics, she was serious about the things that mattered; her family, her faith and most of all her boyfriend, Frankie.

Penny met Frankie no long after she and Emily had become roommates. He was in the Army, stationed at a nearby base, and had come into the diner where Penny waited tables on weekends. A native of the Midwest, he was a big, handsome boy, but painfully shy. Penny had invited him to a movie, and they'd been a couple ever since. Now Frankie was somewhere in Southeast Asia, and Penny, a devout Catholic, went to Mass at seven each morning to pray for his safe return. She had accepted an engagement ring from him just before he shipped out last summer—a tiny diamond set in gold that she wore on a chain around her neck. She hadn't told her parents yet that she was engaged for fear they would worry about her even more than they normally did. Emily was sure Penny would also understand about wanting to keep private things private.

It was late when Emily got back to the dorm, and she was disappointed to find that Penny had not yet returned. Unpacking her car, she sorted her things back into place in the room. She took the letter from Milo Scheider out of her purse and tucked it in the drawer of her desk. There had been no more news of Stani's condition as far as she knew. When she told Jack about the contents of the letter, he urged her to think it over before she destroyed the check. One day she might feel differently about it. As for Stani Moss, Jack again advised her to give herself time. Saving a life was bound to make a powerful impression. She'd wanted to respond that if he only knew how powerful, he'd understand why she didn't need to be paid for what she'd done.

While she prepared for bed, she listened to the arts programming on the radio, just in case Stani's name was mentioned. She had just switched off the set when the door burst open and Penny swept in, dropping her bags in a heap on the floor.

"You're back! Did you have fun?" Giving Emily a big hug, she stood on tiptoe to press her cold nose against her cheek. "And no broken bones?"

Emily hesitated for a moment. It was late and she wasn't sure she wanted to start what could be a long conversation now. But one look and she knew Penny had already seen the changes that had taken place since they parted two weeks earlier. "I didn't go skiing, Pen. I went home."

"Home as in the hills?" Penny was shrugging out of her coat, her eyes never leaving Emily's face.

"The same. And I've been there the whole time. In fact, I'm going for good at the end of the year if my plan works out." She saw the shadow that momentarily crossed Penny's face. "It's what I need to do, for me, Penny. I'm so much happier there."

"I can see that. You're glowing. You didn't fall in love while you were there, did you?" She was grinning, but her question was dead serious.

"No, of course not!" Without warning, Emily's face crumbled and she dissolved into tears. Dropping down beside her, Penny pulled her into her arms, rocking gently back and forth on the bed until Emily managed to choke back her sobs. "I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from." Straightening, she wiped at her face, forcing a smile.

"Well, something must have happened. That's the first time I've ever seen you really cry. Want to tell me?" Propping herself against her headboard, Penny waited as if prepared to stay there for a good long time.

Despite her efforts to edit the story, in the end Emily told her almost everything that happened during those eighteen hours, omitting only the few moments when Stani had opened his eyes and she'd wept on his chest. Penny listened without interruption until she heard about the letter from New York.

"I guess I can see why you'd be insulted; but honestly, Em, you should put that check in the bank. What if your father got suddenly worse, or your car broke down, or you got sick yourself? That money could mean a lot to you. It's not as if you asked for it." Ever practical, Penny was thinking of the things she worried about herself, never having any extra cash for emergencies.

"It just seems dirty somehow, like I took care of him expecting to get something in return. But you're right. It wouldn't hurt to put it in the bank. At least I could buy a really nice wedding present for my best friend someday."

"Shh! It's bad luck, to talk about things like that." Penny slipped under the covers, taking her rosary off the bedpost.

"Have you heard from Frankie?" Settling in her bed, Emily turned on her side, watching her friend begin to slide the beads through her fingers.

"I had a nice letter for Christmas. He doesn't say much, but I think things are pretty bad over there. He sounds sad, like he's seen things that hurt him. I'll just be so glad when he gets back. The hardest part of this is not being able to see for myself that he's okay."

Emily nodded, aware Penny had touched the very heart of her own dilemma. Try as she might, it was the not knowing that made her think of Stani Moss, no matter how much she wanted to forget him. "I know, Pen. But that's where faith is supposed to come in, right?" Emily switched off the light, and they both lay awake for a time, Penny praying that Frankie was sleeping peacefully somewhere safe tonight, and Emily staring at the shadows on the ceiling, weary and drained after telling her story. She tried to pray, asking that soon the vivid memory of a pale face beneath red curls would begin to fade. But part of her wanted to hold on to that image, no matter how painful. Letting him go was proving to be much more difficult than she had ever expected.

### Chapter Twenty-two

Stani dreamed almost constantly during those first few days. Variations on the same dream, really. He was floating, surrounded by the blackest darkness or the most brilliant light. Gliding through silent, deadening chill, he was powerless to stop his gentle descent to some unseen place far below. A face floated along with him, a girl's face, with soft gray eyes and a sweet, serious smile. From somewhere nearby, he could hear the girl's voice, pleading gently, calling his name. It was her voice that anchored him. Her voice, soft and encouraging, called him back when he threatened to drift too far away. All the while, as he dreamed, he thought he was playing his violin. He could feel it in his hands, tucked against his shoulder, sense the vibration of the strings. Music, familiar but unidentifiable, filled some distant space, never quite reaching his ears.

Stani wasn't frightened by the dreams, but they confused him; and he wondered what they had to do with the days he'd lost. He was especially bewildered by the girl, who seemed so familiar yet surely was no one he'd ever known. When he told Jana about the girl in his dream, she asked if the girl might be Betsy. He had no idea why she would ask about Betsy, but he told her no, this was someone he was certain he'd never met before she appeared in his dream. He found that just before he fell asleep, which seemed to be frequently, he hoped the girl would be there, floating beside him while he slept.

When he was stronger and could sit in a chair by the bed and stay awake for a few hours at a time, he began to have other memories, waking memories. He knew he'd gone to Washington, rehearsed and checked into a hotel. He asked Jana how they had learned about his accident and come back from Aspen. He thought the accident must have happened in Washington, but he could recall Robert's dropping him safely at the hotel. When he began to ask more questions, a doctor came to talk with him, a psychiatrist, who explained that in time he might remember all or part of the days he'd lost. Meanwhile, it was best not to try too hard, just let the memories return naturally. Stani was pretty sure that meant the memories would be bad. He decided he was in no hurry to find out what had happened after Robert left him at the hotel that afternoon.

### ****

When Stani woke at last and Milo was able to tell him just enough of his condition and the events buried somewhere in his memory, he felt he was prepared for the weeks and months to come. He knew Stani had trusted him from that first handshake so many years before, and he intended to play on that trust now. The psychiatrist advised them to use caution, not provide too much information at once, allowing Stani's memory to return slowly. Milo once again put John Kimble in charge of protecting the boy. No one, with the exception of the four, Milo and Jana, Peg Shannon and John, would be left alone with Stani. He was not to watch television or listen to the radio without one of them at his side. The therapists assigned to his case were cautioned with regard to his memory loss. Even Mamie and Robert were instructed on acceptable topics of conversation in Stani's presence.

The day Stani was released to return to their apartment Robert brought the car to the loading dock at the rear of the hospital. Milo was certain he did not want photographs of Stani, his arm bound to his side, his head still bandaged, plastered on the pages of the tabloids.

At Jana's insistence, Milo had telephoned Stani's mother in London, explaining the seriousness of his injuries and the expected lengthy recovery. He had offered to fly her to New York and put her up in a hotel, thinking it was only right that she would want to see him for herself. But she had declined, using the excuse that at this point in time Stani would most likely prefer for them, Milo and Jana, and his other friends to see him through his recovery.

Milo never mentioned to Stani that he had talked with his mother. Why risk opening a subject which might disturb him further, when he was already so pensive? Once at home, Stani settled into a sort of routine. Therapists came daily to work with him, Jana and Peg fussed over him, and John Kimble played endless games of chess and cards with him. But Stani remained withdrawn, responding politely to the attention, but spending hours in silent contemplation. He never once asked for his violin or mentioned music. They should wait for his cue, they agreed, allow him to resume his life at his own pace. But the waiting became more anxious with every passing day.

### Chapter Twenty-three

Peg Shannon was not the kind of woman who willingly sat and waited. As she watched Stani in the days after his release from the hospital, she believed she could see where her talents might be most beneficial. Not so different really from that first time, when she'd seen she could do more for Stani than just give a few dinner parties to raise money for his tour.

When she offered her services to Milo Scheider, agreeing to spearhead the effort to raise the necessary funds for Stani's first major tour, she added one condition. She asked to be given free rein with the boy, to give him some style and stage presence. It wasn't enough, she told Milo, for Stani's musical genius to amaze concertgoers. He had the potential to be a real star, to capture the imagination and admiration of his audiences as well. Milo was more than a little skeptical; but if that was all it took to convince this woman, known for her skill at raising large sums of money for those artists in whom she took an interest, he was certainly willing to let her try to put a little polish on the boy.

Peg Shannon, at nearly thirty, was a recognized force among arts patrons. For more than ten years, first at her father's side and then on her own, she had worked in the family's philanthropic trust. The son of an Irish immigrant banker, Peg's father Michael had made his fortune in the world of finance. In his declining years, he dedicated his life to dispersing his wealth, and that of his friends, in support of worthy causes. He had a talent for setting one would-be donor against another so that by the time they were done outdoing one another the donations were far more generous than he had initially requested. Likewise, Peg achieved the same end hostessing small dinner parties, where two or three potential patrons might find themselves writing checks at the end of the evening, the sums dictated more by their egos than their interest in the cause of the moment.

An attractive even striking woman, with fine intelligent blue eyes and the classic features of her Irish ancestors, Peg Shannon was known for her sense of style and her air of elegant confidence. She was private and discreet, with many admiring acquaintances and few intimate friends. Working so closely with her father, she rarely made decisions regarding her fund-raising efforts without first consulting him. In the case of Stani Moss, after she heard him play at a private concert alongside other young musicians, she told her father the little violinist might soon set the world of classical music on its ear.

"But you'd never suspect it to look at him, Dad," she commented over brandy after she returned home that evening. "He looks as if he might fall over with embarrassment, and then he plays like someone possessed. He's not a bad looking kid, although he has the most ridiculous haircut; and he certainly could do with a good tailor."

Her father laughed, sensing where this was likely headed. "I seem to hear a project coming on. Are you sure you want to take on an adolescent boy?"

"That's the other thing. According to the program notes, he's seventeen. He's been performing since he was ten years old. It's not that he hasn't had the experience, he just seems to lack any sort of stage presence. I think it might be possible to turn him into something of a rock star. He's got the looks, if you can get past that hair. It might be fun to give him some style, spruce him up a little, bring his appearance up to par with that incredible talent."

"Sleep on it, Professor Higgins," Michael teased. "You might be safer just raising money rather than taking a boy to raise."

But Peg had been intrigued by the possibilities and with Milo's blessing set out to transform Stani, first by becoming his friend. Although twelve years his senior, she was warm and open with him, asking his permission and clearly stating her plan. Doubtful but not unwilling, he agreed to let her try, warning her that he was not a quick study and tended to be easily distracted. What she soon discovered was just the opposite; he had a quick mind, though a limited education and even more limited experience outside his music. She also quickly discovered that he was motivated to please, willing to attempt anything she suggested, just to win her approval.

Together they shopped for clothes, replacing his uniform of khakis and baggy cardigans with stylishly slim trousers, soft, clinging sweaters and close-fitting shirts. She encouraged him to take a page from her own book, avoiding colors, choosing black or gray to set off his vivid coloring to best advantage. She stood him before a dressing room mirror, pulling his shoulders back and tilting his chin up. She showed him that while his might not be the body of an athlete, he possessed the graceful form of a dancer. His shoulders were broad and his chest deep, tapering to a slim waist and narrow hips. Though not much over five foot seven, he was perfectly proportioned, giving the impression of greater height.

"You could be quite elegant," she assured him, "if you'd only stop walking around as if your stomach hurt." Stani scoffed at the idea that she thought he could be anything other than his awkward self, but he made an obvious effort to improve his posture.

When Peg suggested they see her stylist to seek advice on a more mature hairstyle, Stani jumped at the chance. His hair, he told her, was the bane of his existence. Laughing, she agreed that it did seem to have a life of its own.

The hairdresser saw immediate potential in the currently unmanageable mane. He first encouraged Stani to let it grow longer, to which he responded that he'd have to wear a bag over his head.

"Maybe, but once it grows out, we will cut it into a style you like, so you can throw away the bag," was the pragmatic reply. The stylist gave him a collection of hair care products, stating bluntly that such exotic hair could not be expected to respond well to cheap drugstore shampoo. If Stani would follow his advice, he would see that in fact his hair was his finest feature.

When they left the salon, Peg and Stani had laughed together; but Stani faithfully followed the prescribed regimen. When they returned several weeks later, his hair was indeed softer, waving rather than curling wildly, and the color seemed deeper, closer to auburn than red. With the skill of a sculptor, the stylist had trimmed and textured the mop of hair into a style which reached his collar, parting on the left side so that it fell appealingly across his face when he assumed a performance pose. Peg was amazed at the effect of this single change. Stani now walked with head held high, even giving his hair the occasional toss, as if proud to show off his new-found crowning glory.

They next visited a tailor Peg's father had used for years. Manny Weinberg was immediately taken with the boy, circling him appraisingly before taking out his tape measure. He pointed out to Peg the lines of the shoulders, chest, and hips and described the cut of the new tailcoat which would best be shown off by this boy's fine figure. Stani stood in the midst of this discussion, blushing furiously. When Manny asked if he'd considered adding just a bit of height by adjusting the heel of his shoes, he turned his eyes to Peg, clearly pleading for mercy.

"Not a bad idea, Stani. Men are wearing those elegant Spanish boots everywhere these days. Manny, can you recommend a boot maker for us?" She gave Stani's shoulder a comforting little pat, as Manny wrote down the name and address. "Don't worry, if you don't like them, you won't have to wear them. And you might as well get used to people talking about your looks, Stani. You can't hide anymore. You're gorgeous." Putting a hand on his flaming cheek, she laughed softly.

When all was said and done, Stani admitted the boots were a success. They were even comfortable, and he opted to wear them most of the time. Somehow, he said, an inch or two made him feel far less insignificant, to which Peg laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. The idea that he had ever felt insignificant at all was beyond comprehension.

Working to alleviate his shyness, she took him with her everywhere, introducing him to her wide circle of acquaintances, hinting at how important he would soon be in the world of classical music. Now when he walked into a room, Peg could see the admiring glances of women of all ages, and she encouraged him to chat, even to flirt with girls who looked at him with open interest. She learned he had never had a girlfriend or many friends his own age for that matter. Even as a child, he'd been privately tutored without the benefit of playmates. No wonder he was so shy, she told him, growing up in such a bubble. Now that he was meeting new people, he was displaying a surprisingly charming personality along with the impeccable manners she suspected were a direct imitation of Milo Scheider.

Peg watched Stani rehearse, making suggestions on his posture and gestures onstage. When she suggested he move more to the music, and demonstrated her ideas, Stani laughed. He would move gently as the music dictated, he said, but he would not waltz about the stage with his violin for partner, the way Peg had done. They practiced his entrance, striding purposefully on stage, firmly extending his hand to the conductor, acknowledging the orchestra. No more slinking to his mark, she insisted, as if he expected to be asked to leave the stage.

"You're the star, the one they paid to see. Take command of the stage, Stani. They love you. They've been waiting for you. Make them happy." He seemed to understand that concept. It harkened back to the beginning, he told her, when he and Milo had agreed they could make a lot of people happy just by listening to Stani play. "And now it's about to happen, all over the world. You'll be a rock star, Stani, just wait and see."

Indeed, with his new hairstyle, and his flattering clothes, Stani was proving to be handsome young man. He had clear, dark brown eyes and his skin was deeper in tone than might have been expected, given his bright hair. While he often wore an intensely serious expression on his finely chiseled features, he could also flash a sudden, brilliant smile which easily reached the back row of any concert hall. He carried himself with confidence now, moving easily with a natural grace. Peg was pleased with her handiwork, but at the same time she had the disturbing realization that she had fallen a little bit in love with her star pupil.

Striving to connect his knowledge of music to the rest of the world into which he would be thrust once his concert career began in earnest, Peg encouraged Stani to read. He was already an avid reader, he assured her, but now she pushed him to explore all types of literature and art, expanding on his love of classical writings, history and poetry. They toured galleries and museums, attended concerts and plays, and even visited several trendy night spots, where he was for the first time introduced to popular music. He was an eager student, quickly developing his own opinions and tastes. Gaining confidence, he was able to debate the merits of this work or that, rather than instantly agreeing with Peg's assessments.

Stani had a particular interest in all things British, she learned. He had no knowledge of his own ancestry, other than the vague idea that his mother had been from the north of England, maybe Manchester, and his father had been born in Scotland. Every musician of note was identified by his nationality, Stani pointed out. As it was, his passport said he was a British national, his address was Manhattan, and his only family was of Eastern European descent.

Peg encouraged him to think of himself as a citizen of the world, perhaps cast himself as something of a mystery man. He scoffed at the idea, while acknowledging he was a bit of a mystery to himself. A kid from East London, of doubtful parentage, he had been taken in by two wonderful if somewhat single-minded Hungarian transplants and now was being groomed for life on the concert stage by the most amazing woman in all of New York City. How was that ever going to fit into the liner notes of his first solo recording?

Stani had initially found Peg's efforts terrifying; but as she quickly let him know she wanted to be his friend, to share rather than force his transformation, he had relaxed and enjoyed the attention. She was fun, never criticizing, always encouraging with a smile that suggested they were embarking on an adventure, rather than correcting his many faults. It was his first friendship with a grown woman, and he was flattered by her praise and approval. There were times when he felt mildly confused, wondering if she expected more from him that the light flirtation which sometimes entered their conversations. The idea that a beautiful woman like Peg Shannon might find him attractive never entered his mind. Yet there were moments when he sensed something warmer, more intensely personal between them. He had the occasional disturbing dream, which left him painfully self-conscious the next time they were together. Whatever their relationship, he knew he would be eternally indebted to Peg for her help. Without her, he was certain he would never have felt this at ease in the world that surrounded him. He hoped her reward would be the knowledge that if he turned out to be a success, it was all thanks to her.

### ****

Milo and Jana were amazed with what Peg had accomplished. They were admiring of Stani's more mature style and new-found confidence. Milo in particular was grateful for the vastly improved stage persona. He had been certain that once audiences heard Stani play, they would be duly impressed with his talent; but now thanks to Peg, they would be captivated by this handsome, poised teenager before he ever lifted his bow. If Milo sensed Peg might have formed a personal attachment to Stani, he was merely pleased the boy had gained such a valuable ally. Friends like Peg Shannon were the greatest asset a young artist could have.

In January of the next year, they set out for London, which would serve as their base of operations. Milo had carefully scheduled performances in order to build interest, slowly allowing the concert-going public to become acquainted with this new talent. All the years of carefully bringing the boy along to this moment were going to pay off, he was certain. Stani was ready in every way. His recorded performance of the Mendelssohn Concerto had been brilliant. His concert repertoire was impressive, chosen to show off his technical brilliance as well as his amazingly mature interpretation. Mindful that touring could be grueling, Milo had scheduled numerous breaks, when Stani would return to London for rest and relief from the strain of constantly being in the limelight. There would be many years of performing ahead; no need to risk pushing him too hard while he was still so young.

There were no disappointments. Stani Moss was instantly accepted by audiences, critics and most importantly by the leading conductors and musicians of Britain and Europe. He was acknowledged as a modern prodigy, acclaimed as a brilliant new star, and applauded as an original, both musically and personally. His looks, style and personality immediately caught the imagination of the press, and he was photographed and interviewed by both the classical and popular outlets. When Peg saw his photographs in the leading pictorial magazines, she sent him a telegram in Prague. "Warned you you'd be a rock star someday!"

They returned to London in April to celebrate Stani's eighteenth birthday, and Peg flew in to join them. When Milo and Jana decided to accept an invitation to meet old friends in Oxford for a few days, Peg suggested Stani stay behind to take in the West End shows with her. She needed an escort, and it would give her a chance to hear all about the tour.

If Peg had hoped to cautiously initiate a more intimate relationship, Stani seemed to have anticipated her plan, offering himself as willingly as when they'd first begun his transformation from awkward teen to polished performer. She led him carefully, patiently to the pleasures of lovemaking. He proved once again to be an apt pupil, sensual and romantic by nature. He was, she assured him, a natural lover and would someday make one special woman the finest of partners.

For Stani, it was the best possible coming-of-age gift. For Peg, whom he already admired and trusted, to initiate him into the world of intimacy was only fitting. She had created his adult persona, made him comfortable in his own skin for the first time in his life. Now she had with her own body shown him how beautifully a woman and man could share this most passionate of relationships. He would be forever grateful to her, but he was well aware they were not in love.

### ****

Now Peg came to the apartment each day with the image of Stani as he had been at eighteen, beautiful and confident, firmly fixed in her mind's eye. As she worked alongside John Kimble, helping to dress Stani and brushing his hair, she fought against accepting the changes in him. Nothing about him now resembled that striking figure on the concert stage. His hair had been shaved around the ugly gash on his scalp. He still bore the fading yellow stain of a large bruise on his forehead. When he tried to stand or walk, he struggled to maintain his balance. Thin, almost emaciated, the fine bones of his face seemed sharpened, the rusty shadow of his beard harsh against the pallor of his skin. But it was the total lack of animation, the absence of his ready smile and the familiar expression of intense concentration, as if he were always listening and absorbing, that really frightened Peg. His hair would grow, the scars would fade, but how long before he emerged from this terrible introspection?

Nothing she or anyone else did drew him out. Though he was cooperative, he never responded to her teasing or seemed to notice when she came or went from the apartment. Jana fussed over him, Milo kept a close scrutiny on his daily activities; the therapists worked him hard; but his response to one and all was always polite gratitude, nothing more.

It was only with John Kimble, as they sat together over a chess board, neither making a move for hours on end, or shared a long, often disjointed reminiscence of some boyhood escapade, that Stani seemed completely at ease. With John, who handled him so gently, yet still managed to allow him some dignity, Stani shared the occasional self-deprecating quip. There was something between them that intrigued Peg. John obviously loved this young man he had last known as a boy, and the feeling was clearly returned. Stani seemed, above all, grateful to have John back in his life, regardless of the reason for his return. And Peg had the distinct impression that for John, caring for Stani now represented much more than a job resumed.

Peg brought copies of his favorite books, including a collection of Robert Burns, and left them near his chair. When she noticed they had not been touched after several days, she took it upon herself to read aloud to him, finally winning a lopsided half-smile as reward for her pathetic attempt at Scottish dialect. Encouraged, she shopped for workout clothes in his favorite dark colors, took scissors and cut his hair short, leaving him with a becoming cap of curls. Stani seemed to respond, slowly, to her spoiling; but he still sat for long hours, gazing into nothing, or pretending, she suspected, to doze.

Four weeks after his return from the hospital, on an afternoon when they were alone in the apartment except for the ever-present John Kimble, who had retired for his customary nap, Peg discovered Stani attempting to remove a recording from the cabinet over the stereo. Just returning from his bedroom with a sweater he'd requested, she stood watching as he struggled to take the disc from its jacket. When he turned pleading eyes to her, holding out the album, she took it from him. It was his own recording of the Mendelssohn Concerto.

"Please, Peg." He reached for support, resting his free hand on her shoulder.

"Stani, are you sure?"

"I need to hear it. Please."

There was nothing to do but play the recording. She knew Milo might object, but then again they had agreed to let Stani set the pace. She saw him back to his chair, set the record turning, and stood watching, ready to lift the needle at any point.

For a time he stared into space, listening intently. Gradually, he seemed to relax, closing his eyes; and she noticed his breathing seemed to rise and fall with the changing tempo. His head tilted toward his shoulder, toward the imagined violin, and the fingers of his left hand, resting palm up in the sling, began to move as if from memory. But it was his expression, as he was drawn deeper and deeper into the music, so much like the old Stani that it set Peg's pulse racing. He was totally entranced, carried to some finer place in his mind; the peace which came with the music reflected in his face. When the recording ended tears were flowing unheeded down his face, but there was also a look of fierce determination.

"Don't you see," he said softly, "I had to hear what it is I'm working so hard for. Now that I remember how it was, I know I have to play like that again." For the first time, she could see a glimmer of the boy she'd known. She wondered why he'd waited until they were alone, without Milo or Jana, to listen to the recording. She told herself it was because he trusted her, but she also suspected he'd been afraid to see their reaction to hearing him as he had been. It was fear now filling his eyes, as he sat replaying the music in his mind. She wanted to comfort him, to tell him that he would play again. But the doctor's words of caution came back to her. There were no guarantees. Only time would tell. So she leaned down to kiss his forehead, smoothing the rough curls, and left him alone with his memories.

### Chapter Twenty-four

Classes resumed, mid-term exams came and went. January was bitterly cold, and then the February rain moved in and seemed to be ever present. Where previously life had been a slow-moving misery, now Emily found her days full and productive as she looked to her rapidly developing future. Once the process had begun, it had been relatively simple to arrange for application to the University nursing program. She'd been accepted within the month and was carrying an extra-heavy class load in preparation for the transfer. Life was hectic, but she was happy to stay busy, to keep her mind occupied with something other than wondering how Stani Moss might be progressing in his recovery.

Splashing back from class one afternoon, she rushed into the dorm head down, nearly colliding with a group of girls gathered in the hall. Their faces were sober and they turned as one to look at her with fear in their eyes. "What?" she demanded, instantly thinking of her father.

One of the girls spoke, her voice hushed. "The bereavement officer was just here. To see Penny."

Emily was already headed for the stairs. "Is she up there now?"

"No, she's in the super's office. We didn't know they were engaged." Another girl looked sharply at Emily.

"I did," she said simply, and strode across to the closed door marked Dorm Mother. She knocked softly and the door was immediately opened. Beyond the concerned face of the supervisor, she could see Penny seated on the couch, ramrod straight, her eyes fixed on the wall opposite. As the door closed behind the departing super, Emily rushed to gather Penny in her arms, holding her tightly until finally she started to sob. For a time, they clung together and cried, whispering words that had little meaning other than to convey grief and comfort. When Penny at last lifted her head, wiping at her eyes with a trembling hand, she looked toward the door, where shadows of the waiting group could be seen through the frosted glass.

"Take me upstairs, Em? I just want to be alone."

Emily draped a protective arm around her shoulders and together they walked out of the office, past the cluster of girls and up the stairs. Once in their room, Penny went straight to Frankie's photograph on her bedside table, turning it face down without looking at the image. "I can't go to his funeral. It will be in Nebraska. I don't have any way to get there."

Emily tried to imagine the anguish behind the simple statement. Not only to lose the man you loved and planned to spend your life with, but to be denied the comfort of attending his funeral, of sharing the grief with his family, was too harsh to accept. She remembered her mother's funeral and how much it had calmed her to sit in the church surrounded by friends and family, to celebrate the life of someone they had all loved. Surely, there had to be some way to get Penny to Nebraska.

"Your parents couldn't loan you the money?" she asked, already sure of the answer.

"They don't even know about the engagement. I don't know how I'm going to tell them that I was engaged and now my fiancé is dead." Penny's voice cracked, but she didn't cry again. Instead, her face seemed frozen in a look so tragic Emily was instantly determined to find some way to ease her suffering.

"Penny, we'll find a way. I know there has to be something. . . .Oh, my gosh, of course there is." Penny looked up skeptically. "I can give you the money, as much money as you need. And you never have to pay me back."

"What are you talking about?"

"That check. I put it in the bank, like you said, in case of emergency. This certainly qualifies as an emergency. Look, I'll help you make whatever arrangements you need." Rapidly warming to her subject, she rushed on. "We'll get you a plane ticket. And something nice to wear. You know you want to make Frankie proud when you meet his family. And you can stay there as long as you want, in a hotel if they don't have room for you." They were both crying now, but Penny for once seemed willing to let Emily take charge. She agreed to call Frankie's family and ask if she'd be welcome at the funeral. At least they knew about the engagement, she said.

As Emily started to leave, planning to tell the dorm super of their plan, Penny stopped her. "I'll pay you back, Em. I promise."

"Don't be ridiculous. I didn't even want that money, remember? I'm just thankful I held on to it. Funny, when you think it's because of Stani Moss that I can help my best friend now when she needs it." As she walked down the stairs, the thought occurred to her it wasn't funny at all; it was another part of whatever miracle had brought him to her valley in the first place.

### ****

Two days later, Valentine's Day, Emily drove Penny to the airport. The rain had finally stopped and the day was bright and windy. There had been a bad moment that morning, when Penny received a delivery of a dozen red roses. Tucked inside the box was a card, "All my love, Frankie." Penny had collapsed on her bed, sobbing bitterly. When Emily contacted the florist who made the delivery, she was told the roses had been ordered over a month before, paid for by one of Frankie's buddies from the base. It was common practice, the florist explained, for the boys overseas to arrange things like that as a surprise for their wives and sweethearts. Now, as she boarded the plane for Nebraska, Penny was wearing two of the roses pinned to the lapel of her new coat.

Driving back to campus, Emily thought again of the irony of the situation. Using that money for such a cause made it seem more like a gift, less like a payoff. She wondered for a moment if she should write to Milo Scheider and thank him for sending the check. But that would risk opening a door she was finally learning to leave closed. Better just to say a prayer of thanks that Penny would have the comfort of attending her soldier's funeral. Better to let the memory of Stani Moss continue to fade.

### Chapter Twenty-five

On Thursday afternoon before the start of the Easter break, Emily did the unthinkable. She cut a class and began her holiday early. Determined to be home for the Good Friday service the following noon, she drove all evening, finally reaching the farm after ten o'clock. At some point during the spring rains, the road leading up from the highway had suffered a deep washout, and she'd been forced to walk the last fifty yards to the gate in the dark. Lugging her duffel bag across the yard, she wondered why Jack hadn't warned her of the obstacle but was too tired to be very unhappy about the inconvenience.

Letting herself in the front door, she switched on the light and wearily dropped her bag. Beneath her heel, she felt the crunch of something hard and looking down, she caught her breath in horror. From the rug, six whiskered faces looked up at her, pausing in what appeared to be their bedtime snack. Six pairs of gleaming black eyes fixed her with a curious gaze. When she screamed at the top of her lungs and leapt onto the nearby chair, her welcoming committee exchanged puzzled glances, dropped to all fours and scattered. One particularly bold member had the audacity to scurry back to snatch up a crumb left in haste, stood for a moment to wiggle his whiskers at her, then turned his naked little tail and ran away.

When her heart had stopped pounding quite so painfully, Emily tiptoed through the dining room and retrieved the broom from the pantry, her wide eyes scanning the floor for any further sign of intruders. To her astonishment, a trail of dried bean hulls ran from the kitchen all the way through to the front room. Little side trails of unspeakable black droppings led to cabinets and drawers. Frightened and angry, Emily felt tears of frustration welling. How dare anything so disgusting, so filthy, so thoroughly un-welcoming, break into her house?

Clutching the broom, she immediately went to the telephone and dialed Jack's number. It didn't matter how late it was, he needed to know about this, now. When his sleepy voice answered, she suffered a momentary pang of guilt. But at the sight of yet another dried bean, just at the edge of the hearth, it passed.

"Jack, I have rats!" was her strident greeting.

"What? What are you doing home tonight? I thought you were coming tomorrow."

"I came early so I could go to church tomorrow. Now what are you going to do about these rats? I can't sleep here with them, that's for sure."

Thoroughly awake now, Jack groaned. "What am I going to do? I thought it was your house." She was sure he was grinning into the phone.

"Jack, you know how I feel about rodents. I can take almost anything else, snakes, lizards, even spiders, but not rodents! Especially not the kind that show absolutely no fear of humans. These guys practically invited me to sit down and visit." As she talked, she turned in a defensive circle, scouting for her enemy and winding the phone's cord around her waist.

Now he laughed, and she had to smile in response. "All right, calm down. Where were these vicious beasts when you last saw them?"

"Headed for wherever they've built their lair. They've been all over the house, though." She let out an audible shudder. "Ugh! There are droppings everywhere! Oh, Jack, I know it's late, but could you please come up here? Oh! And when did the road wash out? I had to leave my car down on the hill."

Jack took pity on her then, assuring her he'd be out as soon as he could get dressed. "I didn't think the washout was that deep. Poor kid, it wasn't much of a welcome home, was it?"

"Not what I expected." From somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, she heard a noise and pictured the band of six racing across the linoleum. With a stifled scream, she again climbed to the safety of the chair, barely catching the telephone as it slid off the table. "Hurry, Jack, please hurry! I'll be waiting on the front porch."

### ****

When Jack arrived Emily was curled on the porch swing, wrapped in a quilt against the cool night air, sound asleep. Carefully, he took a seat beside her, taking a minute to study her face in the light from the window, before she opened her eyes and smiled.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you." He grinned at her as she stretched under the quilt.

"Sure you did."

"How've you been?"

"Busy. There's been a lot going on. How about you?"

"Just the same old thing. Now why don't we go in the house and see about these alleged rats." Patting her knee, he stood up slowly.

"You go. I've already seen them." She pulled the quilt closer around her neck.

"Oh, no. You have to identify the suspects. Come on, I'll protect you." Pulling her to her feet, he steered her by the shoulders through the door, the quilt dragging behind her.

Jack studied the droppings and bean hulls as if investigating a crime scene, following the trail into the kitchen and opening a cabinet door to reveal a well-rifled bag of black-eyed peas. "Here's your problem. You left them provisions."

Emily peered over his shoulder, obviously poised for flight at any second. "Oops. So how do we get them to leave?"

"Traps or poison. Or a cat." He closed the cabinet door, again following the trail as it wound into the pantry. As he pulled the chain to turn on the overhead light, a furry body streaked past, producing a shriek from Emily and chuckle from Jack. "That's no rat, Em. That's just a little field mouse. Is that what you saw?"

She was clinging to his arm, staring after the culprit, her eyes wide with terror. "Yes! Only there were six of them. Do something, Jack. Don't just let him get away!"

"For heaven's sake, girl, that thing's as scared of you as you are of it. If you keep squealing like that, they'll all run for the hills. Now go upstairs and see if there's any sign of them there. Most likely, they've only been where there was food." When she failed to leave his side, Jack rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Come on, I'll go with you. Really, for a girl who can take on anything with a smile, you sure are a coward tonight."

Upstairs, they checked the floors and Emily turned back the covers on her bed with a flourish, fully expecting to see another contingent of rodents tucked in for the night. When she was finally satisfied the infestation was confined to the first floor, she began to calm down.

"Think you can manage to get some sleep now?" Jack was examining the floor of the closet, just to be sure.

She grinned sheepishly. "I think so. But tomorrow, you have to get them out of here."

"I'll bring out some traps, bright and early. And some cheese." He paused on the landing. "Or I can get some poison. Which would you prefer?"

She thought for a minute, apparently torn. "Neither one, I guess. What about a cat? Wouldn't that be more natural?'

"Natural?" He grinned. "You think they'd prefer to be eaten?"

"But we never had mice when we had barn cats. Do they really eat them?" A delicate shudder lifted her shoulders.

"Usually just the scent of a cat will keep them away." He considered for a moment. "I'll tell you what. Tomorrow I'll bring Marjorie out for a visit. I'll guarantee a few days with her as a house guest and the mice will move out."

"Marjorie? You mean Martha Jean's shop cat?"

"The very same. Now can I please go home? I do have to work in the morning, you know. And you look like you could use some sleep yourself." Gently, he ran a hand over her hair. "Welcome home, Em."

When she had seen him out the front door, she rapidly retraced her steps up the stairs, dragging her bag behind her. As quickly as she could, she dressed for bed and crawled beneath the covers, pulling them high around her ears. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, she lay staring at the ceiling until drowsiness forced her lids to droop. Just as she drifted toward sleep, she recalled something Jack had said. He'd called her a girl who could take on anything with a smile. Could she? If all of her homecomings were destined to be filled with challenges of one kind or another, it would take more than a smile to ever settle in for good again.

### ****

True to his word, Jack was at the door just after eight. Unwilling to venture downstairs, Emily had been watching from her bedroom window as he walked through the gate and across the yard, carrying a small wire cage.

"Here's your exterminator. Martha Jean apologizes, but she already had her breakfast this morning." Releasing the fluffy gray cat—a fixture in the boutique generally found curled in a sunny spot in the display window—the two of them stood back and watched. With one grand flourish of her magnificent tail, she put her snubbed nose in the air, a look of suspicion in her bright yellow eyes. After a moment of savoring whatever scents she found there, Marjorie lowered her nose to the floor and began to follow the path of hulls and droppings, her erect tail switching rhythmically back and forth.

"She's on the trail and spreading her scent as she goes." Jack eyed Emily's bathrobe and slippers. "Aren't you ready to go yet?"

"Go where?" She was watching Marjorie in fascination, as she swished her way toward the kitchen.

"To breakfast. I was pretty sure even your appetite wouldn't overcome your fear of those poor little field mice. I'm taking you to breakfast at the cafe, while Marjorie does her job. You can stay in town until after church. There's a soup and sandwich lunch after the service. By that time, I wouldn't be too worried about seeing any mice again."

She turned to him with a grateful smile. "You're the best, Jack. I won't be a minute. I'm starving!" Racing up the stairs, she stopped halfway. "What about my car? Is it going to have to sit on the side of the road all weekend?"

"County crew is on the way. It should be taken care of by the time we get back. Sorry I didn't get that fixed before you got home. Now scoot! I'm starving too."

### ****

As they sat waiting for their scrambled eggs and bacon to arrive, Jack asked if she'd heard anything more from New York.

"No, nothing. I suppose by now he's well on his way to recovery."

"What did you do with that check?"

Between bites, she told him about Penny and Frankie. "I know now it was a blessing, getting that check. I just didn't understand that at first."

"Sorry to hear about your friend's loss. That reminds me, though, James McConnell came home."

"For good?"

"He's been discharged, but he's gone again now, hiking the Parkway. Mike said he wanted to get away from everything for a while. James told him he couldn't breathe inside the house."

Emily's eyes filled with unexpected tears. "Poor Sara. She must be so worried. I remember when James left school to enlist; she said she was so proud of him for making such a sacrifice."

"He'll come around. It may take some time, but James is a fine young man. He'll find his way." Something about the look in Jack's eyes made her wonder if he wasn't just being hopeful.

### ****

When they returned to the house, she was able to move her car into the drive, finish unpacking, and set to work cleaning up the mess left by her uninvited houseguests. Marjorie had found a sunny location on the kitchen floor and curled up to nap, positioned where any mouse worth his salt would recognize the warning, pack up and vacate the premises. Jack had left with the promise to return for dinner. Putting away the things she'd picked up at the market, cold cuts and potato salad, along with a frozen lemon meringue pie, she surveyed the damages.

"Darned old rats!" she said to the sleeping Marjorie. "They've spoiled my plans for working outside this weekend." When the cat opened one eye and twitched her tail, Emily laughed. "Like you mind. I guess this is a big treat for you. Oh, well, I might as well get to it. As Jack said, it's supposed to be my house, field mice and all."

It took two hours of vacuuming and mopping, clearing out cabinets and scrubbing shelves, before she was satisfied the house was no longer a germ-infested hotbed of disease. Opening the windows to let the westerly wind from the mountains blow through, bearing the scents of spring and lingering wood smoke, she finally began to feel she'd come home. She put on music, Schubert's "Trout" Quintet, and felt her spirits soar and her steps lighten. By the time she set the table for dinner, she was confident that between Marjorie's regal presence and her own arduous cleaning, the rodent visitation was at an end.

### ****

That night she built a fire, just large enough to drive the spring chill from the room. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she watched the flames lick at the dry wood and sparks fly up the chimney. It was then she felt the shiver of memory along her spine. Here, in this very place, she had sat beside Stani, watching him, willing him to live. She could picture him perfectly, his face shadowed in the firelight. What was he doing now? Was he well, healed and back to his career? Or was he still struggling to overcome his injuries? It was the not knowing that kept him in her mind, even after all these months. If only she knew for sure he was all right, whatever that might mean in his world, she could let him go forever.

She sat for a long time, until the fire died to embers, reliving that night. In the end, she was weary, bereft, and at the same time aware that remembering brought a kind of comfort. Knowing he had survived those hours here and she had helped him in some small way to return to his life eased the sadness of never knowing what had happened next.

Slowly, she let her thoughts turn to an idea she had somehow managed to avoid. It was quite possible, in fact most likely, that there was a woman in Stani's life, a woman who loved him and had been waiting to take care of him when he returned. He was the sort of man a woman would care deeply for, dedicate herself to, with his exceptional looks and talent. He deserved the love and attention of a strong woman who understood how special he was to the world. When she had pictured him, somewhere in an elegant Manhattan apartment, she had tried to imagine the people around him. But until now she had not filled in the space occupied by the woman who loved him.

She would be calm and patient because he might not be the easiest man to love. She would be beautiful, as he was, someone who fit easily into his world. She would know how to support him, soothe his moods, how to bring out the best in him. Not a wife—there had been no ring on his finger—but a sweetheart or a lover. Whoever she was, she had been waiting, Emily hoped, prepared to sacrifice her own life to nurse him back to health. It would take a woman with great compassion, a woman unafraid of hard work, and a woman of faith to meet the challenge. Hoping this unknown woman was worthy of a man like Stani Moss, she said a little prayer. Even if she hadn't possessed all the needed skills, Emily prayed that God would see to it she did her job well.

She poked at the fire, encouraging the last of the embers to flame. As she did, Marjorie came to rub against her knee, purring loudly.

"So, you've decided to be friends now? You know, I have a nice warm bed upstairs if you'd like to share." She gathered the cat onto her lap, smoothing the silky fur. Comforting, she thought, the simplest contact between living things could be amazingly comforting. A word, or just a touch, could move aside sadness at least for a little while. As if the cat shared her sentiments, she rubbed against Emily's hand, closing her eyes in contentment.

When she finally went up to her room, Marjorie followed, leaping onto the bed and settling at the foot to take her evening bath. As Emily snuggled between the cold sheets, she thought again of Stani Moss, hoping he had found comfort and encouragement as he recovered. It made all the difference having someone, be it friends or lovers, close by to lend support. Someone to call in the middle of the night, someone to come when asked, and most of all someone who cared enough, no matter what was needed, to do their best for you. She had been so blessed in that regard, with her parents, with Jack and Angela, and countless others. Did he have those people in his life, who loved him unconditionally and accepted him as he was? She'd never know, but she would pray for them anyway. Somehow she felt Stani still needed all the help he could find if he were ever going to make that amazing comeback she had imagined.

### Chapter Twenty-six

Stani began to work harder, demanding that the therapists increase his exercise regimen. He and John Kimble took long walks outside in the cold winter air, usually at night to avoid prying eyes. He asked that his violin be placed within easy reach, holding it in his hands for hours, tucking it against his shoulder and sitting with eyes closed, listening to the music in his head.

His memory began to return, bit by bit. He remembered leaving Washington with Betsy. He was finally told that Betsy and Mark Stevenson had died in the accident. But he had no recollection of the party at the lodge, or of ever meeting Mark. When he asked about the aftermath of the accident, he was told he'd wandered away from the scene and been taken in by a woman who lived nearby until help arrived. Stani seemed to store the information away, as if it were too much to absorb. As he focused on regaining the use of his arm, it became less and less important for him to understand how he had been injured. All of his energy was channeled toward once again playing the violin. Nothing else mattered until he achieved that goal.

The day after his twenty-second birthday, Peg brought her hairdresser to the apartment. When Stani's hair had once again been cut in what had become his signature style, she chose black jeans and his favorite charcoal V-neck sweater and helped him dress.

"We're going to lunch," she explained to the hovering John Kimble. "There's a wonderful place near the harbor where they do the most spectacular things with oysters." The three of them went together across town to the little restaurant overlooking the water. They shared a platter of oysters baked on the half shell, nestled around a bed of savory Cajun rice. Seated at a private table near a huge window, Stani ate and talked and even laughed, giving the impression he had nothing to do but enjoy the beautiful spring day with his two good friends.

When they were preparing to leave, John said he believed, if they didn't mind returning without him, he would take advantage of the day and see a bit of New York. He'd been otherwise occupied for the past couple of months, he reminded Stani with a wink.

They drove through the park, making the trip to Peg's townhouse as leisurely as possible. Once there, she showed Stani several pieces of art she'd recently acquired, sent over from a dealer in Ireland. They strolled in the garden at the rear of the house, sitting finally in the chairs beside the little fountain, chatting as if they'd just met after being apart for a time, ignoring the three months they'd spent engaged in the battle for his recovery. As the sun began to set, she led him to her bedroom and made love to him.

### ****

When John left the restaurant and began to wander aimlessly, he knew he was going against orders. Stani was never to leave his sight outside the apartment. But he felt certain the boy would be safe with Peg Shannon, at least safe from everyone but Peg herself. At first he'd wondered about this woman, so patrician and yet so down to earth. By the time John had returned from Virginia with the little information he could gather for Milo, Peg was already established in Stani's hospital room. He understood the two had been friends since before Stani's first tour, that she had in fact raised the money to launch his solo career. But John suspected there was much more to the story, and he'd watched her closely those first few days.

Peg, more so than Jana, was insistent on providing Stani with hands-on care. While Jana seemed intimidated by his condition, almost afraid to touch him, Peg was eager to help the nurses care for him while he remained unconscious. She assisted them with turning and bathing him, helped to change his bedding. She kept a constant watch on the various tubes that fed him and carried the bloody drainage from his shoulder.

John had been at his post in the hallway outside Stani's room that night, heard the chilling scream, and rushed in to find Peg attempting to reassure the boy as he stared in horror at his bandaged shoulder. Together, he and Peg had held Stani until the sedative could take effect. Though clearly shaken, Peg had returned to her chair next to the bed, her hand resting comfortingly on Stani's arm as he drifted back into unconsciousness.

Once Stani returned to the apartment, John left his hotel to take up permanent residence in the guest room there. Peg came every day, ostensibly to help Jana, but in fact working alongside the therapists, encouraging Stani as he struggled to regain the use of his arm and hand. As John helped Stani bathe, shave and dress, Peg was ever-present, choosing his clothes and brushing his hair. She was possessive of Stani, John recognized, unwilling to leave him to anyone else's care for long.

Gradually, Jana began to go out more, resuming her life, content to let Stani remain with Peg. John sensed the lad was uncomfortable with so many hovering over him and took to retiring to his room after lunch, leaving Peg to sit with Stani, reading to him or merely watching the boy as he retreated to whatever dark place he so often seemed to go.

The afternoon he woke from his doze to hear music coming from the stereo, he'd almost rushed in to interrupt. Milo had stated clearly that music was to be avoided until Stani himself asked for it. John had stood in his partially open doorway and watched as Stani listened to his own recording. He heard him explain to Peg how he needed to hear what he was working so hard to recapture. For the first time John acknowledged his own fears for the boy. If indeed the injury should end his career, what kind of life did he have to look forward to?

But Stani had worked harder and begun to make progress after that day. He seemed to take charge of his therapy, finding the methods best suited to his temperament. He insisted on taking long walks, though he still had difficulty maintaining his balance. John walked with him, arm in arm, and Stani even joked that he could have used John around many nights when he'd enjoyed too much fine Scotch. They had laughed at the shared knowledge of the effects of good aged whisky.

John had gotten a pretty clear picture from his investigation of the kind of crowd Stani had been running with at the time of the accident. It seemed to him Stani was out of his depth with the likes of Mark Stevenson. He'd noted that while the hospital room was filled with flowers and cards, and there were visits from older friends, conductors and musicians who had known Stani since his youth, virtually no one of his own generation came to see him. There might have been hangers-on, people who sought his company for the sake of publicity; but John suspected there had been few if any real friendships. Now Stani was once again almost exclusively in the company of Milo and Jana, as he had been when John had first known him all those years ago in London. It wasn't normal, he knew, for a young man to be so isolated, but perhaps it was best for someone like Stani. Besides, now Stani had Peg Shannon as his friend and champion.

As he wandered through the park, enjoying the warm April afternoon, John thought he might like to stay on in New York. Of course, his work with Stani was far from over. It would be months yet before the lad was ready to go out on his own. But maybe he could find other work here. At forty-eight, he was still young enough to chafe at the idea of permanent retirement. The work in London had been a bit thin in recent years. New York was full of possibilities. He filed away the idea for a time when Milo might no longer want someone to watch over Stani's every move.

John smiled to himself as he thought of Peg Shannon, the way she had spirited Stani away from the restaurant. He had a pretty good idea of the nature of their relationship, though he couldn't be sure of course. But if things were as he suspected between the two of them, he was almost envious of Stani. A woman like Peg Shannon was most probably a formidable partner. He shook his head at the memory of that little red-haired boy he'd first come to know. Young Stani had indeed done well for himself in winning the affection of such a force as Peg Shannon.

### ****

Stani told her their lovemaking had been something like rebirth for him. He felt, at least in part, like himself again. He accepted the fact that there were months of hard work ahead before he could be sure he would play again. But he now knew he would not stop trying until all efforts had been exhausted. He had worked hard all those years growing up, intent on achieving success. He was not about to let it all go without giving it the fight of his life.

Gradually, as his recovery progressed, Peg realized something had changed between them; something subtle, but there was a difference in Stani. He was still warm and polite, but he never seemed to find time to be alone with her, to come to her as he had in the past. She attributed it to the intense focus he placed on his recovery, his fierce pursuit of regaining his former skill. He spent hours now with Jana, practicing with his violin. He worked his body hard, not just in therapy, but running in the park and lifting weights, almost to the point of punishing himself. He was somehow putting a space between them, changing himself into someone she didn't quite recognize.

At the same time, she knew she loved him even more, admired his new strength and maturity. She would wait until he had healed and found his way back into his career. Then she was sure they could resume their old comfortable relationship. She'd almost lost him after he returned from touring. The accident had ironically brought them together again. He would come back, she was certain. Why wouldn't he? He knew there was no obligation, only the special kind of pleasure they had always shared. She knew him so well, understood him in ways no one else did. He would be back once he knew his career was no longer in jeopardy, and she would be there. For Stani, she could wait.

### Chapter Twenty-seven

At the end of the spring term, Emily packed to go back to the valley for good. She would have the summer to relax and enjoy just being at home before the next phase of her education began. She needed that time to sort her life and lay her plans before the two full years of nurses' training ahead.

The prospect of separation from Penny was troublesome. Her friend was still struggling with her loss, trying to adjust to a future so different from that she had dreamed of. It was hardest, Penny said, to just get used to the idea that Frankie was never coming back, that they would never stand up in church together, or furnish their first home as they had planned. For Emily, the changes in Penny—the absence of that spark so often turned to fire and the laugh that had echoed in their tiny room—were much like the death of a loved one. She grieved silently, even as she tried to support this new Penny in their final weeks together.

They promised to write often and see each other whenever possible in spite of their very different and busy schedules. They would still need each other's encouragement, no matter the distance.

"I know you'll make a fabulous nurse. You've already saved at least one life. And even if we don't see each other often, I know we'll always be long-distance best friends." There seemed to be tears in Penny eyes so frequently now, but at their final good-bye they both wept unashamedly.

Before Emily had time to unpack her things, the call came from the nursing home. Her father had suffered another stroke and was in a coma. Jack drove her through a rain-drenched night, and he and Angela stayed with her until her father died two days later.

Emily had tried to tell him about the plans she'd made for her future. She liked to think he had understood and given her his blessing. She took comfort in knowing he was no longer held captive so far from everything he'd loved and she often thought she sensed his presence as she worked around the farm that summer. More than ever, she believed she'd done the right thing, the thing he had encouraged her to do. There had been signs, even miracles, all pointing clearly to the future she knew her parents would have wanted for her, the future she now wanted more than anything for herself.

### ****

With the passing of J.D. Haynes and Emily's return to the farm, the little community in the valley came out in force to welcome and support her in ways she could never have anticipated. Like most children, she had considered the adults in the neighborhood to be her parents' friends. Her own friends, mostly her classmates from school, were away now getting their educations or beginning careers, some already married. But to her amazement, everyone, from the shopkeepers in town to the neighboring farmers around the valley, made certain she knew she was one of them. Just as they had little more than twenty years before when J.D. and Lilianne had moved in, they came to visit, bringing food or offers of help with the farm. While Jack and the McConnells were the closest thing she had to family and she'd always known she could count on their support, she now realized she need never have felt so alone. She was part of a tightly knit community where everyone watched out for the young and the old, as they did their own families.

Emily spent much of the summer making subtle changes to the house, in hopes it would cease to be such a profound reminder of her parents' absence. Not wanting to spend money on new furnishings, she rearranged the bedrooms, moving pieces from one to the other. Her own room she furnished with things from all over the house, creating a retreat where she could read and relax while looking out the big dormers at the trees and fields beyond. She dragged her father's worn leather easy chair up the stairs and placed it by the window overlooking the barn. The desk from his little office she tucked in the front dormer where she could gaze through the branches of the oaks to the view of the hills beyond the gate. She exchanged her white spindle bed for her parents' cherry four-poster and placed a steamer trunk from the landing at one side to act as a night table. By replacing her pastel-checked curtains and bedding with the dark blue taffeta drapes from her parents' room and spreading a brilliantly hued velvet quilt on her bed, she forever banished the "lollipop shop" her father had teasingly named her childhood space.

Hard work, as always, proved to be a tonic for Emily, yet another gift her father had given her, she realized, the satisfaction of a job well done. Most days, she was busy from early morning until nightfall, taking the occasional afternoon trip into town as her only form of recreation. She invited Jack to dinner every Friday night, and they went to church together each Sunday. She kept a regular weekly lunch date with Sara McConnell and spent time with Pastor Mike doing little jobs in the church office for him. For the week of Vacation Bible School, she was surprised to find Sara had put her in charge of the children's music, explaining that after her experience in high-school and youth choirs, she was the perfect person to teach the little ones to sing.

"But I can't play, not well enough to accompany them," she protested.

"Nonsense, dear. They're just simple tunes, ones you already know, for the most part. You'll do fine." Sara, already fully engaged with the business of this annual event, was not to be swayed by Emily's stage fright.

She opened up her mother's piano, trying to tell herself that what she'd been taught would come back to her. After a moment of tearful prayer over the keyboard, she began in earnest, practicing for hours and to her surprise discovering she could indeed provide at least adequate if not exactly inspired accompaniment for her young charges.

Following the Sunday morning program, when the children demonstrated all they'd learned during the week, she was proud of their performance. And to her amazement, she found she hadn't been at all afraid to sit down at the piano and play and sing with them. No one seemed in the least surprised by her newly revealed talent, and Pastor Mike commented she might consider relieving the regular organist occasionally. She assured him in no uncertain terms that was not even a remote possibility.

Still, she admitted to a sense of accomplishment and hoped somehow her mother knew. Her lack of musical talent had been a disappointment to her gifted parents, and her mother in particular had been frustrated by Emily's lack of interest in what was the driving passion of her own life. While she would never consider herself a musician, she could at least contribute in some small way by teaching the children to "make a joyful noise."

Her days were full and never lonely. Neighbors stopped by unannounced, just to visit or bring something from their kitchens or gardens. She knew they were checking on her, making sure she was not too much alone. It touched her to know they were concerned, and at the same time she believed they respected her independence.

Emily was content to work around the house and the yard, knowing in the next two years she would rarely have more than a day or two at a time to spend at home. She replanted the flower beds around the yard, giving her mother's prized roses special attention. She took long walks over the fields she hoped one day to return to productivity. Tramping up and down the worn furrows of her father's garden, she made her plans, determined to be as successful as he had been. Jack teased her that she would soon turn into a weathered old maid in patched overalls. But she was not to be discouraged. This little plot of land was hers she told him firmly, and she intended to make it earn its keep. The rhythm of life in this quiet place made sense to her, kept her grounded and calm, in spite of her sometimes turbulent moods. They were a perfect pairing, she decided, the constancy of nature and the ebb and flow of her emotions. They would have a fine life together, she and her farm.

For all the changes she made to her home that summer, for all the careful plans she laid for her future, she had to accept that she hadn't yet been able to alter her feelings around her encounter with Stani Moss. Try as she might to think otherwise, she continued to feel they were somehow bound together by those few shared hours. She considered the days of her homecoming a time of miracles. First her own realization that she could return home and then the miracle of Stani's survival seemed to set those days apart. She had experienced a tidal wave of emotions, from ecstasy to despair, and ended in a place of such peace and confidence. It had been an intensely spiritual time for her, and Stani Moss would forever be present in that time.

It didn't help matters that he was such a public figure. Even if she'd been able to forget him lying in the snow or by the fireside, his name and face were forever being thrust into her consciousness. They lived in the same world and he was a celebrity. She could not hope to avoid him. She would have to learn to guard her emotions. The fact that the mention of his name still caused an odd, unfamiliar warmth to rise within her would have to remain her secret. She schooled herself to ignore the all too vivid image of his face when his recordings sounded over the radio in the kitchen, knowing only too well she had failed miserably.

Late in the summer, when Jack arrived for dinner bearing a copy of one of the big, glossy pictorial magazines, she found herself put to the ultimate test. He held up the cover for her to see, just as she was setting a platter of steaming pasta on the kitchen table. There, in full color, was the gently smiling face, nestled against the glowing wood of a violin, the brown eyes gazing intently into the camera lens. The caption across his dark sweater read, "Stani's Miraculous Return."

Jack watched as the deep red blush crept up her cheeks and her lips parted in a silent gasp. "I thought you might like to see this," he said softly, embarrassed at the emotions revealed in her face.

Carefully placing the platter on the table, Emily took the magazine from his hands, and to his surprise, carried it into the front room. She returned a moment later, taking her place calmly at the table.

"Aren't you even going to look at it, Em?"

"Later. Thanks for bringing it. That's just what I'd been hoping for." He could see that she was not about to go into the subject further. Instead, she turned the conversation to the problem she'd been having with the water pump, asking who she should call to find out the cost of a new one.

Before he left her that night, Jack asked her directly how she felt now about saving that boy's life.

"I didn't save his life, Jack. I was just in the right place to help him get to someone who could. I told you then I didn't want to take any credit for what was clearly an act of God. I'm just relieved to know he's all right. It would have been tragic for him if he could never make music again." Even Emily didn't sound quite convinced by her reply. But Jack knew for certain there was more going on behind those intense gray eyes.

### ****

When Jack had gone, she spent what seemed hours staring at the pictures and reading the article. Stani was shown practicing his violin with a petite, middle-aged lady at the piano who was named as Jana Scheider, his adopted mother. Did that mean Milo Scheider was actually his father? Other photos showed him working with therapists on equipment that had been moved into the Manhattan apartment following his surgery. In the background was a tall, pretty woman who seemed to be encouraging him with a smile. His sweetheart, or just a friend? She seemed too old for a lover, but then again, the look on her face suggested more than friendship. In the picture of him talking about his recovery with the interviewer, his expression was so intensely expressive, his right hand gripping his left shoulder as he recalled the injury. At the table beside him sat a very dignified older man, who appeared to be watching him closely. Milo Scheider, named as Stani's manager, wore an expression that Emily thought seemed fiercely protective.

What she could not avoid thinking was how beautiful he was. She remembered his face when she'd cleaned away the blood. She had thought so then, but now she was amazed by what these pictures revealed. It was not only his features, but the depth of his eyes and the strength of his jaw, together with his extraordinary coloring, that made his the sort of face a woman would want to touch.

She pulled herself up sharply. What was happening to her? Had she become obsessed with a face in a photograph? She carefully closed the magazine and placed it in the drawer of the table by the window. Bad enough she still had dreams of his eyes gazing up at her, his palm laid against her cheek, she was not about to let herself sit around fantasizing over pictures of a man she would never meet again. Surely she was too sensible to indulge in such ridiculous daydreams when her life was so full now of what she wanted most.

She went out the front door, walked deliberately across the yard to the fence and turned to look back at the house. The night was clear, with only a sliver of a moon. The windows of her home were glowing with lamplight. She could see the familiar furnishings through the open draperies. This was what she had longed for. Home. A place where she could be her best self, live her best life. She breathed deeply of the warm night air, heavy with the scents of waning summer. Whatever meaning she might attach to the time she'd spent watching over an injured stranger, it had nothing to do with the life she'd promised herself here. Was she imagining herself in love with him because she had no one else with whom to share that life? Surely she was too much of a realist to waste time on such fantasy.

She gave herself a stern lecture, leaning on the wooden fence rail, gazing at the house outlined against the night sky. There would be other times when she would be reminded of Stani Moss, other pictures, music over the radio, news of his successes. But to go into an emotional tailspin at the sight of his face on a magazine cover was doing herself a disservice. She would do better, she promised, at burying her memories, or at least hiding her feelings. It would never do to let anyone see how attached she'd become to what amounted to a ghost. She went back into the house, determined to put Stani Moss out of her mind, at least until the next time someone mentioned his name or thrust his picture in her face without warning.

### Chapter Twenty-eight

James McConnell was home, and Jack suggested she ask him to act as a caretaker for the farm while she was at school. He had taken a part-time job at the hardware store in town and Jack was finding odd jobs for him to do, trying to help him get out in the community more. James, once outgoing and ambitious, seemed to lack the motivation to get on with his life. He was quiet, often brooding, and no one seemed able to draw him out of himself. When Emily invited him to come out and look over the work to be done, she was shocked at how gaunt and hollow-eyed he'd become. But he still had a grin for her, and they talked at length about her plans for the farm and her career as a nurse.

"You're a brave girl, Em, but then you always were. You never backed down, no matter what came at you. How come no guy's been able to get your attention? I'm sure some have tried."

"Not interested. No likely candidates anyway. Who'd want to come back here and work the garden with me? What about you, no one special?" She recalled there had been a girlfriend when James first went into the army.

"No one, period. I've got to find myself first. I seem to have gotten off track, don't know what I want to do now. I thought about the Peace Corps, and I might still try that. Meantime, there's enough to do around here. Sheriff Deem lets me know if folks need help, you know, older folks who can't manage like they used to. I like that kind of work, outdoors, on my own."

"I know what you mean. There's nothing like working the land, just being out in the sun and the wind. I've always loved it. It's healing, James. You'll find yourself out here, I know. Just keep believing."

He stared off beyond the fields, as if watching for something. "That's tough sometimes. Where is God in the hard places, when people are hurting each other for no good reason? When you see men die, or worse, and no one back here seems to notice, you start to wonder if God's on vacation, or just gone off in disgust. I know my dad would hate me saying that, but I have to figure it out for myself. You still believe, like you used to, that God is with you every step of the way?" They had talked for hours on end, that year when Emily lived in the parsonage and James was going off to war, but she was amazed he remembered her theology after so long.

"Yes, I do. I never doubt it. He's done so much to prove it to me, James. I know you've seen things most of us will never have to, but God hasn't let you down. Maybe some people have, but not God. I think sometimes he's very quiet, waiting until we're ready to listen to him. Sometimes when I pray, he leaves me to figure out the answer on my own. But he's there, even in the hard places. Especially in the hard places."

He smiled, just the slightest acknowledgment. "I'll remember that, next time I wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night. You're good to talk to, Em. Calm. Thanks. And don't worry about your farm, I'll take good care of things for you. I know you'd never forgive me if I didn't."

With a wave of her hand, she indicated he should follow her to the barn. "There's one more thing I need you to take care of, or two, actually." Turning, she sang out, "Cliff! Cat! Here kitties! There someone I want you to meet."

From the empty stall overlooking the paddock, first one and then another gray tabby kitten leapt over the half-open door. When they caught sight of the tall, dark haired stranger, they paused and one arched its back, puffing its tail warily.

"Oh, don't be so silly, Cliff. This is James and if you behave yourself, he'll see that you get a nice meal every day or two." Emily bent down and scooped up the other kitten. "This is Cat, Catherine actually, and that rude young man there is Heathcliff. They're five months old and I hope they're well enough settled here to stay around if there's food. Jack thinks to feed them every two or three days will be enough. They're supposed to be keeping away the mice, so he says we shouldn't keep them too well-fed. But I'll warn you, they probably prefer milk and tuna to mouse-meat. I've spoiled them, I know, but aren't they sweet?"

James scratched the kitten under its chin, rewarded with a loud purr for his effort. "Cats. He didn't tell me there'd be cats in the bargain. I like cats, always have. They don't expect much, other than food, and they take care of themselves. Come here, vicious." He held out a hand to the still cautious Heathcliff, then gently lifted him by the scruff of his neck. "We'll do fine, won't we, Cliff? Although why your mistress here thought you looked like a brooding romantic hero, I've no idea."

Emily laughed. "I had to name them something. I'm relieved to hear you like cats, though. I hated to think they'd go unloved while I'm away."

"Don't worry. They'll give me something to think about besides myself. Funny, how you can start out believing you're doing this noble thing and end up knowing you just hurt a lot of people. It's easy to beat up on myself, I guess. But I know I have to stop sometime. Helping other people," he paused to look down at the kitten, now curled against his chest, "or other things, I guess, does seem to help."

Emily thought about what James had said, as she sat eating her dinner, watching the sun begin its slow descent behind the hills. In the midst of his suffering, he was reaching out to help others, and drawing comfort from this peaceful place. Perhaps her unforeseen venture into nursing would help her move past this feeling of having lost something she'd never really had. Maybe taking care of lots of patients would blur the memory of that first one, although she reserved the right to consider him more than just a patient. He had been part of a miracle, even if she couldn't understand just what part he'd played. Time, she reminded herself, would bring things into better perspective, just as for James time would help bring his future into focus. They had time, each of them, even though as they'd talked today she had felt they were two old souls, who had already seen more of life than they might have wished.

### Chapter Twenty-nine

The best thing about being at the University, other than the fact that she loved the rigorous pace of nurse's training, was being near Salvatore's Ristorante. Not only did she benefit from endless free meals, but after some gentle persuasion she was allowed in the kitchen. Emily had been cooking since before she could reach the kitchen counter tops, and already had a wide knowledge and appreciation of food. But now, she told Sal, she could learn at the side of a master; and she proved herself an apt pupil. Before long, she was given her own white jacket; and whenever her schedule allowed, she was considered part of the staff.

Her particular interest was pastry; and she found an excellent teacher in Joey, who'd been to New York briefly to study with his uncle, the head pastry chef of a big hotel restaurant. Joey was a carbon copy of his short, broad father but with a much mellower disposition. Always friends, now Emily and Joey were united in the joy of mixing and kneading dough, crafting pastries that both looked and tasted like works of genius. As they worked side by side, savoring the heavenly scents filling the air around the big brick oven, they laughed and joked, or at times talked seriously of the things that concerned them both, gaining and maintaining their independence. Joey fully understood Emily's desire to be self-sustaining. While he appreciated the value of his position in his father's business, he longed to be out on his own, another generation of Salvatore's, somewhere far away from his volatile parent.

Being so much in the company of her godmother's family, Emily found their habitual wrangling no longer disturbed her. Instead she learned to laugh at and with them, even occasionally joining in the never-ending debate. Here was a passion so unlike anything she'd known with her own family, yet she understood that the love and respect they shared was deep and binding.

While Lil was still away at school, when she could get home on the weekend she often joined Emily in her tiny studio apartment, where she said the quiet was like a soothing symphony of silence. Emily resisted the urge to point out that Lil contributed as much noise as anyone else at home. She loved Lil, loved her quirky outlook on life and the way she found something exciting in everything she did. They became shopping partners, plotting their sweep through the shops and coming home to triumphantly display their bargain hunting bounty. They laughingly played along with clerks who mistook them for sisters and suggested they could share their clothes. While both were dark haired and slim, Emily was almost five inches taller than the tiny Lil, with eyes as pale as Lil's were dark. They were a striking pair, laughing and talking vivaciously together; and more than once they were approached by boys who were lured by the prospects of two such attractive conquests. In a matter of minutes, the girls had cast them off with a double blast of icy disdain. Lil was no more interested in a relationship with a man than Emily, although her reasons differed slightly. For Lil, only a musician whose talent equaled or exceeded her own would be considered worth her time. Emily joked that before a boy asked her for a date, he would have to audition.

It was after one of their marathon shopping excursions, near Thanksgiving, that they stopped in at Angela's before heading out to a movie. While Lil stowed her day's purchases, Emily browsed along the shelves of record albums lining one wall of her bedroom.

"You must spend a fortune on music, Lil." She ran her finger along the rows of record jackets, calculating the value of such an impressive collection.

"Feel free to borrow. I hardly have time to listen." Lil turned to see Emily staring at a small framed square on the wall above the shelf. "Oh, I never told you about that, did I?" In typical breathless fashion, she launched into her story. "It was the most amazing thing ever. I was home from school last Christmas and Dad dragged me along to help with this awful party. So I'm watching all these people making absolute idiots of themselves, and who do I see standing over against one wall, but Stani Moss. The Stani Moss! You know who I mean, the violinist. I couldn't believe my eyes at first. So I took some food and went over to talk to him. He's really very ordinary once you get past how gorgeous he looks. I mean he's not the least bit snobbish or intimidating. Anyway, we talked for a while and then I got his autograph. He even said he liked my name, and I told him I was named for your mom. You know he was in some kind of accident that same night? I guess I was one of the last people he talked to before he left the party. Anyway, he's okay now. I have his new recording. We've got time to listen before the movie if you want to. It's not quite as good as his Mendelssohn, but it's still amazing." Going to the shelf, Lil started to pull out the record. It was then she realized Emily seemed to be holding her breath. "Em, do you want to listen to it?"

But Emily could no longer hear over the roaring in her ears. She thought she might be about to faint for the first time in her life. Right before her eyes, written neatly in slightly blurred ink on a crumpled napkin, were the words "For Lilianne, All my best, Stani Moss." The napkin had been pressed between two sheets of glass, framed by a simple wooden square. Emily struggled to make sense of what Lil had been saying. She had met Stani the night before the accident, talked to him, told him her name, Emily's mother's name? How could it be possible they had both met Stani, Lil before and Emily after his accident? What were the odds against such a coincidence? She shook her head slowly in an attempt to clear her mind. She didn't believe in coincidence, did she?

As Lil eased the record from the shelf, Emily began to back away, moving blindly toward the door. There wasn't enough air in the room for the two of them she was sure. Lil was about to hold the record up for her to see the cover. Turning, she raced from the bedroom, making straight for the front door. Angela was just coming from the kitchen; Emily caught a glimpse of her stunned face, heard herself mutter something about a forgotten appointment as she pushed her way outside. With her heart pounding, she stopped at the porch railing, gasping for air. What had just happened? How could she have lost control like that? What must they think of her, tearing out of the house that way?

She felt a hand gently rest on her shoulder and turning around, fell into Angela's outstretched arms, for the first time aware of the tears flowing down her face. As Angela led her back into the foyer, they almost collided with Lil.

"I'm so sorry, Mom! What did I do?" She stared at Emily in mystified horror.

"It's all right, Lil. Just give me some time to talk with Emily, please." Angela's tone gave no indication she'd noticed the girl beside her was near hysterics.

Lil looked for a moment as if she might argue, then turned back into her room, softly closing the door behind her.

Leading Emily into the kitchen, Angela urged her into a chair and drew a glass of water from the tap. "Here, Em, drink this." She seated herself at the table, folding her hands and waiting.

Struggling for composure, Emily gasped, "I'm so sorry! I don't know what's wrong with me!" She sipped the water, wiping at her eyes with the back of her free hand.

"I assume you saw Lil's little treasure?"

With the threat of renewed sobs, Emily nodded.

"Emily, I want you to listen to me, dear. There are a couple of things you should understand. First, I know what happened last Christmas. Jack told me. I know what you did for Stani Moss. I apologize for not warning you about the autograph, but frankly I wanted to see how you might react to it. The second thing you need to know is that Jack and I are concerned you've been trying to deal with more of a load than anyone your age could be expected to carry alone." Emily shook her head, about to protest, but Angela went on. "I know you're strong, but I also know how much has happened in your life in the past few years. First your mother, then your father, having to leave home and not knowing what was going to happen next. I blame myself for letting you go to Florida that first summer. I should have taken you here with me in the beginning. But Marcy is family and I didn't want to intrude." Emily began to sob again in earnest and Angela realized she was probably being a bit ruthless.. But then again, it might be best to get it all out at once. Emily had been storing too much away for too long. "As for Stani Moss, Jack is worried you may have fallen in love with him."

Emily shook her head, violently this time. "No! You can't fall in love with someone you don't even know!"

"Maybe not," Angela paused, handing Emily a napkin to wipe her streaming eyes. "But your mother did. Do you remember the story of how your parents met?" A venerable story-teller, Angela now had Emily's attention, and she went on gently. "It was at graduation. A group of us from the conservatory had gone together. J.D. was seated on stage with the other faculty and Lilianne said she thought immediately how handsome he was, so distinguished in his robes. Then she noticed the cuff of his trousers was torn and his shoes were caked with mud. She said she made up her mind right then she would have to marry him." She laughed softly, remembering her own reaction to her friend's announcement. "J.D. said, once they'd actually met of course, that he was no match for such a force of nature, so he had no choice but to let her sweep him off his feet."

Emily had stopped crying, caught up in her parent's love story. Angela took her hand across the table. "Maybe you don't fall in love until you've known someone for at least a little while, but I believe you can fall in love with the idea of someone. Especially when you're watching them draw every breath for hours on end." Tears welled again and Emily's chin trembled. "That's how it was? You sat there all night, watching over him, afraid he might die at any moment?" Angela stood and took Emily in her arms, hugging her close. "You saved his life, Em. Of course you feel some attachment to him. What makes you think there's anything wrong with that?"

"But I didn't! I didn't save his life. He just wasn't supposed to die that night. All I did was keep him safe for a little while. I believe with all my heart God meant for him to live. I just don't understand why I had to be the one to help him. I promised myself I'd let him go, but everywhere I look he's there." Her tears spent, she sighed wearily.

"You've always had such strong faith, since you were just a little girl. But faith doesn't make us superhuman, dear. Quite the opposite. Faith acknowledges that we need something greater, outside ourselves. Don't deny yourself the right to grieve, Em. Not for your parents and not for Stani. Take advantage of the comfort that comes from your faith." She looked pointedly into Emily's eyes. "And from the people who love you."

Returning to her chair, Angela studied the tear-ravaged face opposite. "You look so much like your father, I'm afraid we overlook the possibility that you're more like your mother on the inside. Behind that beautiful, calm smile, she was a woman of enormous passion. Like quicksilver, one minute in the clouds, the next in the doldrums. It made her a great musician; but as her friend, I admit I had trouble keeping up at times. I suspect the same may be true of you, very high and then again very low?"

A slow, sad smile appeared. "I try hard to be practical, like Pop. He taught me so much that's worth knowing. But I get caught in my own whirlwind at times. Do you think I'll ever learn to just take things in stride?"

"You already do. But don't try to take so much in one stride. Give yourself a chance to be human. You're only twenty years old, Emily. You should expect a little whirlwind now and then. And promise me you won't try to handle it all alone?"

"I promise." She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and smoothed her hair from her face, squaring her shoulders. "Now, shouldn't we explain things to Lil? I'm sure she thinks I've lost my mind."

Mentally shaking her head, Angela smiled at the swiftness of Emily's recovery. "Let me talk to her first. I'm afraid she can be something of a whirlwind herself."

In a matter of minutes, Angela returned with Lil, whose wide eyes searched Emily's face as if seeing her for the first time. "I'm so sorry, Em. If I'd known, I would never have gone on like that. I just can't believe it was you who found him. You must have been scared to death!"

"Pretty scared. But Lil, there's something I want to know. What did you and Stani Moss talk about that night at the party?"

"Not much really. Music a little. Mostly we just stood there watching the crowd. Then when I got ready to leave, after he gave me his autograph, he told me he'd be on the radio on Christmas Eve. Told me to be sure to listen." Lil seemed to hesitate, a thoughtful frown on her face. "Then something kind of weird happened, at least weird for me. I shook his hand. And then I don't know why, but I said 'Take care of yourself, Stani Moss.' Then even weirder, in a place like that, I said 'God bless you' and I wished him a Merry Christmas."

Emily was smiling, a look of satisfaction in her eyes. "Thanks, Lil."

"But you spent all that time with him. I was only with him for maybe an hour."

"You talked to him, Lil. I never even heard him speak really. You know him much better than I ever will. I think you did something very important for him. I bet he'll never forget meeting you that night."

"Have you heard from him, a thank you or anything?"

"No, not from him. Just a letter from his manager, right after it happened. I'm sure I won't hear from him. He doesn't know anything about me. I'm just glad to know he's recovered." For a moment Emily seemed to be remembering. "Now if we're going to make that movie, we'd better hurry. And I want the biggest popcorn they have. I'm starving!"

### ****

Later that night, Emily checked in at the restaurant. Saturday was buffet night, but she was hungry and not much in the mood to be alone. She found Joey in the kitchen, supervising the trays of pasta and pizza as the wait staff kept up the flow to the big buffet in the dining room. At the sight of her, his face became suddenly redder than usual.

"Emily, you don't have to work tonight. You should just get some rest."

She was staring into the vast refrigerator. Taking a carrot, she went to the sink. "I'm fine, Joey. I swear, I think you Salvatores are telepathic. Don't tell me your mother made a special trip down here to warn you I might fall to pieces on the job tonight?" As she washed her carrot, she looked over her shoulder and grinned.

"She's out there, hostessing. She didn't say that exactly, just that we should treat you with a little extra TLC." He was busily twisting dough, laying out a pan of bread sticks. "Just sit. I'll fix you whatever you want to eat."

Climbing on a bar stool, she leaned an elbow on the steel counter, munching the end of the carrot. "Okay, I want a huge antipasto and half of those bread sticks when they're done."

Joey grinned, slamming the oven door. "That's what I like, a girl with a healthy appetite. So are you okay? Lil said you had some kind of meltdown. Something about that violin player she met last Christmas." He began to pull things from the refrigerator, working with his usual meticulous ease.

"I'm fine. You don't need to worry. I was just surprised to learn Lil had met him. See, I met him the next day."

"Mom said you saved his life."

Emily rolled her eyes. "You guys don't waste time, do you? I didn't really save his life. I just got him out of the storm. And that's enough talk about that. Were you at the party that night?"

"Yeah, I saw him, if it's the same guy Lil was talking to. I didn't think he was anything too special. Looked like some rich kid, fancy clothes, long hair. Not even very tall."

In spite of herself, Emily grinned. Joey was sensitive about his own lack of height, and she always felt uncomfortably tall in his presence. "I see. Well, I'm sure we won't be seeing him again. It was just an amazing thing that both of us met him. Small world, I guess."

"There you go, madam. Your bread will be out of the oven in just a minute." He set the platter in front of her, dribbling oil and vinegar over the whole with a skillful sweep of his hands. "You know, Emily, there are lots of guys out there who'd give their right arms for a girl like you. You'll see, you'll forget all about this violin player when a real man comes along."

"But that's just it, Joey. I don't need a man, real or not. I have my life all mapped out. My farm, my house and me. As soon as I'm through training, I'll be all set. Why can't everyone understand that I'm happy by myself? And why can't they stop worrying about me?" She stuffed a big forkful in her mouth.

"Because you're so special to us, Em. We need to fuss over you. At least some of us do." He set a basket of bread sticks next to her plate. "It's all we can do for you." The look in his eyes, which were level with hers as he stood beside her stool, said much more.

"Thanks, Joey. You're the best god-brother a girl could have."

He flinched. "At least no other guy'll ever have that title. But seriously, if you ever need anything, I'm your man. And I'd be happy to trade in that title if you decide you might like to try a short, very talented Italian chef. At least you'd never go hungry." Picking up a bread stick, he bit off one end.

"I'll remember. Now what's on the dessert menu tonight?"

### Chapter Thirty

For the better part of her nurse's training, Emily was busy and content. She found nursing to be an easy fit once she got past the inevitable grief of losing her first patient. She discovered she especially enjoyed working in the emergency room, where every second mattered and she had to rely on her instincts as well as her knowledge. During the months she spent at the University hospital, studying and training, she made friends with nurses and doctors who encouraged her to join the ER staff full time after graduation. It was tempting; she loved the hard work and being part of a team.

But she never lost sight of the need to find work closer to the farm; a job which would allow her to schedule her time so that eventually she could restart the garden and work around the growing season. She was single-minded in her determination to make the farm pay for itself and to prove she could make a successful reality of her dream.

Emily spent hours calculating what it would take to support herself and run the garden. She read books on truck farming the way other people read novels, investigated new methods of irrigation and fertilization, studied seed catalogs as if they were textbooks. When she could get home for a few days, she visited with her neighbors, talking with other farmers to get advice on reviving the fallow land. She was glad to have their practical counsel and gratified to know they respected her enough to offer their help when she was ready to begin.

The months spent preparing for her future gave her a stronger sense of herself. She was confident in her decisions, content with the life she felt she had been destined for. She believed she had grown into the kind of strong, giving person her parents had always encouraged her to be. Though her emotions still sometimes caught her off guard, she hoped she'd learned to control the tendency to run too quickly from high to low. And she was satisfied that she no longer harbored such romantic ideas regarding her brief encounter with Stani Moss. Jack and Angela had been right in saying she needed time to get over the emotional ordeal of his rescue. Now she could look back at their meeting with appreciation for the chance to help someone in need, just as she looked at her contact with the patients under her care. She had finally learned to give the best possible care without giving away something of herself as well.

As Emily looked around the restaurant the night of her graduation, she was amazed to see so many faces from home. They'd turned out to see her get her cap and pin, and now gathered at the party Angela had tried to surprise her with. Jack and the McConnells, including James, along with at least a dozen others, had driven the two hours to join in her celebration. She had to acknowledge she was far from the orphan she'd once considered herself. Rather, she was part of a sizable family, the members of which seemed intent upon outdoing one another in taking pride in her accomplishments. Though she thought of her parents, hoping somehow they knew what she had managed to do so far without them, she recognized she had no reason to feel alone.

However, she cautioned herself against feeling too satisfied too soon. So far, she'd only laid the groundwork that would bring her closer to realizing her dream. The next year would tell if she would be able to bring the farm back to life, if she had what it took to work the hours and wait for the rewards. And while at the moment she was content with the idea of living alone, when she was there on the farm, with no one to encourage her or work beside her, would she have the dedication to stick with it?

If she failed, it would not be through hesitation. She was about to jump head-long into the dream she had conceived that Christmas two and a half years ago. Now the real test lay just around the corner, in the furrowed fields behind the house. She had prayed for guidance, found friends who could help her, and dedicated herself to preparing for this moment. Whatever challenges lay in her path, she tried to tell herself she welcomed them, would face them with all the skill and strength she possessed; but in her heart, she knew she'd set herself on a path that would require all her faith and courage as well, just to make a start.

### ****

The first enemy proved to be the weather. Emily had planted a small plot, just enough to test some of the new varieties and keep her own table in produce for the season. The rain had been abundant in the early spring, but by the time she set her little plants, the earth was hard and dry. She hauled countless buckets of water, set up sprinklers on long green hoses from the pump, and still came home to wilted vines and drooping plants. For the summer, she'd accepted a part-time position in the small hospital that sat on the line between three counties, some twenty miles away. She rose early, watered, rushed to work and returned to find the sun had scorched her garden.

To add to her disappointing start, the water pump, which had been nursed along for the past two years, finally gave up under the strain. For the first time, she was forced to draw money from her trust fund in order to purchase a new one. While Mr. Harris at the bank assured her it was a small percentage of her principal, none the less, she worried. She called Harriet Wilson at the special-duty agency where she was to begin work in the fall. If there was an assignment for her sooner, she would take it.

The job had been an unexpected blessing. From a fellow nursing student, she'd learned of the small agency and submitted an application, never dreaming she'd be considered just out of training. The agency provided nurses for assignments to hospital and nursing home patients who wanted and could afford round-the-clock private staff. The scheduling was flexible and would be perfect for her needs.

When she was called for an interview, she was careful to make it clear she would be available whenever needed. At the same time, she explained that she had responsibilities at home, particularly between the months of April and September. At the conclusion of the interview the agency director asked her pointedly what sort of responsibilities she had at her age.

"I have a farm," she explained. She could see the interested sparkle in the woman's eyes, so she went on to explain that she'd chosen to go into nursing for a somewhat unusual reason. She hoped it would make it possible for her to follow in her father's footsteps, raising produce to sell locally in the valley. She planned to work to support herself and the farm, at least in the beginning.

"Miss Haynes, I find that commendable, if not downright remarkable. Why don't I stipulate in your contract that you have the option of turning down any assignment offered during those months, and we won't hold it against you? That is as long as you promise to share the odd melon or eggplant with me." Harriet's eyes twinkled and for a moment Emily thought she might be making fun of her. She was at a loss for a response, but the older woman went on. "I'm offering you the position, Emily, if you want to come to work for me. Any young woman enterprising enough to do what you're doing should make just the kind of nurse we need. These patients will demand nothing less than your total dedication and given what you've told me about yourself, I'm confident you'll be able to give it."

Emily had hoped to start work after the growing season, but now that the drought had all but ended that for her, she was ready to begin. It would mean spending weeks away from home, but the pay was excellent and the jobs would be interesting she felt sure.

Her first assignments were brief, a surgical patient who only needed her for a week, then a man who'd suffered a stroke and entered a nursing home after a few days. She was at home long enough to mourn the dead garden and wilted flower beds, as August drew to a scorching close. With James's help, she dug out the dried carcasses of the plants, vowing to try again, hoping to make enough money over the winter to put in proper irrigation next spring.

Her next assignment lasted two weeks and was truly a test of her skill. A young man, not much older than herself, injured in a motorcycle accident; there was little to do but watch him as he lay in a coma. Severe head trauma and numerous broken bones left slim hope for a meaningful recovery. His mother, dreading the worst, was afraid to be left alone in the room with him. Emily did her job, knowing at least her presence served to ease the mother's fears. The poor boy never knew she was there, and when he died quietly, she was relieved for him. In some cases, she had learned, death was the only healing to be hoped for.

By mid-September, the leaves had begun to color. The brutal heat had given way to a golden autumn and Emily vowed to put the summer's disappointment behind her. At Lil's invitation, she traveled to the conservatory for the first chamber concert of the semester, spending the night at Angela's and returning home on Saturday morning. Waiting for her in the mailbox was an envelope, white vellum with a Manhattan address on the flap.

Walking to the house, she felt a shiver of dread. The letter was addressed in a small, precise hand, written by the same person who had autographed Lil's napkin. Stani Moss, after almost three years, had written her a letter. She went into the house, sat down at the table by the window, her knees suddenly threatening to give way. Turning the letter over in her hands, she tried to think of any reason he would suddenly have to make such a move. But there was no reason, he didn't even know she existed, or he hadn't until now apparently. She had managed to remain hidden, anonymous. There had been other magazine stories about his recovery and never had there been any mention of the rescue, only his struggle to overcome the injuries.

In her most recent letter to Penny, Emily had written that at last he was consigned to a distant memory. She was too busy, too challenged by her life now, to give any thought to something that had happened so long ago. She had admitted to herself, as she nursed the boy who'd suffered such horrible injuries in the motorcycle accident, that she was reminded of Stani. He had been so fortunate compared to this boy. As she'd always believed, God had been watching over Stani that night, saving him for some better life in the future.

She had congratulated herself on putting the experience behind her, finally accepting that he lived in some other world, far removed from hers. She was content, finding her way in this life she'd been so determined to build; and the more time that passed, the less importance she placed on those few hours when their lives had crossed. This letter, which she continued to hold in her hand without breaking the seal, was making a liar of her. The pounding of her heart against her ribs was proof of just how vulnerable she was. She stared at the address, as if by studying his handwriting she might find a clue to the intention of the writer.

She considered just for a moment the possibility of throwing it away, pretending it had never been delivered. Lost in the mail or destroyed in a postal accident. Movies had been made about such things, why couldn't it have happened to this letter too? But she knew she wouldn't do it, knew she would eventually have to read what he had to say to her after all this time. Penny had told her she'd seen a poster announcing an upcoming concert in Boston last summer. Lil had bought his latest recording, offering to loan it to her if she was interested. Emily had turned a deaf ear to these updates on his career, pretending to be indifferent but in fact glad to know he'd successfully moved back into his life. He would be busy, traveling and making music all over the country, maybe even the world. Why would he take time to write a letter to a girl he didn't know?

The answer was right in her hand. All she had to do was open the letter. She took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive under water, and slipped her finger under the flap, gently prying loose the seal. A single sheet, barely filled with the small neat script and there at the bottom, the unmistakable signature.

Dear Emily,

After any number of false starts, I am convinced there is no conventional form for writing this letter. It is not a thank you, nor is it an apology. More, so much more than that, it is a plea for your forgiveness and understanding. To write a thank you for saving my life, to apologize on paper for waiting almost three years to say that thank you, would be an injustice to both of us.

I know very little of what actually happened to me during the hours after the accident, but I have learned the name of the person who took me in, kept me from freezing to death, and never let herself be known. I'm certain you had your own reasons for what you did, but please don't deny me the opportunity now to express my gratitude and even my admiration.

Much of the past two and a half years has been a blur to me, but I am at least now sufficiently recovered to resume my career and try to take some control over my life. With the help of a therapist, I have made some strides in learning how to live the life of a man rather than merely that of a musician. He has recommended that even at this late date I try to reconstruct the days I lost that Christmas week, by returning to the scenes of the memories I have buried. In that effort, I have been to Washington and to the lodge where a party was held, a party I apparently attended but still cannot remember. I have made plans to visit the site of the accident. I understand your home is nearby. Would you consider allowing me to visit you, talk with you; and could you find it in your heart to let me try to remember what happened that day and night I was with you?

Please understand if this is something you would rather not do, I will respect your wishes. You should know that I do have some memory of you. At least I believe it to be your face I have seen in my dreams, your voice I have heard. I picture you kneeling next to me in the snow. I see you sitting near an open fire, watching over me. Is that you, Emily, or just someone I have imagined?

Please accept my thanks in advance for even considering my request. Take all the time you need to respond. I have waited this long without even attempting to contact you. I can certainly allow you as much time as you need to make your decision.

All my best,

Stani Moss

In all the fantasies she'd engaged in over the years, she never envisioned hearing from him so directly. A chance meeting, or in her wildest moments his sudden appearance at her door; never a polite request for a visit and certainly nothing so formal as this carefully worded letter. She'd suddenly been shown a side of his personality she'd never even considered. He was apologetic, humbly asking her forgiveness. He seemed to half-expect her to deny his request, turn down his plea for a chance to regain his lost memories. He said he thought he remembered her, and his description of those memories seemed accurate. She had always believed herself hidden from him although she'd secretly hoped he might have at least wondered about her. With this letter, he had altered her perspective of the very things which had enabled her to live with her own memories.

What would it be like to have him in this room, to watch as he searched for memories, when her own were still so vivid? If he came, and they talked about what happened during those hours, would she be giving away her own recollection, the thing she had so wanted to protect from prying eyes? But he was part of that; he had a right to know, didn't he? Or had he forfeited that by waiting over two years to come in search of her? She was confused, shaken by this unexpected letter and his gentle, conciliatory tone.

Afraid if she hesitated, she might find some excuse for not responding, she sat down at the kitchen table and wrote her brief reply. Carefully addressing the envelope, she found a stamp and drove into town, dropping it in the slot at the locked post office. It would be safe there until Monday morning, safe from her own temptation to make changes or withdraw her answer altogether.

She had written that of course he was welcome to come, that he need only tell her the exact date of his planned visit. She explained that she often worked away from home. She would make the necessary arrangements to be available. That was all. She could think of no appropriate response to his revelation that he remembered her. What if, when they actually met, he realized she was not the girl he said he had seen in his dreams? The prospect was too terrifying to consider.

She knew she was in danger of working herself into a state of constant anxiety. She tried in the next few days to stay as busy as possible, giving the house a thorough fall cleaning. She dug in the garden, turning the soil and pulling out the roots of the failed crop. Try as she might to exhaust herself, she could not sleep. Wandering the house at night, she seemed to see things through his eyes. Suddenly, what had been comfortable and familiar looked shabby and dated. He would be accustomed to the best money could buy. Would he pity her, living so far from civilization as he knew it, in this aging house with its simple furnishings?

The thought made her angry and she prepared herself to dislike him, ready to defend her chosen life in the face of his arrogance. In the end, she decided, they would part as strangers, just as they had begun, and she would finally be free of her foolish romantic ideas for good.

His reply came within the week. He said if she could arrange her schedule, he would like to come the following Saturday. He should arrive by late morning, and would try not to take too much of her time. Again polite and formal, he said he was eager to express his gratitude in person.

Emily was ashamed of herself for having thought so badly of him. At the same time, she was terrified by the prospect of actually seeing him again. She tried to steel herself, drawing strength from the idea that this was the last time he would need her help. Once he'd come and gone, that would be the end of it. She would have done what he asked, contributed to his healing, and he would go back to his world for good. At least this time she would have the satisfaction of sending him away with some knowledge of the girl who had pulled him to safety.

### Chapter Thirty-one

Panic was not an emotion Emily often experienced, but as she waited out the week before the anticipated visit from Stani Moss, she became much better acquainted with it. No amount of work, regardless of how strenuous, could relieve the sense of pending doom quivering her insides. By Wednesday, she decided the only remedy might be rehearsing what she would say to him, how she would greet him and answers to the questions she imagined he would ask. Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, she tried on various smiles, extended her hand in an assortment of welcoming gestures, and worked out the phrasing for her description of the events of that day.

Feeling a trifle more confident, she moved on to her costume. Never particularly concerned with what she wore beyond pleasing her own likes and moods, now she considered what he might be expecting. Not knowing if he knew anything about her at all made that approach impossible, so she tried to focus on making the kind of statement which best conveyed what she wanted him to know. She hoped to give the impression of quiet competence, a woman well-pleased with her life, and most of all a woman who was strong and self-sufficient. How to do that with the clothes in her closet was another matter entirely. As she held up various items, and then cast them aside, a theme began to emerge. Too short, too informal, too revealing, too summery, too wintery, and most often too old. Nothing she owned met the desired criteria. The closest thing was the relatively new black dress she'd worn to the concert the week before; but after a second consideration, she knew it was both too formal and too revealing.

The only choice—other than to opt for jeans, which she'd ruled out as not serious enough for the occasion—was to go into town and buy something new. She hadn't done any shopping recently, trying to watch her budget until she had more work. But maybe a new fall dress wasn't too extravagant. She was certain of one thing, if she went to Martha Jean's she was assured of coming home with something new. She never managed to leave there empty handed.

After lunch, she set off for town with a grocery list and some books to return to the church library. Maybe a few hours out of the house would help offset her anxiety, too. But she would avoid Jack if possible. She hadn't told him about the communication with Stani, and withholding that kind of news would be impossible if she ran into him today. He would see the circles under her eyes from lost sleep and detect the jumpiness of her nerves the moment he laid eyes on her. Even Martha Jean was likely to question her impromptu shopping expedition, but she'd come up with some excuse. Hormones always worked for Martha Jean, she recalled. She'd just blame it on hormones.

To her relief, the church office was empty, with the little "Be right back" sign on Mike's desk. She dropped off her books and headed for the boutique. In luck again, she congratulated herself, as she was greeted by the high-school girl who worked afternoons. Martha Jean was at the post office the girl said. Emily told her she was just browsing and stooped to greet Marjorie, who was napping in a chair near the door. Going to the racks of fall fashions, she considered her options. Woolens in rich golds and greens, dark brown plaid and navy blue corduroy caught her attention. But all seemed too fashionable, too frivolous, somehow lacking the simple, unassuming yet mature quality she was seeking. And then she spotted a dress, heather blue flannel with a plaid collar and little red buttons on the bodice. Taking it to a dressing room, she slipped it on, and knew right away it was her choice. Going to the three-way mirror to check the hem line—it wouldn't do if it were too short—she was greeted by Martha Jean, who was instantly, and vocally, disapproving.

"Emily, you don't want that. It's too old for you."

"I like it. I don't think it's old at all." Turning to catch herself at all angles, she decided the length would do. The dress wasn't too short; her legs were just too long.

In a stage whisper, Martha Jean went on with her protest. "I just sold that dress, in a fourteen, mind you, to Tom Jeffers' wife." She gave Emily a knowing glare. Helen Jeffers, a sweet lady with a huge heart, was singularly unattractive, with a horse face and thinning gray hair.

"Oh." Lost for words, Emily again studied the dress. It fit high under the bodice, and the skirt barely skimmed her waist, flaring to the knee with a graceful sweep. She liked it. "Still, I think it's what I want. You know how I love blue." Fingering the plaid collar, at a neckline neither too high nor too low, she chewed her lip and stared at herself in the mirror.

Behind her, an elderly gentleman sat in the provided armchair, waiting for his wife, who occupied the second dressing room. With a twinkle in his eyes, he spoke up. "Miss Clark, I beg to disagree with you. She looks fine in that little frock, just fine. A right highland lassie, I'd say." Morrisett MacIntyre, the now-retired head of the local lumber company, was descended from a family who had settled in the valley just after the Revolutionary War. But he held proudly to his heritage and even invoked a hearty brogue on occasion. "That touch of tartan is just the thing, brings out the color in your cheeks, Emily."

"Why thank you, Mr. Mac. How are you today?" She turned and bent to lay a hand on the man's stooping shoulders. A staunch Presbyterian, Mr. Mac, as he was known to everyone, had been a long-time church elder, and his wife had taught Emily in grade school.

"Doing well, but the missus is not quite up to par. I thought maybe a little shopping and dinner at the cafe might cheer her up." From the dressing room, a muffled voice raised a halfhearted objection and the old man chuckled. "Bribery," he whispered, patting Emily's hand.

Turning back to the mirror, she caught Martha Jean's still doubtful gaze. "I suppose it would do for church. Maybe with the right shoes. It needs red shoes, Em." In a flash, ignoring Emily's protest, she retrieved a pair of shoes from the window. Sleek, gleaming red leather pumps, with delicate t-straps and three-inch heels, they were elegant and alluring. But in the back of her mind, Emily suddenly heard Joey Salvatore's voice, saying "Not even very tall" and withdrew the hand reaching reverently toward the shoes.

"Flats, I think. I don't like walking in heels, you know." Striding across to the shoe display, she picked up a pair. "These." Red flats, with a little tassel on the tongue, and no heel whatsoever. The last thing she wanted to do was gaze down into the eyes of Stani Moss.

When she stood again in front of the mirror, beneath the admiring appraisal of both Mr. and Mrs. MacIntyre, the shoes on her feet, she knew she'd found her costume. The outfit said clearly she was a simple, well-bred country girl with few pretensions. No one terribly special, but not a shrinking violet either.

"Well, I guess it does suit you, Em. I just like to see you show off that figure of yours more. Still, you'd look like a million dollars in last year's gunny sack. I'll wrap it up for you. Oh, and by the way, Jack's over in Charlottesville today. He'll be sorry he missed you."

She left the shop with a lighter step, satisfied that at least she would have more confidence in the impression she made. A little voice reminded her she didn't care what he thought of her, but she knew that wasn't quite true. If this were to be their only meeting, he should leave knowing the woman who had dragged him out of the snow was a person of taste and breeding, not some country bumpkin in patched overalls. With a little smile, she reminded herself that on certain days she could pass for just that, but not this Saturday morning. When she opened her front door to him for the first time, she wanted Stani Moss to see her as much more than that.

### Chapter Thirty-two

John thought Stani looked as if he hadn't slept at all. He was pale and tense as he stared out the window at the passing scenery. John had questioned to himself the wisdom of visiting the site of the accident, especially after so much time had passed; but Stani was determined to follow through with his quest in hopes of allaying whatever demon had been driving him these past months. Somewhere along the way he'd decided his survival was unjust. He couldn't understand, he said, why he had been spared when the other two had died. He drove himself as if to prove himself worthy of the life he'd been given. For the first time, Milo had been forced to slow Stani's pace, discourage him from making too many commitments. Wisely, Stani had decided to seek the help of a professional, and he seemed to find some peace once he began to follow the steps laid out for him. John himself had provided the information he'd gathered for Milo after the accident, but Stani insisted on visiting each place he'd been during those lost hours. Now he wanted to see the actual spot where the car had gone off the road. And he'd contacted the girl, after John had run down her address, and planned to meet her today. As always, John was watching him closely, ready to intervene if he sensed Stani had gone too far.

When he pulled the car off the highway and stopped at the barricade, John hoped that would be close enough for Stani. But he opened his door and stepped out onto the gravel, looking around in silence. He began to walk deliberately down the road, toward a tall pine tree which still bore the scars of that night. Almost ten feet above the ground were broken branches, marking the place where the car had ended its flight. John walked beside him, waiting for him to speak. But Stani seemed lost in the effort of envisioning what had transpired here. Staring up at the tree, he appeared to be listening, his head tilted to one side, his face grim. Finally, he turned away and walked slowly to the bottom of the hill, where the land rose sharply above the roadway, and stood for a time gazing up into the sparse woods.

"I must have been here. I must have started walking from here. It's up there, isn't it? The house is there at the top? I walked up there. Why would I do that, go in that direction, when I could have just gone back to the highway?" John strained to catch his words, recognizing the emotion in the hushed tone. With Stani, the more distressed, the softer his voice became.

"You were in shock. You'd struck your head. You must have been confused and just wandered blindly from here. Is it so important, lad?"

"No, I suppose not. Pretty amazing, wouldn't you say, that I would take the most difficult way out? Not at all like me." He flashed an ironic grin. "You know me, John, always the easy way. What time was the accident?"

"Sometime before dawn."

"And I wasn't up there until afternoon, right?"

"One."

"What do you suppose I was doing all that time?" Stani turned and walked back to the car, taking one last look at the damaged tree. "Searching for something, I imagine."

John drove back to the highway; and following the directions he'd been given by a local gas station attendant, he headed the car toward a road that cut up the side of a sharp rise. He glanced at Stani, but he was staring straight ahead, a telltale muscle in his jaw the only indication of his thoughts.

"You're sure you want to do this? What can she tell you about the accident? She wasn't there, you know."

"I don't want her to tell me anything, at least not at first. I want to try to remember. So far, it hasn't worked. But I think I do remember something here, something about her. I won't know until I see her, will I?" He turned away with an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.

They followed the steep, winding road for almost two miles, and John began to question the directions until a white board fence came into sight. By the open gate, a sign announced their arrival at Valley Rise Farm, and the name J.E. Haynes assured him this was their destination. He stopped the car inside the gate, looking to see Stani's reaction. But he was staring at the big white house beneath the trees, his eyes unusually bright. Without a word, he got out and began to stride purposefully across the broad expanse of lawn. They had agreed he would go in alone, but John sat watching, prepared to join him if he felt the need.

Stani walked to the house, mounting the wide steps to the porch. The front door opened and a tall, slim girl stepped through. John had the momentary impression of a simple blue dress, long, shapely legs and a flowing mass of dark hair. When they met at the top of the stairs, she held out her hand to Stani and for a moment they seemed to study one another, standing almost eye to eye. Then, to John's utter amazement, they embraced, holding each other for what seemed a long time, before they turned together and went through the door.

Later, he saw them walking behind the house to the edge of the yard where the hillside fell away toward the road below, toward the site of the accident. The girl was watching Stani as he turned and gestured, gazing toward the house and shaking his head. She took his arm, and John thought he could see her smiling, talking enthusiastically as she led him back across the yard. And he could see that Stani was smiling too. For the first time today, his stride was relaxed, as if he were enjoying a walk in the sunshine with a pretty girl, rather than revisiting the scene of a nightmare. John would have given a great deal to hear what they were saying to each other, but by the looks of things Stani had found the girl in his dream and had not been disappointed.

Not long after, Stani came to the car, leaning into the window. "Look, old man, would you mind driving into town and having a bite of lunch? Emily says there's a cafe on the main street. Take all the time you like, there's no hurry."

"What about you? You're not ready to leave, I can see."

Stani seemed excited, his color high. "Emily is cooking."

"Ah, I see. Well, in that case, I'll go." Stani turned to leave, and John called after him. "Cooking, eh? What exactly is she cooking, lad?"

"I have no idea, and it matters not at all!" With an exceptionally broad grin, he waved and walked briskly back to the house.

### ****

When Emily shooed him out of the kitchen, encouraging him to sit and relax while she prepared their lunch, Stani again looked around the big room with the fireplace at one end, and the beautiful old piano at the other. He'd been drawn to the mantel when he first came in, studying the room from that angle to see that it fit his memory. He had been here, he knew, next to the hearth. And he could picture her, sitting curled in the chair there, watching him. He felt such overwhelming gratitude that finally he had something to show for his search. He did remember snatches of his time here.

And he remembered Emily. He'd known her immediately. Here was the face, the smile and that soft, sweet voice, exactly as they'd been in his dream. Unexpected tears had welled in his eyes. How could he ever express how relieved he was to learn she was real? But she responded with tears of her own, and they had fallen into each other's arms as old friends, with no need of explanations. It was miraculous, he knew, that she was the one thing he could honestly say he remembered from those lost days.

Warm and comforting, just as he would have expected of the girl in his dream, she quietly watched as he dealt with that first rush of memory. She'd given him time to collect himself, as she wiped away her tears with a little smile. Then she patiently answered his questions, finally taking him to where she'd first seen him coming up the hill. She said he might have tried to tell her about a light, as he lay in the snow, a light she'd turned on much earlier that morning. He had seen her light! That was why he walked up the hill.

After seeing the place where he'd fallen, he asked in amazement how she ever managed to get him into the house. Blushing, she described wrapping him in some kind of blanket and pulling him across the yard.

From the kitchen, he heard her softly humming, as dishes clattered and cabinet doors slammed. She was so unlike any girl he'd ever met, he struggled to fix her image in his mind. Pretty, yes, most definitely, but so much more than that; slim and graceful, and tall. They stood eye to eye, and he knew the heels on his boots gave him an extra inch or so. Holding her in his arms, he'd found his face buried in her hair, an overwhelming sensation in itself. Heavy and rich, dark brown, she wore it straight, pulled loosely from her face and held at the back of her head by a big silver clip. He'd found himself, as they talked, wondering what it would look like hanging free, and for an instant imagined unpinning its length and laying it gently around her shoulders. His fantasy produced an unexpected rush of embarrassed blood to his face, and he wondered if she guessed at his thoughts because she'd blushed too.

He turned now as she came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she'd put on over her dress. It struck him that her simplicity, her total lack of pretense, gave her an air of the exotic. She might have lived all her life in this place, as she'd told him, but she could easily have been a native of a dozen different countries, with her dark hair and tanned skin and those amazingly pale gray eyes. Unworldly, he thought, yet so down to earth, as she smiled and said softly, "Lunch is ready, whenever you are." Stani shook himself hard. His tired brain was rapidly spinning out of control, turning this lovely girl into an exotic, and quite easily an erotic, fantasy. She deserved better.

As they sat at the table in the sunny kitchen, eating the delicious meal of cold beef, fried potatoes and several types of vegetables, some he wasn't sure he'd ever seen before, he asked if she lived alone.

"Yes. My parents are both dead now, but this is my home. I've lived here all my life, except for time away at school, and now this is my family." The wave of her hand seemed to include the whole of the woods and fields around the house. She didn't seem sad, he thought, but resolute, as if she had a firm commitment to her place here.

"No man, no boyfriend to help you with all this?" He braced himself for her answer.

"No need. I can manage fine by myself." Again, she was firm, but she smiled, as if amused he would think she might need help.

"You said you have a job away from home?"

"I'm a nurse. I work for a special-duty agency. It gives me the opportunity to work when I want to and be here when I'm needed." Watching with approval as he cleaned his plate, she held out the basket of golden rolls, still warm in their checked napkin. "I don't suppose you've sat at many farmhouse kitchen tables and eaten okra and homemade bread, have you?"

"Never." Stani realized he must be grinning like an idiot. How had this terrifying day become so amazingly pleasant? "You're not saying you baked these?" He took a roll and studied it with appropriate awe.

"Not so unusual in my world. Now eat. Your friend will be back soon. It's not very nice that you sent him into town. He was more than welcome to join us."

"I wanted to have as much time as I can with you. There's something more, if you don't mind, that I'd like to ask you."

"Of course." She was instantly serious again.

"Why didn't you want anyone to know what you'd done for me? Please tell me I didn't do anything to you, to hurt you in any way."

She blinked at him. "How could you have hurt me? You couldn't even walk. That's the silliest thing I've ever heard." She was laughing at him, her eyes bright, and he felt himself blush again.

"Well, one hears of people doing all sorts of crazed things. Since I can't remember, I was afraid I said or did something to make you want me to just go away. You didn't even go to the hospital with me, did you?"

"No, but that had nothing to do with you. I was going through a difficult time in my own life. Once you were safely away, I knew I'd never see you again. I didn't want people coming around asking a lot of questions. Can't you understand how a girl from my simple little world would want to hide from the kind of glare that follows you everywhere you go?"

He thought for a moment about what she'd said. He'd never given any consideration to her situation, only thinking of his own ordeal. "You're right, there would have been questions," he said finally. "But you're wrong that we would never have seen each other. We have, haven't we? And if you'll allow it, we will again." A flicker of concern, or maybe fear, crossed her face. He laid a hand on the table near hers, but not quite touching. "Emily, I'm so thankful to have finally found you. I'm not about to just drive away today and never expect to see you again. Please tell me you won't send me away without the hope of coming back."

Now it seemed to be her turn to think. She rose from the table and began to clear away the plates. Stani realized she must have believed this would be their only meeting. And in truth, he had never anticipated all he'd found here. But that had all changed now. For whatever reason, he couldn't bear the idea of saying good-bye to her today.

She came back and sat across from him, toying with her napkin. "If you really want to stay in touch, I don't suppose there could be any harm. Maybe we could write, like pen pals." At his puzzled frown, she went on. "When I was in fifth grade, we were given the addresses of kids in foreign countries. Mine lived in Norway. We wrote letters, telling how we lived here and they wrote back about their lives. Considering how different our lives are, we could write those kinds of letters. You could tell me about your travels and the famous people you work with."

He was intrigued by her suggestion. "And what would you write back to me?"

"Nothing so glamorous, I'm sure. I could tell you about the weather here, how the garden is growing, and the cost of fertilizer, I suppose." Again, he frowned. "In the spring, when I plant my garden, I can send you progress reports."

"Garden, as in flowers?"

"No, as in vegetables. Look out there, see those rows of dirt?" She pointed to the plowed field below the house. "That's my garden. My father had a truck farm and it's my ambition to start it up again next year." She was smiling indulgently, as if he were a child. "I told you our lives are different. You are a world-famous musician. I am a farmer. It doesn't get much farther apart than that. Are you sure you want to go beyond today?"

"Positive. No doubts at all. Just promise you'll write in words I can understand." Now he took her hand in his, shocked at how cool and soft it was. "I thought I had dreamed you, Emily. But I could never have conjured up someone like you. I came here searching for memories, but you've given me so much more than that. Thank you." Cautiously, he lifted her hand to his lips, hoping she wouldn't pull away. But her eyes, wide and smoky gray now, met his as if she fully understood the effect she had on him.

### ****

Dear amazing Emily,

This is indeed a letter of thanks. For your gracious hospitality, for your time, and most especially for the generous gift of your self.

I cannot begin to put into words what it means to find that I actually have some memory of the hours we spent together. If I am never to recall the other events of those days, at least I have found something which proves I was in fact there. Waking to learn that something so horrible had happened and having no idea what part I might have played has caused me as much pain as any of my injuries. While I accept that I may never regain the memory of the accident and how I escaped with my life, I now understand what followed. I am in awe of the effort you made on my behalf. Where you found the strength and courage I cannot imagine. However, having spent time with you, I begin to see what an extraordinary young woman you are.

As I look back at the past few hours (I am writing this as the car speeds ever farther from your home), I realize how much more I wanted to ask about you and your life. I want to know about the things you love, the music and books, your favorite season and time of day, the colors you love to have around you and your favorite flavor of ice cream. And I want to know all about your family, your friends, how you spend your leisure time. I feel we are old friends, united by a powerful bond, yet I realize I know so little about you. Please, will you share these things with me?

When I am performing tomorrow night, in my heart I will dedicate my performance to the woman who saved my life, and who I now hope will remain a part of that life—to my amazing friend, Emily.

All my best (your pen pal?)

Stani

Courtship
Chapter Thirty-three

Dear Stani,

I find myself overwhelmed by your letter. First you refer with such intensity to your feelings about the accident. Then you want to know my favorite flavor of ice cream? Are you always so mercurial? If so, I shall have difficulty knowing what in your letters to take seriously and what to laugh at.

There is one very serious matter I want to address, right at the start. You must not think of me as the person who saved your life. I believe with all my heart that nothing I did for you could have saved you if you were not meant to survive that night. You lived because there is more you are meant to do with your life. It was an act of God, and I did nothing more than keep you safe until help could come. So please don't think of me as anything more than the person who was in the right place to help you when you needed help. You yourself, if you will think about it, were the one who did something extraordinary, by walking up that hillside to find help. Your own desire to survive must have kept you going all those hours.

I can understand your wanting to know the details of the events leading up to the accident, but that too may be part of your healing. It must require great faith to accept the loss of those memories. I'm sure you did nothing to cause the tragedy of that night. Learning to accept loss and move on with life is something I know about. It is never easy, but the moving on can bring comfort and in time peace.

You ask about my family. As I told you, both of my parents are dead now. My mother died of cancer when I was fifteen and my father died two years ago after spending three years completely disabled following a stroke. It took me some time to pick up my life, the life they would have wanted me to have. After wandering in a depressed fog for over two years, I finally came home and found the answers I needed. I had believed that everything I had loved, my family and my home, was lost forever. There is no way to describe the miracle that made me understand I could come back here, start my own life, and keep everything my parents had already built. It was that miracle that brought me here that Christmas week. You will forever be a part of that for me. In many ways, you helped me as much as I helped you. I realized beside the miracle of your surviving that night, my own worries had been short-sighted and selfish. I had doubted the wisdom of God's plan for my life, which I have never done since. I believe so completely that everything happens for a reason, as part of a greater plan. Our meeting, unusual as the circumstances may have been, was meant to bring something to both our lives.

Enough of my personal philosophy! Let's see, you asked about friends, which would take another several pages, since each of them is so special to me. And music and books are the substance of my leisure time, little as there seems to be of it. I love spring, summer, fall and winter equally. Sunrise and sunset are second only to nighttime, when the stars are so incredibly brilliant in the sheer darkness of night in the country. My favorite colors are found in the rainbow and the countryside in fall. And last, but not least, my favorite ice cream is predictably chocolate.

Now it's your turn. Even though I have read the liner notes of your recording, I'm not sure where you were born and raised (and can't quite tell by your accent!). I know nothing of your family, where you actually live and certainly nothing of your tastes, although I imagine them to be very refined. And one pressing question, do you always wear black? I am also curious to know what sort of music you listen to, as opposed to the music you perform. There is such a world of beautiful music, how can anyone limit themselves to only one variety?

Enough. You must be bored to tears by now.

Most sincerely,

Emily

She had not expected him to be so warm and genuine. After the first intense moments, when he'd looked at her with such wonder and tears had filled his eyes, Stani Moss had seemed to be someone she'd known for a long time. All of the mystique, the image of the brooding young genius, had melted away as she watched him. Standing before the mantel, seeming to picture them together, pacing beside the hearth, as if measuring the space where he'd lain all those hours, he was suddenly very real and vulnerable. "I was here, on the floor, and you were in that chair. Is that right?" In his eyes, she saw clearly he needed as much as wanted her to tell him his memory was accurate.

They had sat side by side on the couch, and he told her he still couldn't remember anything else about the night of the accident. "I was afraid it was all lost, but now at least I have this. I suppose that should be enough." He asked about his condition when she found him.

"You were very cold, you'd lost a lot of blood, and your left arm was dangling, as if it had been torn from the shoulder. I was afraid between the shock and the exposure you might lapse into a coma, but eventually you did rouse somewhat, enough to let me know you were aware of me. I suppose that's what you remember, those few minutes. The power was out and the only heat was from the fireplace. That's why I put you here on the floor."

He had listened in silence, looking around the room as if trying to imagine the scene. "How long?"

"About eighteen hours. Jack, he's the sheriff, came late the next morning. He was also my guardian at the time, and he came when he heard there was smoke coming from the chimney up here. You see, I wasn't supposed to be here. I had come home without telling anybody." She'd smiled at the slightly puzzled look in his eyes. "Let's just say I had a lot of explaining to do."

He asked to see the place in the yard where she'd first found him. Taking him there, she described the way he had fallen, how she had first believed him to be dead, and the rush of energy that erupted when she realized he was alive. She tried to explain how she'd used the coverlet to drag him inside. "From that point on, something outside me seemed to take over. I just wanted to get you in out of the snow. I'm sure it was quite a sight, but in the end it worked." Linking her arm through his, she'd led him back to the house. Suddenly, standing there talking about the horror of those first moments, she'd remembered the sight of his bloodied face and felt she needed to take him back inside to safety again.

The most unexpected thing about the whole meeting, she decided, was how easy they'd been with one another from the start. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to go into his arms in those first few moments. He'd buried his face in her hair, whispering her name over and over, and she'd been keenly aware of the unfamiliar, though not at all unpleasant, warmth she felt in response. From then on, they seemed to frequently reach for each other, touching hands or linking arms. When he had taken her hand and lifted it to his lips, saying thank you for whatever it was he felt she'd given him, she'd been stunned by her own reaction. Under any other circumstances, any other man who had done such a blatantly romantic thing would have found her far from receptive. She would have jerked away, or even laughed in his face. But when Stani's eyes met hers, filled with a mix of emotions she dared not try to interpret, she'd been deeply moved in a way she'd never been before.

When she walked with him to the gate, where the car and driver waited, Stani had turned and drawn her into his arms, held her close and laid his cheek against hers. "Until next time?" he'd whispered.

She'd been surprised at how pleasantly warm his breath was on her face. "Next time." As the car backed out of the drive, she held up her hand, hoping he couldn't see it was actually trembling.

Of course, he was even more beautiful than his photographs. No camera could ever catch the true color of his hair, the flash of his smile, or the intensity of those dark eyes. Dressed in black, a tailored shirt and impeccably creased trousers topped by a sport coat of the finest wool, black on black glen plaid, he had seemed uncommonly elegant. Yet he wore his clothes as though he had put little or no thought into their selection, seemingly unaware of the impression he made. The fall of auburn waves across his face, the way he gestured with those strong, slender hands, compelled her to watch him. She'd been surprised by his voice, deep and warm with that unusual accent. Everything about him was appealing and left her wishing he would come again.

That he said there would be a next time meant nothing, she knew. He would be far away, busy with his career; and while he might write a few letters, she was sure in time he would find it too difficult to keep in touch. There would be little opportunity to come back to this remote place just to visit for a few hours. There would be no reason, now that he had confirmed his memories, to make such an effort. He was naive to believe they had anything in common beyond those few hours they'd spent together that Christmas.

Then his letter arrived, just days after his visit. He'd opened so many doors, asked so many questions, as if he needed to know more about her in order to go forward. Forward to where? But she hadn't hesitated to answer, feeling anything she had to say would be honestly received. Perhaps it was easier to put the words on paper without seeing his reaction.

She'd at least made herself clear with respect to his survival. It was important that he understand and not go on thinking she was some kind of hero. As for the rest, he had asked and she had answered, telling him as much about herself as she dared.

She was afraid to imagine he might have been as attracted to her as she had been to him. There had been a moment or two, when he looked at her as if he'd never seen a woman before, as if she had stunned him somehow. Was that just her imagination or some quirk of his personality? Whichever, his gaze had produced a peculiar spiraling tingle deep within her, unlike anything she'd ever felt.

It didn't matter in the long run. Nothing had happened to lessen the vast distance between his world and hers. She had tried to point out how different their lives were, but he'd been caught up in the charm of the unfamiliar setting, she suspected. Once back in his own environment, he would see that she'd been right. In reality, there was no common ground.

That thought, and the memory of his presence here, threatened to make her regret her own situation. If she were free to leave, to follow him, provided he asked her to, what kind of future might they have? But why indulge in fantasy? Why start down a road she could never follow? She loved her life here; and when she never heard from him again, here would be the source of comfort she could turn to.
Chapter Thirty-four

When Stani first read her letter, he was at a loss to respond. She spoke of faith, of miracles and of a God she seemed to know intimately. Clearly, she thought he shared her beliefs. He felt ashamed at his lack of understanding. While he acknowledged there was some higher power, he had never known the relationship she described. As to faith, he knew himself to be completely wanting. Yet the thought of admitting such a thing to her, risking her disapproval, left him terrified. If he were honest about his lack of belief, would it destroy her regard for him? Or if he pretended to understand what she was saying, agreed with her, would she sense his dishonesty and lose all respect for him?

Her ideas intrigued him, her belief that he had somehow done something to help her. As with everything he learned about her, he wanted to know more. She was so far removed from any woman he'd ever known, so completely genuine and unaffected. Yet there was a maturity beyond her years, a wisdom and depth. In spite of all she'd suffered, the loss of her parents and the uncertainty of her future, she seemed content with her life, cheerfully determined to follow the path she had chosen. Was that also a result of her faith?

Honesty was essential if he hoped to gain her trust and affection. He must start out in the way he intended to go forward. And he knew—had known the moment he looked into those smoky gray eyes—that he wanted her, as much of her as he could have, in his life. How to make that happen, in the midst of his ever faster moving career, he had as yet no idea.

But he knew he felt more alive, more at peace within himself, than he had in his life, before or since the accident. Surely, he hadn't found her only to lose her again? He would find some way to bring her into his chaotic world. She believed in miracles; perhaps some miracle would bring them together, as she thought it had before. Not willing to wait for divine intervention, however, Stani was determined to do what he could on his own.

### ****

Dearest Emily,

Now it is I who has been overwhelmed. Had I not just seen you, your youth and your beauty, I might have imagined such wisdom from the pen of an aged sage.

When I read of your loss, I grieved with the girl whose world had been so tragically overturned. But I also celebrated with the woman who found her way to a new life in the home she so obviously loves. Having never had a real home, not in the sense you have anyway, I can only imagine what comfort that must be to you. I can also imagine how proud your parents must have been of a daughter with your strength and vision. I see more and more just how extraordinary you really are. And I'm afraid I must persist in regarding you with awe and admiration.

As to all of your favorite things, you made me laugh with delight. (No small feat. I'm accused of being something of a dour Scot.) I would have done better to ask your dislikes, I think, though that list might have been even shorter. Surely you could elaborate on your favorite music as I have some knowledge of the subject. Your top ten favorite composers, perhaps. Baroque or Romantic? Or maybe you are a fan of rock and roll, and only have that brilliant collection of classical recordings to impress visiting violinists? And I should love to hear about your friends, no matter the number of pages.

As to my history, it is the stuff liner notes are made of. But I can tell you I was born in East London, Lambeth to be precise, of somewhat shadowy parentage. I know my father was born in Scotland and returned there before I was old enough to have any memory. With my mother, I have only an occasional card or call relationship. I was "discovered" at the age of five and shuffled from teacher to ever more brilliant teacher. At the age of eight, I was introduced to Milo Scheider, and he and his gracious wife Jana took me into their home. Milo is responsible for crafting my career, and the rest is history. I never had anything resembling a normal childhood or education. I'm afraid I missed out on learning how to live because living at the time was all about music, learning, practicing and performing. I don't blame them, you understand; but Milo and Jana placed so much importance on growing my talent, they inevitably neglected to grow the rest of me. If it had not been for a wonderful friend who took me in hand just as I was about to begin my solo career, I would have been an even greater disaster than I am.

As to your other questions, my accent is often a source of confusion, though of course I am not aware that I have an accent at all. I would say it is a mixture of lower middle class Brit, transplanted Hungarian (Milo and Jana are both immigrants) and a bit of New York teenager. (My only formal schooling past primary school was a brief stint at a performing arts high school in Manhattan, where I tried desperately not to stand out.) I can say phrases like "Beautifully done" and "Where's the loo?" in at least six languages, but in reality I'm just a kid from London who travels under an assumed name. The truth is I was christened Stanley—you're laughing now—but my mother for some reason called me Stanny, like Danny. Somewhere along the way the spelling was changed, which makes for great marketing in the eclectic realm of classical music. Now you know a great deal more about me than almost anyone in the world. Please don't expose me for the fraud that I am!

No, I don't always wear black. I often wear gray. It keeps things simple. (In case you hadn't noticed, I have hair the color of which clashes with almost every other color of the spectrum!)

As to my taste, I may not have any. I know what I like when I see or hear it. But I can't say I have enough education to hold any valid opinions. Refined, I'm sure I'm not. As to music, I love the Romantic period best but am open to anything well done. Jazz intrigues me though I don't pretend to understand it. I must admit rock and roll offends me somewhat. I have a particular love for the traditional music of the British Isles. It may be that it is in my blood, but it seems to speak to me in a familiar voice.

I apologize if I seem mercurial, but perhaps that is part of my artistic temperament. I must tell you I am rarely as relaxed as I found myself in your company. Even my friend (and bodyguard) John (who by the way, was not in the least offended at being sent away for lunch) made note of the fact you had put a rather foolish grin on my face.

And now I have a question for you. While I admit my only first-hand knowledge of growing things was a tiny garden behind Milo's house in London, yours seems a very large patch of earth to dig and plant. Is that not a very big job for such a slender, beautiful girl to undertake? I ask because I am concerned you will do yourself some harm. I'm sure you know much more about these things than I do, but still, I will worry. Your well-being has become of the utmost importance to me, as I look to our future. You will take care of yourself, won't you?

Until,

Stani

P.S. Are you aware that you too have an accent? It's quite lovely, so much softer and more refined than I would have expected in a Southern girl like yourself. The way you say my name, I find absolutely musical.

P.P.S. One last thing. In addition to your more obvious charms, you also have this very sweet habit of blushing. I hope I have caused that most becoming shade of pink to rise in your cheeks, as you also consider our future.

Dear Stani,

If the next stage of overwhelmedness (???) is undone, I am undone. Your letter did indeed make me blush, to the roots of my hair I'm sure. I greatly enjoyed the brief history of your life and found you much too self-effacing. I'm sure your experiences have provided you with a fine education. But the last portion of your letter was so outrageous I have no idea how I'm expected to reply. How can you talk of a future when we barely have a present? We have spent a little over three hours together; and even if you count the time three years ago—which you can't, since I was the only one conscious—we have known one another for less than two days.

I appreciate that we have revealed quite a lot of ourselves in these letters, but that cannot substitute for time spent together. If such time ever presented itself, I'm sure you would find me far less awe-inspiring and quickly bore of my very ordinary self. I am a farm girl, as I tried to point out, not some rare, delicate creature to be pampered and fantasized over.

Stani, for your own sake, please don't make me into more than I am. I'm afraid you've been swept away by your need to see me as exceptional, when in fact I'm a simple country girl who happened to be on hand when you needed help. My life here is all about providing a living for myself and keeping my home and the memory of my parents alive. To that end, I trained as a nurse in order to have an adequate income. I have no intention of living anything but the most modest kind of life. I can't imagine ever meeting anyone willing to share that with me at the expense of their own ambitions. This is my choice, one I'm quite content with.

Please understand that I admire you a great deal, both as a man and as an artist. I know you will go on to do great things with your life. But your world and mine have nothing in common. That's why I let you go alone when Jack found us. There was no way I could follow you home. I knew there were people there who loved you and could give you everything you needed. You asked me not to send you away without the hope of coming again, and that is not my intention now. But you must come with the understanding that we can only be friends, who might see one another once in a great while, might write the occasional letter, but nothing more.

I would never expect you or any man to leave their chosen life for me. And I'm sure you would never ask such a thing of me. This is my life, my home, and I am committed to it completely. Just as completely as you are committed to your career.

If you choose not to respond to this letter, I will understand. Please know that while I might wish for things to be different, I am realistic enough to accept when the obstacles are too great to overcome.

God bless you and keep you safe.

Most sincerely,

Emily

### ****

The day Emily mailed her reply a call came from Harriet Wilson. There was a job for her at Crestview, an exclusive long-term care facility across the mountains, if she wanted it. It would mean being away from home for several weeks, but perhaps that was what she needed now. She said a prayer of thanks for something to take her mind off Stani and the confusion his letter had created. As she prepared to leave, she tried to tell herself it was all for the best. He had to be stopped before things went any further. She would have been tempted to go on with their correspondence; it was flattering, even exciting, to think of him taking such an interest in her. But letting him believe they could ignore the fact of their very different lives, when she knew only too well what the outcome would be, hardly seemed fair. They would always be connected, she could not deny that; but there could be no future together and the sooner he accepted that the better.

With her mind on the weeks ahead, she stopped watching the mail. He was probably furious with her, or too disillusioned to answer. The day before her departure, as she finished cleaning the house and packing, his letter appeared in the mailbox.

Dearest, most impossible Emily,

I apologize if my letter upset you, but I do not apologize for anything I said, however outrageous you may have found my suggestions. If you think to so easily discourage me with your well-phrased arguments, you have underestimated me and my attraction to you.

Emily, I realize there are obstacles to overcome. The greatest of these is the lack of time at present, as I have far too many commitments scheduled over the next few months. But I'm quite confident I would never grow bored with you, and only when time becomes available for us to spend together will I be able to convince you of that. Likewise, you should have the opportunity to become thoroughly bored with me if that should prove to be the case. In the meantime, please don't cut yourself off from me. If you're not comfortable as yet with the contemplation of a future together, we won't discuss it now. I'm willing to wait, but I will not pretend I don't have hope for such a future.

There is something you must understand concerning my memory of you. During the weeks and months following the accident, as I slowly began to heal, my mind was paralyzed with the fear that I would never regain the use of my arm. I was terrified I would never play again, that not only was my career over but my life as well. I was certain that if I failed to recover, I would lose everything. I knew what was expected of me; and while everyone around me was willing to help, I feared that if I could not continue, they would eventually leave me. I know only too well I could never survive on my own. I only have this one thing, my music, and without it I would be worth nothing, to myself or anyone else.

During those first weeks, you were always with me, Emily, in my dreams and even when I was awake. Your face seemed to drift at the edge of my consciousness, and your voice was always in my head. You sustained me, comforted me, encouraged me. I could not understand who you were other than some angel sent to keep me from falling into total despair. I would fall asleep (and you must understand I slept much of each day) hoping you would be there. I was so desperately in need of your sweet consolation. As I began to get stronger, you came less and less; and I was bereft, powerless to summon you and still so in need of your comfort.

Eventually, I had to accept that I had lost you entirely. Can you imagine what unspeakable joy I felt when you stood before me, when I could in reality look into your eyes and hear your voice? And now by some greater miracle I was at long last able to touch you? If I had known how to pray for such a thing, my prayer would have been answered at that moment.

Emily, I promise I would never force myself on you. But when you tell me you might wish for things to be different, that you would not send me away without hope, I know there is every chance we will overcome these differences and find that common ground you say does not exist. In fact, I believe if we care enough, we will create such a place for ourselves. You are a person of faith. You say you believe in a plan for our lives, that God himself has acted in both our lives already. If you truly believe that, how can you cut him out of the future we might have together? Isn't it possible for him to work even greater miracles if that is part of his plan? I don't pretend to know much of such things, but I am willing to give him a chance. He has allowed me to find you again; is that not miraculous? Already, I am a better man for knowing you. After hearing what you told me of that day, I am convinced there was more than just a frightened girl and a half-dead boy involved in changing both our lives forever. I, for one, am eager to see what he might have in store for us, even if you choose to look away.

Emily, I will see you, as soon as I possibly can. In the meantime, I choose to continue to pour my heart into these letters you so brilliantly conceived. Please write back to me, just to let me know you have not completely given up. Have faith in yourself and in me. We can only try our best; and if we fail, we will find a way to accept that and move on. If we hesitate now, we will never know what might have been.

All my best,

Your devoted Stani

### ****

Emily let the tears fall, as she read his description of the weeks following the accident. And she was stung by the truth of his challenge. She did believe in a divine plan for her life. How arrogant of her to see it only in her own narrow terms. Why did he have the power to move her when they should still be virtual strangers? But his closing words, so closely echoing her father's, at last broke her resolve. Yes, if they hesitated, they would fail; and if they took the risk, on faith, perhaps there was the slimmest chance they might find a place to share. She was still confused, skeptical, but she knew she wouldn't try to turn him away again.

Dear Stani,

I'll be brief, as I'm preparing to leave home for an extended case. Please accept my apology for trying to discourage you. I thought I was doing what would in the long run be best for us. I see now that I am not so wise after all. You have shown me clearly I was arrogant and short-sighted. I will write more once I am settled. In the meantime, I am committed to keeping faith and will no longer hesitate to believe in what might come to us in time.

Most humbly yours,

Emily

### ****

When her note arrived, Stani was packing to leave New York. He had slept little the past few nights, and his nerves were jangled with anxiety and fatigue. He was still reeling from an argument with Milo, an argument he had prepared for and in fact felt he'd won. Nonetheless, any conflict left him doubting himself, questioning his own judgment. His relief at her response was almost physical. He had risked everything in that last letter, and now he knew he would have a chance with her after all. As he and John set off from the city, he commented with a sigh that life was full of unexpected opportunities if one knew where to look.

"Like perhaps looking to the hills, from whence comes help, or some such thing? How is your friend?"

"She's willing to be my friend, John, my very good friend. She won't desert me after all. I have to find some way to get back there, soon." He stared out the window at the horizon, as if hoping to see the answer there. "These weeks ahead, this tour and what we're doing, are you ready for the changes?"

"Of course. How did you do with Milo? And you should know I could hear at least the tone of the conversation. From the sound of things, you held your own."

"I did, though not without cost. But then I heard from Emily, and it didn't matter so much. She has this power to lift me up, make me better. I can't explain it, but she opens my eyes to things I never knew were there. She makes me want to deserve her, live up to her. I was so afraid she was going to turn away from me, but something I said seems to have changed her mind. I can't lose her again. I won't. Help me, will you? Keep me together, until I can get back there to her."

"I'll do my best, lad. Sounds to me like she's already doing a pretty good job. Here you are, defying Milo and going on with what you want. She's made you stronger, Stani. That's what loving a woman will do for a man. Not that I'm saying you're in love with her."

"Say it, John. If it's possible for such a poor excuse for a man to fall in love, I have. Now I just have to figure out what to do about it."

### Chapter Thirty-five

Dear Stani,

I am convinced that even if I wanted to (which I confess I do not) I wouldn't be able to keep you out of my thoughts. Wherever I go now, it seems you are there.

As I think I told you, my patient, Mae, is a lifelong lover of classical music. She has brought a large part of her collection to Crestview and we listen to music at least once every day. This morning she asked me to play the Bruch Violin Concerto #1. Of course, the artist was. . .you guessed it! But that was the least of it. It turns out the record was sent to her by a friend, Peg Shannon, who apparently is a close friend of yours as well. Mae told me how her friend Peg had taken you on as a "cause," raising the money for your first tour, and how she had nursed you after the accident. I listened to all of this through the most awful pounding in my ears, hoping I wasn't turning every imaginable shade of red.

Mae, it turns out, had even seen you perform when you were still just a teenager. She describes you as a remarkable talent, a charismatic performer, and very popular with the ladies. As she was telling me this, I was gawking at your photograph on the record jacket. My, but—as Mae pointed out—you are a nice looking young man! I can see why the ladies, of any age, might find you appealing. Mae asked me, in the midst of my gawking, if I was familiar with you, popular as you are, and I managed to mumble something to the effect that yes, I thought I had heard of you.

Imagine how I felt as your music played, and she told me these things, as if I knew nothing about you. Of course, the story of Peg Shannon was new to me. Is she the friend you mentioned who saved you from being "an even greater disaster?"

Things here are going well although I'm still a little bit homesick. Crestview is an amazing place, more like a resort than a hospital. Quite a few celebrities come here for "treatment of undisclosed illnesses," things like detox and plastic surgery. As a private nurse, I have my own little apartment, get my meals from the gourmet kitchen, and take my leisure in the indoor pool or on the extensive, beautifully manicured grounds. It hardly seems fair that they also pay me handsomely to suffer all this luxury. Not that I don't work, I do. Ten-hour shifts, depending on the patient, can be an eternity. But Mae is a joy. I spend a good part of each day reading to her, and of course listening to music. She loves to reminisce about the places she's visited (all over the world) and the amazing life she's been privileged to lead. Unfortunately, she's very ill and will never go home again. But she seems content with her situation, and it's an honor for me to be here with her.

You must be traveling all over the country. Your letters have each been postmarked from different cities. How long will you be on tour this time?

I think a great deal about what you said about a future together. It seems strange to consider such a thing when we don't even know when we'll see each other again. I like to think of myself as a patient person; but when it comes to you, I seem to be completely lacking in patience. I want to sit and talk with you, not wait for a letter to come in the mail. (Not that I have to wait all that long. You're a wonderfully prolific pen pal!)

This coming weekend, I'm off duty. I'll be so glad to go home, even for a short time. I always look forward to waking in my own bed and watching the sunrise. The rhythm of life there is so calming. (Believe it or not, I can be a bit mercurial at times myself.) I love the profound quiet and the wide-openness, which I think must be totally foreign to a city dweller like yourself.

Will there ever be a time when I can introduce you to the things I love about my life there? Simple things like the ever-shifting sunlight and the sky at night, the smell of coming rain, the color of the soil just after it's been plowed. There is a time of day, right after sunset, when everything seems to glow, as if holding on to the light for just a few moments more. Then the stars begin to show themselves, one by one. Gradually, the night creatures begin to sing, and the darkness descends, until everything is in shadow. It is such a tranquil time, when I feel I must stop, just breathe and listen, and be very still. I try to imagine you with me in those moments. I believe two people could be truly united in that kind of peace. I remember my father and mother, sitting together on the porch in the twilight, not saying a word but somehow in communion with one another. After my mother was gone, my father would sit in that same spot, and I think he could feel her there with him. It seemed to give him great comfort.

Stani, why do you inspire me to write such things? I'm afraid none of what I've said will make any sense to you. But if we are to take risks, I will risk sharing these thoughts with you.

Wherever you are, take care of yourself.

Impatiently yours,

Emily

Dearest impatient, inspired Emily,

You have shaken me to the core. That you would imagine us together in such a beautiful moment, that you wish for a time to share these treasures with me, causes me to tremble with the most fearful hope. Emily, does this mean you begin to picture us together as I do? Perhaps it is not I who inspires you, but rather your feelings for me? Think on this, you have gone from the certainty of our having no future whatsoever to the desire to share the most sacred moments of your day with me. What can that mean? Can you put a name to that desire? I will refrain from naming it myself until you can do so.

As to the coincidence of your patient and her friendship with Peg, what can I say except it is indeed a small world? Peg has a reputation for knowing all the right people. She raises money for all sorts of charities, as well as for deserving young artists and musicians. She came on board at just the right time to turn me from a total misfit into whatever I am perceived to be today, be that remarkable or charismatic or whatever other adjectives the critics find to use. What you see today, from my clothes to my hair, even the way I walk, is in some way due to Peg's influence. She's a magician as well as a lovely woman, and she has indeed given me a great deal of her time and attention, for which I will be eternally grateful.

How do you feel about nursing patients who will, as you say, never go home? I would think it depressing, but I don't hear that in your letter. How can you find joy in forming a relationship with a woman whose life is about to end? I don't doubt that you do; I just want to understand the means by which you avoid the obvious sadness in such a brief friendship.

You can't know how thrilled I am to hear you're impatient. I am trying to arrange some time, and I promise I'll let you know as soon as I can do so. In the meantime, know that I spend a great deal of time, as I travel around in cars from place to place, as I sit in hotel rooms for hours on end, just imagining you with me. I try to picture your face in the darkness of the audience, wish for you to be waiting for me as I leave the stage, long to hear you say my name as I enter an empty room. I realize these places are nothing compared to the beauty you describe, but they are where I am; and I would have you with me if only to bring some of that beauty into my world of cars and hotels and concert halls.

I find myself envious of your sense of belonging to one place, your intimacy with your home. You asked me once where I lived and I don't think I gave you an answer. The truth is I don't really live anywhere. I still have a room in the apartment I shared with Milo and Jana in New York. It's where I get my mail and the address I give to shopkeepers and tailors when there are things to be delivered. Since so much of the time I'm traveling, there seems little need for more than that. But now that I've seen a real home, I find myself longing for such a place. I've always told myself I am most at home when I'm performing. If I have anything to compare to what you describe, it is the place I sometimes go when I am playing my best, when everything has come together, the energy of the orchestra and the focus of the audience, and there is only the music, everywhere at once. That has been what I called home for a very long time, what I feared I might have lost after the accident. But home is a place to be shared, is it not? A place to turn for comfort and security? I don't know how to go about finding such a place for myself, but I'm determined to begin searching.

Please continue to write often. My mail is sent by courier to wherever I'm headed next. The first thing I look for when I arrive is your letter.

All my best,

Stani

Dear Stani,

I can't imagine what sort of life you're having, traveling so much. Are you getting enough rest and eating regularly? How can you sleep, every night in a different bed? I find I have trouble here at Crestview, and my apartment is very cozy; it just isn't home.

You ask about nursing terminal patients. I have seen death now enough to know it is a part of living. My job is to provide care and comfort to my patients, no matter the prognosis. My mother died at home after a long illness, and the nurses who came to care for her became like members of our family. I think I learned from them that in some cases death is the only healing to be hoped for.

There is so much to learn from people, at any time in their lives, but it seems at the end they have a special kind of wisdom to share. Being with Mae, I have learned that no matter how privileged a life there is still sorrow and loss, in her case, the loss of a child. Her only son was killed in 1944, his plane shot down over Germany, yet she has talked about him as though he were still alive. She has dealt with his loss by remembering him in life rather than dwelling on the tragedy of his death. She told me today she wanted to come to the mountains to die because she felt closer to him here. As a boy, he especially loved spending time at the family cabin in the Blue Ridge; and I believe she can still sense him here.

She is near the end I think, and seems to be at peace. She said she wanted to fill her ears with the music and words she had loved in life, to take the sounds with her to the other side. I find that a beautiful expectation, don't you? The idea that the things we love most will be with us gives a greater definition to the concept of Heaven. At any rate, she's found real comfort in her books and music, and I've shared in that experience. This case has been one of the most rewarding of my career so far. I've been blessed by my time here and yes, I will feel the loss when she passes.

You should know I cried when I read your description of the place you call home. I think what you experience must be intensely spiritual, but at the same time it sounds transient and lonely. How can you know when you'll be there again if it depends on all those things, the orchestra and the audience? My home is so solid and constant, always the same earth and walls. It's been the same all my life. Like an old friend, it waits for me to return and welcomes me when I've been away. I hope you will eventually find that kind of place, that your search will be successful.

It's a sad state of affairs when we are reduced to imagining one another nearby. I confess that in the past I often tried to imagine you, the sound of your voice, your smile, the way you move. I had only the image of you so badly injured, so still on the floor by the fire. Your photographs were fascinating to me because they showed me things about you I hadn't been able to see that night. But now that I have actually spent time with you, I have so much more to fuel my imagination. May I say how pleasantly surprised I was by your voice? I don't think that's something easily imagined. I never anticipated the depth (or the accent!). I think I imagined you a tenor, rather than such a warm baritone. At any rate, now I have so much more on which to build my fantasies.

And now that I've shamelessly confessed my fascination with you, you'll think I'm just like every other girl who waits outside the stage door for your autograph. Sorry to disillusion you.

Please take care of yourself. Wishing I could be in the audience for you,

Emily

Dearest, most wonderfully shameless Emily,

You do realize your last letter went from the sublime to the ridiculous? Fantasized over me? I doubt you gave me more than a passing thought. But please, feel free to do so now if you are so inclined.

I am taking care of myself, or at least John is trying to. And I'm truly enjoying this little tour, which is different from any I've done before. I'm performing, as always, in large and small halls, with orchestras I've worked with in the past and a few new, smaller groups as well. But the most interesting part of this tour, and the something different, is that I'm visiting music schools, both at large universities and some of the smaller conservatories. I give a short recital, then spend time talking with the students. It has been an amazing thing, to meet these very talented people not much younger than myself, and realize what a struggle many of them face in pursuit of their goals. I've been so wretchedly ungrateful for my own good fortune. I must have thought somehow I deserved all the special attention along the way. These musicians have to pay for everything and work so hard to get an education before anyone will consider them for the lowliest jobs. Their love of music, their desire to perform and their determination to excel are truly inspiring.

Milo has never wanted me to accept these invitations—too far, too much time for too little (if any) pay. It was my decision to do this, and believe me he was none too pleased. But my therapist had advised me to find some way to give of myself, and this seemed the obvious way. Now that I know the rewards, I'm so glad I took the chance. Milo has been about making money, keeping a high profile; but there can be no harm in giving as well can there? I learned this past year, because I asked for the first time, that I've already earned a great deal of money, probably more than I'll ever need. Why should I always be paid so much to do what I love and what seems to bring joy to others as well? I plan to talk with Peg about other ways I might give more of myself and what I have. I'm sure she can help me with this as she is, after all, an expert in these matters. I feel so ashamed that it has never occurred to me to do this sort of thing before. You see what an incomplete person I really am?

I must go now. John is reminding me the driver has been waiting long enough. I wanted to get this posted before I left for the concert hall.

All my best, such as it is,

Stani

### ****

On a late autumn day when the sun cast the gently rolling hills in sharp contrasts of gold and bronze, Emily stood at the bedside of her new friend and bid her safe passage. Mae's only surviving child, Anne, had only hours earlier left her mother with a promise to see her again soon, but Emily felt sure she must have known the end was near. The passing had been absolutely peaceful, as the sunset blazed above the distant ridges and Brahms played softly on the stereo. While Emily found herself intensely grateful for the shared moment, she hesitated to think too deeply on the experience. Some encounters in life should be allowed to simply leave their impression on the heart, she decided.

At Anne's invitation, Emily traveled to the funeral in Richmond. The big downtown church was filled with a lifetime of friends who came from all over the country to honor a woman who had quietly but very effectively touched so many lives. What struck Emily most profoundly was that Mae would be remembered for not only her generosity, but the joy with which she had shared her wealth. Stories were recounted of her strength in the face of loss, but also of her sharp wit and unfailing graciousness. She found herself wishing Stani could be there to hear the fine musicians who had come to play, musicians who had benefited over the years from Mae's patronage. The service was a fitting celebration of a life well-lived and Emily was sure Mae would have heartily enjoyed it.

### ****

Dear Stani,

I have had the most surreal experience. I have met Peg Shannon. At the funeral for Mae Hanbury, she came right up to me. Of course, she only knows me as Mae's nurse. Mae's daughter, Anne, introduced us and Peg told me how much she appreciated the care I had given her friend. You would have been proud of how calmly I handled myself.

But the most surreal part of all was the window. You see, we were standing in front of a stained glass window in the narthex of the church after the service. I had actually been standing there for a while, studying the window, which is dedicated to the memory of Mae's son, David. It's the most beautiful image of a shepherd boy, surrounded by his little flock, his harp raised to his shoulder. You can almost hear the music just by looking at his face. I knew by his red hair that he was the young King David, but the scene behind him is not the rugged terrain of Israel but the gently rolling hills of the Blue Ridge.

It was so moving, I couldn't take my eyes off it. When Peg came up with Anne, and we said our hellos, she turned to the window, too. Stani, it was as though I could read her mind. She looked up at the boy with the red curls, and after a moment, she said, "What a remarkable face." I knew she was thinking of you, just as I had been. I thought, just for a second, I might tell her I was the one who pulled you out of the storm and sent you back to her, but of course I didn't.

So, once again our worlds have crossed. I suppose I should accept that this sort of thing is going to go on happening. After almost three years, I think it's safe to say you are in my life to stay. If only you, not just some reminder of you, some image of you, some person who might have seen you or even known you, if only you yourself were more in my life, then I might be better able to accept it.

I'm going to Angela's for Thanksgiving, then home until after Christmas. Where are you, where will you be next week, next month? Wherever you are, please take care of yourself. Your tour sounds exciting and exhausting. What you're doing with the students is wonderful! You're right, there can be no harm in giving.

Back to Peg Shannon, she's much younger than I expected, and very beautiful. How could you spend so much time together and remain just friends? Are you sure you aren't in love with her or she with you?

I'll be home on Friday night after Thanksgiving. I'll put a light in the window that and every night until I see you again.

Still impatient,

Emily

### ****

The happy chaos of the Salvatore household, overflowing with Italian and Greek relatives visiting from a distance, was a welcome change after the quiet of Crestview; but Emily was anxious to get home. This year, for the first time, she planned to spend the holidays with the friends and neighbors who had shown her so much support in the past few years. She was a full-fledged member of the community now; and she intended to do her part. With that in mind, she'd promised Sara to prepare the children's music for the Christmas Eve service. She had also volunteered to help Jack with the Christmas Family boxes. Each year the Sheriff's Department distributed baskets to the less fortunate families in the county; Emily had offered to shop for toys, matching them to the wish lists of the children. She was looking forward to the busy month ahead. If Stani found time for a visit, he would not find her sitting idly by the window watching for him.

Returning late on Friday evening, she was still unloading her car when the phone rang. Given the hour, she was sure it was Jack, checking to see that she'd arrived safely, so she let it ring. She would call him once she finished with the last load. But the ringing persisted. When she answered, the voice on the line was Stani's. "Thank God you're finally home! I've been calling for hours!"

"What on earth for? Are you all right?" She was alarmed and confused. He'd never called before, and he sounded frantic.

"I have tomorrow if you'll let me come."

"All day?"

"Most of it. I'm in Baltimore. If we leave early enough I can be there by mid-morning. I don't have to be anywhere tomorrow evening. May I come?"

"I'd be furious if you didn't. Hours, Stani, just hours. But that's more than we've had so far."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow. And Emily?"

"Yes?"

"We'll make those hours count, I promise."

She stood in the middle of the room, imagining him in front of her. Her heart threatened to explode in her chest, she could barely breathe and she wanted to scream for joy. He was coming again, not just words on paper, but real hours together! Sudden terror threatened to stop her heart altogether. What if face to face they found nothing to say to each other? In the safety of distance, she had found it easy to talk intimately with him, sharing her innermost thoughts and even her warmest feelings. There would be no safety with him here in this room, no hiding from those dark, searching eyes. He would be a touch away, and she remembered all too well her response to his touch.

### Chapter Thirty-six

Once again, she made careful preparations, seeing that the house and the space near the fireplace in particular were in order. The day had dawned cloudy and chill, a perfect day to stay inside by the fire. With the golden glow of the lamps warming the gray light from the windows, and the fire crackling on the hearth, she was content the stage was set. Cushions comfortably arranged on the couch, the ottoman at the ready if he wanted to put his feet up. She draped a quilt over one of the chairs, just for effect. At the last minute, she cleared the game table by the window of her correspondence and books. They might have afternoon tea in here, if he wanted to.

As for herself, it had not been so simple to decide what needed to be done. She wanted to put him at ease, so she thought she should dress casually. But what if he arrived so elegantly attired, as he had the last time? She would feel awkward in jeans. Finally choosing a relatively new outfit, gray flannel slacks and a soft alpine cardigan in shades of rose and gray, she tried it on first with a tailored white shirt. Too much, too bulky and masculine. Eliminating the shirt, she buttoned the sweater, leaving the last two buttons at the neck unfastened. Much better, more mature, less school-girlish. She decided to leave her hair down, parting it in the center and sweeping it behind her ears. A little makeup, her silver cross around her neck, and she felt she looked as well as she could. Eying herself in the mirror, she decided she looked awfully tall in the slim trousers; but there was nothing she could do about that.

Ready by nine, she paced the front room for an hour, tending the fire and plumping cushions periodically. At ten, she stationed herself by the window, willing a car to come through the gate. The gate! Dashing across the yard, she reached the end of the drive just as a long, shiny black limousine approached, virtually crawling up the narrow road. Swinging open the gate, she tried to catch her breath, standing next to it as the car pulled through. The driver, an aging Negro in a very proper uniform, turned and gave her a huge smile, his eyes twinkling.

The moment the door opened, and Stani stepped out, she found herself running straight into his outstretched arms. If she had been worried, now she was completely reassured, as he held her close and pressed his cheek against hers. He turned to wave to the driver, and arm in arm, they walked to the house.

She helped him out of his overcoat, taking note that again he was all in black, today a heavyweight twill shirt that hugged his body like a glove, and jeans, perfectly creased black jeans. Still elegant, she thought. Carefully folding his coat over a chair, she turned and was immediately drawn into his arms again.

"I've been looking forward to this for so long. All those lovely things you wrote were driving me to distraction." His eyes were searching hers, waiting for a signal it seemed. Without the least hesitation, she took his face in her hands, meeting his gaze. She had never kissed a man, but it seemed the most natural thing now to press her lips to his, at first tentatively, then with ever-increasing intensity.

When they parted, his eyes were wide and still searching. "Emily, what have you done to me? I'm the one who's supposed to sweep you off your feet."

"Should I apologize?"

"Never. But I think we should sit down. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed, if not quite undone." He grinned, his eyes twinkling now.

She laughed softly. "I remember the feeling. I got over it. So will you, I expect." She led him to the couch, perching on the edge of the cushion beside him, one foot tucked beneath her. For a moment, she studied his face. "Stani, you look exhausted! You haven't been taking care of yourself after all!"

"I admit I didn't sleep much last night. I was too excited and ready for morning to come. I'm fine, really. Just let me sit here and look at you. The fire's lovely, by the way." He stretched his legs toward the hearth, resting his head against the back of the couch. "Talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking you need a nap, silly. You're about to fall asleep." Sliding to the floor, she started to remove his boots.

"What are you doing? I don't want to sleep while I'm here with you! Emily, please!" But she had cast aside the boots and was lifting his feet to the couch.

"Just stretch out here for a while and rest." She tucked a cushion behind his head. Once again, she kissed him, this time a slow, lingering kiss. "I'm quite content to watch you sleep, you know. This time, I'm sure you'll wake up." Taking his arms from around her waist, she crossed his hands on his chest.

Stani grinned, his lids drooping. "Quite undone."

### ****

Stani drifted in and out of sleep, the crackle of the fire and sounds of activity from the kitchen mingling with his dreams. She was in his arms, her eyes warm and wide. He could smell the freshness of her hair, the sweet clean scent of her skin. She had kissed him before he'd even known what was happening. He'd been suddenly dizzy with the power of his own response. He could never have dreamed such a thing. It had happened, this morning, in this room. Emily had kissed him, not once, but twice. The sweet promise of those kisses had opened some new place inside him. An almost painful longing for more of her, a yearning to have her near again, disturbed his dream.

He jerked awake at a sudden sound. Blinking up at the ceiling, he tried to remember how he'd come to be here alone, lying on the couch. He sat up slowly, running his hands through his hair in an effort to clear his head. Where was she? How long had he slept? He started to call out, but another voice sounded nearby. As he looked around, a tall man was just coming through the front door. He couldn't hold back the words already on his lips. "Emily, what have you done with my boots?"

But the other man was calling her too, "Em, are you here?'

Their eyes met over the back of the couch, as each contemplated the other in amazement.

Emily came from the kitchen, a smile lighting her face. If he'd possessed the presence of mind to notice anything, Stani would have been surprised that she wasn't blushing at all. He felt his own face flaming as he struggled to his feet. She was gazing fondly up at the man in the doorway, who looked back at her with raised brows, obviously awaiting an explanation.

"Jack, I didn't expect to see you this morning. You remember Stani Moss."

Stani cringed. Here he stood, in his stocking feet, sleep still clouding his brain, as he was introduced to the most important person in her life. Emily was reaching for him, drawing him around the couch to stand beside her. "Stani, this is Sheriff Jack Deem. He also happens to be my godfather and the best friend I could ever wish for."

Stani extended his hand, his face cracking into an embarrassed grin in spite of his desire for some shred of dignity. "Sir, it's a pleasure to meet you. Emily's told me so much about you."

"Oh, she has, has she? Well, that's more than I can say about you. I must say you look a sight better than the last time I saw you." Jack took his hand, gave him a good looking over, and returned his gaze to Emily's still smiling face.

"Stani's only here for a few hours, Jack. Did you need me for something?" She looked pointedly at the parcels he carried. "Not that I'm not happy to see you. I was just putting lunch on the table. Would you like to join us?"

He glanced at Stani, and his eyes crinkled in a smile. "No thanks, Em. I just brought these things for you." Handing her a brown paper bag, he said, "Turkey soup from Martha Jean. Sara said you'd want to look over this music before Sunday School tomorrow. And here's the first of the kids for the Christmas Family." He passed her two folders, one bulging with sheet music. "I know there'll be more. It's been a hard year, with the drought. You're sure you want to take this on your own?"

"Positive. It'll be fun. I may get Angela and Lil to help me shop if I can get to Charlottesville." She was juggling the parcels, trying to get a look at the list of names. Stani took the bag from her, thankful for some way to feel useful. He was keenly conscious of Jack's eyes traveling from his tousled hair to his socks. Emily, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to his discomfort, as well as the bemused expression on Jack's face.

Another moment of awkward silence and Jack appeared to rouse himself. "I'll be going, then. You two enjoy your afternoon." He held out a hand to Stani. "I expect we'll meet again." But he continued to wait expectantly, obviously hoping for an explanation. "Em, I'll see you in church tomorrow?"

Deeply absorbed in reading the list, she didn't look up. "Of course, thanks for stopping by." Raising her eyes to his face at last, she smiled, an unexpected dimple appearing in one cheek. "We'll talk, Jack, I promise."

As soon as the door closed, she laughed softly. "I'm afraid he's had a bad shock. And you look just a tad rattled yourself. Your boots are on the hearth, by the way." Taking the bag from his hands, she turned back to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "Lunch is ready."

When he had put on his boots and tried to calm his nerves, he joined her in the kitchen. "I'm not sure he got the right impression, you know. Will he be upset I was here like that?"

She indicated a chair and sat down across from him at the table. "Like what? You were taking a nap. If he'd walked in when I was kissing you so shamelessly, it might have been awkward. But he had to find out sometime. I'm amazed I've managed to keep quiet this long. I don't keep secrets very well, especially not from Jack. He'll be fine as long as he thinks I'm happy." She was filling his plate with food. "I hope you don't mind leftovers. Sal sent all this home with me, and I hated to take the time to cook something else."

"It looks wonderful. And are you? Happy, I mean?"

"I think so. Ask me later, when you're gone and I have no idea when I'll see you again. But right now, yes, I'm happy." He couldn't take his eyes from her face, as she set the plate before him and looked up with such warmth, the faintest color rising in her cheeks. She was so beautiful, so fresh and real. Here was no dream girl, with her sad, serious smile, but the girl who had kissed him so sweetly just this morning. She passed him a napkin and began to fill her own plate. His eye fell to the logo in the corner of the napkin, his breath caught in his throat and for just a second he felt the room tilt.

"Where did you say this came from?"

Oddly, she seemed to understand why his voice was trembling. Her eyes were full of sympathy, as if she had expected something like this. She answered slowly, "Salvatore's. My godmother Angela. Her husband Sal is a chef. He has a restaurant in Charlottesville and he caters. Stani, do you remember something?"

"John's report. The caterer at the party that night, Salvatore, he remembered me. Something about his daughter." He scarcely recognized his own voice.

"Lil. Do you remember?"

As he struggled to find the image, he shook his head. "No, just what I read in the report. These people, Emily. I don't understand. They have some connection to you?" Carefully, he laid the napkin next to his plate, waiting.

Emily had known this moment would come. She had waited, hoping for a sign he was ready to hear what she knew. She could tell him now about Lil, about the autograph, about the last words Lil had spoken to him before he left the party that night. He was watching her, his eyes dark and pained, as if he feared hearing what she had to say. "You told me you don't remember anything about the night before the accident."

"No, I don't even remember Mark Stevenson. Why? Do you know something?"

"You met Lil that night at the party. Sal was catering and Lil recognized you and took you some food. She was just a kid, seventeen, and she was so impressed to see you there. You gave her your autograph on a napkin. She has it framed and hanging on her wall."

He listened in silence, carefully following what she was saying. "You're telling me I met this girl, someone so close to you, that night? And the next day I walked all the way up here to you in the storm?" He shook his head gently. "How do you explain such a thing?"

"I can't. But I believe it was all part of the same miracle. But there's something else." His eyes fell away, and he stared out the window across the yard. "Lil told me she gave you a sort of benediction, a blessing, when she left you that night. She didn't understand it herself, but she knew she'd done something extraordinary." She watched him closely, knowing what she was saying might be impossible for him to understand.

Stani dropped his head, running his hands through his hair. "Emily, how am I supposed to believe something some stranger said to me that night kept me from dying in that car? Is that what you believe?" He raised his eyes to hers, pleading.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. It happened. When I found out, months later, I had trouble understanding too. The moment I first saw that napkin with your signature, I thought I'd lost my mind. There was Lil, rattling off the story of how she'd met you and talked with you that night. She had no idea what had happened here the next day."

"And you told her?"

Emily had a vision of herself, racing from the house, sobbing at Angela's kitchen table. She smiled. "Not exactly. But eventually, we talked. And she told me what she'd said to you. It made me feel better somehow. It was another sign that God had been watching over you."

Stani sat for a time, staring toward the edge of the yard where the hill dropped away, where he knew he had fallen in the snow. He closed his eyes, finally, as if to block the sight, to focus on something within. "Benedictions, blessings, signs, miracles." He spoke each word as if tasting it. "How do I fit those things into the life I'd been living? Why should this God you seem to know so well have been interested in me? Oh, I don't deny he exists. I've felt a presence at times, a kind of peace, that I could call God. But to believe he was there at that party, in that car, that he chose you, and even Lil, to protect me? That's asking me to accept that something I barely acknowledged the existence of actually cared enough about me to spare me, while two other people died. How am I supposed to do that?" She waited, knowing he would have to come to the answer alone. Finally, he turned to her, his eyes still dark, but filled with what could only be wonder, as if a window had suddenly opened for him. "Is that the mystery, the thing only what you call faith can accept?" She smiled encouragingly. "You said you believe I lived because there's more I'm supposed to do with my life. How do I find out what that is?"

"But you've already found something, what you're doing on this tour, giving of yourself. There'll be more, as you go on, and there'll be signs pointing the way. There are always signs if we're watching for them. The week I came home trying to find some way back to my life, I knew it would take a miracle. Then in just a matter of hours there seemed to be this shower of signs, all pointing to what I wanted most, to come home again. Right behind that was the miracle of you, walking for hours toward a light I had only turned on for a minute. You, surviving that awful night, going back to what you had been. When I saw the pictures of your recovery in that magazine, can you imagine how proud I was for you? I had seen the miracle first hand, and the whole world confirmed it."

"And yet it didn't feel that way to me. All the pain, working to get back the one thing I needed most, trying to justify my survival. I felt guilty just for being alive." He reached for her hand. "You let me go too soon."

"It wasn't as if I could have followed you home."

He smiled at the idea of her by his side in the world he'd returned to. "No, but it might have turned out very differently with you there to tell me these things sooner. 'Signs and miracles' were not part of my recovery. I told you, I was terrified I might never play again. It was all up to me to get back to where I'd been before, or lose everything. How can I ever explain to you the darkness, the loneliness? If you had been there, and not only in my dreams, at least there would have been some light, some comfort."

"But you made it, Stani, on your own. That was the journey you had to make. I know from experience, the journey is where we learn to rely on our faith, because we find ourselves unable to make it alone."

"You know so much more about these things than I do. I'm afraid religion was totally lacking in our lives. Milo is Jewish and Jana is Catholic, but neither one practices or even talks about their faith. At least not to me. I remember going to Christmas Eve services with Jana a few times. I was so impressed with the beauty of the candlelight and the music. But that was all. When I began performing, I found I loved playing in churches. No matter what the music it seems somehow sacred when it's played in church. But that's as close to worship as I've ever been. I think it's been very different for you."

"I grew up in church, the same church all my life. I realize how fortunate I was to have parents who gave me that kind of upbringing. My faith has been tested, but it has never failed me. Stani, God has already reached out to you. And you've responded by trying to change the way you live your life. Just open your heart. He'll tell you what you should do next."

"How will I know it's not just my own thoughts, my own desires?"

"You'll know. Wait and listen. You'll recognize the difference."

"Watch for signs? Is that what you're telling me? So far, they seem to take the form of a beautiful girl bearing wisdom." After another moment of staring across the yard, he began to poke at his untouched meal. "Do you think we'll always be like this, so intense?"

"I hope not. I think we have to get past the first time we were together. That was certainly intense. The more time we spend together, the farther we'll get from that. Assuming we have the opportunity to spend time together. Can you really only stay a few more hours? You said you don't have to be anywhere tonight."

"I have a concert in DC tomorrow night." He watched her eyes light up as she smiled, a mischievous half-smile he'd never seen before. "What are you thinking?"

"You could get stranded here, and still get to DC in plenty of time, couldn't you?"

"Stranded how? Robert will be back for me at five. John has already gone ahead to the hotel. And surely, you don't think I'd sleep here?" His fork paused in mid-air as he stared at her, trying to determine whether she was serious.

"Why not? I do have a lock on my bedroom door, as if I'd be worried about that. We could have hours more time, dinner and breakfast. You wouldn't like that?" Her eyes were wide with excitement, and he felt himself being drawn into what was clearly an inspired madness.

"Emily, in the first place, you're asking me to be much stronger than I am. The thought of you sleeping in the next room, even with a locked door, would be unbearable. Do you really think I'm so immune to your very beautiful self? Secondly, what would Jack say if he knew I'd stayed here? I don't know what charge he might think up, but I'm pretty sure he'd try to arrest me for something. No, I can't! And yes, I would like to very much! You are without a doubt the most unusual girl I've ever known. One minute you're an angel dispensing spiritual counsel, and the next you're a siren luring me to certain disaster. How am I ever going to know which one I'll have to deal with next?"

"At least you won't get bored with me. But really, can't you stay? You could go to church with me in the morning."

Stani threw back his head and laughed. "Emily, my love, how would you explain a strange man spending the night with you and the next day accompanying you to church? If you were worried about people talking when you dragged me in from the storm, what do you suppose they would say to such an obvious moral lapse?"

"But we wouldn't lapse. We're just good friends, remember?"

He took her hand, raising it near his lips, his eyes never leaving her expectant gaze. "Don't be naive, love. I am a man and you are a woman. If I spent the night here, we'd never be just friends again. Not by the time we sat down to breakfast together."

At the warmth in his eyes and the firmness in his voice, a little shiver lifted her shoulders. "Really, Stani, I think you underestimate me. But if you think we shouldn't, so be it. We'll just have to make the most of the time we have left." She rose from the table and carried their plates to the sink. Turning back, she flashed that beguiling little smile again. "Well, are you coming? Between sleeping and eating and all this intense conversation, we've used up most of the time we might have had for more pleasant things. I'd like to learn more about that 'I am man, you are woman' thing, if you'd care to enlighten me."

### Chapter Thirty-seven

For over an hour they sat talking of many things. Emily seemed intent on learning as much about him as possible in the short time available, hurling one direct question after another at his whirling brain. He was helpless to do other than answer frankly. As she perched on the edge of the cushion, gauging his every response with that profound gray gaze, he wondered if she couldn't read his thoughts. There would be no opportunity to edit his life, no hiding any dark corner of his past. Emily demanded, and deserved, honesty.

She began with his living arrangements, what kind of apartment, how large, who lived there with him?

"Let's see, I suppose it could be described as large by New York standards. Four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a nice large living area and a very fine kitchen, which is rarely put to use. It has a really excellent view of the city. Views of any sort in Manhattan come with a price tag. As to my roommates, Milo and Jana, of course, and John now. He moved into one of the guest rooms after I returned from the hospital, and he's just never moved out. We travel so much, I suppose he doesn't feel the need for a place of his own."

"Are there servants?"

He started to say no, but thought better. "I don't know that I would call them that, but there are people who work for us, who are on the payroll. Not a butler or housemaids, certainly, but the housekeeper who comes three or maybe four times a week. And there's Robert, Milo's chauffeur. And then there's Milo's secretary, without whom we would all be totally lost."

"What's the housekeeper like?" When he answered with a blank stare, she prodded, "Old, young, small, large?"

"Ah, I see. Mamie is tall, and I think it's fair to say she's somewhere between young and old. She's kind, very forgiving of our disorganized lifestyle; and I'm pretty sure of all the members of our eclectic household, I'm her favorite. She and Robert are related, sister and brother, I think. It makes for a nice arrangement."

"How long have they worked for you? Robert and Mamie, I mean." This was some sort of test, he realized, to determine how much attention he paid to things he most likely took for granted.

He paused to think. "Just after we moved to New York I guess. It seems to me they've always been there. Mamie was always watching out for me, reminding me to wear my overcoat in winter and such. I'm afraid I tended to be pathetically absentminded as a boy. Still am, I suppose, but now John takes care of most of the details. Robert drove me to school, I remember, so yes, they've been there since we moved from London. He's a really fine man, Robert, very considerate. He had driven me to DC, before the accident. He's told me more than once how terrified he was when he found I'd disappeared."

"And John? Is he 'on the payroll,' too?"

"It would be more accurate to say John works with us, rather than for us. He gets paid far too little for all he does, I'm sure. In truth, John is a good friend who has graciously agreed to put up with me in exchange for a pittance plus room and board."

Apparently satisfied, she moved on to his education, through his New York debut, to the history of his career. The personalities he'd worked with, the places he'd stayed and the music he'd played. How did he travel around when he was touring?

"Planes, trains, cars. It all blends together after a while. And someone else is in charge of the arrangements. I just show up, more or less on time, and get taken to wherever I'm supposed to be. Now, on this tour, it's been a bit different. Just John and myself, we've traveled by car most places."

"But today, Robert drove you, or I assume that was Robert."

"Yes, since we'll be on the East Coast for a few days and Milo's in Europe right now, we had Robert come down. Gives John a break."

"Don't you ever drive? Go places on your own?"

He chuckled. "Not if John has anything to say about it. I have a license, but I rarely drive. When I came off tour, Milo even suggested I think of buying a car, but the mere suggestion of driving in Manhattan gave me nightmares. Once in a while, if his eyes are bothering him, John will let me get behind the wheel, but not for long. No faith, I guess. He's afraid we'll end up hopelessly lost if he isn't watching the entire time. I tend to nap when we're traveling, so I rarely notice where we're going."

That opened the subject of how much rest and when and what he ate while touring. He could see her disapproval as he described the late night receptions with their less than nutritious buffets and open bars. What sort of people did he meet at these affairs? He grimaced as he listed the blue-haired matrons and elder-statesmen who demanded his attention by virtue of their positions on the contributors list. Then there were the younger girls, college students and debutantes, with their very proper and obviously bored escorts. Rarely a genuine music lover in the lot, but they all seemed to feel he had something in common with them because they were of the same generation. "Unfortunately, I've never had much at all in common with people my own age. It's not as if I went to college or did any of the things most kids do."

"Have there been lots of girls?" she asked, one expressive brow arching slightly.

"What? You mean on tour?" He sensed rapids ahead on this winding river of her curiosity.

"Anywhere. You said I was the most unusual girl you'd ever known. Have there been lots of girls you've known?" She fixed him with an expectant stare.

"What would you consider lots? Dozens, hundreds?" He grinned at the idea.

"Were there hundreds?" Her eyes were wide and slightly amused, but the tone of her question was undeniably serious.

"Of course not! I'm only twenty-four and I got a very late start." He pulled her close with a sigh, pressing her head against his shoulder. "If you must know, and apparently you must, there may have been a couple dozen or so, but no one the least bit important. Back in my slightly wilder days, I wasted a fair amount of time on the town in New York, clubs and parties and such. There was no shortage of women bent on slaying every man in sight. I fell victim to a few, but I was too easy for them I think. I'm not aggressive enough, apparently. If they wanted me, they took me, and I just crawled off afterward, licking my wounds. Since the accident, I really haven't had much interest at all. In fact, until quite recently, I'd begun to wonder if I would ever be interested in that sort of thing again."

"And now?" Her voice was muffled against his shirt.

"Now I'm very interested, but only under the proper conditions. You see, I've always been curious as to what it might be like to be in love, not just to make love. I'd be interested in pursuing that subject if a certain girl would join me in the experiment."

"If you mean me, you'll have to understand that I have no experience whatsoever. Until a few hours ago, I'd never really kissed a man. And I still haven't been kissed by a man, you know. So I would have to be considered a totally untrained assistant, I think." She sat up, turning to face him.

"Never been kissed by a man? How can that be? Or is it just boys who've kissed you so far?"

"No, not really. I never had time and there was never anyone interesting enough." She paused, lowering her gaze to a button half-way down his shirt-front. "Or maybe it was the memory of a certain red-haired violinist that kept me from considering anyone else. Angela told me once I had fallen in love with the idea of you. Maybe it was more than just an idea."

He was lost to respond, watching her poised so primly on the edge of the couch. Only her eyes, deep smoky gray now, betrayed the emotion behind her words. "What are you saying, Emily?" The huskiness in his own voice surprised him.

"I'm saying I want to be in love with you. If that's what you want. I've pretended for so long it could never happen, I almost convinced myself. But you're here, you're so beautiful, and I don't want to lose you again. I'm sorry if that's not what a girl's supposed to say to a man she's only known for a few weeks, but it's what I want to say to you."

With an unconscious groan, Stani pulled her across his lap, cradling her in his arms. In spite of his promise to himself to go slowly with her, he kissed her with all the passion inspired by her innocent little speech. Her response was instantaneous. Her body curved against him, her arms winding around his neck. Weaving her fingers into his hair, she pulled his face closer, parting her lips beneath his. For just a moment, he considered taking her where she was clearly willing to go. He tentatively invaded the open lips, his hands began to explore, and then, with all the willpower he could summon, he pulled away.

"Emily, love, please slow down! You don't want this--I don't want this--not this way." Still holding her gently, he tried to look into her eyes, lifting her chin with one finger, but she resisted, burying her face on his chest. "Emily, darling girl, please listen to me." For an instant, just when the words could finally be spoken, his voice threatened to forsake him. "I love you, Emily. And I want you, don't think for a moment I don't. But not this way." She turned her face up to him, watching and listening now. "When I say I love you, I mean all of you, not some dream of you, not some idea. I love your mind, your spirit and yes, your body. I want all of you, for much more than the few minutes we would have here now. This is too important to rush, too vital to our future. If I made love to you now, and left not knowing when I might be back, you would soon come to resent me."

"I may be inexperienced, but I think I know what I want." Her eyes shadowed with pain, she clearly believed he was rejecting her.

Stani smoothed her hair, pressing her head to his chest. "When we make love for the first time, we should have all the time we want. Every detail should be something we'll remember forever. Do you have any idea what it means to know you want me, would have me even now, when we don't know how or when we'll be together again? When you kissed me this morning, it was as if you'd breathed life into me, given me reason to try to be the best man I could possibly be, just to earn another kiss from you. I want to be that man, or try to be, before I offer myself to you. Can you wait for me, Emily?"

She reached up to touch his cheek, burying her face against his neck. "Of course I can. I got swept off my feet, didn't I? The very first time you kissed me, I was ready to go wherever you wanted me to. You must think I'm totally without self-control. And apparently I am. I'm sorry."

"Not sorry! Never be sorry for a thing like that." He nuzzled her hair, breathing deeply of the sweet warmth. Then with a grin, he turned her face up to look into her eyes. "Unless you respond that way to some other man. Oh, Emily, darling unexpected Emily, do you realize how rare you are, how unique and original. You are a rainbow after a thunderstorm, a soft breeze at the end of long hot day. How can I convince you that you should never, never apologize for being you?"

She was silent for a time, her fingers curling inside his open collar, idly caressing his skin. "Are you always so poetic?"

"No, never." Stani laughed softly, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "I must ask, do you really think I'm beautiful?"

She raised her head and studied his face. "Yes, I do. Do you mind?"

"I couldn't just be handsome? Some critic called me 'arresting.' Would that do?"

She gave his face another long, considering look. "No. You're beautiful. Handsome is too common. Lots of men are handsome in one way or another, ruggedly or classically or romantically. You are so much more, your eyes, the way you move, and most especially your hair." She ran her fingers into the waves at his temple to underscore her point.

"Ah, my hair. The curse of my boyhood, the perpetual bane of my young existence. And now the thing you love most about me? How totally ironic."

"Not the thing I love most, but certainly one of my favorite things about you." She snuggled against him, sighing contently. One hand wandered inside his shirtfront, as if of its own volition, her fingers gently exploring the soft curls on his chest.

"Emily, I warn you, all my honorable intentions could be abandoned if you keep that up," he said sternly. Grasping her hand, he raised it to his lips. "You can be maddeningly single-minded, you know?"

"So Jack says. I think it's one of my strong points. I might say the same of you. I mean you were the one who insisted we might have a future together when I was single-mindedly refusing to see it. If we are both single-minded and both mercurial, things should never be dull, should they?" She settled more comfortably across his lap, nestling her head in the bend of his shoulder. "Stani, you asked me if I was happy. Are you happy, with me I mean?"

"Have you heard anything I've said to you? Can you not feel how happy I am, just holding you in my arms and knowing I'll be able to hold you again in the future? What will it take for you to see that you have made me the happiest man ever to draw breath?" He kissed her, hard and long, wondering where he would find the strength to leave her when the time came.

When he finally lifted his head and looked down at her, she smiled, a smug little half-smile, and said sweetly, "Just checking." Again, her fingers slid between the buttons.

Eventually, she rose to stir the fire and add more logs. She turned back in time to catch him idly rubbing his left shoulder, a little twist of pain crossing his face.

"Does it bother you much?" She brushed his hand aside, kneeling on the cushion, and began to gently probe his shoulder. "Take off your shirt."

"What?" He drew back in alarm.

"Relax. I'm a nurse, remember. I might be able to help. I know it's cool in here, but I can't feel anything through this shirt. You're not wearing an undershirt?"

He shook his head, eying her skeptically. She should know that. Hadn't she just been driving him mad with her deliciously wandering hand?

"Then just slip this off." She waited and when he made no move to obey, swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, her fingers moving efficiently down the front and sweeping it off his shoulders. Ignoring his doubtful glare, she said crisply, "There, now let's have a look." He had the peculiar sensation of having been transported to a sterile medical office and looked to be sure she hadn't exchanged that lovely sweater for a starched white uniform.

Studying the crescent shaped scar, gently tracing it with a fingertip, she sighed softly. "It was very bad, wasn't it?"

He tried to adjust his response to this clinical conversation. "Apparently. The doctor told Milo it was as if something tried to rip my arm off. For the longest time, I had almost no sensation in my hand." Beneath the steady, soothing pressure of her hands, he began to relax.

"And now?" She'd located a knotted muscle and begun smoothing out the tension, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she frowned slightly in concentration.

"My shoulder hurts at times. By the end of a performance it's stiff and sore. There's still a tingling in my fingers now and then. At first I wondered if I'd ever be able to keep up this kind of schedule, playing every day or two. I even started drinking again, thinking the pain was a good excuse. But thank God I realized I didn't want to go back there."

Without taking her eyes from his shoulder, she asked, "Again?"

He took a deep breath. "I may as well confess everything, while I'm at it. I did have one very serious love affair. With good Scotch whisky. During those months in New York, after the tour, I was blissfully drunk much of the time. It seemed to help me fit in, put me at ease with people I had little or nothing in common with. It also got me in a lot of trouble with Milo. Things had gotten pretty ugly between us before the accident. I recognized just in time that I could go right back to that and think myself justified. I need to perform, and if I drank it would ease the pain so I could perform, and so on and on." He dropped his head. Emily's hands grew still and she waited. Slowly he looked up to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry. I wish I'd been a saint, right up until the moment you dragged me into this room. The truth is, I wasn't and I'm not now. I'm just a man trying to be better than he was, trying to learn things I seem to have missed along the way. But I'm determined to learn, now that I've been given this second chance."

"You're doing just fine. I wouldn't love you if you were a saint. And I do love you, Stani Moss. This is my second chance, too."

"You're determined to see past these things, aren't you?" Now her hands began to move over his shoulders with a different touch, soothing, caressing, as if to ease a different kind of pain.

"You said yourself you're a better man already. I just see the man I love, have loved without even knowing it." As his arms went around her waist, drawing her closer, her eyes swept over his shoulders and chest. Warm color flooded her cheeks and she reached for his shirt. "Here, you'd better put this back on. I may not be as professionally detached as I thought."

Carefully closing each button, she asked, "What do you do for your shoulder, after a concert, when it hurts?"

Again, he tried to follow her train of thought, forcing himself to think past her inviting proximity. "Take a couple of aspirin and go to bed. Why?"

"You're no different from any other athlete, a tennis player or baseball pitcher. There are things you should be doing. Who helps you get ready for bed, helps you undress?"

He grinned, in spite of himself. "Excuse me?"

"If I'm right, you can't get out of your tailcoat by yourself, because of your arm?" She met his bemused gaze. "Does John help you?"

"Okay, sometimes I need help, but he doesn't exactly tuck me into bed every night. I'm not an invalid."

"Of course not. Still, I'm going to write down some instructions for him, things he should do for you. Promise me you'll give them to him." She reached up and brushed back the hair that had fallen over his forehead.

"Ah, so you're going to take care of me, are you? How will I explain that to John? He's been taking care of me since I was a little boy."

"Just remind him there are things you need now that you didn't need when you were a little boy. He should understand that." She drew his face close, kissing him gently, but all too briefly. "I'm starving. Wait here, I'm going to fix us something to eat."

She was up and headed for the kitchen before he could stop her. "But we already ate!"

"That was hours ago. You'll find out soon enough, I have a very healthy appetite. All this unaccustomed activity has made me ravenous!"

He got to his feet, as she disappeared toward the kitchen. "Point the way to the loo, please."

"Through that door, on through the bedroom. I won't be long. Just make yourself at home."

As she began banging around in the kitchen, humming to herself, he tried to gather his thoughts. It had been a day full of marvels. He would have so much to think about, later, alone; but for the little time they had left, he intended to savor every moment with her. How could he have ever anticipated her? Even in her letters, she had not revealed the quicksilver of her mind, and certainly not the passion so easily stirred. More than ever, he was certain he wanted this amazing girl, wanted her by his side, in his arms. There would have to be changes in both their lives, decisions to be made. He was so accustomed to having everything arranged for him, simply going wherever he was directed. He'd rarely considered the planning that went into getting him there. Now it would be up to him to arrange things for the two of them, make plans for a future together. He felt completely inadequate, unprepared for such an undertaking. The prospect overwhelmed him.

In the old-fashioned bathroom, as he considered his reflection in the mirror, he noticed words painstakingly lettered on the wall. Studying them, he thought he recognized a phrase or two, but the rest was foreign to him. He would ask her about it. It might be just one more revelation in this day of unforeseen wonders.

When he returned to the fireside, Emily was just coming from the kitchen. "Here we are, just the thing to keep up our strength!" Bearing a tray loaded with a teapot and platters of food, she placed it on the table by the window and pulled out a chair for him. "Come on, while it's hot." She was beaming, a look of supreme satisfaction on her face.

He sat, looking over the tray. "Emily, what is all this?" Here was a platter of steaming scrambled eggs and crisp strips of bacon, stacks of buttered toast and a pot of strawberry jam, glasses of orange juice and mugs waiting for tea.

Leaning over him, she took his mouth in a kiss of unexpected depth. "It's breakfast, silly."

Stani tossed back his head and laughed, pulling her into his arms. No matter the daunting task ahead, or his fear of failure, she was sure to be the encouragement, the light and the comfort he would need along the way.

### Chapter Thirty-eight

Emily sat watching the fire die, reliving each in the series of life-changing moments. It had certainly come true, his promise to make those hours count. Perhaps their letters had opened the way, allowed them to move ahead since that first visit so they were ready to come together so quickly. No matter the time, they had crossed all the barriers and fallen headlong into the first soul-shattering phase of becoming lovers.

But there had been so much more than the kisses, the embraces and the lovers' words. He now knew more about that night, about what had saved him and what he was meant to do next. He had turned an unexpected corner and come face to face with the truth. Those moments of watching him search had been a revelation for her as well, opening the way for honesty and finally for admitting to the feelings she'd fought for so long. They would share their faith, as his grew, and it would sustain them as they struggled to find the time and space to be together. Nothing would be easy, with the distance between their worlds, but faith would make it more bearable when they were apart and uncertain.

He had seen the words on the bathroom wall. She'd been surprised at first when he asked her so directly about them. They'd been there for so long she hardly took note of them anymore.

"My mother did that," she'd explained. "It was her comfort, a reminder when she was so sick during her treatments. It's from Philippians. It's beautiful, I think, the answer to every worry." She'd gotten her Bible and opened it to the passage, handing it to him to read.

"Have no anxiety about anything." He had smiled and said that was a tall order indeed.

"But it gives you the way to accomplish that. Simple instructions really. Just one step. Pray, with thanksgiving. It's being thankful that does it, I think. Welcoming the challenge. I love the last part of that passage, too. Whatever is true, whatever is pure, whatever is gracious. Focus on the positive things around you, think good thoughts."

He had promised to remember the words, to take them with him along with all the other things she'd shown him today. "How can I leave you?" he'd asked.

It was a question she'd been asking herself, in the midst of being so uncommonly happy with him. How would she ever let him go without also letting him see her fears?

"Leave me with the promise that you'll be back as soon as you can. And that you'll write to me, pages and pages of your thoughts. We've had this day, so full of things that have changed us forever. Just promise we'll have another day, soon."

He asked that she be patient, that she trust him. And she did. He said he loved her and she believed him. He had taken her hands, just before getting into the car, and pressed them to his chest, just over his heart. "Tell me we're strong enough to love this deeply when there are miles and months between us."

It had been easy to promise. There were not enough miles or months to ever change her feelings for him, she'd said. If there were, she would already know. "You're new to this love, Stani, but I've had almost three years to test it. I know now I've loved you all along. Thank God, for both our sakes, you came back to find me."

He was gone, but she knew that just as he had been a ghost here since that first night, his presence was now indelibly etched in the house. At every turn she would picture him, with his smile and his searching eyes. She would hear his voice, his laugh. He would never be very far away, even when she knew he was hundreds of miles across the country. That would be their life together; while she carried on with what she'd started here, Stani would be living the life he was meant to live, going where his talent demanded.

As long as they could come together here from time to time, she could be content. But would he? Or would he grow tired of the distance? Would he want more and reach out to someone closer for what he needed? It was a risk she would take.

That night before she went up to her bed, she stood in front of the mirror and read the words her mother had relied on. Peace that passed all understanding. Emily had known that kind of peace, and was sure she would again. But it might take some time to be truly thankful for the challenge of loving Stani Moss and watching him leave again and again.

### Chapter Thirty-nine

Dear, darling Stani,

I'm so thankful for all the things I have to do this month. If I were not so busy, and the work were not so enjoyable, I'm sure I would be completely miserable. Desolate. Inconsolable. Seeing your car pulling out of the gate, still feeling your arms around me and tasting your kisses, was one of the most traumatic moments I've ever known. But as Jack always reminds me, I do bounce back quickly. I am now more or less content to look forward to another such life-altering day with you, in the not too distant future.

Imagine the look on my face when I discovered your gift in the Christmas Family folder. I don't know how you managed to put it there without my knowing. One hundred dollars! Do you realize how many toys that will buy? No, of course you don't, because you have most likely never shopped for a toy in your life. Thank you, a thousand kisses, thank you!

Please don't begin to consider me any sort of musician. I am only good enough to pick out the notes for my little cherubs to learn their songs. Since our current church organist lives miles away, his time is too valuable to spend on such a task, but at the Christmas Eve Lessons and Carols service, my little ones will have proper accompaniment. My only responsibility will be to keep them still and quiet while they wait their turn to sing. They look so sweet, sitting around the crèche during the service, but they have been known to do the most inappropriate things and I'm expected to keep them from embarrassing their proud parents. Wish me luck! This year there are seven, between the ages of three and six. I am sadly outnumbered! The youngest, a beautiful little girl of three, with golden curls and the biggest blue eyes, has attached herself to me already. She constantly demands to be held or carried, which leaves me with only one hand to control the other six. I foresee a memorable Christmas Eve!

Jack and I had a long talk over lunch after church. He was worried that I had done something rash or at least ill advised. I assured him you were only tired and in need of a nap, and that we were only friends. Then I had to tell him, because I'm hopelessly bad at lying, that we are no longer technically friends, that I am totally and shamelessly in love with you and you are fond of me as well. He will continue to worry, I'm sure. But he's happy for me, I can see. He's always told me a house and land would not substitute for someone to share my life with.

I'm still high on the memory of all we shared during those few short hours. Do you feel the same, or was it just that I've never known anything to compare with the feelings you aroused in me? I was so completely swept away; and the amazing thing is, I can still conjure up those feelings, just by remembering each touch, each kiss, even the look in your eyes. It is at the same time ecstatic and devastating. I expect it's just my inexperience, and once I've become accustomed to such behavior, the shock to my senses will wear off. (I admit I almost hope it doesn't. It's a very pleasant shock!)

Stani, I have a confession to make. In the time since you were first here, I have never listened to your recordings. My mother had a copy of one of your early records, the collection of sonatas. I even remember when she bought it. She said you were just a little older than me, but you were already making a name for yourself. I never played it because it seemed too much like inviting a ghost into the room. Now I've listened to it, since you are no longer a ghost, but very much flesh and blood and the man I first kissed. Oh, how talented you were! Of course, I've heard you on the radio numerous times, but I admit I tried to pretend it was just some other violinist and not the one I dragged in from the storm. And I've heard the Bruch, although the pounding in my ears was a little bit distracting at the time. Anyway, I wanted you to know you overcame my promise never to listen to your music here. Now I play it for hours on end, imagining you, in your elegant tailcoat, making that beautiful music. But imagining is not quite the same as sitting in the audience watching and listening. Someday. Maybe.

Did you give my instructions to John? I hope he won't have trouble finding that liniment. I know you will hate the smell, but trust me, it works. The athletic department at UVA couldn't survive without it. Just be sure you and John keep it away from your eyes! I don't know if he is skilled at massage, but he can't hurt you by trying.

You do understand you have turned my world upside down and all my former priorities take second place to thoughts of you, fantasies of you, dreams of you and hopes of actually being with you?

Yours in all things,

Emily

Dearest mine,

Fond of you? Is that how you see it? Did I so fail to make my feelings clear? I could have sworn I told you I love you, every part of you. And I'm certain I told you I want you, all of you, forever. But I can see I shall have to go on explaining myself until you at least give me credit for being as much in love with you as you fancy yourself with me. It will most likely be a tedious task, but I think I'm man enough to take it on. It will involve a lot of passionate embraces and breathtaking kisses, won't it? Otherwise, I doubt I'll be able to make much of an impression, since words alone don't seem to express what I feel for you. Fond of you? Really, Emily, you know better.

You're welcome. No, I've never bought a toy in my life. Kisses returned, tenfold.

Your cherubs are the most fortunate children in the world to have your undivided attention. I'm sure it will be a memorable Christmas Eve, in every way.

Please try to reassure Jack that my intentions are honorable. I certainly want him on my side, and I fear I made a poor first impression. No man likes to be caught with his boots off, you know.

Emily (have you noticed how much I love saying your name? And I'm afraid I must refuse to ever, ever call you 'Em'!), I can only hope, no matter how many life-altering days we spend together, you never become accustomed to the thrill of sharing yourself with me. I told you I've long wondered what it would be like to be in love, to make love to a woman whose mind and spirit were as engaging as her body. Beside the brutal, unholy encounters of the past, loving you and feeling your response is an intensely spiritual experience I could never have dreamed possible.

I have so much to think about now, I find it hard to concentrate on anything but you and the possibilities you have introduced to my future. Like you, my former priorities seem unimportant beside the vision of life with such a single-mindedly mercurial, utterly desirable, maddeningly unpredictable, devastatingly beautiful woman. Never in my nebulous plans for my life did I have any expectation of finding a partner who so easily anticipates me, meets me in mid-air, and carries me outside myself to an infinitely better place. The possibilities are endless. Now if I can only focus on that which could most quickly bring us together for more than a few hours.

Yes, John is making a commendable attempt to follow your instructions. Your warning comes a bit late. We shared some tears over the first experiment with the liniment. But you're right, it does work and I'm less stiff the day after a performance. As to John's skill, compared to your beautiful, talented fingers, he has the hands of a lumberjack. But I wouldn't want to make him feel unappreciated, so I endure his efforts in silence. Thank you for realizing I needed help when I myself wouldn't have known to ask.

Now to your shocking confession, my darling. While I was at first surprised to know you've never listened to my work, I am now amazed at how happy that makes me. I am the boy who won approval and affection by playing my violin. It was my way into the hearts of everyone, from Milo and Jana to my teachers, to conductors and audiences. Other than John, who says he doesn't have much of an ear, no one has come to me for me, or at least not until they had first heard me play. But you, Emily, you have cared for me without knowing my music. I have no idea what you love about me, but that it did not first involve my violin gives me great joy. I want to share my music with you, don't doubt that. But I would like to think you might love me for the man I am trying to become, not just for the musician I have been. You, my love, are a constant source of encouragement and inspiration.

Emily, dearest Emily, please wait for me to find my way back to you. I promise, there will be a way, and not in some dim future, but soon. You cannot know how I look forward to being there with you, to sit by the fire and talk to you, to hold you in my arms and gaze into those smoky eyes. And to eat breakfast with you again. You were right, I underestimated you, darling. A man and a woman, even the most desirable of women, can sit down to breakfast together. You make me smile (or grin foolishly) every time I think of that tray and your profound kiss. I will never look at bacon the same way again!

I am bound for Minneapolis, where I hear the temperature is below zero this morning. Why didn't I schedule some gigs in the Bahamas this month? Keep me warmly in your thoughts.

Equally yours,

Stani

### Chapter Forty

As Emily drove the two hours to Charlottesville, planning to meet Angela at the restaurant and shop for toys, she rehearsed what she would say, how she would gently turn the conversation to the subject of Stani. She'd asked Jack not to tell Angela, knowing full well he would have been tempted to call her the moment he found Stani at the farm that morning. When he assured her that her secret was safe, she laughed.

"My secrets are never safe with you two. But I do want to tell her in my own way. It seems unfair to Stani for you to report that you caught him sleeping on my couch. I want Angela to hear a slightly more romantic version of our day together."

Jack grimaced. "Romantic, huh? Was it the hair or the accent that won you over?"

"Oh, a little of both. I thought you told me more than once love has nothing to do with logic and no one is immune. I admit it, Jack. You were right."

"Why is it I almost wish I hadn't been? He'll take you away, you know? Next thing, you'll be following him all over the world and the farm will be just a distant memory."

"Oh, please, Jack. That's never going to happen. At best, we'll have a long-distance relationship with a few pleasant interludes now and then." Wishing for once she could hide her feelings from him, she knew he would see her doubts. "I have to be realistic, and I will be. But I'm happy, Jack."

"As long as you're happy, we'll deal with the rest." Whatever he believed "the rest" to include, she had been keenly aware of the grim look darkening his eyes. But Jack wouldn't try to argue the case; he would just be waiting to support her if and when she needed it. Angela, on the other hand, might well react emotionally, which could mean any number of things.

As they settled in the booth by the sunny street side window, her heart began to race uncomfortably. While she listened to Angela explaining that Lil had started looking for a position with some of the regional orchestras, setting up auditions for the spring, Emily was sure she felt herself beginning to blush. The hands unwrapping her silverware from the linen napkin were actually trembling.

Angela paused in her account of the effort Lil was pouring into her plans, closed her lips as if to put a period to the topic, and smiled. "Emily, my dear, you look remarkably like the cat."

Blinking, she wondered what she'd missed. "The cat?"

"The one that ate the canary. Or is it the one that tipped over the cream? I can never remember." Black eyes gleaming, Angela smiled expectantly. "What is it you're dying to tell me?"

"Oh, Angela, I'm in love!" She was sure someone else had blurted out those words.

Angela's usually mobile face was completely expressionless. "I see. And do we know this person with whom you're in love? I wasn't aware you were seeing anyone." Something in her voice, some irony, made Emily suspicious. Had Jack broken his promise? Or was Angela psychic, as she'd sometimes suspected?

Taking a deep breath, hoping to salvage some shred of composure, she started again. "I'm in love with Stani Moss. I knew when I was here last week but I wasn't quite sure and I didn't want to say anything until I knew. But we were together on Saturday and it's so impossibly wonderful and I just wanted to you to know how happy I am." The words tumbled out in one long, breathless gasp. Was she never to have any control over her emotions again, she wondered, as she watched Angela's expression shift from incredulity to astonishment. For just an instant, Emily was afraid her silence preceded a lecture, until with a gasp of her own, Angela laughed.

"Oh, my dear! I have no idea how this happened, but when you say it like that, I have to believe it was meant to be. Now slow down and tell me. Everything." Emily blushed a deeper red. "All right, maybe not everything. But tell me how he ever found you. I was so sure you were never going to let him know what you did for him."

As slowly and coherently as she could, Emily told her the story, beginning with Stani's first letter, his search for memories, and his request to meet her. She talked of her certainty that they would never see one another again, in spite of his desire to stay in touch. But his letters had changed that, convincing her they might have more of a future than she had been willing to hope for. As she talked about him, describing him in glowing detail, he seemed to be there, smiling indulgently.

"Oh, Angela, he's so amazingly real. Even though he says he missed out on learning how to live in the world, with all the focus on his talent, he has such a good heart and a really sweet sense of humor. He's just wonderful in every way, I guess. Does every girl in love think that? That hers is the finest man alive?"

"Probably, but that's what love does. It turns ordinary people into the best they can be. Is he fully recovered from the accident now?"

"I think so. He's trying hard to take control of his career and he's probably working too hard. I have no idea how we'll ever see much of each other, the way he's traveling."

Angela reached across the table and took Emily's hand. "Are you content to be patient, dear? It's one thing to be in love, it's another to be happy."

Past the sudden lump in her throat, she said, "I'm finding that out."

### Chapter Forty-one

Dearest Stani,

I guess we are officially "out" now. I told Angela about your visits, our letters, and a lot of other glowing details concerning what an amazing thing you have become in my life. I don't think she was quite as surprised as she should have been. Angela is a very wise woman, and she may have expected something like this would happen all along. At any rate, she's happy for us. The alternative, that she might have raised questions as to my sanity, was too terrifying to consider!

It's almost as cold here as in Minnesota, and they're predicting snow for Christmas. Not a blizzard, please! We're getting the Christmas Family boxes ready to deliver, and good weather would be very welcome. Some of these families live in remote areas of the valley, where the roads are rough at best. Jack always finds a way to get to everyone, but a few deliveries have been made on county snow plows. The list is long, and it will take days to make the rounds. Hopefully, if snow comes, it will wait until Christmas Eve.

You write that you're going to be in New York for Christmas. Please try to get some rest, Stani. What sort of schedule will you have after the holidays? Don't you think you've earned some time off?

I'm hoping for work in January. This month at home has been wonderful and I've kept busy, but I haven't earned any money. If I can work this winter, when it's time to plant I'll have cash to pay for the garden. I want the farm to eventually earn its keep, but I hope to at least get it started without dipping into my principal. We'll see if I'm really my father's daughter, when I have to work each day at making my garden grow.

Jack will be here soon to pick up more toys. My dining room is wall-to-wall with Christmas wrap. I feel like Santa's elf, and it's been great fun. I only wish there weren't so much need. Last summer was terribly dry and it took a toll on all the farms. The tenant farm families, who barely make it in the best of years, were hit the hardest. So many have too many children and not enough education to make more than a bare-bones living. These boxes will ease their situations for a week or two, but there is no good solution for them long term. We are so blessed, those of us with warm houses and plenty to eat. Not to mention the means to earn a decent living. While it's gratifying to know we can do something at the holidays to share our blessings, it makes me sad to see that much of the year we seem to forget the needs of others. Jack has made a mission of helping as much as he can, and he does it so quietly most people have no idea how much he accomplishes. He inspires me to look for ways to help where I can.

Got to go! There's a police car at my gate! I love you madly, passionately, longingly and most importantly, with all my heart.

Yours completely,

Emily

### ****

Emily wrapped and mailed Stani's Christmas present, worried he might not receive it in time as he traveled back toward New York. At a men's shop in Charlottesville, whose window display suggested only the finest goods would be found within, she had purchased a Black Watch tartan scarf. Attracted by the label which read "Made in Scotland" and the softness of the fine wool, she decided it would go well with his black overcoat, but the deep blue and green in the plaid would perfectly complement his hair. The idea of a scarf that would encircle his neck and cross his heart satisfied her need to give him a meaningful but not extravagant gift. On the outside of the package she had written in red "Not to be opened before Christmas!"

Stani's last letter left her certain he had no plans to come to her during the holidays. She had invited Jack to Christmas dinner. He would be on duty, allowing his deputies to have the day off, so he would only be with her for an hour or so to eat the meal and open their gifts to each other. The McConnells had invited her to supper that night, but she knew Peter was bringing his girlfriend home to meet his parents. Better to spend the day alone, listening to holiday music and, she was pretty sure, feeling miserable, than force herself to be cheerful for the sake of appearances.

Christmas Eve, at least, promised to be a magical night. She looked forward to seeing her little singers, dressed in their finest, participating in the very special service. They had learned their parts well and seemed to respond to her direction with a focus that surprised and gratified her. The whole experience had been so rewarding, she intended to talk with Sara about starting a permanent children's choir to perform year round. This might be one more opportunity to bind herself to her community, she decided, one more way to stay busy and productive while she waited between Stani's visits. Life would need to be filled, not just with waiting, but with living. The idea of only feeling alive a day or two at a time was too awful to consider.

### ****

Darling Stani,

I have just heard your interview on the radio. Imagine my shock when I walked into the kitchen and heard your voice! I kid you not; I actually looked around to see if you had somehow sneaked into the house!

What a wonderful thing, to hear you talk with such feeling about your visits to the music schools. I know you are an inspiration to other musicians, and I'm sure too that the students you've talked with appreciate your speaking out about their struggles. You are so gracious when you talk of their talent and dedication. I'm so proud of you for reaching out. You will see down the road the difference your efforts can make.

I've been traveling around with Jack and one of his deputies, delivering the Christmas Family boxes. I could cry at some of the things I've seen. It's particularly hard to see the children and the elderly, who have no real power to change their circumstances. Our community does a good job, I think, of watching out for those in need who cannot help themselves. But there's always room for improvement. Jack has done so much through his office, along with the churches, to improve the system by which those who need help can ask for it with dignity. He's my hero, in case you haven't already guessed.

When will you be back in New York? I know it's supposed to be very exciting at Christmas, with the department store window displays and the tree in Rockefeller Center and the Rockettes performing. What a difference, as I keep pointing out, between your world and mine. Here we will focus on worship and shared meals and trying to alleviate the hardship brought on by the simple lack of rainfall last summer. But I love Christmas here, partly because it was so special to my parents. I have a wonderful tree, and the smell of cedar fills the house. And the crèche figures are making their way to the stable, right on schedule. I suppose you may not have had a crèche in your home when you were a child? Every year, just after Thanksgiving, we would place the little stable on the hearth. All across the room, I would scatter the porcelain figurines, the wise men with their camel on the piano, the shepherds with their flock on the stairs, Joseph and Mary by the front door, and so on. Then each day in Advent, it was my job to move them, inch by inch, toward Bethlehem. The angel and the baby Jesus would be hidden on the mantel until Christmas Eve. It's such a sweet tradition, I still do it.

I've just remembered that when you were with me three years ago, the crèche was in place, just as it is now. I remember the angel, looking down on us as you lay by the fire. I had a dream that I sent the angel to bring Jack and I saw him walking across the yard, following that beautiful angel. It was a miraculous time, Stani, in spite of how frightened I was for you. Can you see why I believe God was watching over us?

Just one moment of telling you how desperately I wish you could be with me this year. My longing for you is a physical ache, just under my ribs, that never quite goes away. I'm sure there's no clinical explanation for it and the only cure would be the sight of you at my door. I hope you miss me a little, too. If you do, then I don't feel quite so foolish hoping for the impossible.

You say you have no idea what I love about you. Stani, I love everything about you, or at least everything I know so far. I love your gentleness, your goodness and your sincerity. I love the way your eyes grow dark when you're serious, and the way they twinkle when you're teasing me. Stani, if you were a plumber, I would love you just as much. It has nothing whatsoever to do with your violin, although I expect your music has a great deal to do with the depth of your soul. I love all these things, but I confess, I am also deeply in love with you; and that has more to do with attraction, chemistry if you will. I love your touch, the way you look at me with warmth and desire; and I love your body, the way you feel and look, the way you move. I love the way we fit together, as if cut from the same pattern. These things may be what I miss most. I can hear your soul in your letters, but I can't touch you or look at you unless you're here with me. Am I totally without shame? Yes, I am, when it comes to this new love I've found. I may have loved the idea of you for a long time, but the reality of you has far eclipsed the romantic ideal I imagined. My response to your kiss should have told you a great deal about how I love you. You call it spiritual, and it is certainly that, but I must confess much of what I feel is also carnal. Still love me? I can't be less than honest with you, Stani. I love you with my heart and soul, and with my body.

Please take care of yourself. If I have one real anxiety it's that you will be sick or hurt and I will have no way to get to you, to take care of you. At this point, I'm invisible in your life. No one, with the exception of your John, even knows who or where I am. If you needed me, would he call me? Being a secret love is very romantic, but it also causes me a moment of panic now and then. I do not want to hear on the radio, as I did three years ago, about some terrible event in your life. Could you leave some sort of instructions with John so if there were a problem, he could let me know? That would be a small comfort, anyway; although I admit I would love to be there to watch over you, make you chicken soup if you get the sniffles, and remind you to watch out for icy sidewalks. Again, please take care of yourself!

Yours, made foolish by love,

Emily

### Chapter Forty-two

Finally back in New York, Stani set about to complete his mission. He'd written letters, made phone calls, laying the groundwork for his plan. For the first time in his life, he'd made lists and carried out each task, finding real satisfaction in crossing off each item. Now he was entering the final and possibly the most challenging phase of the operation. The end was in sight, but there were tricky waters to navigate ahead.

He went to Tiffany's, at John's suggestion; and after an hour of admiring beautiful things that were either too frivolous or too extravagant he was shown a piece he thought might be just the thing. A delicate gold locket in the shape of a heart, with one very fine diamond in the center, it hung from a pin, a single bar studded with sapphires. The clerk pointed out that inside was space for a picture and an inscription. Stani was concerned Emily would object to so many stones, and the clerk suggested the locket could be strung on a chain instead. As he wondered sort of picture he might have to put inside, he had what he believed to be a true inspiration.

Winding a strand around his finger, he asked, "Could a bit of hair be put inside?"

The clerk, Miss Marshall, a friendly middle-aged woman who had probably helped thousands of men find gifts for their wives or lovers, smiled and said of course, if that's what he thought his lady would like. Taking a risk, which never came easily, he decided to do the deed then and there. Miss Marshall brought scissors and snipped a tiny curl, fitting it behind the transparent film inside the locket. He wrote out the inscription, "All my best, Stani," which seemed to include everything he needed to say.

When he paid for it, he had a moment of panic. If Emily knew the amount, would she be furious that he had spent such a sum on her? It was not an ostentatious piece, but simple and elegant, like Emily herself. He tried to imagine her reaction, and finally decided she would be too gracious to question his taste anyway. Deciding to be content with his choice, he left his address and was assured it would be delivered the following day.

He then went to the apartment, prepared to confront Milo. He had made up his mind to move out, had in fact already leased a suite in a hotel overlooking Central Park. He had only to make his announcement and pack his few things. If he intended to be his own man, he needed a space to call his own; and while this was a temporary solution, it was a first step toward loosening the bond.

To his surprise, it was Jana who came to his aid. She was happy for him, she declared, ignoring the glare of displeasure from her husband. Of course he needed more privacy. He was not a boy anymore and she was surprised he'd waited this long to move out. She asked about the accommodations, if he would need anything more than his clothes, books and music.

Milo immediately brought up the subject of expense, why waste cash on a place he would rarely need?

"I have more than enough money, as you well know. There's no need to horde for a rainy day, when there's no rain in the forecast anymore. I'm healthy, sober and much happier than I've been in my life. I promise I won't let you or myself down again, Milo. Couldn't we just shake hands and get on with things?"

Milo understood completely the significance of the outstretched hand, and in spite of his obvious reservations, extended his own. He was in many ways in awe of Stani, of his new-found confidence and the way he faced him without fear of incurring his displeasure. Perhaps it was time to treat him like a man, one capable of making decisions for his future. Word had come back to Milo of the approval Stani had won with this unorthodox tour. Even the most celebrated conductor in the city had called to ask if Stani would be available for similar visits to students in New York. In the face of such success, Milo would have to get on board, appear to have endorsed the idea all along. It seemed Stani might have things to teach him now. After all the years of molding him into the superstar Milo had envisioned, Stani seemed to be shining with a different kind of brilliance. What had brought about the changes Milo couldn't understand, but he had to respect what the boy had become through his own efforts.

Jana helped him pack, John came to collect him, and Stani made his move with very little fanfare. His mail was waiting for him at the hotel desk, including a package from Emily. He knew a moment's relief at having avoided any awkward questions at the apartment. The sight of her bold red script on the wrapping might have been difficult to explain. He wasn't ready to share the wonder of his love for her with everyone yet. It was too precious, too fragile and too new to his life to be discussed over coffee or questioned as he packed his things to leave. This year, for the last few weeks of it anyway, he wanted to keep it close, to protect it from prying eyes. There would be a time, soon enough he hoped, when he would be prepared to shout it from the rooftops, but not until he had carried out the remainder of his mission.

### ****

Jana was sure Stani had fallen in love. There was no other explanation for the light in his eyes, for the sudden decisiveness about his future. The love of a woman had inspired him to take risks, to stand up for what he wanted in spite of the conflict he might provoke. She wondered where and how it had happened, but she was convinced he would tell them in time. In spite of the irregular nature of their lives with Stani, she knew he considered them his family. He would not shut them out now.

When the package from Tiffany's arrived the following day, she quickly telephoned his hotel. When he answered, she said with a little laugh, "Stani, love, something you bought has been delivered here by mistake. Are you expecting a delivery from Tiffany's? Surely, it's not a present for me?"

She could hear his embarrassment over the line. "Caught, am I? Can you keep a secret? Jana, I'm the most fortunate man in the world. I just can't tell you why quite yet. I'll have John pick it up right away. And Jana, could you please hide it in case Milo comes home in the meantime?"

### ****

Darling Emily, not at all foolish,

Yes, there's no place like NYC at the holidays. The window displays are magical, the traffic is unbearable, and the population seems to have grown by half. And there is no one here remotely like you, so none of it means anything to me. Your Christmas, in your world, seems much more appropriate in spirit. What you are doing, sharing with your friends and neighbors and honoring the truth of the season, outshines all the lights on that tree in Rockefeller Center. Thank you for showing me that light.

I have news. I have my own little corner in the big, bad city now. I have moved from the apartment, with relatively little fuss, and now reside in one of the fine old hotels of Manhattan. I find it gratifying to come in from the cold and accept the greetings of the doorman, the desk clerk and the elevator boy (who is at least 60), and use my key to enter my own solitary abode. Of course, I order room service for meals, have maid service every day, and send out my laundry, so I'm hardly self-sufficient, but it's a start. Then of course, John is just one floor down, to keep me out of trouble. Even so, are you at least a little proud of me?

I am imagining you sitting by your tree, the fire crackling, and the crèche figures marching across the room. I don't recall the angel that night, I only remember you, my own personal angel. I wish I could be with you tonight, as you sit by that fire. I'm sure it's much warmer than the little gas fire here in my sitting room.

Emily, dear, sweet, sensual Emily, you drive me to distraction with talk of your carnal interest in me. Not that I mind being so driven, not in the least. You are such a combination of holy and earthy, spiritual and sensual, I am hard-put to follow from one to the other at times. But above all, you are honest, and I love you for that. Pretense is something I have little taste for, and it is epidemic among the young women I've known. Your honesty is refreshing, and at the same time, something of a jolt. You are fearless, aren't you? You speak your mind, without equivocation. As to the things you love about me, I blush crimson at the thought. (I fear I blush almost as easily as you these days.) But thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for loving whatever you can find to love about me. As to the plumber idea, I think I'll have to stick with the violin. It's my only salable skill.

Please be assured, darling worrier, that if I get hit by a bus, John will contact you. He now has your telephone number and strict instructions on how to break the news to you. Silly girl, why worry? I've been under the protection of your loving God thus far, why would I suddenly be in danger of dying from the sniffles? Besides, I have the constitution of a horse. I never get the flu, avoided most of the childhood illnesses, and have never even had athletes foot. Please don't fret, I'll be fine. However, now that I think of it, it might be worth a few symptoms if it brought you rushing to my bedside.

I'm a busy man, my dear. My desk calendar says I have two appointments tomorrow, one with my tailor and the other to have my teeth cleaned. See how independent I'm becoming? Next, I'll learn to make my own toast in the morning. Would that require me to go to a bakery for bread, or could room service deliver the bread and I toast it myself? More complicated than it seems, I fear.

Ever striving to be a better yours,

Stani

Dearest Ever,

I am enormously proud of you. I had no idea you were thinking of making such a move. You are indeed a man with a mission it seems. I hope the doorman, the desk clerk and the elevator boy appreciate the honor of your presence in their establishment. It isn't every hotel in Manhattan that's worthy of housing the man I love, I'm sure.

Sorry if I gave you a jolt. But I will not pretend I don't want you, in a very earthy way. I could say more on that theme, but I will see you again someday and I might have trouble looking in your eyes after too much honesty.

It's only two days until Christmas Eve. You realize we have an anniversary to observe tomorrow. Not that I want to spend much time thinking about how horribly injured you were. But the miracles that have brought us to here and now are certainly worth celebrating. Tomorrow at midnight, I will say a prayer of thanksgiving for your return to this valley, for all you have brought to my life, and for the prospect of your returning again and again.

Please make it soon.

Merry Christmas and God bless you, Stani.

Yours,

Emily

### Chapter Forty-three

Christmas Eve dawned gray and cold. The forecast called for rain, not snow, and the low clouds held the promise of a gloomy day. But Emily refused to be discouraged. She made up her mind to be brutally cheerful, no matter how much the pain under her ribs reminded her of Stani's absence. She had plenty to keep her busy, and the time would pass, whether she chose to be happy or sad. As music blared through the speakers, filling the house, she hummed along, even danced a few steps across the kitchen floor, reminding herself of all she had to be happy about. If everything else paled in comparison to the sight of his face, the touch of his hand, so be it. Blessings were blessings weren't they, none of them to be counted as anything less.

At six she ate her supper and dressed for church. She had been to Martha Jean's and, as a gift to herself, purchased a ridiculously expensive new blouse. White silk, with an open collar and flowing sleeves caught at the wrist in lace cuffs, it was the perfect complement to the camel skirt and dark green vest she'd bought in the fall. She loved the elegant length of the skirt, falling just above her ankles. It would be appropriately graceful as she sat on the floor with her little ones during the service. She wasn't often overly concerned with her appearance, but tonight she took special pains. In honor of the occasion, she wanted to look her best.

Before she left, she moved Joseph and Mary into the stable, with the noble donkey grazing on the hearth nearby. The shepherds she placed on a table not far away, where the heralding angel's message could reach them. Finally, she set the angel directly beneath the star hanging above the mantel. Leaving the lamp shining in the window, she started out for church just as rain began to fall in earnest.

The little stone church was packed, buzzing with excitement as families gathered and friends greeted one another as if they hadn't been together in months, rather than days. Her cherubs, with their shining clean faces and carefully brushed hair, seemed suitably impressed with the importance of their roles in the service, even a little subdued. Emily could only hope that attitude lasted through the hour they spent in full view of the congregation.

But as the music began, and she led them to their places, all her anxiety melted away. It was a sacred night and even if the children were restless or sang a little off key, nothing could cast a shadow over the beauty of this, her favorite night of the year.

With each reading of the beloved scriptures, with the singing of each carol, she found deeper peace. Her littlest charge, Jenny, curled on her lap and at times one or the other of the children snuggled against her as they watched the glimmer of the candles and listened to the choir. When she knelt before them, leading them in the first stanza of "Away in a Manger," their sweet, clear voices were the only sound in the church. Tears filled her eyes. They not only sang like cherubs, but their faces glowed with the wonder of their accomplishment. As the choir joined in the next stanza, she felt a shiver of joy. This was her home, her church, her people. This was where she was meant to build her life.

When they returned to their places near the altar, her tiniest cherub tapped her on the shoulder and pointed into the congregation, calling out a name she couldn't quite understand. Emily put her finger to her lips in a silent shush, and the little girl sweetly imitated her gesture. With a soundless laugh, she gathered the child onto her lap, hugging her close, but something made her look back in the direction Jenny had pointed. At the rear of the church, where several latecomers stood along the wall, she spotted Jack, rain glistening on his uniform jacket. She was surprised. He'd planned to attend the eleven o'clock service, she was sure. She wondered briefly if there had been some kind of emergency.

The congregation sat in rapt attention, all eyes focused on Pastor Mike as he read the final passage of the nativity story. The first chords of "Silent Night" sounded and Emily got to her feet, checking that the children were holding hands as instructed. When she looked back for Jack, the place where he'd been standing was empty. Still wondering about his disappearance, she started to sing, getting through the first measure before her voice caught in her throat.

She could see him clearly, framed by the heads and shoulders of rows of familiar faces. His eyes, fixed on a place somewhere above her head, were glistening with unshed tears. Jenny pulled gently on her hand, and she lifted the little girl to her hip. When she raised her eyes, he was looking straight at her, smiling tenderly. Jenny reached up and touched her face, and she realized tears were coursing down her cheeks. Lowering her head, she kissed the tiny fingertips, smiling into the little face beside her. The hymn ended and in the hush which followed, everyone stood with heads bowed, waiting.

Pastor Mike's voice rang in the silence with the words of the Charge. "Go out into the world in peace; have courage; hold on to what is good. . . ." Through the roaring in her ears, over the pounding of her heart, she could barely make out the familiar words. . . "support the weak; help the suffering; honor all men; love and serve the Lord." In her arms, Jenny cuddled closer, resting her head on Emily's shoulder with a contented little sigh as the service came to a close. "The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord be kind and gracious unto you. The Lord look upon you with favor and give you peace. Amen."

The first notes of the postlude thundered around her. She stood still, her heart thumping against her ribs. Parents came forward, complimenting her and the children, collecting their offspring. She passed Jenny to her father's arms, accepted hugs from the other children. One of the mothers put a wrapped gift in her hands, but she was only vaguely aware of the activity surrounding her. Pastor Mike was coming toward her, a smile on his face, his hand extended.

And then he was beside her, his arm gently encircling her waist. Somehow, she found her voice. "Pastor Mike, this is my very good friend, Stani Moss."

### ****

When she finally said all the required Merry Christmases and good nights, after she'd introduced him to at least a dozen people whose names she struggled to recall, they dashed out into the rainy night. Pulling him by the hand, she led him to her car; and once inside, they met in a crushing embrace, laughing, talking and kissing all at once.

"I don't know how you're here and it doesn't matter right now. Just tell me you can stay!" She stroked his face, straining to see his eyes in the darkness.

"Five days! Oh, Emily, what a miraculous night!

"It always is, but tonight especially so. Where did Jack run off to?"

"A call. He said he'd see us at about twelve thirty. I'm staying at his place." He kissed her, a long exploratory kiss, and she forgot her next question completely.

Eventually, she realized there was no one else left in the parking lot, and started the engine, easing the car out of the lot.

"A BMW, Emily? I had no idea. And with a gear box. You can drive a thing like this? Is there no end to your talents?" Stani slid near her, watching her face in the light of passing streetlamps.

"How did you like my little choir?"

"Heavenly. The whole service was. . .I don't think I know the words. Moving, beautiful and powerful. Transforming. I've never experienced anything like it." His voice was soft, quivering with emotion.

"I saw it in your face."

Suddenly the rear view mirror reflected the revolving lights of a police car. The siren gave one low burst, and she quickly steered the car to the side of the street. Within seconds, Jack was yanking open the driver's door.

"Em, come with me, quick!" Grabbing her hand, he pulled her out of the car and started down the street toward the cruiser, yelling over his shoulder. "There's a baby coming, any minute! Thank God I spotted your car." As they raced through the rain, he went on, panting, "It's Bobby Dixon's wife. He got her as far as my office. But I don't care how fast I drive. . . she'll never make it to the hospital. I called for an ambulance, but they're tied up. Just do what you can!"

In the back seat of the car a woman sat hunched over, obviously in great distress. Emily crawled in beside her, touching her gently on the shoulder. "I'm Emily. I'm a nurse. How can I help you?" Dark eyes turned to her, filled with gratitude and relief.

The woman, along with Jack and the man in the front seat, apparently her husband, all started to talk at once. Emily was informed that labor had started an hour before, pains were very close together, and this was the woman's fourth delivery.

Emily backed out of the car, removing her coat. Stani was standing nearby and she passed it to him. One look at his face, and she said softly, "Hold this over me and don't watch! I don't want to have to pick you up out of the street!" Rolling up her sleeves, she crawled back into the car. Somewhere in the babble of information, she had learned the woman's name was Ruthie. Now she spoke to her calmly. "Ruthie, I'm just going to have a look. You've had lots of experience with this. Are you ready to push yet?" But even in the dim light of the car's interior, she knew the answer. She smiled reassuringly. "That's fine. I'll be right back." She turned to find Jack standing next to the car. "I need some water, towels, rubbing alcohol and a pair of scissors, and there's no time to waste."

Behind him, the lights of a house were coming on. She tried to orient herself. "Jack, that's Myrtice Green's house. She was in church, she's just getting home. Go! She'll have what I need."

Next, she turned to the man in the front seat. Her first glimpse of him had not been encouraging. He was clearly terrified, his eyes glazed and his mouth gaping. Now she asked his name and Ruthie answered for him. "Bobby."

"Hi, Bobby. I need you to get back here with your wife. Get behind her and support her shoulders, please." Seeming to respond to the firmness in her voice he obeyed, crawling in the rear door to kneel on the seat. "That's it. Now Ruthie, by the time Sheriff Deem gets back, I think you're going to be ready to have this baby, aren't you?" She kept her voice low and smiled into the woman's eyes, implying they shared some special secret.

"Yes, ma'am, I sure am. The last one came fast like this too. But this one doesn't seem to want to wait for anything!" Ruthie hunched forward in the grips of another contraction at the same moment Jack thrust a bundle over Emily's shoulder.

It all happened within a matter of seconds, it seemed. Emily poured alcohol over her hands, and spread towels on the seat. Ruthie's voice was rising slowly to a scream, Bobby was yelling encouragement, and in the next instant, she was cradling a newborn to her own heaving chest. The baby's welcome wail harmonized with that of the approaching ambulance. Emily wiped the tiny face, and passed the infant to Ruthie's waiting arms. "You have a beautiful daughter. Congratulations!"

She caught sight of Jack's face over the front seat, his eyes shining with pride. As she backed out of the car, the ambulance team was racing toward them. "She's all yours. She's done all the work for you." She stepped aside, waving them on.

Soaking wet, Emily started to shiver uncontrollably. Stani gently laid her coat over her shoulders, and for a moment, she wanted nothing so much as to sag into his arms. But the ambulance attendant, one she recognized from her time in the ER, was congratulating her on a job well done. How unprofessional to fall into a man's arms just now, she thought. She stood by watching as they finished the job, cutting the umbilical cord, and transferring mother and child to the ambulance. Finally, with a wave from the now proudly grinning Bobby, they pulled away in a flash of lights.

They stood in the rain, Emily and Stani holding on to each other, and Jack leaning on the open car door, until the lights turned the corner toward the highway. Jack was the first to speak. "Well, I guess that'll be the talk of the town this Christmas. And I thought this fellow showing up in church would be the big news." He grinned at the two somber faces, glistening with raindrops. "You two better get somewhere warm. I'll see you after the eleven o'clock service."

Emily came to life, her eyes flashing. "Oh, no! He's staying with me tonight! Locked doors, barricades, I don't care if I have to sleep in the barn. He's not leaving me alone tonight!" She clung to Stani's arm, staring defiantly up into Jack's face. As Stani began to protest, Jack held up a restraining hand.

"If I were you, I'd just do whatever she says. I'm sure not going to argue with her. If you haven't already figured it out, Emily, when she makes up her mind, is a force of nature. No mere man is any kind of match for her. I'll see you at lunchtime, then." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "You did just fine, Em. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Jack, I love you."

Emily drove home slowly, her knees trembling. Stani, once the initial shock had passed, was excitedly praising her skill, her calm, her bravery, and even her beauty. "To think you delivered a baby in the back seat of a car, in the pouring rain, on Christmas Eve! And you never seemed the least bit afraid. I was scared to death, and that poor man, Bobby, I thought he was going to faint." He reached out to touch her hair, still dripping with rain. "Emily, do you realize what an angel you are? First you pull me out of a blizzard, and now you've delivered a baby under the most primitive conditions. Who knows what you've done in between? You are, as Jack said, a force of nature."

She parked the car near the house, turning off the engine. "I'm just so glad to finally be home." Falling into his arms, she sobbed into his shoulder, "Oh, Stani, please hold me!"

### Chapter Forty-four

By the time Stani could persuade her to go into the house, Emily had cried herself out. Once inside, she waited listlessly as he removed his dripping overcoat. He'd never seen her like this, her tear-streaked face pale, her eyes vacant. The sight of her drenched hair and bloodied clothes aroused an unfamiliar feeling of protectiveness in him. Relieving her of her coat, he took her by the shoulders and steered her toward the couch.

The fire was low. As he had seen her do, he stirred the embers with the poker and carefully laid a log across the grate. Kneeling in front of her, he removed her sodden shoes and began to gently rub her feet. She was shivering, the thin fabric of her blouse plastered to her skin. He spotted a quilt, draped over one of the armchairs, and got up to spread it over her, tucking it around her against the chill of the room. Again, he knelt on the rug, stroking her icy feet, moving up her ankles, watching for a response. Tears still welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back, holding her trembling lower lip between her teeth.

"Emily, darling girl, what can I do to help?" he asked gently. To his dismay, the tears began to flow and she brought the quilt up to cover her eyes. Taking a seat beside her, he gathered her into his arms, rocking her gently. "Dear, brave Emily, it's over now. Mother and baby are both fine, all thanks to you. Why are you so upset?"

She raised her head from his shoulder, lowering her eyes. "Because you're here, and this is not the way I wanted this night to be." Sobs rising again, she buried her face on his chest.

Stani laughed softly in relief. "I'm here and this night is perfect. If you'll only let me get you warm and dry, you'll see." He held her a little away, cupping her chin in his hand and forcing her to meet his gaze. "Where are your nightclothes? You need to get out of these wet things. Now."

A tiny spark of amazement lit her brimming eyes. "Upstairs. But I can get them."

"No, please. Let me do this for you. You've done so much tonight." Gently settling her against the cushions, he tucked the quilt around her again. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

"The room on the right. They're hanging on the closet door," she called after him.

As Stani climbed the stairs, he admitted to himself that he was entering uncharted waters. He had never in his life taken care of another human being. But he was determined to do his best now. At the top of the stairs a door stood slightly ajar. Reaching in, he found the light switch. Sparkling tile and pristine porcelain sprang to life. Here were her brushes and hair clips, her meager collection of cosmetics, arranged in meticulous order on a small vanity. A basket of bright towels sat on the floor next to a beautiful old claw-foot tub. Across the tub, a wire tray held a sea sponge, soap and a jar of bath salts, telling the story of frequent soaks. His mind began to race.

He turned up the temperature dial on the little electric heater, pressed the plug in the drain and turned on the tap. Waiting just long enough to check that the water was warming, he turned back to the landing, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar as he went.

A dim light shone from the door he knew must lead to her bedroom. As he entered, he had the impression of jewel-toned fabrics and comfortable tidiness everywhere in the room. Here was her desk, her reading chair by the window, and her bed, a big four-poster with a beautiful velvet patchwork cover. He could smell her in the room, the delicate scent of her soap and the faintest hint of lavender. Turning to the closet, he found the tailored nightshirt and robe, both deep blue with tiny rows of white trim at the collar, hanging on a hook behind the door. Looking around, he spied the toes of her slippers peeking out from under the bed. He approached the dresser, trying to think of other items she might want. Cautiously he opened drawers, until he located the simple undergarments, neatly folded and stacked.

Bearing his findings to the bathroom, where steaming water was filling the tub, he laid out her clothes on a small armchair under the window. Taking up the jar of bath salts, he measured a generous scoop into the flow of water. Another glance around the room to make sure he hadn't overlooked any other potential luxury, and he gave a nod of approval to his efforts thus far.

Fairly bounding down the stairs, he paused as Emily raised her head and turned with a questioning arch of her brows. Going to her, he took the quilt and reached for her hands. When she was on her feet, he laid it gently over her shoulders and turned her toward the staircase. "Up you go. You'll soon feel better, I promise." She walked obediently ahead of him, turning up the stairs and mounting slowly. When they reached the landing, she hesitated. "I think you'd best take it from here, love." Lifting her hair, he laid a kiss on the nape of her neck. "Please soak as long as you like."

Slowly, she turned to him, a tremulous smile spreading over her face. "Oh, Stani, how sweet."

"Go on now, in with you. Come down when you're done and we'll have some tea." Reluctantly, he closed the door, his desire to stay with her a sudden unanticipated ache.

He raced down to the kitchen, quaking with fear at the thought of his own ineptitude. He was British, he reminded himself; he certainly knew how to brew a pot of tea. Rolling up his shirtsleeves, he glanced around the kitchen, searching for some sign of what to do first. The copper kettle sat on the range. Nearby, the tea caddy and the blue teapot, the sugar bowl and a little pitcher stood lined on the counter as if ready to show him the way. Encouraged, he filled the kettle and turned on the burner. He next went to the refrigerator, not at all sure what he was looking for. Inside, a wedge of cheddar sat on a plate beneath a little glass dome. A bowl held apples and grapes. He took both and closed the door. On the counter near the sink, he spotted the tray he remembered from their breakfast feast. Carefully, as he waited for the kettle to boil, he arranged his findings. In the tin breadbox, he found a loaf of what appeared to be home-baked bread, one end sliced away. He rummaged in the drawers for a knife and spoons. She took milk in her tea, he remembered, so he went back to the fridge, filling the pitcher from the carton. Fruit, bread and cheese, and tea. It would do for a first course. Another survey of the counter top and he spied a promising looking tin. Popping the lid, he was rewarded with the sight of little paper cups filled with shortbread and jam prints.

Once the tea was steeping, he cautiously tested the balance of his load, and headed for the front room. As she had done, he set their meal on the table in front of the window, stepping back to look over the tray for anything out of place. It looked appropriately generous, he decided. Overall, he was pleased with the effect.

A gentle rapping startled him out of his appraisal, and an instant later Jack's face appeared around the opening front door. "I thought you might need this." He set Stani's suitcase in the floor and came in, closing the door gently. "How is she?"

"Hot bath." Stani jerked his head toward the stairs.

"Fell to pieces, didn't she?"

"How did you know?" Stani moved closer, as they maintained a near whispered exchange.

"She does that, piles so much on and then when she overflows, it's pretty devastating. It probably had more to do with you than with that baby, you know." Jack grinned, as he caught sight of the loaded tray.

"So she tried to tell me. Poor girl, she was absolutely drained. Will she be all right?"

"Oh, yes, by morning if not sooner, she'll be back to normal, like nothing ever happened. Her mother was the same, if not more so. It's really part of her charm, you know."

"Remind me of that once she's herself again. She gave me quite a fright, I can tell you."

Jack looked again at the table, laying a hand on Stani's shoulder. "Looks like you've got things under control. Call me if you need anything, but I'm pretty sure you won't. Merry Christmas."

As the door closed, Stani grabbed his suitcase and carried it into the guest room. Setting it on the bed, he snapped it open and removed the two parcels packed on top of his clothes, the tiny blue box from Tiffany's, tied with a gold ribbon, and the package he'd received from Emily. He took an extra minute to strip off his damp shirt and pull on a heavy turtleneck sweater, shaking his still drying hair into some semblance of order. Returning to the front room, he placed the gifts under the Christmas tree and paused to catch his breath.

Emily was coming down the stairs, her slippers making little slapping sounds against the treads. Going to meet her, he held up his hand, searching her face for signs of improvement. Her cheeks were rosy and she was smiling, if somewhat weakly. Taking his hand, she followed him to the table and sat down with a long sigh.

"Feeling a bit better now?" Stani poured her tea, watching as she plucked a grape and raised it to her lips.

"Yes, thank you. This looks so good." There was a faraway note in her voice, but he could see she was responding to the sight of food. She took bread, pulling off bits and eating with increasing relish. Stani sliced cheese, pushing it toward her. Sitting across the table from her, he thought she had never seemed more adorable, her damp hair framing her face, her skin glowing. "You did all this yourself? And you said you couldn't make toast." Just a hint of a grin appeared over the rim of her cup.

"I can't make toast. I can apparently assemble things on a tray, as long as everything's already at hand. Have a biscuit?" She was coming back to life. He felt as though a huge weight had been lifted. "Jack stopped by. He brought my bag. He was worried about you."

"Jack knows me too well." Picking up an apple, she took a healthy bite. "He knows I'll bounce back, too. Did he tell you that?"

"He says it's part of your charm. He's an amazing man, you know."

"How did you end up in church tonight? Was that some conspiracy between the two of you?" She held out her cup for more tea.

"Yes. I telephoned him several weeks ago and we worked out a plan. He was to meet me out on the highway, but my driver got caught up in traffic around DC this afternoon and we were very nearly late. You didn't see us come in?"

"No. I think I went into shock, when all of a sudden you appeared out of nowhere." She was more and more herself. "Did you really say you can stay for five days?"

"I did. If you'll have me." Pushing back his chair, he went to stir the fire.

"If you go on spoiling me like this, I'll have you anytime. Hot baths, tea and shortbread. I may start to fancy myself the lady of the manor." Joining him by the hearth, she stood behind him, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his shoulder. "Thank you. For everything. For being here and taking care of me. For coming to spend Christmas with me. You know we just had an anniversary? Three years ago, I could never have imagined a night like this, you like this. It's a miracle, just as it was then, but it's oh so much nicer this way."

Stani turned in her arms, holding her close. "And this night, I'm sure to remember."

### ****

They sat by the fire for a long time in contented silence. He could believe in miracles after this night. His experience in church, witnessing the birth of a baby, and the discovery of just how intensely he loved her, wanted to protect and care for her, were all miraculous. Every hour with her seemed to change him, lead him forward to a new sense of himself. He tried to recall the pastor's words at the close of the service tonight. Words like strengthen and support, honor and serve; words which gave direction, pointing to a better life. Peace and love, and courage. He had begun to believe he might be capable of much more than he'd ever attempted. With inspiration in the form of this girl now nestled so warmly at his side, he might learn to be the kind of man she deserved.

Three years earlier, it seemed to him now, he had in fact died, only to be born into this new life. If almost losing his life had earned him this amazing woman's love, then he could accept the idea that there was a plan, a divine vision for them. There was so much more to learn, more to discover on this journey; but he knew tonight he had at last opened his heart and, as she had promised, God had been there, had spoken to him, and he had recognized his voice.

"Emily, it's almost Christmas. Should we put the baby in the manger now?"

Together, they went to the mantel and she took the tiny figure from its hiding place. Ever so gently, she placed it on the little straw bed. Softly, lovingly, she spoke words familiar, but never before understood. "And he shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace."

### ****

They had fallen asleep, curled together on the couch. Each time he woke, just enough to be sure she was still there, he'd been aware of his overwhelming desire to protect her, watch over her. Was this what she felt, that night three years ago, for a stranger she never expected to see again? And now here they were, embarking on what he knew would be a life filled with all the love and warmth, all the goodness they could bring to each other. He had the urge to wake her, tell her of his new awareness. He'd almost told her when she'd opened her gift, when her eyes were gleaming with pleasure at his choice. There had been tears, but tears of joy this time. When he'd opened the locket and she'd stared at the curl of red hair, her smile had been a radiant reward for his efforts. "Perfect. Oh, Stani, you couldn't have done anything more perfect." But he wanted to wait a day or two longer, let the wonder of Christmas subside just a bit, before he told her of his plan.

He was still wearing the tartan scarf. She'd lovingly wrapped it around his neck, crossing it over his heart. He was delighted with the symbolism, the fact that she'd thought of something so specific to him. He would have it with him, wherever he went, the soft wool a reminder of her gentle hands.

He marveled at the thought that he had held her by his side all night and felt such powerful love and concern, but not a trace of unbidden desire. Was it really possible for a man to love a woman so much and yet set aside desire until the time was right for them both? She had opened herself to him, shown him her willingness, her trust of him; and he had no doubt that when that right time came, they would come together as equal partners. But for now, he was more than content to anticipate that time. There was nothing to prove, no need to rush to something they would share for the rest of their life together.

### Chapter Forty-five

Stani woke with a start, realizing he was alone. Though the drapes were still drawn against the light, he sensed the sun had been up for some time. From the direction of the kitchen he thought he heard music, mingling with the pleasantly promising sounds of glass clinking and water running.

Slowly, stiffly, he sat up and ran his hands through his hair, trying to shake the last remnants of sleep from his brain. He'd been dreaming, a slightly disturbing dream of Emily, her tear-streaked face floating above him. He had stroked her cheek, in his dream, trying to console her, as he watched the firelight reflected in her eyes. But he'd been powerless to comfort her, as she laid her head on his chest and sobbed. She had pleaded with him to stay, her voice the soft, sad voice of his old dream. He couldn't stay, he couldn't hold on to her, and he had floated away into the darkness, leaving her with that serious little smile on her lips.

Throwing off the quilt she must have spread over him, he started toward the sound of Emily in the kitchen, Emily waiting for him to join her. He was here. She was just in the next room, no darkness now, only the light of a new day. Christmas Day!

She was standing at the window, and beyond her he could see that the morning was brilliant. The rain had washed the sky to a perfect blue, not a cloud in sight. Frost shimmered on the broad expanse of lawn behind the house. She turned at the sound of his steps, and smiled with so much warmth he had no choice but to take her in his arms and kiss her before she vanished like the vision she must be.

"Merry Christmas," she said, her lips still touching his.

"Merry Christmas. How long have you been up?" He held her at arm's length. She was dressed this morning in jeans and a soft white sweater, which she'd covered with an old fashioned apron, its ruffles standing up at her shoulders like wings. Her hair was tied at the back of her head with a ribbon, and she wore not a trace of makeup. "You're beautiful, you know? More beautiful every time I look at you." He was rewarded with a long, sweet kiss.

Moving away, she opened the oven door, peering inside. The countertops were littered with evidence of her activity, bowls and utensils, eggshells and little trails of flour. "What have you been doing, and what is that heavenly smell?"

"Cinnamon bread. I've been wondering if you were ever going to wake up. I'm starving!"

He laughed, pulling her close again. "When are you not starving? I can see you're going to require a great deal of care and feeding."

They ate well, eggs and sausages, fresh fruit and the warm, rich bread, and lingered at the kitchen table, talking of the previous night, Christmas music from the radio providing a background. Stani noticed with pride that her fingers went frequently to caress the locket, hanging near her heart. Today, she was herself again, no trace of last night's anguish. She had indeed bounced back quickly, apparently none the worse for wear.

"When will Jack be here?" he asked, carrying his plate to her at the sink.

"Near noon, unless he has a call. We'll plan for that, but we'll wait for him if he's held up. I need to get started on lunch soon."

"Are you going to cook all day?" He nudged aside the ruffle at her shoulder, encircling her waist as she stood washing dishes. "You are the very picture of domesticity, cooking and cleaning. I've never known a girl with so many useful talents."

"You've never known a girl who grew up in the country, I'll bet. We know how to take care of our men."

"That has a lovely ring to it." He kissed her neck, just under her ear, and she shivered, humming with pleasure. "Now this man needs a shower. Where do I go to make myself presentable?"

She led him to the guest room, going into the bathroom beyond to turn on the electric heater. She laid out towels and soap, and drew the curtain around the tub. "There, anything else you need?" Standing in the doorway, she watched him spread his clothes on the bed. "Stani, you do realize we slept together last night?" Her voice was soft and pointedly suggestive.

He pulled his sweater over his head, welcoming the sting of cold air on his skin. Approaching her with what he hoped was a menacing glare, he took her by the shoulders and steered her out of the room. "Out!" He could hear her laughing as he closed the door, leaning against it as he struggled for control. Setting aside desire might prove more difficult than he'd hoped.

### ****

When lunch was over, the three of them sat gazing at what had been the centerpiece, a perfectly roasted wild duck, now a mere carcass of bones. Jack and Stani, in high spirits, acknowledged their good fortune at having been born at the right place and time. They toasted Emily with their water glasses, her loveliness and grace, her skill in the kitchen as well as the rear seat of a police cruiser. As she laughingly rose to clear their plates, Jack asked what Stani's plan was for the remainder of his visit.

"You made it through one night. Do you still need my protection?"

"Absolutely. I've tried to explain to her that the questions generated by my sleeping here would far exceed anything she might have encountered after merely saving my life."

From the kitchen, she called out, "I did not save your life!"

Both men laughed, but Stani was serious when he turned back to Jack, whispering "Come back for me this evening, whenever it's convenient for you. She won't like it, but. . .I'm not made of stone!"

"Em, we'll meet you at church, and you can have him back for the whole day, I promise. I have a little date of my own Sunday evening, but I'll get him out of your way before bedtime."

As she brought their dessert from the kitchen, she gave him a disbelieving look. "Not a 'date' date, Jack? Surely some woman hasn't finally entrapped you into a real date?"

"Sort of, but if you must know, this is not the first 'date' date we've had. We just know how to be discreet." He was grinning broadly, and suddenly Emily gasped.

"Martha Jean! It's Martha Jean. Why didn't I see it? How long has this been going on?"

"Almost a year. And we'd really like to keep it quiet. We don't need half the women in town flocking to the shop just to be nosy. And by the way, she said to be sure to come in Monday. She's got a big after-Christmas sale on, and she set a pile of stuff aside for you." He tucked into his chocolate pie, still grinning.

"Martha Jean has dressed me since high school, and she always holds things back that she thinks I'll like, and she's usually right," Emily explained to Stani, watching him sample the dessert. He had said he rarely ate sweets, but after one bite, he went at the pie with apparent relish. "I think I will check out the sale, since the one thing I bought myself this year got totally ruined last night. Small price to pay for a safe delivery, but I really liked that blouse." She twisted her lips in a little grimace of regret. "Have you heard how Ruthie's doing?"

"As a matter of fact, I had a call from Bobby this morning. Both girls are doing fine. They wanted to be sure of your name, because they'd like your permission to name the baby after you. I didn't tell them the whole thing, but I do think you could let them have 'Emily'."

"What whole thing? What are you hiding from me?" Stani waited expectantly.

She held up a cautionary hand, with a discouraging frown in Jack's direction. "Too much too soon."

"Oh, come now, you know about Stanley, and you haven't held it against me. Tell me. How bad can it be?"

"It isn't. It's just silly and it takes some explaining. I'll tell you some day, I promise. But Jack, yes, I'd be thrilled if they called the baby Emily. What does Bobby do for a living?"

"County road crew. With four kids, you can imagine the kind of rough time they have. You'd think they'd stop having babies, and maybe now they will. They have three boys and were hoping for a girl. Maybe this Emily will be their last. I hate to see six people try to live on a little paycheck like that. In fact, they were one of the Christmas Families. The three little boys who all wanted dump trucks? Want to be just like Daddy, I guess." Jack scraped the last smear of chocolate from his plate and pushed back his chair. "I hate to eat and run, but I've got a couple of people to check on. You wouldn't happen to have any oranges, would you?"

"Sure. Who needs oranges?" Emily thought she knew the answer, but she noticed Stani listening thoughtfully to the exchange.

"Old Miss Hagen. She said she always got an orange in her stocking when she was a little girl. I thought it might be nice for her to have one this year. I just didn't make it to the market in time last night."

Emily went to the kitchen and put a pair of oranges from the bowl on the counter into a little paper sack. Rummaging in the drawer of the sideboard, she found a scrap of red ribbon, and tied a bow around the top of the sack. "How's that? Anything else you need?" Turning to hold out the package for Jack's approval, she realized Stani had left the room.

"Just a Christmas kiss from my best girl and I'll be on my way." Jack leaned down for her kiss and was headed for the front door when Stani returned from the guest room.

"Jack, would you mind doing a favor for me? See that Bobby and Ruthie have this?" He pressed a folded bill into Jack's palm. "Tell them it's a welcome home gift for their Emily." Jack gave him a long, approving look, and the two shook hands.

"That was so sweet, but you didn't have to, you know." She put her arms around his waist, laying her head on his shoulder as they stood in the doorway watching the big brown car drive away.

"Yes, I did. I can't have your namesake coming home without a Christmas present this year. She's part of our miracle now, too."

### ****

They would have the entire evening together. Not sure the time was right, but open to any opportunity, Stani was happy to let the day wind down. He chose a recording of Handel's Messiah, which Emily laughingly told him she had listened to every year since she was in diapers. He browsed her father's collection of books, and a volume on Britain in the Middle Ages caught his interest. Sitting on the floor at her feet, he browsed the old textbook, resting his head against her knee.

Gazing into the fire, Emily idly stroked his hair, her eyelids pleasantly heavy. This was what it felt like to share a life. To love the same things, to feel so at ease there was no need for conversation. This was the way her parents had been together, she remembered, here in this very room. They would have this, she and Stani, if only for brief hours like these, and she intended to savor every one, tucking them carefully away to look back on when he was gone.

So absorbed were they that the sound of a soft knock at the door, followed by the entrance of two visitors, failed to penetrate their consciousness. Only when a smiling face appeared at the end of the couch, followed by a breathless exclamation, did Emily become aware of Lil, now gaping at her in astonishment.

"Emily, what are you doing?" followed shortly by "Mom, you're never going to believe this!"

After the initial shock, the room filled with excited voices and hasty explanations. As gracefully as he could, Stani got to his feet and waited for the chaos to die down. The laughing introductions and hugs of greeting subsided, and he was conscious of Lil's dark eyes watching him intently. Turning to her, he laid his hands on her shoulders and bent down to gently kiss each cheek. "I understand we've already met, Lil. I only wish I could remember."

After an instant's hesitation, she put her arms around his neck, whispering "Merry Christmas," very near his ear.

Angela was explaining to Emily, "Sal and Joey are working the big party at the president's house this afternoon, and Lil and I couldn't bear the idea of your being alone on Christmas Day. So we decided to surprise you. I suppose the surprise is on us, isn't it?" With a glance at Stani, she went on, "I'm so sorry, dear. I should have called first."

"Nonsense, you know you're welcome anytime. But I can't believe you'd drive two hours to see me and have to drive back on Christmas night."

Her face reddening, Angela said, "Actually, we were planning to invite ourselves to spend the night. Oh, Lil, we should just get back in the car and pretend we never had this brilliant idea."

But Lil was already settled in an armchair, watching the scene with fascination. Stani had put an arm around Emily, his eyes gleaming, as if he might actually be enjoying the awkwardness of the situation, while Emily had blushed a pretty shade of pink. It would take more than her mother's embarrassment to move Lil now.

"Before you do that," Stani spoke up, "let me assure you, you are not intruding. I've been hoping to meet as much of Emily's family as possible on this visit. And I'm quite sure she'd welcome your company. You see, I'm staying with Jack, so she would indeed be alone tonight. Isn't that right, love?" His arm tightened around her for a moment. "Why don't I get some more wood for the fire, while you ladies make your plans?" As he turned toward the rear of the house, Lil was sure she heard the sound of a chuckle drift back over his shoulder.

"He's right, you know. He isn't staying here. I'd love for you two to spend the night. What a sweet surprise! This has been a Christmas of nothing but surprises. And I was prepared to be miserable all by myself."

Angela seemed a little more at ease. "You mean you didn't know Stani was coming? When did he get here?"

"Last night. He just appeared at church. So it's settled, you'll stay?"

"We'll stay. But we need to unload the car. Sal sent dinner, of course. Everything from antipasto to baklava. Come on, Lil, stop gawking and let's get unloaded. Maybe you could bring in your viola, since you insisted on bringing it, and let Stani give you some pointers." The two went out the door and across the yard, deep in a mother-daughter wrangle.

"No one ever knocks at your door, do they?" Stani came up behind her, watching the activity over her shoulder.

"Apparently not. Do you mind, I mean about not being alone now?"

"Not at all. I think I love your family. What a lot of energy!"

"You have no idea."

Angela and Lil were coming back from the car, still arguing. The discussion continued in the kitchen, and when they returned to the front room, Angela enlisted Emily's help. "Some music would be nice, don't you agree, Emily? I'll take the piano, if you can convince Lil to play for us." She turned to Stani with a coaxing smile. "I don't suppose you'd agree to join our little impromptu performance, would you, Stani?"

"Unfortunately, my violin has to travel with its own bodyguard, and I didn't think I'd need it on this trip. I'm sorry."

But Angela was not to be discouraged. "What about J.D.'s violin, Em?"

Taken by surprise, Emily wavered. "Do you think it would be okay? Pop always said it was just an old fiddle."

"It's not priceless, but it was a nice instrument. I'm sure in Stani's hands it will be fine. What do you say, shall we? There used to be such grand music in this room." Opening the piano, she played a few tentative chords. "Now, where's some sheet music? Is it all still here, dear?" Angela was off and running. Lil went back to the car, returning with the viola case in hand, rolling her eyes at Emily as she opened the lid.

Hesitantly, Emily went to the cabinet behind the piano and opened the doors. Neat stacks of sheet music, scores carefully arranged, all just where her mother had left them. She lifted her father's violin from its case, and as if bearing an offering, carried it to Stani. "It hasn't been played in years. He never touched it after she died," she said softly. She wanted him to know how sacred it had been, their music together. Something in his eyes, as he took the violin lovingly in his hands, told her he understood.

Within minutes, Angela had opened a score on the music rack, and she and Lil had begun to play. Stani, gently plucking strings and listening intently, finally raised the bow and joined in. On the bench next to Angela, Emily prepared to turn pages. It was a magical moment, as the sound of live music filled the room for the first time in so many years. It had happened so naturally, as the three musicians, each from such different places in their experience, joined in the sheer joy of making music. Emily turned a page, looked up at Stani, and smiled. And then her eye fell on a notation, written in the margin in her mother's handwriting. Tears stung her eyes.

As if reading her thoughts, Angela took her left hand from the keys and slipped her arm around the girl beside her. Under cover of the soaring strings, she said gently, "It's all too wonderful, isn't it?" Resting her head on Angela's shoulder, Emily let the tears flow. "They would be so happy, darling. This is just what they would have wanted for you. A life filled with love and music."

Stani was watching closely. He understood these tears. She was thinking of her parents as the instruments they had shared came back to life. It was only right, he thought, that she shed a few tears in memory. He was proud to be the one to give the old violin voice again. Proud that she would allow him, knowing how she must treasure it. Here was one more step in their journey together.

When the music came to a rousing close, just as the last of the sun's rays slanted across the room, Angela turned pointedly to Lil. "Now you can boast to your friends that you've performed with Stani Moss. And to add to your boast, you can tell everyone you also fixed his dinner. We're going to the kitchen to heat up all this food your father sent, while Stani and Emily relax by the fire for a bit." Lil knew better to protest, when her mother's eyes sent such a profound message. Emily needed time alone with her man.

They settled on the couch, Emily snuggling close with a sigh. "That was so beautiful. Thank you. I know Lil will never forget this day."

"Neither will I." He wrapped her in his arms, resting his cheek on her hair. "Tears of pain or pleasure?"

"Both, I guess. Earlier, I was thinking about them, how what I feel for you is what it means to share a life. Angela's right, she said they'd be happy for me. But, Stani, how are we ever going to make a life together? This is so wonderful, these days together, but soon you'll be leaving and who knows when you'll be back. We've found a treasure that I'm afraid we can't keep."

He wanted to tell her, but this was not the time. Just another day or two. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "We'll find a way. Have faith, darling girl. Have faith."

### ****

The four of them sat at the kitchen table, feasting on Salvatore's tortellini and lasagna, along with a pan of bread sticks topped with herbs and cheese, sent as a special treat for Emily from Joey. Angela asked about Stani's Christmas Eve surprise. "Emily said you just showed up in church?"

"Yes, but mine wasn't the only surprise arrival. Darling, tell them about little Emily."

But Emily looked into the two questioning faces and blushed furiously. "You tell them. I'm hungry." Tucking her head, she emphatically dug her fork into her pasta.

Stani regaled them with the story of the previous night, leaving out no detail until the moment they'd arrived at the farm. "She was absolutely heroic, and we learned today the parents plan to name the baby Emily. It was a Christmas Eve I'm sure we'll all remember the rest of our lives. I was certain one of us, Jack or Bobby or myself, was going to pass out. Birth is a very messy business!" He was relieved when even Emily laughed at his telling of the drama.

When Angela declared herself on cleanup, Stani lingered in the kitchen. He was somehow drawn to this dynamic woman, and sensed having her as an ally would prove essential to the success of his plan. Within minutes, the opening strains of Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring drifted from the front of the house, announcing that Lil had presented Emily with her Christmas gift.

"She had a bad night, I take it?" Angela's black brows rose with the question, and she leaned against the counter as if preparing for a lengthy conversation.

"How did you know?" Emily had suggested that at times Angela could be a mind-reader.

"I could see she didn't want to talk about it. I knew she was fragile today, but that explains it. Not to mention your being here as well. She'll be fine, don't worry. She calls it her whirlwind, this little tidal wave of emotion. Might as well get used to it, if you have the kind of plans I think you do." She was smiling, but the one sharply arched brow and the gleam in her eyes made Stani feel sure he was being tested. There would be no hiding, even if he had wanted to. Angela expected straight answers, even without asking direct questions.

"I want her, for always, if that's what you mean. She still seems to think we're too different, too far apart. She's had such a normal life, and mine's been nothing of the sort. But we do have things in common, and I think we understand each other."

Again the brows went up, and she fixed him with a questioning glare. "Is that what she's led you to believe? That she had some kind of idyllic childhood?"

He stammered just a little. "When she talks about her parents, their life here, yes, I suppose idyllic is the word that comes to mind. She's been happy here, and this is clearly what she wants for the future."

Angela glanced at a chair near the table, as if ordering him to sit. She ran her hands through the length of her hair and twisted it over her shoulder, gathering her thoughts. "Stani, let me tell you a little about Emily's life here, and you judge for yourself how normal, as you call it, things really were." Still leaning against the counter, she folded her arms and began to talk. Stani found himself mesmerized by the telling of this story she seemed to know so well. Her best friend, falling in love and starting a new life, determined to have a child. The two people, well past youth, who poured all their considerable energies into shaping that child in their own images. "They weren't just a family. They were everything to each other. Emily had friends, but her parents were the most important people in her life. They were her teachers, her playmates, her idols. Lilianne was never strong, but in the end, when she was so ill, Emily took over, took care of her father, nursed her mother, kept the house, cooked the meals. She was barely fifteen, but she understood how things were, how J.D. was falling apart after Lilianne died, and she stepped in, held everything together for him. He tried to go on for Emily's sake, but after the stroke, she was left without him, too." Staring at a point somewhere over his shoulder, she seemed to picture the way things had been, and for a moment, Stani could see she was fighting tears. "There was nothing normal about Emily's upbringing. She grew up very quickly. I think she may have even started out as an old soul, wise even as a child. She has her mother's moods, one minute intensely emotional, the next equally calm. Lilianne was a brilliant musician, a passionate teacher, and she brought those things to her family as well. J.D. was more down-to-earth, slower moving, but he was a true scholar, and he began teaching Emily before she could talk. She learned a lot from him that helps her stay grounded. Emily is unique, a blend of two such different personalities, and she's held together by a strength which comes largely from her faith in God." Her story winding down, Angela turned to the sink and started the water running, still taking over her shoulder.

"She's accomplished so much on her own. But she needs someone to share her life. She's been in love with you, you know, all this time. She just couldn't admit it to herself. I know she has some notion of staying here, living alone, but don't be discouraged." She turned to him with a wistful smile. "She's not going to send you away, not the way she feels now. She can be stubborn, don't fool yourself. But she would never hurt you. It's against her nature. Make your plans, Stani. She'll be there when the time is right."

Taking a minute to absorb all he'd heard, Stani sat in silence. This picture of Emily painted in such clear strokes by Angela's story made him long to rush to her, gather her in his arms. His darling girl, brave and strong, had suffered in spite of loving parents, had lost the very security they had worked to give her. She had talked of finding her way out of depression and grief, but now he saw more clearly how much she'd overcome. At last he looked up to meet Angela's waiting gaze. "Thank you. And I have made my plans. I just haven't had the opportunity to tell her about them yet. You really think she'll be willing to have me?"

Drying her hands on a towel, she came to stand over him, a genuinely fond smile in her dark eyes. "She'll have you, Stani. Have faith, my dear. She'll have you." She patted his shoulder gently, took off her apron and went toward the front of the house. Stani had the distinct impression she'd just foretold his future, as surely as if she'd read his palm or gazed onto a crystal ball.

When he joined them in the front room, the music and the firelight drew him in. As he sat down at Emily's feet, he sensed that she was content, finally at peace after the ups and downs of the past hours. A serene little smile lit her face, and with a sigh, she reached down to touch his hair. "You two were talking for long time. Anything I should know about?" she asked softly.

"Nothing at all, except I love you more and more each hour."

"Hours. They're flying by. Are you sure you won't stay tonight?" She slid to the floor, curling beside him, ignoring Lil's wide eyes fixed on them. When she had drawn his head down and begun to kiss him with considerable warmth, they heard the whisper from the other side of the room.

"Mom, maybe we should go upstairs. I don't think I can sit here and watch her do that to him."

Their eyes met, brimming with laughter. "It's okay, Lil," Stani assured her, "Emily may do whatever she likes. She's my Christmas present to myself."

But they were left alone soon enough, stretched on the rug beside the fire. "We've been here before, you know? But you weren't nearly so responsive then."

"I'll try to make up for it if you'll let me. But not tonight. We've had a busy day, little girl. Did you get what you wanted for Christmas this year?"

"Oh, yes. Exactly what I wanted. Which reminds me, I want you to hear my gift from Lil. Do you know it?" She got up and started the record playing.

"Appalachian Spring? Yes. An appropriate gift." They listened in silence, nestled in each other's arms, to the musical story of a country bride and her intended bridegroom.

Late in the piece, a solo clarinet played a snatch of melody. "That's it," she whispered, "it's called 'Simple Gifts.' That could be the theme song for my life here." She recited softly, "Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be. And when we find ourselves in the place just right, 'twill be in the valley of love and delight.'" She looked up, smiling into his eyes. "Isn't that perfect, a simple life in the valley of love and delight? It has to be harder to achieve than it sounds, but it's something to dream of, to work for."

Before he left that night, Stani took up the old violin and played the melody, loving the way it sounded in the room. And most of all, loving the look on her face as she listened. He had indeed come down in just the right place, a place he might finally call home.

### Chapter Forty-six

They had stood together in church, sung the hymns and said the prayers, their voices blending. Emily had felt both proud and a little self-conscious. In his elegantly tailored black suit, with his handsome features and long auburn hair, Stani had attracted the whispered attention of these people who had known her all her life. She'd worn her best dress, last year's Christmas dress, wine red wool with white lace at the collar and cuffs. She hoped she at least complemented his good looks. She told herself it wasn't that she was vain, but no woman liked to pale in comparison to her man.

As they sat together, she could sense how intently Stani focused on every word of scripture and on the message of the sermon. He had reached for her hand with a little smile at the words from Colossians describing "love which binds all things in harmony." She had never shared so intimately in worship with another person. As their voices joined in the closing prayer she was filled with a new kind of joyful assurance. It was one thing to know the comfort of her own faith, but to see the man she loved finding his way to this longed-for knowledge was an even greater gift.

After the service, they were surrounded by those who had heard the news of the Christmas Eve delivery. Emily wondered if it were not also in some cases an excuse to get closer to Stani, to shake his hand and let him know that she was one of them, not as a warning, but a claim of kinship. He would be the subject of a number of Sunday dinner conversations, she felt sure. Stani was gracious and polite to these strangers, but Emily thought he seemed anxious to leave. To her surprise, when they reached the narthex, Pastor Mike greeted him warmly and they exchanged a few quiet words. She was sure she heard Mike say ". . .two, just as we planned."

"Two?" she asked, taking his arm as they slowly descended the steps to the sidewalk.

"Two? Oh, just a little something I have to take care of tomorrow. Where did Jack get off to? Aren't you starving?"

"Don't change the subject. What, at two tomorrow?"

"If you must know, I'm meeting with Pastor McConnell. Now, Curiosity, let's find Jack and have lunch. I have plans for you this afternoon, but I know you have to be fed first." He pulled her along, clearly a man on a mission.

### ****

When they left Jack at the door of the cafe, Emily tucked her arm through Stani's and turned toward the church. "Now tell me about these plans."

"I want the grand tour. The deluxe version, I think, with audio guide and in-depth details."

She stopped in her tracks. "What?"

Stani smiled indulgently. "I want a tour of your world. I'm willing to pay handsomely. In New York, a good guided tour can cost a bundle, especially with an expert guide."

She laughed, looking around the square for inspiration. "I see. Well, I can't promise 'expert' but I'll do my best. Where would you like to begin? And you do realize this is it, these few blocks? It won't take very long."

They began with the courthouse itself. "The new courthouse, actually, built after a fire in 1882 destroyed the old one. Note the painted brick, which is still a topic for heated argument with some of the town fathers. Jack's office is in the basement, by the way, along with the three-cell jail, which is rarely occupied."

Moving on, she took him past the various offices—insurance, lawyers, real estate agents and surveyors. When they came to the hardware store, with its window display of snow shovels and coal buckets, he stopped her. "I've always wondered just what is sold in a hardware store. I've never even seen one in Manhattan, or anywhere else, for that matter."

"Poor Stani! Hardware stores are fascinating places. Each one reflects to some degree the tastes of the community it serves. Here we have everything from basic tools, to garden supplies and lumber, to all the necessary items to stock a well-run country kitchen. One stop will get you a good spade or grubbing hoe, a finely balanced hammer and the best in seasoned two-by-fours, and the latest model pressure cooker. Not to mention in the spring when the sidewalk is lined with bedding plants and fertilizer, you can load up your truck and make a real haul."

"Whoa there! I think you've lost me entirely. I only recognized one or two of those items you listed. But I take it from your enthusiasm this is one of your favorite shopping destinations."

"Absolutely. I can spend hours just browsing in there. If they don't have what you want in stock, they have stacks of catalogs filled with the most amazing things. Jack teases me that the hardware store is my research library."

Stani gently brushed a windblown strand of hair from her cheek. "You really love it here, don't you? You positively light up when you talk about it."

Emily blushed, turning to lead him further along the street. "I know it's all very ordinary, but yes, I love it. When I was a little girl, I would come into town with Pop. Everywhere we went everybody knew us and seemed to genuinely care about us. It made me feel important when someone asked how my mother was doing, or how the garden was coming along. Now that I'm back, everybody makes me feel included, like a part of the community." She swept her hand through the air, taking in the four blocks of the square and all of the shop fronts. "These people are my family, although I'm not related to any one of them. From Mr. Harris at the bank, to Katie Malone at the flower shop, to Mr. Brown at the market, to Martha Jean at the boutique, I know I can count on every one of them to be there if I need anything."

"Is there no family left at all? You never mentioned any."

When she looked away, as if caught off guard, Stani was immediately curious. Staring off into the distance, her eyes tearing slightly from the cold wind in her face, she answered, "A few distant cousins on Mother's side. She was an only child, raised by her grandmother after her parents died. And an aunt, my father's sister, who lives in Florida. They were never close." It was clear that was all she had to say on the subject. "Now we'll go by Martha Jean's. Marjorie may be in the window, taking her nap."

"Marjorie?"

"The shop cat. She came to stay with me once, when I discovered I had field mice in the house. We've been friends ever since." Pulling him along, she crossed the street, waving at an elderly couple in a huge car stopped at the corner. "That's Mr. and Mrs. MacIntyre. You met them in church this morning."

"Oh, yes, the dapper old gent who asked if I realized what a gem of a lass I had here."

"Mr. Mac likes me. And he's something of a flirt."

"Why do I feel there may be quite a few men in this town who 'like' you?"

"They raised me, Stani. They feel they have to watch out for me. I don't know why, but everybody seems to think I need protecting."

They paused next to the display window at the boutique, where sure enough, Marjorie was in her usual spot. When Emily pecked on the glass, the cat raised her flat face and stared at Stani a moment. Then with a flick of her tail, she proceeded to lazily lick her paws. "Fascinating. I've always thought cats were creatures I might like to have around."

"I'll have to introduce you to Heathcliff and Catherine."

"Who?" Stani tapped on the glass and when he had Marjorie's attention, waved goodbye.

"My barn cats, Cliff and Cat for short. We've only spent time in the house. I'll have to show you around the rest of the farm. But now I think we should head back to the church. It's getting really cold out." She arranged the tartan scarf higher around his neck. "Did you get your money's worth?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you. Sometime, you'll have to introduce me to all your friends here."

Emily laughed. "That would set the tongues wagging. Not that they wouldn't approve, every one of them has been asking me when I was going to find a man. For some reason, they want to see every girl take that walk to the altar. Try as I might, I can't convince them I'm not anxious for that."

"Aren't you? Doesn't every girl dream of taking that walk?"

When she turned to him, the look in her eyes surprised him. "Not me. I have my life arranged just the way I want it, and now that I have you, it's perfect. My feet are freezing. Race you to the car!"

### ****

There was a battered green pickup truck parked in the drive when they reached the farm. "Oh, James is here. Wonder what he's up to?" Emily seemed not in the least upset by the appearance of yet another visitor, this one apparently self-invited.

"James?" Stani hadn't anticipated company. It hardly fit into his plans, but then thus far, his plans had been thwarted at every turn. He would have to adjust his vision to include an entire community of people who made themselves present at all hours of her days and nights, rarely announcing their intentions.

"James McConnell, Pastor Mike's oldest son. He helps me out, sort of a caretaker, while I'm away."

Stani followed her to the rear of the house, where some sort of rhythmic percussion echoed in the cold air. A tall, lean man, his long hair blowing wildly in the wind, was chopping firewood. With every fall of the ax, he let out a groan, as if to release some inner anguish. When he saw them approaching he stopped, resting the head of the ax on the worn toe of his boot.

"James, what are you doing out here on a Sunday afternoon? This could have waited. I've got plenty of wood for now."

He smiled, or at least his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Hi, Em. I just thought you could use a little more. And I needed some air."

She introduced him to Stani, adding, "We missed you in church this morning."

"I was thawing Miss Hagen's pipes. She refuses to keep the heat turned up high enough at night. Her bathroom plumbing gets it every time we have a hard freeze. Did you meet Pete's girl?"

Emily smiled. "Yes. She's very pretty. And very 'Georgia'."

"That voice! She never stops talking. I really thought my brother was smarter than that, but there's no accounting for taste I guess. Every time she says 'Peeta' with that little giggle, I want to run for the hills." Now he smiled in earnest, and for the first time Stani saw past James's weathered face and wild hair to the intelligent blue eyes that were wise beyond his years.

From the barn, two gray cats emerged, apparently willing to venture out now that the wood splitting had ceased. "There you are, you two scaredy-cats. Come and say hello." Emily knelt and held out her hands to the cats, who came running toward her. Scooping one into her arms, she held it close. "This is Heathcliff, and the lady rubbing her fur off on your trousers is Catherine."

"Cliff's lost his bell again, I guess you noticed." James scratched the cat behind the ears, chuckling as it wriggled in Emily's arms. "You just keep hoping you'll catch some poor, geriatric bird, don't you, Cliff?"

"I got them to control the field mice," she explained to Stani, "but they also wanted to control the songbird population. Thus the bells. But Cliff here seems to have some way of getting rid of his. So far, he's gone through at least a dozen. Lucky for the birds, he's not the quickest of cats."

Stani moved closer, aware that James McConnell was thoroughly at ease with Emily. They made a striking pair, the tall rugged man and the equally tall, slender girl. Feeling every inch of his own five foot seven, he wondered if all the men in her life were going to be looking down on him. "You wanted to get in where it's warm, love. Remember?" He slipped an arm around her waist, giving the cat a tentative stroke with his free hand.

"We took a little walk around town. My feet are frozen. Come in for some hot chocolate when you're done, James?" She dropped the cat gently to the ground, brushing fur from the front of her coat.

With a glance at Stani, James smiled. "Not this time, Em. I still have to run up and check on Mrs. O'Neil. You know her son didn't make it for Christmas this year? Too busy, I guess. She's getting pretty frail, so Jack asked me to sort of keep an eye on the place." He extended a gloved hand to Stani. "Good to meet you. I heard one of your recordings on the radio just the other day. A Beethoven sonata."

Stani blinked up at him. "You listen to classical music?" He immediately regretted the incredulous tone in his voice.

"That old thing" James jerked his head toward the pickup, "has a pretty good radio. Picks up the station from the University real good, especially up on the ridges." With a twinkle in his eyes, he added, "Before I decided to become a bumpkin, I got a pretty good education."

The three of them laughed and Emily took Stani's arm. "He's learning, James. This is a whole new world for him. Now come on, you. I'm ready to sit by the fire for a while." As they walked toward the house, she said sweetly, "Another one of your lovely tea trays might be nice."

### ****

The setting was perfect. The crackling fire, the golden sunlight slanting across the floor, Emily curled beneath a quilt, her head on his chest, her hand resting over his heart. James's truck had gone through the gate some time ago, and they'd been here alone, just staring into the flames. With one finger, he tilted her face up and kissed her, a long, tender kiss he hoped foretold of things to come.

"I've been looking forward to being alone with you like this. We haven't had much quiet time, have we?"

"I'm sorry. But around here people sort of assume they're welcome. It's not like that in Manhattan I guess?"

"No, it's a bit different there. Not quite so informal." Before he could say more, she ran her hand up into his hair, raising her mouth to cover his. When the kiss ended, he'd completely lost his train of thought.

"We have now. We can make up for lost time, can't we?" She turned in his arms, until she was stretched across his lap, her head nestled against his shoulder. "What a wonderful day this has been. And now we have the whole evening, all to ourselves." Another of those long, sweet kisses, and he felt the way opening to move forward. Now he would tell her, now that he knew so much more and believed she would understand.

The telephone rang, jarring every nerve in his body.

Emily jumped up, dropping a little kiss on his lips. "Be right back."

While trying to still the pounding of his heart, he listened to her talking softly to the party at the other end of the line. When the conversation ended with her saying, "Sure, I understand. It's really not a problem," he had the sinking feeling he was on hold again.

Emily sat down beside him, taking his hand. "I'm sorry. I have to go to work."

"What? Where?" That possibility had never occurred to him.

"At the local hospital. I put myself on call to cover during the holidays since I didn't think I'd be doing anything special. That was the charge nurse. One of the nurses has a sick child, and they need me to work the ER. I hate to leave you, but I can't very well turn them down. Besides, it's the eleven-to-seven shift. I'll be back in the morning, and we still have most of this evening. I will need to take a little nap, but you won't mind so much, will you?" Turning to him, she slipped back into his arms, tucking her hand inside his shirtfront.

With a long sigh, he kissed her forehead. "No, of course not. Should I just go back to Jack's now so you can rest? He can bring me back tomorrow."

Her head lifted just slightly from his shoulder. "Why do you have to go at all? You can stay tonight and be here when I come home in the morning. Besides, Jack's on his big date, remember? He said he'd call before he came out to get you, but I have it on good authority they went to dinner and a movie over in Baxter, so it'll be late when he gets in."

Stani started to protest, but the best he could do was point out that his things were at Jack's.

He could feel her grin against his shoulder. "You need clothes to sleep?" Her fingertips were again playing gently on his chest, and he groaned inwardly.

"I suppose not. As long as I'm here alone. You're sure it wouldn't be inappropriate?"

"I'm sure. So you'll stay? We can have breakfast again." She yawned delicately, snuggling closer. Curling her legs up on the couch, she pulled the quilt over herself and settled deeper into his arms.

"All right, but if you get us into trouble, I'll plead insanity." Her eyes opened questioningly. "You are rapidly driving me mad, my love. What is so fascinating inside my shirt?"

She giggled softly, but her hand remained in place. "Do you really object?"

He threw back his head with a laugh. "Would it matter if I did?"

### ****

Emily slept in his arms for a time, until finally he eased out from beneath her, gently resting her head on a cushion and tucking the quilt around her. In response, she smiled in her sleep and made a sweet little humming sound he found incredibly musical. Gazing down at her profile, he gave himself an inward shake. He had once again lost an opportunity. Time was growing shorter; the five days had narrowed to two now. Would there ever be a moment when he could tell her, or would he be forced to leave her and pour his heart out later in a letter? No. He would press the issue tomorrow, after she had rested, after he had met with Pastor Mike, once they were finally alone together again. He toyed with the idea of asking Jack to post a guard at the bottom of the hill, to keep any uninvited visitors from interrupting. Somehow, he had to get the job done.

****

By the time Emily woke, the sun had set. Together they made dinner, soup and sandwiches, and she went upstairs to shower and dress for work. When she came down the stairs, pinning the little circle of white cap to her hair, Stani was caught completely off guard by the transformation. In her crisp white uniform, a tailored tunic and trousers, with her hair twisted into a smooth roll at the back of her head, Emily was the picture of every man's fantasy nurse. He grinned, holding out his hands to frame her image.

"You're gorgeous. How do you fend off all the dying men who want the memory of your kiss to take to their graves?"

She giggled, a sound he was coming to love, and took the last hairpin from between her teeth. "Loaded syringes usually do the trick. I forgot you'd never seen me in uniform."

When she came into his arms, he was again caught by surprise. She had grown suddenly taller. As she bent her head slightly for his kiss, she apologized. "It's the shoes. I'm sorry. I'm just too tall."

"No, love, I'm just not tall enough. Does it bother you?"

"Of course not. What about you? Do you mind?" Her arms had wound around his neck and her fingers were twining in his hair. Every nerve was singing in response to her touch.

"Mind? Kiss me again. I want to be absolutely sure of my answer." She pulled back, her brows arching skeptically. "All right, I'm sure. I love you just the way you are, too tall and all. How's that?"

She laid her head on his shoulder. "And I love you. Oh, Stani, I love being in love with you."

Afraid to wrinkle her pristine uniform, he held her very gently. "Shouldn't you be going? It's getting late."

"I know. I just wanted to be sure you have everything you need for the night. There's a new toothbrush in the bathroom. And I turned down the bed for you. If you get hungry, there's food in the fridge. Oh, and don't worry about the fire, it'll burn itself out."

He helped her into her coat, turning the collar up around her ears. "You'll be careful? Is it a long drive?"

"Twenty miles. Not bad. I'll be home before eight. Will you be up by then?" Her hand was on the knob, and she turned back with a twinkle in her eyes. "Or will I need to wake you?"

"Go! For an angel of mercy, you have a frighteningly devilish gleam in your eye."

She went out laughing. Through the heavy door, he heard her voice, calling in a sweet sing-song, "I love you, Stani. Sleep tight."

### Chapter Forty-seven

The house was a living thing. It creaked and groaned, rattled and sighed. As Stani tried to read, every sound stirred him until he decided to put on a record to cover the noise. Outside, the wind blew through the trees, moving the shadows across the lawn and setting the porch swing swaying. He closed the drapes, set the turntable spinning and tried to settle down again. It was past midnight, he should go to bed, but the thought held little appeal. When Jack had called, just after Emily's departure, he'd wished him a good night, saying if he needed anything, just call. He needed Emily, he mused, and calling Jack would not solve his problem.

The book he'd chosen turned dry and impossible to follow. Searching the shelves, his eye fell on a large leather album, its spine bearing the simple title, "Emily." Now here was something to keep him entertained, he decided.

It began with a grainy photograph of a tiny, dark-haired infant, her fists clenched on either side of her face. "Jiliand Emily Haynes, age two days." The caption was written in a graceful hand, its fountain-penned curves seeming to express a wealth of emotion. And the name; he made a note to ask for that explanation someday.

As Stani turned the pages, he realized her mother had been the official keeper of this record. Each entry was labeled in the fine handwriting, each photograph marking some milestone in her daughter's life. "Emily's first Christmas." "Emily's first birthday." "Emily and J.D. on her first day of school." The little girl was growing, from the laughing toddler to the grinning child on her first bicycle. "Emily, age six, with her prize-winning pumpkin" showed her standing proudly over the pumpkin, her smile displaying the gap of two missing teeth. The snapshot of a seriously smiling Emily wearing a frilly dress, flanked by two young boys, was labeled "Emily, age eight, with James and Peter McConnell on Easter Sunday."

She was beautiful even then, he thought, her sweet, expressive little face showing every sign of the woman to come. In every picture, she was smiling, projecting a joy which seemed to leap off the page. With her hand in her father's, she appeared confident as they made their way up the steps to the front door of the school. Standing next to an abundantly blooming bush, she was beaming as she proudly presented her mother with a rose.

As he turned further in the book, a subtle change became apparent. The smile was still there, but it had taken on a brave quality. By age twelve, the girl with long, dark braids over her shoulders wore a look of defiant cheerfulness. Her pale eyes reflected a growing wisdom, as though her knowledge of life were rapidly advancing beyond her years. One particular photograph brought the change into focus with startling clarity. Emily was standing with her father at the edge of the garden. In a nearby chair, her mother sat watching the two, and the look in her own pale eyes spoke volumes. She was painfully thin, and her lovely face was now marred with suffering. The expression on the sweet face of the girl was one of fierce determination, as if it cost her no end of effort to achieve that sad little smile. Her father's face was slightly out of focus, as if he had just turned to his wife at the moment the shutter clicked. The caption, in the same fine hand, now showing a distinct unsteadiness, read simply, "Emily, age fourteen, Summer 1964."

The carefully mounted photographs gave way to empty pages. Tucked in the back of the book were several loose pictures. Emily in cap and gown at her high school graduation. A snapshot of her standing arm in arm with Lil, apparently on Lil's graduation day. A formal shot of Emily in her nurse's uniform, taken when she completed her training. Here was his own beautiful girl, but with that wistful smile he remembered so vividly from his dream. Here was the Emily he'd seen the day they first met on the front porch, before somehow the light had come back in her eyes. Had he been responsible for that light that now sparkled whenever she looked at him?

He turned back to the shot of the three of them, studying her as she stood so bravely in the sunlight. This was the girl Angela had talked about, who had taken on so much so soon. Emily rarely talked of her mother's illness, and only in the most general terms. She never spoke of her own suffering. As he stared at the girlish features, his heart opened, a physical response to what he saw reflected in those eyes. He wished desperately to reach out, take that girl in his arms, to shield her against whatever brought such pain into her young life.

Gently closing the book and placing it back on the shelf, he realized he'd gained very special access to the woman he loved by looking at her young life through the eyes of her mother. That book had been a gift, left for him to find as he made his way into Emily's world. Meeting her friends, seeing where she lived, was all valuable information, but those photographs recording the years when she had grown so rapidly into a woman, were the most enlightening.

As he went to bed, shivering for a time between the cold sheets, he tried to say a prayer of thanksgiving. He'd never known how to pray beyond a few formal phrases. Now he opened his thoughts, hoping God would decipher the web of emotions and images. He would understand his inadequacies, grant him dispensation for having come so recently to communicating in this way. Stani thought if God understood anything, it was how grateful he was for the knowledge of Emily, for the honor of loving her and making her smile.

### ****

Stani woke at seven as the morning light was just seeping through the chink in the drapes. He rushed into his clothes, brushed his teeth and made a pointless attempt to tame his hair with the pocket comb Emily had laid out on the dresser. Wishing he had a sweater to put on against the chill, he nevertheless rolled up his shirtsleeves and headed purposefully for the fireplace. There were embers glowing, a good sign, he hoped. After a few moments of poking at them, he laid on a large pine cone from the kindling basket, as he'd seen her do, and the resulting flames gave him courage. Adding a smallish log, he waited and to his amazement, the fire caught. Triumphant, he watched it build, carefully added another log, and turned toward the kitchen.

By the time her car entered the gate, he had laid a tray with tea and slices of her cinnamon bread on the table by the window. Carefully pouring juice into glasses, he congratulated himself on setting the scene for her return. Now if he could only have a half hour or so of uninterrupted time with her. The thought that this might at last be the moment sent a shiver of anticipation—and just a tiny shudder of fear—through his unexpectedly tense body.

She was smiling, coming up the steps to greet him; and the sight of that smile reminded him of last night's journey. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked how he had slept.

"Fine. The house is certainly vocal, though. It talked to me all night." He chuckled, taking her coat and watching as she sat down at the table and removed her shoes. "Rough night?"

"Frantic." Stretching her legs in front of her, she wiggled her toes inside the white stockings.

"Poor darling. Maybe a little tea will help." As he poured, she reached up to unpin the little cap, pulling the pins from her hair and shaking it loose. Something inside his ribcage did a queer little twist, and for a moment he thought he might have to gasp for air.

"Oh, it was wonderful. We were busy all night, never a moment to spare. I love it when it's like that." Turning her full attention to the tray, she took a slice of the bread and began to eat with relish.

He sat across from her, taking a moment to steady his breathing. "Really? What sort of things do you see in a rural emergency room? Not the kind of violent things they get in New York, surely."

"Oh, no. Let's see. We had a child with a raging fever due to an ear infection. Then there was a man who needed fifteen stitches in his hand after trying to make a ham sandwich using the electric carving knife he gave his wife for Christmas. Two women in labor, one real and one false. Oh, and three brothers who apparently had a little disagreement and beat each other up pretty thoroughly, then drove themselves to the hospital to get patched up. When they sober up, they're all going to be surprised at the damage they did to each other." Draining her cup, she held it out for more tea. "One poor lady dragged her husband in convinced he was having a heart attack. Turned out he'd just eaten too much cabbage soup. She was really mad at him for not being more seriously ill."

Stani laughed. "So it was an exciting night. You look amazingly fresh for someone who worked so hard." He went to the fireplace, added a log, and turned to find her standing behind him. Gathering her into his arms, he studied her face, trying to determine how tired she might be.

"I'm fine. I think I'll just sit by this beautiful fire for a while, before I shower." Taking his hand, she led him to the couch, pulling him down beside her. When she curled at his side, her head resting on his shoulder, Stani considered his options. He could begin now, or perhaps it would be better this afternoon, once she'd had some sleep. If she were too tired, he might risk tipping her emotional balance in the wrong direction. On the other hand, she was snuggled so sweetly against him the moment was certainly full of potential.

He tested the waters with a kiss. Warm and responsive, definitely promising. "Emily, do you understand what it is I feel for you?" It was a simple question, but it opened the door to much more.

"Um. Much the same as I feel for you, I think." With a sigh, she nestled closer, and just as he might have expected, her hand wandered into his shirt. He took a moment to bury his face in her hair, breathing in the warm freshness. His arms tightened around her and he let his hand slide down the firm sweep of her back, coming to rest on the gentle curve between waist and hip.

"I want you, Emily, want you for always. Do you understand that?" Her answer was another sigh. He waited for more, but she only curled closer, her arm slipping down to his waist. "Emily, darling?" As he shifted gently to look into her eyes, her head slumped lower on his chest, her hair cascading across his shirt. He let out a low moan. Just like that, in the middle of his declaration of undying love, Emily had fallen asleep.

He left her there for a time, stroking her hair and staring into the fire. At least she was in his arms. And they were alone. His timing had been all wrong. He should have waited. Now he would have to begin again, from the beginning, assuming she wouldn't remember what he'd said. With a grin, he listened to her softly snoring against his chest. He loved her, and no matter what, he intended to speak his piece before the day was out. In the meantime, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing she trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms. Small consolation, but it was something. And he needed something to keep his courage up. This was proving to be more challenging than he'd ever anticipated.

### Chapter Forty-eight

It was well past three when Jack dropped him back at the farmhouse. His visit with Pastor Mike had been more helpful than he'd expected, and he felt strong and sure as he approached the front door. With the exception of the brief conversation he'd had with Peter McConnell, just as he was leaving the church, everything seemed to point the way clearly for his plan to go forward. He'd tried to shake off the moment of doubt aroused when Peter had asked if he and Emily were "serious." While he hadn't been specific, he had said "Of course" with as much confidence as he could muster.

"I wish you luck, man. Emily can be real stubborn, and she's had her mind made up for a long time. You'll be the first if you manage to break her down."

Stani hadn't much liked the phrasing, but he sensed Peter spoke from experience. He wanted to reply that she loved him, that he was the one she'd been waiting for; but instead, he just smiled and said, "Thanks."

Now as he put his hand on the doorknob, he took a deep breath, hoping to still the sudden fluttering in his gut. This was the time when he most needed to be calm, in control. For once, he longed for the kind of confidence he felt only on stage. Maybe a few minutes with the old violin would ease his nerves. Turning the knob with a firm grip, he plunged on. Now or never, here and now, do or die.

"Hi! I was beginning to wonder whether you were coming back." Emily was coming down the stairs, a vision in blue jeans and a fuzzy pink sweater. She had tied her hair in a ponytail high at the back of her head, and it swung from side to side as she bounced toward him. Sixteen, he thought; she looked no more than a teenager, with her shining face and that adorable hairstyle. He couldn't possibly say what he had planned to this innocent child.

But when she came onto his arms, seizing his mouth in one of those long, sweet kisses, he was once again reassured. As she stripped off his overcoat, pulling him by the hand toward the couch, he laughed. "My goodness, a few hours' sleep certainly seems to have put the spring back in your step."

"I don't need a lot of sleep. Nurse's training teaches you to nap well. Now, tell me about your visit with Pastor Mike. Was it good?"

"Yes. It was. And that's all I intend to say on that subject just now. We have things to talk about, Emily, and before we're interrupted again, I want to get something said." Searching her face, he saw her eyes darken slightly. Surely it wasn't fear that snuffed out her smile so thoroughly?

"Things?"

He couldn't resist brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead. At his touch she started, and he realized she was waiting breathlessly for him to go on. "Emily, I want you, want you for always. Do you understand me?" His voice was none too sure, raspy with emotion.

She nodded solemnly. "I think so."

"There's something I have to tell you. Please let me finish before you say anything." He turned her gently to look straight into her eyes, holding her at arm's length.

Again she nodded. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Shh. Listen. Give me a chance." He took a breath. "I'm going to Europe. No, don't say anything! I have to leave the end of January. It's been in the works for over a year; there's no way to change things now. Before I go, I want you to come to New York. I want you to see my world, meet some of the people who are part of that world. It isn't like here, for you. It isn't really my home, but it is where I work much of the time, and it's where I've spent a lot of my life. I want you to have a chance to see what my world looks like even though I wouldn't expect you to want to live there. Will you, please, come to New York, give me this chance?"

"How long will you be gone?" It was as if she hadn't heard anything he'd said beyond his announcement.

"Three months." The very words sounded cruel.

"Three. . .when were you going to tell me?" Her eyes sparked, like flint he thought.

"I'm telling you now. I wanted us to have this—Christmas—before we had to think about it. Emily, don't be angry! I didn't want to worry you. I just wanted us to be happy together for a few days."

She jumped up, going to the fireplace and standing with her back to him. "You knew all along. Why not tell me? Were you just going to send me a postcard? 'By the time you read this, I'll be gone'?"

He crossed the room, taking her firmly by the shoulders and turning her to face him. "That's not fair! I intended to tell you. But you have to admit, we haven't had much time alone. There seems to always be something going on here. I was trying this morning, but you fell asleep!" The tiniest trace of a smile crossed her face, as his voice caught on a squeaky note. With a deep breath, he went on more calmly, "I wanted to have plenty of time to talk things over, to make plans with you. Emily, darling, it's not as if I won't be back. I'll go and do what I have to do there, and you'll be here working and planting your garden. Then I'll come back and we'll be together, I promise. Won't you at least give me a chance to explain?"

"Explain what?" She was calm now, her anger gone as quickly as it had flared.

"First, will you come to New York?" He led her back to the couch, standing over her as she slowly took a seat.

"I don't know. How would I get there? Where would I stay?"

"I have all that worked out. Will you come?"

Emily seemed to sift through a great many thoughts. When she finally looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't."

Stani sat down abruptly. "Why not?"

"Milo." The finality in the one word suggested he should understand.

"Milo? What has he to do with it? You don't even know Milo." A slow-rising foreboding crept through him like a chill.

"But he knows who I am. Have you told him you've been coming here to see me?" Her voice was flat, her eyes fixed on the floor.

"No, but it wouldn't matter. Emily, what is this about? I don't understand at all." He frantically searched his mind for something he must have missed, something Milo had done behind his back. "Please, love, tell me." He tried to raise her chin, to look into her eyes, but she resisted.

"Milo won't like it. He won't approve. I couldn't face him, Stani. Surely you can understand that."

He felt the flare of his own temper. "Understand what? I can't for the life of me understand what Milo has to do with us. He's never even met you, how can he disapprove? Explain this to me, please!" Going to his knees on the floor, he could finally look into her face. As their eyes met, he thought he saw a dawning realization, a sudden flicker of understanding.

"You really didn't know." Her voice, barely more than a whisper, was edged with relief. "I thought all along you must have known, but I never wanted to bring it up."

"Known what! You're driving me mad, Emily. Tell me, please!" He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his hair.

"After the accident, just a few days after you were taken to New York, I received a letter from Milo. He had sent an investigator to talk to Jack, and I guess that's how he learned about me."

"John." Stani laid his hands gently on her knees, waiting. As she seemed to search for words he tried to imagine what sort of things Milo might have written to her at the time and his pulse quickened. "What did Milo say in this letter, Emily?"

Finally, carefully measuring her phrasing, she went on softly, "He thanked me for my 'heroic efforts' and enclosed a check, a big check. He said he was sure I would be discreet if I were approached to tell my story to the press. I was furious, insulted, but I kept the check. I can only imagine what he must have thought of me. I'm sure he still thinks he bought my silence."

He felt a rush of disappointment and disbelief. The hurt in her eyes, the idea that Milo had been responsible for that injury, was beyond intolerable. But he understood now, at least, and he could try to explain it to her. "That's just like Milo. Everything in dollars and cents. He doesn't understand not everything is measured that way." His eyes met hers, apologetic, pleading. "What you did was amazing. And he made you feel that he was paying you to hide it."

"But I had already decided to do that myself. Of course, he couldn't have known that. I could understand his wanting to protect you."

He took a deep breath, determined to be as straightforward as possible. "He was protecting me from my own stupidity. He was afraid the press would get hold of the fact I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be, with people I shouldn't have been with, doing God knows what. I had gotten myself into trouble the moment he let me out of his sight. I nearly got myself killed! Milo was just doing what he does, saving me from myself, not for purely unselfish reasons, you understand. He was minimizing the damage I'd done, and in the process he minimized the fact that you had saved my life." He took her hands, pressing them together between his own. "And I never made any attempt to find you, to thank you myself. I just left it to him, as I've always done, to take care of everything for me. You must have despised us both."

"I could never have despised you. But I doubt Milo will see things the way you do now. I still don't see how I could ever face him, knowing what he must have thought at the time."

"You'll have to face him sometime. Besides, I'm sure he expected you to keep that check. He had no idea he was hurting you. Quite the contrary, I'm sure he thought he was doing the right thing. You'll understand when you get to know him better."

"You make it sound as if we're going to become friends." Finally, there was a trace of a smile.

"Maybe. But that isn't important. What is important is us, our future. Whatever Milo thinks, or does, should never be allowed to interfere with that. Now, will you please reconsider? Will you come to New York next month?"

"It's really what you want? Why?"

He let out a long sigh of exasperation. "Because, you impossible girl, I want the world I live in to know I'm in love with the most incredibly wonderful woman in anyone's world. If I'm going to marry you next year, isn't it time I started letting everyone know?"

He felt the breath expel from her lungs and saw her face grow pale. It was hardly the way he'd envisioned it, but he was not displeased with the result. At least she knew what he was planning, and there was that sparkle in her eyes again.

"Next year?" Her voice was very small, but she was stroking his face, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"I was thinking September. Your gardening should be done by then, shouldn't it?"

"Yes, I think so. Are you sure you know what you're saying?"

"That I want to marry you? To stand up in that beautiful little church, before God and man, and promise to love you 'til death and beyond? That's what I'm saying. Is that all right with you?"

He should have known there would be tears. But these were sweet, smiling tears he could taste as she kissed him. Her arms around his neck, her hands in his hair, she showered him with kisses, punctuated by little humming moans of pleasure. Slowly, he got to his feet, pulling her to him, kissing her with as much passion as he dared. When he drew away, looking into her still brimming eyes, he grinned. "Does this mean you'll come to New York? Or just that you'll marry me?"

"I suppose I'll have to do both, won't I?"

"I'd much prefer it, but if there's a choice, just be sure it's the latter."

"Oh, Stani, suddenly I think I'd be willing to do anything you asked me. As long as you really want me, I'll go wherever you say. Just promise me something?"

"Anything."

"We'll keep it a secret, just for a while. I don't want to share this with anyone, to have to answer questions or make explanations. We have time."

"I'll try; but you must know, I'm not good at hiding my feelings, not when it comes to you. But we will tell the people closest to us, won't we?" He eyed her with rising concern. Did she doubt his sincerity?

"Of course. After you get back from Europe, and we have time to iron out the details. It's not as if there aren't still things in the way of our being together. Your career, for one thing. But let's just have this time, when we know what we want, before we tackle those things. I'll come to New York, see your world, as you say; and after you're gone on tour, we can start figuring out how all this is going to work." She put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. "I want you, Stani, for always too. There will be a way, I know there will, to overcome all these fears."

"Fears?" He forced her to meet his gaze. "Fears of what, darling girl?"

"That I won't be the kind of woman you need in your world, that your family and friends will tell you you're making a mistake. That when I'm there with you, you'll see me differently." She dropped her eyes; her smile vanished now.

He sat down, drawing her across his lap and holding her gently against his chest. "Listen to me very carefully. First of all, no one can make me believe I'm making a mistake. This may be the first time in my life I'm certain I'm doing the right thing for myself. I've come here, found you, fallen in love with you, all on my own. I've made decisions, made changes, moved out and moved away from the thing that's controlled me since I was just a little boy. You have inspired me to become my own man, Emily. How can you doubt the strength of what I feel for you? Even if you never want to see New York City again, it won't matter. If you want to stay here and wait for me, I'll come back to you. While I might want you to travel with me, share the madness of my life at least part of the time, if that isn't something you can do, we'll find some compromise. Emily, I see you for the treasure you are. Your simplicity, your gentleness and goodness, fill every empty place in me. Am I making myself in any way clear?"

She had listened, wide-eyed, gazing up into his face. Now she nodded without a smile. "Yes, Stani. Perfectly clear. Eloquently clear. I believe you love me enough. I can't quite accept the miracle of it, but I will in time I think. And if compromise is all it takes, we can do that, I know. It's change, it's not fitting together, the way we do here, that scares me. Here we've been so natural together. Will it be that way out there?"

"We won't know until we try, will we? But why wouldn't we? I'm not different out there, except that there are more demands on me. But you'll have to see for yourself. That's one reason I wanted you to come to New York as soon as possible, before we start pretending my career is some far off thing. You've never even see me perform; and that is me, darling, with that blasted violin, who people expect to hear on any given night. But that is also me, the poor wretch who leaves the stage exhausted and wonders if he was good enough on that given night. Will you still love me if I sink into the depths after disappointing myself? I think you will, I think you might even keep me from sinking. We won't know until we try. But remember, if we never try, we'll surely fail."

"Failure is most often in the hesitation. My father lived by that, and I've tried to. I'm not usually so afraid of failure. But this is so much bigger than anything I've ever tried. There's so much at stake now, you most of all. I couldn't bear to disappoint you, Stani."

"Emily, you can never disappoint me as long as you stay true to yourself. You are the woman who saved my life, who keeps on saving my life every day you love me. You said you wanted to be in love with me, if that's what I wanted, remember?"

"Yes, of course, I remember."

"Did you think we'd only be in love for a few days every month or so, when I could find a little time to come here to you? Did you think I'd be satisfied to ask you to wait indefinitely for a few kisses by the fire? I want you with me, every minute, as close at hand as I can keep you. Emily, I want you to be my wife, the person who shares everything in my life, the good and the bad. And I want to share in yours, the beauty and the simplicity, the hard work, the joy of life in this place. I believe God led me back here, not to find my memory, but to find my future. He seems to have a plan for us together now, not separately anymore. If it's divinely ordained, how can we be afraid?"

She reached up to touch his face, her hand cool and soothing. "When did you become so wise?"

"Not wise, but so much in love. It fills me with a confidence I've never known. You told me, wait and listen. And what I hear is him telling me to love you, to make my life with you. He will show us how to work out these details you're worried about. If we start down the road, I'm certain the way will become clear. I'm sure enough to risk everything on it."

"No fear?"

"No, and for me that's quite a change. I'm the kid who was terrified of everything, but not anymore. Not if you're with me. I've stood up to Milo; that in itself is amazing. What else is there to fear?"

She sighed, staring into the distance. "I still have to face him. You'll be there, to protect me?"

"You know I will. But I really think he'll be so charmed, he won't be the least bit scary. And you'll only have to meet him once. I'll make sure John is there too. He'll be your bodyguard now, you know. And he'll like the new responsibility. He says you have beautiful legs." He kissed the tip of her nose, aware of the darkness lingering in her eyes.

"Really? I've never had a bodyguard. But I thought you would be my protector, my knight in shining armor." She nestled her head against his shoulder. "I suppose in some situations, we'll both need protection. Can you go wherever you want, just walk down the street, or do you have to ride in cars with tinted windows and rush in through back entrances?"

"Good heavens, I'm not some matinee idol. Oh, the photo hounds can be a bore, and there's the occasional autograph seeker, but you get used to that. Once in a while, John will slip me out a side door if there's too much of a crowd, but not all that often. It's just part of the job, and I guess I've been dealing with it for so long I don't notice it anymore. If it causes you any distress, I promise, we'll take care of it. John is very good at what he does. But I'm sure we can go wherever you want to, sightsee, go to the theater, things everyone wants to do in New York. We'll have fun, darling, I know we will. It'll be our first big adventure together. Now look at me and tell me you feel just a little braver about things. No more fears?"

"How can I be afraid when your arms are so strong around me?" She offered her face for his kiss, but he continued to stare down at her. "Stani, you could kiss me, just to give me that little bit of added courage."

"Is that all it will take? No dragons to slay, no ogres to run off? Give me some real challenge, my lady, to prove my worthiness." When she giggled, he covered her mouth with his, his kiss demanding her response. She gradually grew limp in his arms, her hands falling to his chest in surrender. "Brave enough now?"

"For the moment." She was breathless, sighing against his neck.

"So you promise to never again doubt the power of my love for you? Never to question that you are my one true, forever love?"

"Yes, Stani, I promise, no more doubts."

"And you'll come to New York, let me show you off and take you around the town, meet my family and friends and even Milo?" He relentlessly kissed her forehead, her nose, her chin.

"Yes, Stani. I'll come to New York."

"And you'll marry me in September, stand up with me in church and make an honest man of me?" More kisses, and he pressed her tighter against his chest, until he could feel her heart beating against his ribs.

"Yes, Stani. I'll marry you. In September. In church. If that's what you want."

"It is what I want. Is it what you want?"

"Yes, Stani, more than anything. No more fears. No more doubts. Now would you kiss me like that one more time, just to seal the deal?"

"Gladly."
Chapter Forty-nine

Dearest Stani,

In just six days, I'll be there with you. The time is going too fast, and I'm sure I'll still be packing when the driver gets here on Monday morning. Martha Jean keeps sending me clothes to try on, as if she thinks I don't own anything fit to take to the big city. Do you know, she told me after meeting you that I really need to step up my style? She thinks you are flamboyant! How can a man who only wears shades of black be flamboyant? She must have been blinded by your hair and your incredibly brilliant smile. At any rate, she's convinced me to buy some very impractical things, which I hope you will at least pretend to admire. I'm sure when I get home she'll expect a full report of your impressions. Do you consider me dowdy and old fashioned, Stani?

Jack and I paid a visit to Emily on Sunday afternoon. She is healthy and very sweet, but the conditions in their home are pretty primitive. Bobby and Ruthie wanted me to tell you how much they appreciated your gift. They used it to buy a beautifully outfitted crib for the baby. She is sleeping in royal style in the middle of the kitchen near the cook stove. They are loving parents, but I hope she will be their last.

(Do you like babies, Stani? Or have you ever spent any time around one? It's a question I feel I must have an answer to, as I paint my pictures of our future.)

It has occurred to me you still owe me a proper proposal of marriage. Maybe when you're back from Europe and we are prepared to let everyone in on our plans, we could enact a little drama, so we'll have a story to tell all our friends. I somehow think Lil will be disappointed to hear that you merely informed me we were getting married. She sees you as one of the great romantic figures of our generation, you know. After you did something so blatantly Old World as kissing her on both cheeks, she went on all night about your elegant manners, your charm, your style, and even the lyrical beauty of your accent. I had to listen into the wee hours of the morning, as she sang your praises, as if I had no idea how wonderful you are. She will definitely expect you to ride off into the sunset with me slung over the saddle of your white charger, banners flying, trumpets blaring. How can you disappoint your biggest fan?

Do you have any idea the interest you generated here? Myrtice Green, the postmistress, is a fount of information; and she says everyone has been asking questions about you, where were you born, how we met, how much money you earn, if your hair is really that curly, or that color? Oh, and most frequently asked, are you ever coming back to town? I guess they don't have much faith in my power to hold your attention.

I am amazed at the ease with which you walked down the streets of our little town. I won't say you fit right in, but you did seem at home. Perhaps you are such a citizen of the world you would be at home anywhere. But in a town this size, anyone who wasn't born here is considered a foreigner. I myself am only first generation, since both of my parents were outsiders. Even though my father's uncle built the house I live in, it counts for very little. Many of the families have been here since before the Declaration of Independence was signed. But it's a good place to live, for the most part. There is virtually no crime, everyone keeps the trash picked up, and church attendance on Sunday is over sixty percent. Can any of that be said of NYC?

You can't imagine how excited/terrified I am of coming to said NYC. Please promise you'll stop me from gawking at everything like the country girl I am. I don't want to embarrass you; in fact I want so much to make you proud of me. But I've never been to a city bigger than DC, and that was on my seventh grade field trip. All my travels have been between the covers of books. I envy you the opportunity to see the world and earn your living at the same time. After we're married, perhaps I could tag along once in a while? I could iron your shirts and carry your luggage, not to mention massage your tired shoulders. Oh, but you already have John to do those things for you. Are you sure you really need a wife?

I'll be ready to run into your waiting arms, after seven hours alone in the back of a car. Please keep a light in the window for me?

Yours at sixes and sevens,

Emily

Darling Emily,

In the brief days we were together do you realize we covered any number of major life events? Birth, marriage proposal, meeting the in-laws, celebrating our first Christmas together, not to mention my own personal firsts. I not only experienced a spiritual awakening, but prepared my first tea tray, and ate my first wild duck. And I slept all night next to the most beautiful girl in the world, maintaining my gentlemanly decorum. Think what we can accomplish in our years together if we can keep up the pace.

All the arrangements have been completed for your visit to the Big Apple. You have a suite reserved on a lower floor of my own fine hotel. Your virtue will be quite safe, as I could never take the elevator to you at an inappropriate hour without incurring the disapproval of Jimmy the elevator boy. (He's old enough to be my grandfather!) We will be able to share all our meals, spend all our waking hours together, and I can kiss you good morning and good night for six days in a row., after which, I shall be completely desolate for three months.

I've talked with John and we've made plans for trips to your requested monuments and landmarks. We have tickets for Carmen, A Little Night Music, and Radio City Music Hall. As I told you, on Friday night you will have to endure a chamber concert featuring several big name headliners, including yours truly. It's a benefit for one of Peg's charities, and she has made use of us before. It should be a good show; these guys are great fun to play with. We'll rehearse that morning, so I wonder if you might like to come along and visit with Peg. She's amazed I've found a girl I'm willing to bring home to meet the folks. If she only knew that she's already met you, but I haven't given that away yet. I want to see her face when she recognizes you. I think the two of you will get on famously, as you are alike in many ways.

Jana is looking forward to meeting you also. You'll find her pleasant, if a bit reserved. Still waters run deep with Jana.

Milo has been in a surprisingly genial mood since I returned. It may have something to do with a certain wildly influential conductor who is very excited about my little student workshops. It never hurts to have friends in high places. Milo is still pushing his bizarre idea for a new recording project, and in the end I fear I'll be forced to compromise. But he is more respectful now at least, not quite ramming the thing down my throat.

I plan to have lunch with him tomorrow, at which time I will explain, in no great detail, how you and I have become "friends." That's all he needs to know for now. I want him to meet you, see for himself the kind of angel you are. I can't imagine he'll be anything but supportive when he sees how happy I am. Really, as long as I'm keeping my commitments, staying sober and playing well, he'll be satisfied. If he thinks you're contributing to my stability, all the better.

Emily, you can't imagine how excited I am at the thought of having you here, showing you off. I'm afraid after the photographers get sight of you, we may not have much peace. Never fear, John will be on hand. But I can guarantee you some clippings to take home. For the first time, I would welcome a little press as now I have something to be proud of. You might practice a blinding smile, followed by tucking your head and running for cover. That's the best way to handle them. A neat little wave of the hand adds a nice touch, too. Since I've for so long been a confirmed loner, your presence will no doubt create something of a sensation. You won't mind will you? Think how much you'll be doing to enhance my reputation.

Speaking of John, he's anxious to get to know you since he can see first-hand what a change you've made in me. He's known me since I was a little boy, and he never had much hope for me I fear. He says he wishes I would have a pensive mood now and again, just for old times' sake. John is a great man to have watching one's back, much like your Jack. He's probably the closest thing I have to real family, sort of a brother, father, uncle rolled into one.

While you're here, I plan to introduce you to a certain very helpful sales clerk at Tiffany's. I'd like you to show her the type of ring you prefer so I can make the right choice and not have you regret ever accepting my offer. We can tell her we're just helping out a friend, right? Surely, she would never suspect us. Unless she remembers the hours she spent with me trying to choose your Christmas present. I warn you, I'm hopeless. I've become totally transparent.

I'm sending Robert to drive you. I know he will take the best care of you.

I'll be waiting in the lobby for you Monday night and as I'm sure you will be starving, we'll go straight in to supper. See, I've learned a great deal about the care and feeding of Emily already.

Yours for always,

Stani
Chapter Fifty

From the warmth of the lobby, John Kimble watched as Stani raced through the rain, dodging in front of the doorman to open the car door. The umbrella he carried bobbed wildly as he took the outstretched hand of the girl, pulling her from the rear seat and wrapping her in his arms beneath its shelter. In the middle of the sidewalk crowded with pedestrians rushing past, heads lowered against the rain, Stani stood his ground, kissing her soundly. Robert had unloaded her bags and stood waiting for instructions, a look of pleased indulgence on his face. But they were both oblivious it seemed, to the attention they were attracting. Finally, John dashed out to them, tapping Stani on the shoulder. "For God's sake, lad, get her in out of the rain! You're blocking traffic!"

As he rode up in the elevator with them, he had his first opportunity to get a good look at her. Stani had said repeatedly that she was beautiful, but John had not expected her to be so elegant or so out of the ordinary. Her heavy dark hair and those startling gray eyes were certainly attractive; but there was an even more appealing quality to her features, an intelligence in her expression, that spoke of breeding and strength of character. Her speech was refined; her manner when they'd been introduced had been warm and confident. In the few minutes he had to sum her up, before he left the elevator to take her bags to her room, he concluded this Emily was the perfect match for Stani. In her own way, she was as unusual, as much an original, as he was.

John had always known it would take an exceptional woman to understand Stani. He had so little practical experience, growing up in a bubble the way he had. He would need a partner to guide him through the business of everyday living. It would take a woman who understood his world, his extraordinary talent and all that went with it. It would be her job to protect him when he pushed himself too hard, to shield him from the demands of others who knew he was often too eager to please. While John had been impressed with Stani's efforts to learn more about what he called living the life of a man, he knew only too well there would always be the need for someone to guard the more vulnerable side of his nature. This girl, with her simple style and her straightforward manner, might be just the thing to settle him down, give his life some purpose beyond exhausting all his energy playing that violin.

John had been the one, as Stani worked his way back from the accident, who had seen most clearly the tormented drive to recover his former skill. He had been with him after those first performances, when Stani left the stage trembling with fatigue. While John eased him out of his coat and stripped off the sweat-soaked shirt, he had watched as Stani struggled to hide the pain, fighting to hold back tears of frustration. It was a tribute to the boy's talent that he'd been able to convince Milo too soon he was ready to go back to work. But John knew the truth, the arm was still weak, his fingers were numb and his shoulder stiff with pain by the end of each performance. He also knew Stani was driven as much by fear as by the desire to play again. He had to respect him, but at the same time he feared the pressure would ultimately be too much. Whisky was a hard woman to leave, John knew only too well. And Stani was all too willing to admit he had a fondness. If the man John met in Scotland had indeed been Stani's father, then he could well have inherited the habit. That, coupled with pain and fear of failure, could prove disastrous.

Stani had persisted, turned away from the temptation to drink, forcing himself to work and bear with the resulting pain. But his mood had suffered. He'd grown increasingly depressed, convinced his survival was a cruel joke. John had been frightened by the dark moods, the mad drive and the long periods of silent, almost angry contemplation. When Stani began to suffer from insomnia, wandering his room at night, stumbling through his days in a stupor, John had suggested as gently as he could that it was time to seek help.

That led to the search for memories, the questions about the days surrounding the accident, trips to the scenes of that night and finally to this girl. As skeptical as he'd been, John could see now that had been the turning point for Stani. His meeting with Emily had altered everything, lifted him from the depression, set him on a path of change and, John suspected, renewed his sense of his own manhood. He could well understand why Stani now walked with a spring in his step, why he so often wore a smile on his face for no apparent reason. This slender, graceful girl, with her smoky eyes and generous mouth, would provide inspiration for any man.

He had only to see the way she looked at Stani, her eyes gleaming, the way she gently linked her arm in his, to be satisfied this was that one exceptional woman who would both love and guide him. When John left the elevator to take the bags to her room, while they went on to Stani's suite, he smiled at the thought of the boy's good fortune. Just as he had once wondered about Stani's relationship with Peg Shannon, he could now imagine the joy these two would share. But, very different from Peg, this Emily was not a woman to come and go. She would make a total commitment to a man or none at all. This girl had won Stani's heart, touched his soul and changed his life. Now that he had seen them together, John understood that not only had this slip of a girl pulled Stani to safety in the midst of one storm, she intended to stay beside him through whatever storms the future might bring.

Pity Milo, John mused, now that Stani had determined to strike out on his own, pursue his own goals. Added to that was the presence of this girl, whose strength might well match his own if Milo posed a threat to Stani's happiness. John admired Milo, but he also recognized that in his single-minded approach to Stani's career, Milo had nearly sent him to his death. He had let him run out of control, exposed him to a lifestyle for which he had no preparation. Stani was naive and inexperienced, but Milo had seen his inclusion in the New York night life as an opportunity for publicity, a chance to advance his reputation. Had John been aware of what was happening during those months, he would have reconsidered his decision to stay in London. Now he was dedicated to protecting Stani, as he had done when he was just a little boy, not only from the unwanted attention of strangers, but from undue pressure from Milo. He would gladly welcome an ally, and he suspected Emily would quickly perceive the tension that now existed between Stani and Milo.

After Stani's first visit to her, when it had been obvious he intended to pursue her, John had wondered about her reaction to the letter Milo had sent after the accident. They had never heard from her again, as Milo had been so sure they would. She had remained silent during the months when the tabloids had been persistently scouring for any clue as to Stani's involvement in the events of that night. When Stani had returned after Christmas, he had told John of the girl's reluctance to face Milo after accepting his insulting payoff. Stani had been prepared to call Milo to task, but John had argued it would only stir up the past, just when Stani wanted to get on with their future. He'd pointed out to Stani that her willingness to come to New York, to meet Milo in spite of her fears, should be proof enough of her commitment to him. Let Milo see for himself this amazing girl, who had first saved him and now loved him. Even Milo should be able to appreciate all she'd done for Stani, even if he found it difficult to comprehend such selfless devotion.

John realized he would soon have the two of them to watch over if his suspicions were correct and Stani intended to marry her. She would be the marrying kind, John was sure. No living arrangement, but a good old-fashioned wedding, followed no doubt by the arrival of babies. Stani had talked at such length about the baby delivered on Christmas Eve, marveling at the miracle of childbirth, the awe-inspiring cry of a newborn. Never, as far as John knew, had Stani even been in the same room with a baby, yet now he seemed eager to learn everything about the nurture of infants.

Stani was full of new interests, all pointing to the course he was charting toward a life with Emily. There were the books, purchased from a list John had carried all over Manhattan in an effort to locate; books on faith, guides to reading the scriptures, a history of the church, and a thick black Bible in the recommended edition, which he knew Stani kept by his chair in the new sitting room. He hadn't asked questions, but he was sure that also had to do with Stani's plans. Emily was a person of faith he had said, and John could only surmise Stani had experienced some sort of conversion himself. When he had gone out alone on a Sunday morning, John had been caught off guard. But on his return, Stani told him he had walked to a nearby church and apologized for not having thought to invite him. He was more than welcome to come along next week, he offered. If he had been aware of John's astonished gaze, he had not let on.

There were other changes, spontaneously hailing cabs in front of the hotel instead of calling for the car, a shopping expedition to an off-the-rack men's store, the trip to a market where he bought tea and several other staples for the tiny kitchen in the suite. He had declared that he intended to learn to at least make his own breakfast, his own tea and toast. He talked of the wonderful meals he'd eaten with Emily and her friends, describing the succulent wild duck and delectable chocolate pie. This boy, who invariably ordered red meat and potatoes, never ate sweets and seemed to take his meals for granted, eating when food was laid before him, now searched out restaurants, reading the menus posted by the doors, even making notes for future reference. When John finally insisted on an explanation for this bizarre behavior, Stani said with a grin that Emily loved to eat, in fact ate much more than the usual three squares a day. He needed to be prepared to keep her well fed while she was with him in New York.

Just when John thought he'd seen all the changes, at least for now, Stani had begun composing. While he had always improvised, sometimes for hours on end, making up variations on any tune for his own amusement, he had never before written out his creations. When John arrived at the suite one morning to find the little dining table littered with big sheets of staff paper, and Stani, still in his pajamas, hard at work, he had been momentarily stunned. As Stani played snatches of a melody, making notations and humming to himself, John had looked over his shoulder and seen at the top of the page the words, "Emily's Theme—Simple Gifts." Stani had assured him he had not gone mad, but rather had a sudden inspiration. One of many, John had commented.

Now that he'd seen her, it all made sense. He would have more changes to look forward to, equally unpredictable, requiring him to think on his feet to keep things running smoothly. Not a bad job for an old copper, he told himself. If he had known, when he first met little Stani Moss all those years ago, he would someday be playing nursemaid to a pair of eccentric lovebirds, he would never have believed how entertaining it might be.

### ****

John waited until after ten to go up to Stani's suite. The girl must be exhausted after the long trip, but he knew they would want time together. He'd been amused by the way Stani had insisted on her sleeping a safe distance away. Not that he didn't trust himself, he said, but he was not, after all, made of stone. And Emily seemed at times unaware of the effect she had on him. Grinning, he had added that then again, perhaps she was aware, and that was the problem.

When he knocked on the door, it took some minutes for Stani to answer. As a trained observer, who could assess the situation in a room upon entry, John was hard put not to laugh. Two flushed faces, with broad smiles and sparkling eyes, appeared in the open doorway. Emily stood behind Stani, her arms around his waist, her chin resting on his shoulder.

"I'm just checking to see if you need anything else tonight." John found it difficult to look Stani in the eye with a straight face.

"Please come in, John. Stani was just about to surrender." Emily jerked her head toward the chess board on the table.

Closing the door behind him, John shook his head in amazement. "Is that what you two have been doing all this time, playing chess?"

"Oh, no." Stani led her to a chair, pulling her down across his lap. "We had dinner."

"And Stani took me downstairs and introduced me to most of the hotel staff." Emily was idly twisting her fingers in the boy's hair, gazing warmly into his face.

"And then we ate again." His eyes half closed, Stani nuzzled her shoulder.

"And then I challenged him to a game of chess, and beat the socks off him, twice." Taking his face between her hands, she dropped a kiss on his forehead.

"Ah, so you've been busy little bees, haven't you? And I can see you don't need me tonight, lad. I don't suppose you'd like me to walk Emily downstairs, would you?" Both pairs of eyes turned to him with the same incredulous expression. "No, I thought not. What time in the morning, Stani?"

"Emily's going to phone me as soon as she's awake, so I can order her breakfast. I'll call you when we're done. We'll want to get to the Metropolitan by ten, I guess." Stani went back to his nuzzling and John let himself out. He spent the rest of the evening envisioning a very different life in the coming months, filled with unaccustomed laughter and downright happiness. Nothing like the past three years he'd spent watching Stani come back to life.
Chapter Fifty-one

Emily was surprised at how well she slept that first night. After the long car ride, which had been entertaining in itself, as the kindly Robert regaled her with stories of driving his various clients around New York, she had expected to be exhausted. But as soon as she stepped out of the car into Stani's warm embrace, she'd felt the excitement of the city, not to mention his own enthusiastic welcome. They'd laughed and talked, toured the hotel and finally settled down in front of his little fireplace. He had been so eager to entertain her, feed her and make her feel at home. When he'd finally taken her to her suite, they'd spent considerable time in each other's arms. She'd gone to bed flushed and more than a little aroused. But she had slept soundly, knowing his would be the first face she would see when she woke.

Stani arrived with their breakfast, sending away the room service waiter and wheeling it in himself. Wrapped in the fluffy white robe she'd found in the bathroom, she joined him at the table, letting him fill her plate and pour her tea. He'd make a fine waiter, she assured him, if this music thing didn't work out for him.

They had a full day planned including meeting Jana for lunch. But first they would spend a few hours browsing the Metropolitan Museum, maybe have a cup of hot chocolate on the street, just watch the flow of people that was so much a part of everyday life in New York. The weather promised to be fine, unseasonably warm and clear after yesterday's rain. They had best take advantage while it held, he said. If the rain returned, they'd be confined to the car for her sightseeing. He had a tour coming up, he reminded her. He couldn't risk catching cold now.

"And I suppose running into the rain, standing there kissing me in the middle of the street, was not a risk?"

"One I was more than willing to take. I knew your response would be sufficiently warm to protect me. And I was not disappointed. John said in the lobby some of the staff were applauding us. Isn't it funny that New York has a reputation for being cold and unfriendly when in fact it's a wonderful city for lovers?" Across the table, he studied her face, still flushed with sleep. She had started his day with a rush of desire, and he marveled that she could be so enticing without any effort.

"Maybe that's only true if the lovers are silly enough to call attention to themselves. I suppose you warned me you'd become, what was the word, transparent?" Tearing apart a croissant, she delicately folded strips of bread into her mouth. "Do you think Jana will suspect? That we're more than friends, I mean?"

"She already knows, I expect. She's always been able to read me pretty easily. She's really a very caring woman. There were times I felt she held back from giving me too much, I suppose because she was afraid it would seem disloyal to Milo. They love each other very much, I know. But Jana always lets things go Milo's way, never stands up to him. Please don't ever let that happen to us. We should be equals, shouldn't we, with enough respect for each other to have our own opinions, make our own decisions? I know compromise is important, but it shouldn't be one-sided."

"Since we're both so single-minded, I expect we'll have to compromise quite a lot. As long as we love each other enough, respect each other, and maybe add a lot of prayer into the mix, we'll be okay. My mother used to say that whenever she and my father had a disagreement, they would go away and pray on their own about it. She said it helped them to see the other's point, as if God had cleared the air for them."

"I somehow imagined your parents were always in complete harmony."

"Oh, no. Remember, they were both middle-aged when they married. In many ways, they were opposites, and their opinions were very strong, especially Mother's. My mother was passionate about everything, while Pop was more of a debater. He could argue any side of an issue, but Mother tended to stand her ground to the bitter end. There were lots of lively debates in our house, on everything from last spring's rainfall to the merits of one variety of tomato over another, not to mention their very different opinions on various writers and composers. Politically, they were at opposite ends of the spectrum, and politics was the one topic off limits. I guess that's why I have so little interest. I never heard any discussion at home about elections or policies. They simply refused to discuss it. Pop would very often quote the scripture describing the nature of love, love that believes all things, hopes all things and, he would say, most of all endures all things. They loved each other beyond all their differences. No argument ever lasted past sundown, and looking back at it, maybe the fact they had to make up so often made for even greater passion. Not that I want to follow that pattern." She took a last sip of her tea, stood and stretched her arms luxuriously over her head.

"Corinthians, right?"

"What?" Carefully, she settled herself on his knee.

"The nature of love, one of the letters to the Corinthians, right?"

"Are you showing off?" She pressed her lips to his cheek, running her fingers into his hair.

"Just a little. I've been doing my homework. Pastor Mike would be proud. I intend to be as familiar with these things as you are by the time we stand up together in that little church. And speaking of standing up, shouldn't we be getting ready to go? I'm sure I could be persuaded to sit here like this all morning, but you did say you wanted to see everything in the tour book in just six days."

### ****

John drove them to the museum. As he watched them walk away hand in hand, he wondered if Emily was prepared for the inevitable photographer or autograph seeker. Any time Stani chose to walk the streets of New York, there was the likelihood he would be recognized. John made a circle of the block, and when he passed them again, they had made it to the museum's entrance before two women had stopped Stani, and he was reaching for the pen in his coat pocket. John could see Emily, standing at his elbow, smiling patiently as she looked on. It would take more than that to upset her, he was glad to see.

When he met them two hours later, they were walking arm in arm, laughing. They were quite a pair, Stani in his customary black, his bright hair gleaming in the sunlight, and Emily, ever so slightly taller, in her red coat, a soft white beret covering her dark head. He hardly recognized the boy, walking proudly with his girl on his arm, all his attention focused on her. Maybe the photo hounds would have the same problem, accustomed as they were to seeing him dash head down, alone. Maybe.
Chapter Fifty-two

Jana had not been prepared for the girl Stani had obviously fallen in love with. She was young, but she was also very self-assured. This girl, who said she lived alone in the country, the same girl it turned out who had found Stani in that remote area after the accident, was the kind of girl he might have hoped to meet if he'd had an ordinary life here in New York, a student, or even another musician, with refined tastes and a good education. Jana was amazed he had found her at all. He hadn't sought the company of women, as far as she knew, since his recovery. But now he was so clearly in love, so totally engaged by this girl, it made her heart ache a little.

The fact that he was loved in return, so plain to see on the girl's face as she watched him talking, eased the ache. He would be cared for, loved as he so deserved to be, by this unusual girl, and she would make his happiness the most important thing in her life. Jana had hoped against hope that someday Stani would finally be loved for himself, not for what he could do. She had tried, especially at first, but there had been so many barriers. Not only the fact that somewhere he already had a mother, but the need to maintain her marriage, never letting her love for the boy interfere with her dedication to Milo. Now Stani would be loved unconditionally, and with great passion she suspected. While she was reserved and soft-spoken, there was an intensity about Emily. Behind her calm smile, Jana sensed a woman capable of powerful emotion. A perfect match for Stani, who had always kept his emotions buried until he held a violin in his hands. She would teach him to live, to get outside himself and experience so much more of the world.

Jana had brought a faded manila envelope with her to the restaurant. It seemed the perfect opportunity today, to pass it to Stani without Milo there. "These are the papers we got from your mother when you came to live with us. You should have them with you now that you're out on your own." She handed him the slim envelope. "I wish there were more, but this is all we ever had."

Stani took it hesitantly. He hadn't known of its existence until now. Jana had never felt the time right, and he'd never asked. It seemed sad there was so little left of his early life, just the few fading snapshots and his birth and baptismal records.

With Emily looking over his shoulder, her hand resting on his arm as if in support, he opened it and peered inside briefly. "Thank you, Jana. I would never have thought to ask. I guess I assumed there wasn't anything." It struck her that he rarely mentioned his mother, never asked questions about his father, or talked of the years before he came to them. Had he believed his past lost forever, or had he simply wanted to forget?

Ever since she'd learned he was in love, just before Christmas, Jana had done a lot of thinking about the past. They had let him down, though of course Milo would never see it that way. They had taken him in, if they were truthful, with the intention of molding him into the image of a performing genius, overlooking his other gifts, his keen intelligence and sweet nature. It was a tribute to Stani's character that he had come through the months before the accident without completely losing his moral balance. And it was nothing short of a miracle that he had recovered from his injuries, fought his way back, and was now taking his life in such a different direction. Milo seemed confused by this new Stani, but Jana thought she could understand him better, having met this girl he loved. She had prayed he would have a chance at a better existence after the horror of the accident and the months which followed. She often felt her prayers were just so many random thoughts and desires, that God would never be able to make sense of them. But she could see, when she looked at the faces of these two, that he had seen the need in Stani and provided the answer in the form of this wonderful girl.

As they stood on the street saying their goodbyes, Jana put her arms around Stani in a rare show of affection. "I'm so happy for you, for both of you. She's lovely, really lovely," she said in his ear.

"Thank you, Jana. That means a lot to me. I told you, I'm the most fortunate of men. Now you see why." He returned her embrace, wondering why it seemed so natural now, when in the past he had often found it awkward. "We'll see you on Thursday night. I hope Milo can be on time." When he had invited them to dinner, along with Peg and John, Milo had made comments to the effect that he had a very busy day planned and would try his best to make it. Jana would recognize the excuse. Milo hated to be forced into scheduling anything that didn't involve business in some way. Purely social occasions were often overlooked, or cut short. But Stani hoped Jana would influence him this time. It was important for Emily to get this meeting behind her.

"I'll see to it, Stani, don't worry. I'll remind him Peg will be there. He'll see that as an opportunity." Turning to Emily, Jana extended her hand. "My dear, I'm so happy to have met you. Now I understand much better why Stani has this new lease on life."

But Emily ignored the outstretched hand and offered a hug, leaning over the much smaller woman. "Thank you for making me feel so welcome. And for all you've done for him. He's turning out okay, wouldn't you say?" She turned to Stani and linked her arm through his. "Now, I want my carriage ride through Central Park if you don't mind. This day is too fine to waste inside a museum. I need some romance, Stani Moss."

Jana had to laugh. What an amazing sight, one she'd never expected to see. Stani in love, smiling and happy, and blushing to the roots of his hair.

### ****

In the car, John passed a note to Stani, along with a telling look in the rear view mirror. "Sorry, lad, but you'd better have this."

With a little groan, he tucked the paper in his pocket after a quick glance. "Tell him I'll be there, but later, four, I guess."

"What is it, Stani? Not a problem, I hope?" Emily hugged his arm, watching the telltale tightening of his jaw.

"No, just business. You won't miss me for an hour or so, will you?"

"Of course I will. But I'll survive. I can't expect to have you drop everything for me, not if I'm in training to be your sidekick."

"Sidekick? As if I ever dreamed of having such an adorable sidekick. John is my sidekick, darling. You are my girl." He kissed her, folding her in his arms and tilting her head back against the seat.

"Are you two planning to get up to that sort of thing every time the car starts to move? Stani, I'm in no way accustomed to you in the role of lover."

"But he's perfect for the part, John, you have to admit." Emily's voice was slightly breathless, but her eyes were bright with laughter. "I'm afraid you'll have to get used to us. We've been spoiled by too much time alone in the country."

"I can only imagine what that means. Stani, lad, are you sure we shouldn't just go back to the hotel?"

"No, she wants a romantic carriage ride, and she's going to get one." John could only surmise what followed Emily's smothered laughter, as he struggled to keep his eyes on the flow of traffic.

### ****

Emily had fallen asleep, her head on Stani's shoulder, as the carriage made its slow turn through the park. They had been photographed when the ride ended, caught just as Stani raised his arms to lift her to the ground. She was reaching down to him, her hair cascading over one shoulder and a tender smile on her face. The photographer had commented on the perfection of the pose, thanking Stani with a grin for giving him the shot.

When they returned to the hotel, Emily agreed she could use a nap while Stani went to meet with Milo. "I'll be back by five or so. We have a late night, and you wouldn't want to doze off during Carmen, would you?" He left her curled on the couch in her suite, holding the memory of her sleepy smile as he set off for Milo's office. He had hoped the matter could wait; he'd done all he could to convince Milo of his stand on the issue of this latest recording project, but Milo was not ready to admit defeat. He wanted to discuss the idea further, his note had stated. He had a new thought or two if Stani could only give him a few minutes of his time. Not willing to antagonize him at a time when the meeting with Emily was looming, Stani felt he had no choice but to agree.

By the time he returned to his rooms, his head was pounding ominously. John recognized the pallor and the tight lines around his mouth and ordered him to sit. "How bad's the head?"

Stani probed his left temple. "Not too bad. Just get me some aspirin, please. Not the other. Not yet." Stretching on the couch, he rested his head gingerly on the arm. "Remind me why I even try to reason with him? He always wins."

There was a soft knock at the door and he sat up immediately, wincing and running a hand through his hair. As John went to answer, Stani attempted to compose his face into a smile.

With a final glance in his direction, John opened the door. "Come in, my lady. The master's just returned."

Emily laughed at his deep bow, but as soon as she caught sight of Stani she rushed past. Her hand went to his forehead, touching the already clammy skin. "Stani, you're sick. What is it?"

He caught her hand, making an attempt to smile up at her. "Just a little headache, nothing to worry about." He took the aspirin and water glass from John. "I'll be fine. Did you get your nap?"

"Yes. Don't change the subject. What kind of headache?" She stopped his hand as he raised the aspirin to his lips.

"Just the usual." He sighed, sensing defeat.

"Migraine?"

"Not yet. Emily, love, I'll be fine. Just let me rest for a bit." John stood by, silently holding out a prescription bottle for her to see. "No! I don't want that stuff. It knocks me silly."

She studied the bottle's label. "I'm sure it does. John, can we get some soda, something with caffeine? And some crackers, too. But Stani, if the aspirin doesn't work you'll have to take this. I won't stand by and watch you hurt. We'll need some ice too, please, John."

While John phoned room service, she went to the bedroom, returning with a pillow and blanket. "Stretch out. And let me take off your boots. Does the light hurt your eyes?" He nodded, giving himself over to her attentions. "John, would you mind closing the blinds? Now, show me where it hurts the worst." He raised his hand to his temple, his eyes closed. "Near the scar?" Again, he nodded. "Did you have these before the accident?" She was scooping ice from the bucket John provided, folding it into a towel.

"No, but ever since. Concussion." The effort of a few words was painful now and he clenched his jaw.

With a gentle hand, she brushed his hair aside and applied the ice pack. "Just try to relax. I take it this is the result of the meeting with Milo?" She looked to John for confirmation. "Just forget about it now. He's not worth a migraine, I'm sure."

The room service waiter was at the door in minutes, bearing a tray of Cokes and a big basket of crackers. "Looks like the party's here. Can you sit up long enough to drink this? It'll help the aspirin work faster."

"I don't drink soda, love. It's too sweet," he said through clenched teeth.

"I don't care, darling. Consider it medicine. Now drink. And eat at least one of these crackers, so maybe you won't throw up all over me."

He grinned weakly. "Are you this compassionate with all your patients?"

"You're not my patient. You're my man. Now just lie still and think good thoughts." She took up a position at the end of the couch, holding the ice pack in place and massaging the back of his neck, watching with satisfaction as he visibly relaxed, expelling a long sigh.

Emily looked her question to John, who seemed to read her thoughts. "Maybe one a month, depending on what's going on, although lately they've seemed to come less often. His doctor said it's typical after that kind of head injury. Any kind of tension can bring it on." His voice low, John stood over Stani, staring down with a concerned frown. "He and Milo are in negotiation over some new recording project, if you want to call it negotiation when one party is always right."

"You're sure this doesn't have anything to do with me?" she asked softly.

"Mozart," Stani whispered. "I'm not deaf, you realize."

"Shh. You just relax. Mozart?"

"Milo's pushing him to compose, variations or some such thing. He's always done it, even when he was a little boy. Called it his doodles." He flashed a momentary grin at Stani's grunt of protest. "But this time, Milo wants him to write them out for orchestra and record them. Frankly, I don't quite see why he's so set against it."

"I'm a serious musician. I don't like gimmicks." Stani's voice was soft and drowsy now.

"Gimmicks?" Emily looked to John again.

"Something about the marketing, rock star or crossover or the like. I try not to get involved, girl. They're always at it about one thing or another. But this time, the lad's been pretty stubborn."

Emily glanced at her watch. "Any better yet?" She laid a hand on his forehead. His color was improved and the tightness around his mouth had relaxed. He opened his eyes cautiously.

"Yes, I think so. You're a miracle worker, love."

"No, we just caught it in time. Now just stay here and rest. I think we should skip the opera tonight. The noise could bring back your headache."

"No, I'll be fine, I promise. What time is it?" He made a move to get up and she put a firm hand on his chest, holding him down.

"We have two hours. Rest! John, can you keep him quiet? I'll go get myself ready in case he's really up to going. What are our dinner plans? I think room service might be the best idea. And John, could you drive us, in case we need to leave the opera early?" Dropping a kiss on Stani's forehead, she took the ice pack to the sink in the little kitchen. "Now, if you two can manage, I'll go visit with Jimmy the elevator boy again. Did you know he went to Harvard? Class of 1930." She let herself out, picking up Stani's key as she went. "I'll be back, and I expect to find you snoring."

"I don't snore!" But she was gone, leaving John chuckling as he poured himself a Coke.

"Well, lad, I'd say you've got just the woman there to look after you. And a nurse, at that. Not to mention the loveliest smile we've seen in a while. Why is it you waited so long to go looking for her?"

"Because up until now I've let Milo live my life for me. But no more. That said, I will be doing his blasted recording, his way, I'm afraid." He ran a hand through his hair, heaving a ragged sigh.

"Not to sound like I'm on his side, but Milo just wants you to take the next step. Why fight when you know you can do it? You did that little piece for Emily. What did it take you, maybe all of two days? You've got months to work on this Mozart thing."

Stani raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, but when I keep you up all hours of the night, don't forget you were the one who encouraged me. Now, I'm supposed to be resting. I can't afford to lose time with her while she's here. Three months without her may kill me, John. I need to store up as much Emily as I can."

### ****

When Emily let herself back into Stani's suite, he was just coming from the bedroom, shrugging on his shirt. "Still feeling better? No headache?" Without answering, he pulled her into his arms. As he prepared to kiss her, she pulled back. "Stani, don't try to fool me. How's the head?"

"My head is fine. Spinning just a bit at the sight of you, but I'm sure that will pass if you'll just kiss me." In her simple black dress, with a single strand of pearls accenting its plunging neckline, she seemed suddenly, stunningly sophisticated.

"Is it all right? It's old, but I thought it would do to sit in the dark. Martha Jean says a little black dress can go anywhere."

"It's ravishing. And very appropriate. But aren't you the girl who left here a while ago in blue jeans?" He stood still as she buttoned his shirt, trying not to stare. "You do know this dress is the most revealing thing I've seen you wear?"

She blushed. "Too revealing? I could always change."

"Don't you dare. I just have to get used to my little farm girl looking so grown up. You're beautiful. And tall." The heels on her shoes were low by fashion standards, but Stani, in his stocking feet, was forced to pull her head down for the long awaited kiss.

"I'm sorry." His finger on her lips silenced her apology.

"Not sorry. Perfect. Now what is it we're having for dinner? I'm the one who's starving this time."

"I ordered lamb chops. It should be here soon. I assumed John would be joining us?" She continued fussing with his shirt buttons.

"Yes, any minute now, actually. He was quite impressed, by the way."

"With what?"

"With the way you took charge earlier. And with the way you seem to take to the big city. And you were so worried you wouldn't be comfortable here."

"I didn't realize I could be useful. Besides, the city's not so big. At least not one block at a time. I think I could get used to it. Especially with you around." This time the kiss was interrupted by the subtle knock of the room service waiter.

Over dinner John went down the list of the next day's planned events. "And somewhere in between sightseeing and eating, you have a couple of appointments, Stani. Marius and Manny, in fact."

"Really? That's a bother. I'm sorry, darling, I completely overlooked the fact that I have to be prepared to leave in another week."

"Who are Marius and Manny exactly?"

"Marius is my hairdresser, and believe me, I would not want to stand him up. And Manny Weinberg is my tailor. New tails for the tour, plus a new overcoat for those brutal German winters. I suppose you could come along if you'd like."

She seemed to consider for a moment. "There wouldn't happen to be a shoe store near either of these stops, would there?"

"A shoe store?" Stani turned to John. "Any idea, John?"

"I'm sure we can find a shoe store somewhere in Manhattan if we look hard enough."

"Now you're just making fun of me. But seriously, I need to find some shoes."

Giving her hand a squeeze, Stani smiled. "Darling girl, please stop worrying about it. I don't mind a bit, honestly."

With a suspicious grin, John said, "Is there some sort of foot problem?"

"No, there's some sort of height problem. I'm too tall. I need to find something with lower heels, so I can stop towering over Stani." At the little quiver of her lower lip, Stani held up a hand in submission.

"We'll find a shoe store, love. And you can buy all the shoes you like. Just please stop being unhappy. I told you, you're perfect, just the way you are."

He was rewarded with a grateful smile. "Still, some lower heels would make me feel less conspicuous."

Unable to contain himself any longer, John laughed out loud. "Emily girl, if you think you can hang about with this lad and be inconspicuous, you'll be sorely disappointed. Now can we finish these chops and get going? I have a pretty good idea tonight will be a good lesson in just how conspicuous you'll be."

### ****

John was right. Everywhere she looked there was someone watching them. Faces she recognized from magazines and record jackets smiled and waved across the aisles. In the lobby during intermission, Stani was accosted by several autograph seekers and a number of apparently old friends. She struggled to catch names as her hand was repeatedly shaken; and when they returned to their seats, she told Stani she couldn't imagine why he'd ever called himself a loner.

"Everybody here knows you. And obviously likes you. Good grief, where do you go when you really want to be alone?" She tried to keep a smile on her face as she whispered to him. Several rows down, an elderly couple had turned to stare at them, the lady raising her opera glasses for a better look.

"I stay at home. I do apologize, love. I didn't expect quite so much attention. I think at least part of it has to do with you. I told you they'd be curious. Are we still just friends, or shall I give you a kiss and really set them buzzing?"

"Don't you dare! It was bad enough you called me 'darling girl' in front of that man at the bar. Who was he anyway? I swear he looked right down my dress."

"Oh, you mean the tall, dark and handsome chap with the martini? Just some Broadway type. He's a notorious womanizer, I hear. At least he has good taste. Now relax; if you don't encourage them, they'll get bored and look at someone else. Are you enjoying the opera, at least?"

"Oh, yes. It's wonderful! And I'll admit all the attention was a little bit exciting." The lights went down and the conductor came back to the podium. "Stani?" she whispered.

"Yes, love?"

"I'm so glad you made me come to New York. I think I love your world."

"I'm glad too. I think I love you." And right there in the middle of an opera house full of people, as the orchestra began to play, he kissed her, a long, tender kiss she accepted without any hesitation. John pointed out during the ride home that if they really wanted to be inconspicuous, they might try leaving that sort of thing to dark corners and the back seats of cars.

### Chapter Fifty-three

They'd been to the hairdresser's, where Emily's own mane was appraised by the very frank Marius, who advised her to consider a shorter style. At Stani's howl of protest, he laughed and agreed her hair was spectacular, but it must cause her neck to ache from the weight. As a parting gift, he'd given her a pearl studded comb, suggesting she pull her hair up on one side for drama.

"A little old Hollywood glamor, my dear. You can pull it off you know. And for goodness sake, do something with your nails. You have beautiful hands, but anyone would think you'd been washing dishes with them." Stani herded her into the car, bursting with apologies.

"It's really okay, Stani. He's only telling the truth. I do have dishpan hands. Maybe I'll get a manicure in the hotel salon. Would that be too extravagant?"

"Not at all, do whatever you like. But don't pay too much attention to Marius. He has a very high opinion of himself. As I suppose he should. He did tame my beastly mop. Peg took me to him, and if you could have seen me then, you'd believe he really is a magician.

Their next stop was at the little shop of Manny Weinberg, who came from his workroom to greet Stani with open arms. As he fitted the new tailcoat, Emily thought he seemed to be chiding Stani for something, muttering "Much better, much better," as he pinned and marked the coat. While they waited for the overcoat to be brought from the workroom, she asked him what the little tailor was talking about. Stani blushed.

"Manny was unhappy with me because he said I had built up my shoulders a bit too much. I started working out and lifting weights during therapy, and he said my shoulders were ruining the lines of his coats."

Emily's eyes sparkled. "I knew you didn't get those muscles playing the violin."

"I've given up the weights, too much trouble to lug around. But I do still exercise some, sit-ups and pushups. I like the way it releases tension when I'm traveling. At any rate, Manny seems happier now. He can be a bit of a tyrant about his 'lines', you know."

When the new overcoat was tried on, Manny stood back and eyed him critically. "There's something different about you, my young friend. You wear the coat . . .what should I say, more joyously? That's it! You look happy. I've never seen you look happy before." With an appraising squint, he turned to Emily, his gaze going up and down before meeting her eyes. "Ah, and here is the reason. This gorgeous girl belongs to you?"

"She likes me, Manny. Reason enough to be happy, wouldn't you say?"

His eyes twinkling, Manny put a finger alongside his nose. "She doesn't like you, Stani. This girl is in love."

Back in the car, Emily snuggled close to him. "He's a very wise man, you know. I liked him. And he obviously likes you. He told me when you were in the dressing room that he had been so worried about you after the accident, but now he thinks you're going to be fine."

"He's always been very kind. You're having fun, aren't you, even running errands with me."

"I like meeting these people who've known you for a long time. It's just like you meeting Martha Jean and Mr. Harris. Like family."

Stani laughed. "Okay, maybe Manny's like family, but I wouldn't go so far with Marius. But I'm glad you liked them. I told you my world isn't so different from yours. Just a lot more traffic." As if to prove his point, John slammed on the brakes, barely missing the rear of a cab as it swerved into the lane in front of him. Shouting a colorful oath, he blasted the car's horn. Stani pulled her close, as she let out a little squeak and covered her eyes. "Sorry, darling. Our manners aren't quite as nice here, either."

Burying her head on his chest, she laughed. "That's okay. It gives you a good excuse to hold on to me."

"As if I needed one."

### ****

The visit to a shoe store recommended by Peg Shannon proved to be a series of lessons for Emily. After explaining her situation to the very solicitous clerk, she'd been taken past the displays of high-fashion shoes, with their equally high heels, to view a sweet little selection of handmade slippers. Favored by more mature, but equally stylish, customers, and not a few dancers, the shoes were all designed along the lines of a slightly square-toed ballet slipper. But given the variety of colors and materials, from basic black to copper satin trimmed in turquoise rhinestones, not to mention fine leather in every imaginable color, the clerk assured her, these darlings were the answer to her dilemma. As she waited for her initial selection to be brought from the stock room, Emily searched for a price sticker, but Stani provided the information that a shop of this caliber never displayed prices.

"Never mind, love. If you like them, and they make you happy, the price won't matter." The shoes, soft black leather with pencil thin straps crisscrossing her foot, fit like a glove. When they stood together, she was shoulder to shoulder with Stani, and the smile in his eyes told her he was as pleased as she was.

She tried on several more styles, deciding her favorites were the black and a pair in gold moiré with little tassels on the toe. Notwithstanding Stani's earlier comment, she asked the price. At the answer, she gasped and snatched her hand away from the shoes as if they'd suddenly grown fangs. "Oh, no. I don't like them that much!"

The clerk, obviously offended, began to pack up the pairs of slippers scattered on the floor.

"Emily, buy the shoes. As many pairs as you like, love. My treat." Holding up a cautionary hand, he indicated to the clerk they needed a minute alone.

"No, Stani. It would be downright sinful to pay so much for a little pair of slippers. I can't!"

"Do you like the shoes?"

"Well, of course. They're lovely, but. . ."

"Do you want the shoes?" He took her by the arms, staring into her eyes with a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Stani. . ."

"Answer the question, love."

"Yes, but wants are not needs."

"I think you need the shoes. If they put to rest the issue of the extra inch or two that seems to bother you so much, we need the shoes. Now you just have to decide which ones you like. I think at least four pair, to start with." He looked over at the stack of shoe boxes. "I liked the bronze, with the silver band on the toe, and that wine leather seemed to be a color I've seen you wear. But you choose. And if you can't decide on four, get more. But for heaven's sake, darling," he lowered his voice to a near whisper, "don't make that poor woman put all these shoes back without making a sale."

While John packed the boxes in the trunk of the car, Emily tried to insist she would pay Stani back, even if in installments. "It's not right for you to spend money on me like that."

He turned to face her in the seat, his gaze uncharacteristically stern. "Emily, I'm only going to tell you this once. Money is no object when it comes to making you happy. If a few hundred dollars is all it takes to please you, or if you needed half-a-million, I would consider it money well spent. I make a ridiculous amount of money, and I want to do some good with it. But if I didn't use a little of it to make the woman I love smile, I would be sadly remiss. Do I make myself clear?"

"It was almost a thousand dollars, Stani, but yes, you make yourself perfectly clear." She looked up with the tiniest gleam in her eye, her arms going around his neck. "How can I show my gratitude? Will you accept my undying love, my eternal devotion, as partial payment at least?"

When John got behind the wheel, he glanced in the rear view mirror. "Where to?" His answer was a vague wave of Stani's hand. "Oh, for the love of Pete. Don't you two ever come up for air?

### ****

They had been to the museums and the Statue of Liberty, ridden the Staten Island ferry, and walked down Wall Street. She'd visited St. Patrick's Cathedral and Trinity Church, Washington Square and Columbus Circle, been to the opera, and seen a Broadway musical. They'd watched the skaters at Rockefeller Center and the street vendors in Times Square. At every turn it seemed they were photographed. Stani remarked it must be a slow week; every other person of note must be out of town or holed up with the flu.

Emily quickly realized no matter where they went, Stani met someone he knew. In restaurants, someone invariably came by their table to say hello. In the theaters, he was greeted by people from all walks of life, arts patrons and fellow musicians, Broadway personalities, and even an usher who'd been a classmate at the Manhattan high school. As they were leaving the hotel one afternoon, a man just emerging from a cab called out to Stani, rushing over to clap him on the shoulder. Tall and spare, with a shock of graying hair falling over his eyes, Emily thought he seemed immediately familiar. She watched him closely as he talked to Stani, apparently thanking him for some favor he'd done. When he turned to her with an appraising smile, a cigarette dangling from his lips, her heart began to pound. "You must be the amazing Emily." He looked back at Stani with a grin. "You didn't do her justice, Stani." Tossing his cigarette to the pavement, he turned toward the hotel entrance. Over his shoulder, he called back "See you in Berlin!"

Eyes twinkling, Stani steered her toward the waiting car.

"Stani, was that. . . that was. . .He knows my name?" She looked back at the disappearing figure of the most celebrated conductor in the city.

"Bernard Silverman? Yes. I made my debut with Bernie; I've known him since I was just a kid. Of course I told him about you. Now get in the car, love. You're positively gawking."

### Chapter Fifty-four

By Thursday morning, Emily had almost forgotten how intensely she'd resisted the idea of coming to New York. To her amazement, she liked the city, the crowds, the lights and even the noise. There was so much to see and do; so many different shops and restaurants to sample. The food alone was an adventure. Stani had made a point of taking her to every possible kind of restaurant, and she'd found something to like about every one of them. She'd wondered at times if he hadn't planned to keep her so busy in order to ease her anxiety—and probably his as well—over the dinner on Thursday night.

All day, as they visited the Public Library and the Empire State Building, she had to force herself to focus. No matter how foolish she told herself it was to worry, her thoughts insisted on drifting to the dreaded moment when she would finally have to look Milo Scheider in the eye. Was it possible, she wondered, that she might have, over the years, blown the letter out of proportion? But even now the tone and the intent of his carefully phrased message seemed disdainful and intimidating. He had made the assumption she would try to cash in on Stani's celebrity, and implied there would be consequences if she went against his advice. It was hard to imagine he wouldn't be suspicious of her relationship with Stani now, after going to such lengths to ensure her silence then.

Now, as she dressed, she reminded her reflection in the mirror that Jack had called her a girl who could take on anything with a smile. James McConnell had called her "brave" and said that no matter what, she'd never been one to back down. But her eyes, staring back at her, resembled most closely a frightened deer, and her hands insisted on shaking as she tried to pin up her hair. Her stomach had for hours been twisting itself into a quivering knot. She wondered if this might be one time in her life when her appetite would be quelled by sheer terror.

Stani must have sensed her rising anxiety when they returned to the hotel. He had delivered a very sweet pep talk, much of which she felt was also directed toward his own concerns. Milo, he told her, would never be openly rude. The worst she could expect was that he might ignore her. But she would still be painfully conscious of their history, she insisted. No matter what happened, she felt certain sitting across a dinner table from Milo Scheider would at best be awkward and unpleasant.

She'd saved for the occasion the black pantsuit Martha Jean had insisted she bring with her. It was too sophisticated she'd argued, but maybe that was the impression she needed to give tonight, if she could pull it off. If Milo noticed her at all, she wanted to at least appear confident. Of course, if Stani thought it wouldn't do, she'd change into something simpler. The severe lines of the tunic, with its long straight sleeves and high cowl neck, were deceptively conservative, but the back of the neckline draped almost to her waist, exposing the curve of her bare back. As she gave herself one last glance in the mirror, she hovered between feeling uncommonly elegant and ridiculously out of character.

But the look on Stani's face when she opened the door assured her of his unequivocal approval.

"Stunning, absolutely stunning." He studied her with a tilt of his head and a gleam in his eyes.

"Do you really like it? Martha Jean said it was the most 'New York' thing she'd ever had in the shop. You're sure it's not too. . .open?" She turned slowly for his appraisal, feeling herself blush beneath his admiring scrutiny.

"Oh, it's far too open. You have no idea how wonderful you look. No danger of anyone recognizing me tonight. They'll all be looking at you." Pulling her into his arms, he examined her more closely. "You're wearing eye shadow, Emily. Have you been totally corrupted so quickly?"

"I'm not a complete hick, at least not all of the time." She held up a manicured hand in defense, hoping he wouldn't see that it trembled slightly.

"Nail varnish too? My word, what's become of my simple little farm girl?" Grasping the hand, he kissed the tips of her fingers.

"You don't approve?"

He grinned, holding her tighter. "I approve whole-heartedly. I love my farm girl in blue jeans, and my beautiful angel of mercy in white, but this version of you, darling girl, takes my breath away. I wasn't prepared for this level of sophistication."

She felt herself relax, a little of the earlier tension evaporating beneath his gaze. "Martha Jean was right. If I'm going to hang around you, I'm going to have to step up my style. You look nice, too. What's the meaning of this? A white shirt? And that little figure in your tie is definitely gold."

"My concession to the uniqueness of the event. Not exactly flamboyant, I know; but I wanted to make the statement that this is the new Stani Moss, the one who intends to be his own man." With a sigh of his own, he released her, and picked up her wrap, a deep red cape trimmed in black curly lamb. "Another of Martha Jean's suggestions? Remind me to write her a nice, long thank you note."

At the door, she hesitated, drawing him around to look into his eyes. "You're sure about this? What if he disapproves of me? Oh, Stani, the last thing I want is to create more tension for you." Her eyes stung with tears and he instantly gathered her close again.

"Emily, tonight is not about winning Milo's approval. All I want is for you to meet my family, such as they are. I've met the people closest to you and I've learned more about you by doing so. You should have the same opportunity. Right or wrong, they are responsible in large part for who I am. Can't you please try to forget what happened in the past and start fresh tonight?"

The sweet sincerity of his plea effectively swept aside her fears. With a smile and a toss of her head, she said with only slightly more conviction than she felt, "Of course I can. For you, Stani, I can be brave."

With a grateful smile, he kissed her carefully on the cheek. "That's my girl. Now let's go! John's waiting downstairs. Aren't you starving?"

****

Milo had seemed only mildly surprised when Stani told him the identity of the friend he'd invited to New York. He hadn't even questioned how the friendship came about. Perhaps, if the truth were known, Milo was finding everything Stani did these days a bit surprising. This was just one more in a series of unaccountable choices, and in the interest of maintaining the tenuous balance between them he considered it wise not to press the issue. Stani had been relieved when the conversation had gone no farther than a cordial invitation to dine and Milo's lukewarm acceptance.

He had included John for moral support and to round out the number at dinner, Peg Shannon. Peg was part of his very small inner circle, he explained to Emily; and with Peg at the table, Milo was sure to be on his best behavior. When he had told Peg about his trips to Virginia, she had seemed genuinely pleased for him, and he'd marveled at what an extraordinary woman Peg was. He was grateful their relationship had returned to an easy friendship, almost as if nothing more involved had ever existed. Peg was an ally he couldn't afford to lose. And he felt confident he could rely on her discretion with regard to their past.

The location had been chosen with care, an elegant restaurant he knew to be a favorite of Milo's, a place he regularly entertained important visitors. He was well known by the management and would be recognized by other frequent diners. Stani had been there with Milo many times himself and spent a number of late nights at the bar as well. The manager had been pleased to accommodate him, as he asked specifically for a certain seating order, and discussed the speed of service he would prefer for this special evening. If he could control these elements, perhaps they could get through this dinner without Emily's experiencing too much discomfort.

### ****

When they arrived at the restaurant, Milo and Jana were already seated at the round table by the window. Stani was sure Milo had checked his wristwatch as they walked in. Milo stood, as Stani made the introductions, took the hand Emily extended and bowed over it slightly, giving her the swiftest of appraisals. His only response was a cool, clipped, "A pleasure, Miss Haynes."

Emily's eyes were wide, as she breathed, "Mr. Scheider." Time stood still. No one moved. Then simultaneously Stani cleared his throat, John coughed, and Jana gently voiced her greeting, which went largely ignored. There was an awkward moment as both John and Stani reached to pull out Emily's chair, while Emily stood frozen and unblinking, her hand still lightly resting in Milo's. Jana seemed to be signaling to Milo to sit down, John wrestled the chair away from the table, and Stani's gaze was drawn to a commotion across the room as Peg made her usual sweeping entrance.

Without so much as a hello to the others, before she'd even reached the table, Peg gasped loudly enough for most of the room to hear, "Oh, my God, Stani, this is your Emily?" Pushing past John, she threw her arms around Emily, who seemed to come back to life with a startled gasp of her own, tearing her eyes from Milo to blink in astonishment at Peg. "But Stani, I know this girl! Don't you remember, dear, we met at Mae Hanbury's funeral?"

Stani held his breath as Emily visibly regained her equilibrium. With a slow, radiant smile, she answered clearly, "Of course I remember. Isn't it a wonderfully small world?"

Peg took her place beside Milo, all the while explaining the circumstances of their meeting. Emily quietly accepted the chair John held for her, and Stani unlocked his trembling knees and sank gratefully into his own seat. As he listened to Peg go on at length, he realized he could not have asked for more. Milo was forced to listen attentively to Peg's description of this marvelous girl who had nursed her old friend. She went on to talk about Mae and her family, the fact that Mae had contributed early on to Stani's career. She drew Emily into the conversation; and by the time the appetizer was served, everyone at the table had learned just what Stani wanted them to know, that Emily was a talented, intelligent woman with a reputation for her skill and compassion. That she was beautiful as well had not escaped notice, he felt sure.

The evening had, after those first awful seconds, gotten off to a perfect start. They were all conversing easily. He could sense Emily relaxing at his side, as she chatted with John. Turning to Jana on his right, he was about to ask a question, when a large glass of whisky appeared, as if by some evil magic, on the table before him. "Compliments of the management, Mr. Moss," the waiter murmured discreetly in his ear. At the bar, Stani could see the manager smiling his way. There was nothing to do but raise the glass in a salute of thanks.

Five pairs of eyes, filled with everything from fear to suspicion, turned to watch as he lowered the glass to his lips. He took the merest sip, then set the glass on the table and carefully pushed it toward the center. There followed a moment of unbearably weighty silence, as he contemplated his next step, staring into the amber depths he had once so admired. Looking from one face to the next around the table, he flashed what he hoped was a suitably self-effacing smile. "I seem to be a bit too well known here." Nodding toward the bar, he went on, "Old drinking buddy. Must not have heard I've given it up." Blessedly, the waiter returned with the salad cart and there seemed to a collective sigh of relief. Stani felt the toe of Emily's slipper brush his shin, and turned to meet her eyes, now shining with approval. Under cover of the reviving conversation, he murmured, "Sorry."

"No need. You were wonderful." She reached for his hand under the tablecloth, pressing her fingers between his. "Are we doing okay?"

He smiled his gratitude, squeezing her hand. "Brilliantly!" When her lips curved into one of those serene little upturns, he felt the sudden, almost undeniable urge to kiss her. "Brave girl."

The moment passed, the talk around the table turned to the upcoming tour. Milo was in his element discussing the various orchestras and conductors he'd lined up for the concerts across Europe and Britain. As he dominated the conversation, Stani watched Emily out of the corner of his eye. She was listening attentively but saying little, all the while paying close attention to her dinner. She looked up from her chateaubriand just long enough to inform Milo that while she'd never been to Europe, she had studied extensively in hopes of traveling in the future. Stani smiled. No matter how stressful the occasion, it wasn't affecting her appetite.

Things had gone so well thus far, he considered his next move carefully. It had been on his mind for some time, given the opportunity this evening presented. An hour earlier, he would have abandoned the idea completely, but now, with Milo in such a mellow mood, with Peg smiling across the table as she talked with Emily, and with Emily herself seeming to be at ease in the company of these people who were the only family he'd ever known, he might just be bold enough to go through with it. When the plates had been taken away and dessert and coffee ordered, he pushed back his chair and got to his feet, drawing everyone's expectant attention.

He straightened his tie, cleared his throat and plunged ahead. "As all of you know, I'm hardly the speech making sort. In fact this may be the first one I've ever made willingly." Involuntarily, he grinned, his color deepening. "But while I have all the important people in my life gathered at the same table, there is something I need to say." Pausing again, he ran a hand through his hair and drew a deep breath past the sudden lump in his throat. "In the past three years, all of you have given me so much. Each of you, in your own way, has brought me back to life, supported me and encouraged me. Thanks to you and the grace of a loving God, I have a second chance to make something of my life. I just want you to know, I intend to make you proud." He raised his water glass in a toast round the table, his gaze finally coming to rest on Emily's upturned face. She was smiling, tears brimming. Ignoring the surprise in her eyes, he bent down and kissed her soundly.

John said, "Hear, hear." Peg clapped her hands softly, tears in her own eyes, and Jana, with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, declared, "How beautiful, Stani!" But it was Milo who got to his feet, and raising his glass, announced in a voice clearly filled with pride, "To Stani!"

### ****

They sat curled together in front of the little gas fire, rehashing the evening. Emily had changed into jeans and a sweater, insisting she'd had enough sophistication for one night. Now with her hair tumbling around her shoulders and her bare feet tucked beneath her, she felt much more herself. It had been a wonderful night, she assured him. She was so proud of him, so amazed at what he had said and done. But even more wonderful, it was over and she had survived relatively unscathed.

"I told you Milo wouldn't try to eat you. He's really quite harmless." He couldn't resist stroking the tousled lengths of her hair.

"I was surprised in some ways by Milo. He's older than I expected, and handsomer than the one picture I'd seen of him. Is he always so. . .rigid? Every move seems sort of calculated, as if he practiced it in advance. Although he did get pretty animated when he was talking about the tour. Obviously, his work is his passion."

"Oh, yes. Everything else comes second, even Jana, I'm afraid. But they've always worked together in his pursuit of promoting classical music. And Jana loves him. He comes first for her."

Emily laughed softly. "He really is pretty full of himself, isn't he? He tends to take control even at the dinner table. But Peg seemed to know how to gently push him aside. She's quite a force, I'll bet."

"Peg Shannon can move mountains with her perfectly manicured little finger. She cut her teeth on the likes of Milo Scheider, I imagine. She's tougher than most men, but they never seem to see past those blue eyes of hers." He took a moment to press his lips against her forehead, as she nestled her head on his chest. "Handsomer, huh? I guess I've never thought of Milo as handsome. Should I be jealous?"

"Oh, no. He's not my type. And he pretty much ignored me the entire evening, which was fine with me. No, I don't think there's much potential for a relationship there."

"But he took note of you. He knows a beautiful woman when he sees one. And everything Peg said is sure to have impressed him. All in all, I'd say the evening was a success. I felt rather as though I was being tested, but I think I did okay." He tried to turn her face up for a punctuating kiss, but she pulled away.

"Okay? You were magnificent, Stani! What you said to everyone was so beautiful. It could not have been more perfect." She reached up to stroke his face, letting her fingers skim over his lips. "The only thing you might have done differently, not that it isn't too late now, was to try to stick to that friendship thing a little longer. No man kisses his friends the way you kissed me, right there in front of the whole restaurant."

"You mean like this?" He succeeded in capturing her mouth, and by the time he released her she was wide-eyed and breathless. "You're right, no more friendship. No one would believe us, anyway. What man in his right mind would want to be just friends with a woman like you?" He settled her more comfortably across his lap and went on, "Now, I want to know your impressions. You've met all the most important people in my world, what do you think?"

She considered for a moment, before ruffling his hair playfully. "I think you judge them too harshly. They're not so different from any family, I expect. John is your big brother, or your favorite uncle. He has your back, no matter what. He loves you very much, much more than a lot of real brothers. Jana may not be exactly maternal, but she cares deeply about you. And Milo is as proud of you as any father could be. He just doesn't quite understand you, but that's often the case with fathers and sons. You're everything to them, Stani. Most sons don't merit the kind of attention they pay you. By now, an ordinary son would have been pushed from the nest to make his own way, but they are devoting their lives to you."

He laughed softly. "And therein lies the rub."

"But you deserve that kind of devotion. Maybe Milo still tries to control you, but it's not just about your career. They almost lost you, Stani. They feel they need to protect you even more now. You're more precious to them."

"You got all that while eating dinner with them?"

"Well, I've thought about it some, too. Even when you were there with me, before Jack came, I thought about the people who loved you, who would be frantic to know where you were. You're the kind of person who inspires nothing less than total devotion. Anyone who cares for you would have to care passionately."

"You knew that by watching me lie unconscious for hours? You may be less of a realist than I took you for."

"No, I think it's totally realistic. A person's face when they're sleeping says a great deal about them. Yours is sweet, gentle, vulnerable. I was sure there was a woman, a friend or a lover, who was waiting to nurse you back to health."

For an instant, he seemed at a loss. "But there was no woman, darling. Until you."

"Maybe, but I prayed for her."

Stani pressed her head to his shoulder with a little chuckle. "Maybe it was that slightly chubby, middle-aged nurse who gave the pain injections. Maybe she was the one you prayed for. She certainly kept me out of touch with reality for a number of days."

"Maybe, but I somehow doubt it." She gazed up into his face, as if waiting for him to say more. "Anyway, I think you underestimate how much they all love you. And speaking of loving you, now they all must know you're in love. How are you going to handle that?"

"I thought I already had. While that kiss was totally spontaneous, I think it was the perfect way to tell them. Of course, it may have gone right over Milo's head, but it took care of everyone else. If they love me the way you seem to think, they should be happy for me."

"I wish they knew how completely I intend to love you, to take care of you. I hope in time they'll accept me, even Milo." She curled against him, stifling a yawn.

"They will, once they know we plan to spend our lives together. But since you insist on waiting to tell them, they'll just have to speculate, won't they?" As he kissed her again, she stretched her arms around his neck. "You've had a busy day, little girl. Should you go to bed?"

"No. I want to stay with you as long as I can. We don't have much more time before you'll be halfway across the world. Just let me stay a little longer."

"When you put it that way, how could I ever refuse?"

When John stopped in for his final check at midnight, he was treated to the sight of Emily curled on the couch, sound asleep. "Shh, let her sleep." Stani let him in with a grin. "I'll get her downstairs eventually. Tonight was difficult for her, but I think it went well, don't you?"

"I'd say so; and if the look on Milo's face was any indication, you made points. That was a brave speech, lad. I was proud of you myself. Now if you and sleeping beauty there will excuse me, I'll be off." He turned back at the door, a twinkle in his eyes. "Just remember, you're not made of stone."

### Chapter Fifty-five

Stani stirred at six, at first surprised that he'd slept so well here on the couch. In the next instant, the heart thumping reality jolted him awake. Emily was curled at his side, her head on his shoulder, her hand tucked sweetly inside his shirt. Easing himself away from her, he tiptoed to the bedroom and phoned room service to order their breakfast.

Waiting as long he dared, he finally kissed her awake. "Don't panic, love. We both fell asleep. Breakfast will be here soon," he whispered, hoping she would wake slowly, but she sat up with a start, gazing around in confusion. As her mind cleared, she smiled, and then to his utter amazement, she laughed.

"I have been totally corrupted. I spent the night with a man in a hotel room. Isn't it wonderful?" She stood up, rising on tiptoe and stretching her full length, lifting her hair and letting it cascade around her shoulders. For a moment, Stani could only stare in awe at the dance-like grace of her movements. Then, with another gurgle of laughter, she spun into his arms.

"You goose! Here I was terrified you'd be furious with me, or worse, in tears. Wonderful, is it? You've ruined my reputation and you think it's wonderful?" He hugged her close, eye to eye now. "Won't you stay with me forever? Get your passport and follow me all over Europe, sleeping in my hotel rooms, eating breakfast with me every morning. We could sneak down to city hall and make it all legal. Anything you want, if you'll just stay with me!" Lifting her off her feet, he twirled her around the room in a waltz.

At the discreet knock on the door he released her and as she struggled for breath, he went to admit the waiter, tossing a roguish grin over his shoulder.

Over breakfast, he resumed his plea. "You can plant your garden next year, after we're over the first blush of marital bliss. I'll even help you, if you think I'm teachable. But this would be such a wonderful adventure, our first trip to Europe together. Please at least think about it?"

"I have thought about it. Do you think I want to be separated from you for so long? But this is my one chance to test my dream. I know it's not much of a dream compared to a trip to Europe with you, but I want to do this, Stani. Plus, I need to get back to work. Maybe this is something we're supposed to do, be apart for a while. I love you for wanting me, but you'll still want me next tour, won't you? And by then we'll be married and I promise I will put my garden on hold for my husband. Besides, I don't even have a passport."

"Who ever thought I'd bow to the needs of cabbages and cucumbers? But will you promise to get a passport, and soon? What if I get hit by that bus and need you to rush to my side? I could languish for weeks waiting for the State Department to get your paperwork in order. Or you might decide you can't bear to be away from me any longer and fly over to surprise me. That would be romantic, wouldn't it?"

"Romantic and expensive. And don't even mention that bus! You know how I worry, so don't play to my weakness. Now finish your breakfast and let's talk about what we're doing today. I refuse to think about the fact that in a week's time, you'll be thousands of miles away, with an ocean between us. Aren't we supposed to take a field trip to Tiffany's today?"

"Ah, that's right, to see the marvelous Miss Marshall. But right now, I think you'd best get out of here. John should be here any time, and while I'm sure he won't judge, I did make a big deal of our not sleeping on the same floor. He'll lose respect for me, if he knows you forced yourself on me last night." His dark eyes gleaming with laughter, he ducked as she tossed her napkin at his head.

Marching to the door, she opened it with a flourish, only to be greeted by John's teasing grin. "Good morning, sleeping beauty, I see the prince finally showed up."

### ****

In the sunroom of Peg Shannon's palatial townhouse, while Stani rehearsed in the second floor ballroom, Emily sat listening to stories of his early career. Peg described in detail his transformation from awkward teenager to superstar, recalling the image of the painfully shy boy she'd first seen perform. Her obvious pride in his success, the light in her eyes when she talked of his intelligence and willingness to learn, confirmed much of what Emily had already surmised about their relationship.

When Peg went on to talk about the days after the accident, the months of recovery, her emotions betrayed her. Her voice quavering, she told Emily she feared at one point Stani would never be himself again. He retreated into some dark place, shutting her out, she said. But then he asked to hear the Mendelssohn recording, and after that day he had started the journey back. "It's been long and difficult, and if the truth were known, I doubt he's satisfied yet. John thinks he pushes himself too hard. You know he's started composing?"

"I know he plans to. He seems to have endless energy."

"No one has endless energy. Some of us just don't know when to quit. From what he tells me, you push yourself pretty hard, too. The two of you will have to learn to watch out for each other. I suspect he loves you very much, Emily. I've never seen him so relaxed and happy. Seeing him smile, hearing him actually laugh, is something new for all of us. He's never been really happy. Oh, he's sweet tempered, don't get me wrong. But he's always seemed a little sad, never quite pleased with himself. You've no idea the changes in him in the past couple of months. Meeting you, seeing the two of you together last night, I understand. I always told him he'd find the perfect partner."

With a chuckle, Emily replied, "If he hadn't been so persistent, I'd probably still be holding on to the idea that we're too different to ever be together. But he wore me down. He can be very persuasive."

"He said something last night that shocked me a bit. He mentioned God, as if he might have found religion. Is that the case?"

"Maybe he should tell you about that himself. I know how much he values your friendship. He says you saved him from being a total disaster, when you took him under your wing. To hear him tell it, you taught him almost everything he knows, except how to play the violin, of course." Observing the wistful smile that crossed Peg's face, as she so clearly looked back at that time now past, Emily was momentarily embarrassed. Her impressions had been correct, and she could almost feel sorry for Peg. "Speaking of music, do you think we could listen in for a few minutes? I'd love to hear them rehearse."

She followed Peg up the stairs, the sound of strings growing ever clearer. When they reached the ballroom door, Emily hesitated, doubting her own ears. The melody was a familiar one, but the setting was new. She watched Stani, when the piece ended, as he spoke to the other musicians.

"Thank you, gentlemen. I'm glad you agree this will be the perfect encore. And I know a young lady who, I hope at least, will be particularly grateful you learned it so quickly." The others chuckled with him, apparently sharing some private joke, and began to pack up their instruments. Emily stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do, until Stani turned and his eyes met hers. A sheepish grin split his face. "You caught me!" he called across the room.

When she crossed the expanse of floor, he captured her in his free arm. Still holding violin and bow in his left hand, he hugged her close. "Gentlemen, this is Emily," he said pointedly. To her astonishment, the three men stood and applauded. In confusion, she looked down and her eye fell to the sheet music on the stand in front of her. The title of the piece they had just finished was written in Stani's unmistakable hand. "Emily's Theme—Simple Gifts."

"You said it could be the theme for your life? Now it is. I was planning to surprise you tonight," he said softly, as he watched her eyes fill with tears.

When no words would come, no way to say what it meant that he had done this wonderful thing for her, she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Once again, the three men applauded. Across the room, Peg raised her hands and softly joined in.

### ****

They'd been to Tiffany's, spending considerable time learning about diamonds, cuts and settings, quality and brilliance. In the end, Emily had chosen a traditional setting, instructing the very kind Miss Marshall to make sure Stani didn't buy anything too showy or expensive. "I can't wear a huge rock on my hand when I'm digging in the dirt, or even when I'm caring for patients. And I don't plan to ever take it off," she confided.

In the car, they nestled together in the back seat while Robert patiently drove them around town, taking the long way back to the hotel at Emily's request. "Don't you think there's something seductive about the back of a limo?" She slipped her hand into the front of Stani's overcoat, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I think there would be something seductive about the back of a subway car, if you were there. You do realize Robert is supposed to have us at the hotel in time for me to dress and get back to Peg's by six? John will be your escort for the evening, and you won't have to be there nearly so early. Are you wearing another of Martha Jean's inspirations tonight?"

"Oh, yes, the very best for last. You'll just have to be surprised. No previews tonight." Snuggling closer, she gazed out the window at the passing scene. "Stani, when were you planning to tell me you and Peg had been lovers?"

Instantly, she felt him stiffen. "She didn't. . .she promised me," he choked.

"No, of course she didn't. She didn't have to. I suspected it the first time I met her. I couldn't imagine the two of you spending so much time together without becoming. . .close. After seeing the way she looked at you last night and hearing her talk about you today, it was obvious. I can only assume you were going to tell me at some point." She lifted her head to look at him, a sympathetic smile in her eyes. "I don't mind, you know. I knew there had been women, you told me so. I'm actually relieved at least one of them was someone who cared so much for you. It may be somewhat irregular, but it's not something I can't live with. Don't look so miserable, Stani. I'm not angry." She stroked his face, as if to ease away the tension.

"You're sure? I was afraid if you knew, you would resent her, or me. What happened with Peg, with us, it's hard to explain. I'm not sure I understand it myself." His eyes were dark, his expression so intensely pained, she pressed her fingers gently to his lips.

"You don't have to explain anything. I may understand it better than you do. Loving you, I can see how Peg would too. Let's promise never to mention it again. I just wanted you to know I knew, so you wouldn't feel you had a secret to keep from me. I may be naive, but I believe with all my heart that you are committed to me, to us, as completely as I am. All that matters is what we do together, from now on. Now will you tell me you love me and promise you'll be happy for the rest of the time we have together?"

In the rear view mirror, Robert was treated to the sight of two heads bent together in a long, exceptionally tender kiss. His face wreathed in a smile, he said softly over his shoulder, "Sir, we're coming up on the hotel. Should I just keep driving?"

### Chapter Fifty-six

For John, this evening offered a rare treat. To dress in his own tuxedo—which he usually shunned unless he was required to blend into the crowd at a particular function—and play escort to a beautiful young lady was not part of his customary duties. Granted, the young lady could have been his own daughter, but still, it made a man take more pride in himself knowing he was to be seen with such a vision. And a vision she was. When Emily opened the door to his knock, he'd been warmed by the sight of her. In her slate blue dress, the flowing cut of which displayed every line of her slender figure, she was glowing. Her winter tan, her pale eyes, and the mass of dark hair swept back from her face struck him as somehow exotic. The sleeveless dress had a modestly high neckline, but it bared her shoulders, and she'd draped a shawl, a tapestry affair of sapphire and gold, over her arms. Her only jewelry was the locket Stani had given her for Christmas. She smiled up shyly, asking if she looked all right.

"I'd say. Poor Stani, once he gets sight of you, everything he knows about that violin may go right out of his head." Taking her wrap, he laid it on her shoulders, and as she arranged her hair and adjusted the collar, he went on. "He's a lucky boy, our Stani. I hope you know what you've done for him, how changed he is since he found you." John could feel the blood rising in his face, but he wanted to take this one opportunity to tell her what it meant to him. "He's truly happy for the first time. He smiles. And laughs. Never, even when he was just a little thing, did he laugh so much. He's going to be all right now, with you. Thank you."

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "And thank you, for taking such good care of him. Maybe between us, we can keep him safe and happy. He can't do without you, John. And I have a feeling I won't be able to either." She slipped her arm through his. "Shall we?"

### ****

They had mingled with the elegant guests, stood briefly talking with Jana and Milo. For a time, Peg dragged Emily away, introducing her to carefully selected individuals she especially wanted her to meet. When the time came to go up to the ballroom, John led her to the seat Stani had chosen. It would give him the best view of her while he was performing he'd said. He wanted to see her reaction to the music. The seat was also away from everyone else, in a little alcove, where she would be more at ease he knew.

She'd told John in the car that she had never seen Stani perform. He'd played her father's violin for her at Christmas, but she said that wasn't the same as seeing him in front of an audience. She'd heard people talk about how exciting he was, how charismatic. Yes, John agreed, she was in for a treat. Even he found it hard to take his eyes off Stani once he began to play, and he'd been watching him for years. With a grin, he told her that as a little boy, Stani caused old ladies to weep when he played. Now it was the young ladies who seemed to get emotional at the sight of him. He hoped Emily would not be so swept away tonight.

"I would hate to have to protect him from you, girl, but that is my job." She'd laughed, an enchanting sound he hesitated to term a giggle, and promised to keep herself under firm control.

When the four musicians took their places, all her attention focused on Stani, a hint of a smile fixed on her lips. Leaning forward in her seat, her hands clasped in her lap, she seemed to be bracing for the music. John thought Stani might acknowledge her presence, but his eyes never came her way. Instead, as first violin, he turned his attention immediately to the other players. With his usual intense concentration, head down, eyes closed, he and the others began to play.

John thought he heard a little gasp, and turning he saw that Emily's eyes were wide and shining. The smile spread into one of rapturous proportions, a dimple appearing in one cheek. Slowly, she raised her hand to the locket, touching it tenderly. He only wished he could adequately describe to Stani later the way she looked, the effect he had on her, as if she were falling in love all over again with this new image of him.

When the first piece ended, Stani did look her way, touching the bow to his forehead in a salute. What passed between them, John thought, was too intimate, too intensely personal, to watch. He was glad she was seated away from the others, particularly Milo. He felt a keen desire to protect the two of them, shield them from anyone who might not understand what they shared. Shaking himself from his own observation of them, he winced. He was getting to be such an old woman. He'd never been in the middle of so much romance, and it was clearly playing havoc with his imagination.

At the conclusion of the program, as the audience rose in appreciation, the musicians returned to their places. The crowd grew quiet, and John thought Emily seemed especially eager, poised on the edge of her chair.

With a pointed glance in her direction, Stani played the opening measures of the encore, the others joining in turn. It was the music Stani had composed, John knew, something just for Emily, something personal and significant to their relationship. As he watched her profile, waiting for her reaction, he was not disappointed. Though she was again smiling ecstatically, there were tears sliding unheeded down her face as she folded her hands over the locket. Whatever prompted Stani to give her this gift, John felt certain he would be duly rewarded.

John turned her over to Stani as soon as the crowd around him began to thin. In spite of his beaming smile as she went into the circle of his arm, John could see the strain in his eyes. It was there at the end of every concert now no matter how satisfied he might be with his performance. Taking the violin from his hand, he said with a grin, "I'll replace one priceless treasure with another."

Stani grimaced, even as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Emily, his eyes never leaving hers. "She turns peasants into poets, John. Take care she doesn't expose you for the hopeless romantic you really are."

They made their way down the stairs to join the others at the buffet. Peg would insist on his greeting her guests, but John knew Stani would be anxious to leave as soon as possible. The tension in his jaw and the way he clenched his fingers said he was in need of rest.

Just as they reached the foot of the stairs, where Stani was accosted by a group of bejeweled, white-haired ladies who'd been eagerly awaiting his arrival, Emily turned to John. "Could you find Robert and ask him to have the car at the door in fifteen minutes? I think we'll be ready to leave by then, don't you?"

He should have guessed she would instinctively understand what was needed. "You do catch on quickly, girl. I'll see to it."

### ****

John let them go up to the suite alone, as he took the violin to his room and placed it in the safe. He changed his clothes, had a cup of tea, before going upstairs. At his knock, Emily called for him to come in. The sight that met his astonished eyes caused him to halt just inside the doorway, wondering if he shouldn't turn and leave immediately. Stani, stripped to his trousers, sat straddling a chair, his arms folded over the back, while Emily stood behind him, his discarded shirt tied over her dress like an apron. The noxious fumes of liniment filled the air, as she worked her hands over his shoulders, an expression of tender concentration on her face. With drooping lids, Stani looked up to greet him.

"Ah, John. It seems you've been replaced, at least for tonight."

"Yes, well, then. I'll be going." John backed toward the door, his face reddening.

"No, please John, don't go. I want to give you some pointers while we have him in this condition." She ignored his chuckle and reached out to him. "Come here, give me your hand." He obliged, letting her guide his fingers across the knotted muscles, and press them over the spongy swelling of fluid at the joint. She demonstrated methods to work out the tightness, gave him instructions on technique and pressure. "Hold the ice here, just so, but only for twenty minutes. Then a warm shower, Stani." A moan was the only response. "If you can do these things, John, religiously, he might just make it through this tour."

"Or you could come with us. Stani, lad, can't you persuade her to come with us? We'll put her on the payroll, private nurse or some such thing."

"I've tried, John, believe me. The cabbages won out." Stani pulled his shirt from around her waist and struggled to put it on. With a little sigh, Emily held it for him, frowning down at him.

"You're ganging up on me. Not at all fair. You're in good hands with John. You've managed without me this long. A few more months won't hurt. Now, John, tell him you can do just as good a job as I can." She fastened a few of the buttons, fussing with the collar as she talked.

"I can't lie to him, girl. He never purrs like that when I rub him down. All I can do is my best."

He left them, chuckling to himself at the apparently never-ending facets of this new relationship. Stani was showing remarkable self-control, but he wondered if that shower might not be a cold one tonight.

### ****

Emily sent Stani off to shower, phoned room service, and raced down to her rooms to change. On the way back up, she endured the indulgent little smile of the elevator boy, who by now, she thought, should know she had no shame about the way she came and went at all hours. She bid him a cheery goodnight as she dashed off at Stani's floor in time to catch the waiter wheeling their meal from the service elevator. "I'll take that, thank you." She signed the check and let herself in with Stani's key.

Wrapped in a black silk robe, he was just coming from the bedroom, drying his hair with a towel. When he caught sight of the cart, he tossed back his head and laughed. "Hungry, are we?"

"Of course. You should always eat after a performance. That's hard work, sawing away at those strings. Now sit down. I'll be your waitress tonight. You've been serving me all week." She poured tea, buttered toast and set a plate of steak and eggs before him.

"Breakfast, Emily?"

"Breakfast, Stani." Sitting across from him as he ate, she studied his face. He was relaxed now, the pained look almost completely gone. Sipping her tea, she stated matter-of-factly, "You know, if I weren't already so much in love, I would have fallen hard tonight."

He grimaced. "Don't tell me, the dark, brooding cello. Those blasted Russians get all the girls."

"No, silly, the little red-haired violin. The way he moved, the way he made love to that instrument, as if she were the most beautiful thing in the world, I couldn't take my eyes off him." She rested her chin on one hand, her eyes on a level with his. "I'd love for a man to handle me that way."

Stani grinned, his color high. "I can see I'm going to be forced send you to your room. You've plied me with words of love and the touch of your magic fingers. Now breakfast?" He threw down his napkin and got to his feet, pulling her into his arms. "You are the most provoking, not to say provocative, girl I know. For much, I'd give up the bloody violin and take up farming, just so I could see your face across my table every morning, noon and night. A simple life, in the valley of love and delight? Is that what you would offer me?"

"Oh, yes. But you can keep your violin. There's room for both of us, I'm sure. Did I thank you properly for the beautiful gift?"

"No, I'm sure you didn't." His lips closed over hers just as she was about to speak, and it was some time before she tried again.

"I suppose you should sleep in your bed tonight, tired as you are." She twisted a strand of his damp hair into a curl around her finger, avoiding his eyes.

"I promise I'll be down first thing in the morning. It was wonderful, seeing your face in the audience. I'll take that memory to comfort me on my lonely trek across the barren wastelands of Europe." Walking her slowly across the room, he opened the door. "Little red-haired violin, indeed!" Laughing, he shoved her gently into the hallway and firmly closed the door.

### Chapter Fifty-seven

By Sunday afternoon, they were both working hard to avoid the obvious. They'd been to Radio City Music Hall on Saturday afternoon to see the Rockettes, eaten dinner at Tavern on the Green, and on Sunday morning they walked to church together. The day was raw, with a threat of snow in the air, and they gladly returned to the warmth of the hotel for lunch. Now, with the stack of newspapers John brought to Stani's suite, they stretched on the carpet in front of the fire and laughed over the number of lines and photographs their days on the town had generated.

Emily was particularly amazed at the use of words like mysterious and exotic. One columnist hinted that Stani met his companion on a brief trip he'd made to Italy the past summer. Another suggested she was someone he'd known years earlier, a love affair from his first European tour. She sat cross-legged on the floor, shuffling through the papers with a frown on her face. "Where do they get these ridiculous ideas? Don't I look like an American? Why do you have to be linked with some foreign mystery woman?"

"Because the truth would be too simple. And you are the one who doesn't want anyone to know you dragged me out of that storm, remember. Better let them think I lured you here from someplace more exotic than your little valley. It'll keep them off your trail." Stani pushed aside the disorderly pile and stretched on his back, folding one arm behind his head. "And that won't be any small accomplishment. Now that they're curious, they'll be wanting more. I'll get questions at every interview, I can guarantee. How would you like to be explained? My long-lost cousin from Wales or maybe some relative of Milo's from Budapest? I know, you're that girl who assaulted me at a party in Des Moines, come to blackmail me with compromising photographs. I've been showing you a good time in hopes you'll go away quietly. See, there's any number of explanations for the adoring look on my face in every one of these pictures."

Emily stretched on her side next to him. "I guess we do look as if we like each other. The one of us in Central Park, getting out of the carriage, is really quite romantic. What will you say if you're asked?"

"I'd like to say you're the woman I love, the woman I'm going to marry. But I'll probably say we're just friends. Let them speculate a while longer. Privacy is not something they respect, and I can't protect you while I'm on tour. I'll try to use some of Milo's methods, I guess. Give a little but not too much. Now let's talk about something pleasant, like what we're going to do when I'm home again."

With a sigh, she rested her head on his chest. "What will we do when you're home again?"

"I think I'll take some time off, maybe the month of June, and go to a little town somewhere in the hills. I hear there's a very pleasant guesthouse there, the perfect retreat for a weary concert artist. Then I'll try to get work on a farm, maybe find a nice lady who needs a good strong lad to help out about the place. If I play my cards right, maybe she'll like me well enough to keep me on in spite of my total ineptitude. And then I'm going to sweep her off her feet with my old-world charm, and carry her off into the sunset, slung across the saddle of my charger."

"Banners flying, trumpets blaring?"

"Ah yes, that too. How does that sound?" He snugged her closer, nuzzling her hair.

"A whole month? It's going to take a month for you to sweep her off her feet? She must be some tough lady."

"Tough, strong, single-minded and utterly adorable. It won't take a month, but I intend to enjoy every minute of the sweeping and slinging across my saddle process. Plus, there are people there I want to get to know, foreigner that I am. If I intend to take up residence in that little town, I'll need to ingratiate myself to the lady's friends and neighbors." He felt her stiffen, her head coming up to stare into his eyes.

"What are you saying?'

"I'm simply saying that if that's where you live, that's where I'll live. If you'll have me, of course. We certainly can't commute back and forth once we're married. We need a home, and since you already have one and we both love it so much, why not just stick with what we have?"

She sat up, braced on one arm, her wide eyes searching. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a heavy curtain, and he lifted it away from her face as he smiled up at her.

"Of course, after the children come along, we'll need more than a hotel suite for the times when we come to New York for their father to do a bit of work now and then. I thought we might find a nice brownstone, with a little patch of garden at the rear. How does that sound? Can you manage two households?"

Her eyes sparkling now, she smiled, that mystical upturn he loved. "Children, Stani?'

"Children, Emily. As many as you like. All with dark hair like their mother." He sifted the soft lengths between his fingers.

"You have this all planned, I see."

"Subject to your approval, of course. This is just my first draft."

"Oh, it sounds heavenly. Except for one thing." She lay back beside him, her head over his heart.

"Yes?" He closed his eyes, sighing in complete contentment.

"All with red hair like their father."

Next in the Miracle at Valley Rise Series

### Entreat Me Not

### Chapter One

The house seemed small and still and for the first time in her life, being alone made Emily uncomfortable. After New York's never-ending bustle of traffic and noise, the heretofore welcome silence of home was stunning. More than once, she found herself staring out the windows, longing for something other than a bird or squirrel to move across the dead winter lawn. Always a haven filled with more than enough to keep her busy, the house had become a series of empty rooms waiting for something to happen. Haunted rooms, at that, where at every turn she encountered Stani's tenderly smiling ghost.

Flashes of fantasy erupted even as she forced herself to focus on daily chores. She had John Kimble to thank for planting the idea that persisted in spinning impossible daydreams. Had he known that morning before her departure that his suggestion would erode her determination to be content during the months Stani was away? Had he intentionally set these images in motion, hoping she would eventually succumb to temptation? Or was she the one who, against her better judgment, had seized on the possibility of such an impractical and utterly romantic adventure?

Looking back, she wondered if John might even have invented the distraction that took Stani from the room for those few minutes. He said there was a call for Stani in his suite, that he would help Emily finish the last of her packing. Stani was no more than through the door before John had produced a copy of the itinerary for the tour, every stop, every hotel with addresses and phone numbers. He had underlined in red the stop in Berlin.

"Just in case you wanted to surprise him. That's the end of the first half. We go to London and join up with Milo after that." When she'd answered with only a questioning look, John had gone on, "Silverman is meeting him there, some big Mendelssohn thing. With the maestro there too, it should be a good show."

She'd taken the bait. "Even if I wanted to surprise him, as you say, how would I ever manage to arrange such a thing? I don't even have a passport, you know."

"Just send me a telegram. I'll take care of everything, send you a plane ticket, put you up in the same hotel, all expenses paid, of course. But you will have to get the passport on your own." She thought she detected relief in his eyes.

Intrigued by the fantasy of such a thing, she decided to play along. "You can do all that? You wouldn't have to go through Milo?"

"Oh no, on tour, I have carte blanche. Milo can't be bothered with day-to-day details. I'm the one responsible for seeing to Stani's every need. Just like here, really, only in a different city every night or so. In his case, bodyguard is just a glorified title for valet, secretary, and mother rolled into one." He grinned, and she realized that he actually thought he was making headway.

"It's a lovely idea, John, but completely out of the question. I could never do anything so daring. Germany is a long way from home."

"Not as far as you may think. Just let me know if you change your mind."

Stani had returned then, grumbling that the party had rung off before he reached the phone. "Who was it anyway, John?"

"No idea. Sounded German, though." Emily had been sure John winked at her before he turned away.

### ****

After two days at home, she found herself at the post office, filling out a passport application. She would need one by September, after all, as the wife of a touring concert artist. Only practical to go ahead and get it now. She casually asked Myrtice how long it generally took, and promptly provided the required photograph. No rush, she assured the postmistress, but no reason to drag out the process either. And no, she said with a smile, she didn't have any plans to travel any time soon. It was just something she'd been meaning to do, in the event she had the opportunity someday. She left the post office with the unsettling thought that the whole town would know that Emily Haynes had applied for a passport, and most likely, no one would be surprised.

Her next stop was the parsonage, but when no answer greeted her repeated knock on the back door, she turned to the little stone church in search of either Pastor Mike or Sara. She found them both in the church office, Mike perched on a ladder attempting to access the highest shelves of his library, and Sara on her knees sorting Sunday School books into stacks on the floor around her. Emily had to laugh. "Looks like at least one of you could use some help!"

"Emily!" Sara struggled to her feet, stepping over the stacks to offer a hug. "How was New York?"

From above, Mike chuckled softly. "More to the point, how was New York with your 'very good friend'?"

Emily blushed. "It was wonderful. And he was wonderful. He wanted me to tell you he's been studying hard. He found all the books you recommended and he's already quoting scripture to me. That's wonderful too, isn't it?"

Mike came down to floor level and gave her shoulders a fond squeeze. "It is. He's really intent on making this journey, you know. And he means to make it with you, I'm sure."

The blush deepened. "But that can be our secret for now, can't it? We'll tell the world, but not until the time is right."

As they often did, Sara's eyes glittered with tears. "Your parents would be so happy for you, dear. And so will everyone else, when they know." She sniffed softly and chuckled. "Right now, there may be a few who are a little shocked. Not only have you found a man, which you said you weren't even interested in doing, but you've found a man with long hair and a British accent to boot. That may take folks a while to adjust too."

She spent a half-hour visiting with the two people who had given her a home when she'd suddenly been left alone and facing a sadly uncertain future. Mike and Sara McConnell had been close friends with her parents from the time both couples arrived in the little valley community. Mike was not only her pastor, he was Emily's friend; and in many ways Sara had filled the maternal role after her mother's death. With Mike and Sara, her confidences would be safe, she knew. But even here, in the sanctity of the cozy church office, there were things she wasn't ready to share just yet. If she decided to go to Berlin, the McConnells would be the first to know.

Leaving the church, she made a final stop at Martha Jean's Boutique to drop off a little gift for the shop's owner. Martha Jean, who had been so intent on seeing that Emily had the "right" clothes for her trip to New York City, would no doubt be pleased with the collage of newspaper clippings she'd put together. In every one, she'd been wearing something purchased from the little dress shop. Stani had warned her they might be photographed, but she'd been shocked by the number of appearances they'd made in the city's gossip columns. And at the wild speculation over the identity of Stani Moss's "mystery woman."

Martha Jean, as she had anticipated, received the gift with characteristically vocal enthusiasm. "Look at you, Em! And look at him! You make such a beautiful couple." She studied the pictures for a long moment, as if to reassure herself the clothes had indeed been "right." "And you needn't have been so worried about being taller than he is. Even in heels, you're just about the same height. Oh, Em, you look so happy! And look at that absolutely adoring expression on his face!"

She had decided not to reveal the truth to Martha Jean. In the shoes she'd so carefully chosen for each outfit, Emily had towered inches above Stani. She had not been happy at all; in fact she'd been so unhappy that Stani had taken her shopping—for shoes. He'd purchased obscenely expensive handmade slippers, in which she was still a tiny bit taller than he; but at least he hadn't been forced to gaze up into her eyes with that adoring expression.

The collage was prominently displayed by the cash register, where she felt sure every woman in town would see it. It was a small price to pay for all of Martha Jean's help, even if the very idea of so much scrutiny made Emily cringe. And maybe it would serve to satisfy the curiosity of at least some of the townspeople.

They all asked about him, where he was and when she would be seeing him again. In every shop on the courthouse square, even after church on Sunday mornings, someone was sure to inquire. They had different names for him, her red-haired beau, that musician fellow, and the one she secretly liked best, that fancy violin player. She fell into the habit of checking his itinerary, now posted on the refrigerator, before each trip into town. With a smile, in a practiced voice filled with cheer, her answer to one and all was the same. "Oh, in Venice right now, I think," or "On his way to Rome today."

That often seemed to eliminate the need for the next question, which was invariably, "Have you heard from him?" She could at least count on Myrtice to substantiate her claim that mail from "over there" was reliably unpredictable. In fact, she had received several letters, each hastily written and filled with everything but details of his whereabouts. He wrote things no one needed to know, how much he missed her, how he dreamed of her in his arms. He catalogued her charms in typically romantic language, the color of her eyes in candlelight, the timbre of her voice when she told him she loved him, and the lilt of her laughter at his pathetic jokes. No, Mr. Brown at the grocery, and Katie Malone at the flower shop would not appreciate those bits of information.

Martha Jean might be interested, but Emily would never dare tell her the details of Stani's letters. A word in Martha Jean's ear was guaranteed to reach Jack within the hour, and Emily was determined to keep Jack in blissful ignorance as long as possible. Sheriff Jack Deem, her godfather, her third parent as she thought of him, was watching her closely, she knew. He would worry, and being overly protective anyway, he might begin to question the wisdom of her relationship with a man who traveled the world, leaving her sitting at home cooling her heels. Jack didn't know that man would be her husband by the end of the year, and she was not prepared to tell him that yet.

They had agreed to keep it a secret—more precisely, Stani had reluctantly agreed to honor her request to keep it a secret—until he was back and they could tell everyone their plans at the same time. There were after all still obstacles to overcome, not the least of which was Stani's manager and mentor Milo Scheider's disregard if not outright disapproval of Emily. And there was the matter of how they would divide their time between Stani's international career and Emily's life here in the valley. Never in her wildest dreams had she foreseen such a problem. Her carefully constructed plan had been for a solitary, simple life, supported by her work as a nurse, and by the farm's eventual return to productivity. Now, all that would have to change. But just what form the changes would take, she had no real idea. In the meantime, she knew she didn't want everyone here, not even Jack, putting in their two cents worth, as well-meaning as their advice might be.

There were times when she thought Jack had guessed the truth. He knew her too well to miss the signs of her restlessness. He asked too often if she was okay, if she needed anything. Or maybe her uneasy conscience just imagined it. Jack had always seen to her well-being, even when her parents were alive. He had been there for every crisis of her life, and she felt slightly guilty about keeping things from him. Jack wanted her to be happy, she knew, and she was. Happier than she'd ever dreamed she could be. And lonelier. Somehow all the wonderful people who had supported her all those years, all the smiling faces that greeted her on the square and came to her door to visit, could not make up for the absence of that one face now missing.

True, she could conjure him in her mind at will. The deep auburn of his hair shining in the sunlight, the warm, dark brown of his eyes smiling across the table, each finely chiseled feature and every expression she'd observed on his wonderfully mobile face.. She could hear the echo of his voice; feel the phantom touch of his hand. The longer they were apart, the less comforting and the more painful those ghostly visions became. And the more tempting John's suggestion seemed to grow.

She wondered if she could really be so daring. Could she go to an airport, fly across an ocean, and get to a hotel in a strange and foreign city? Of course, John would be there to help her. She imagined going backstage after the concert, seeing the look on Stani's face, feeling his arms around her after almost two months apart. For that moment, she finally admitted, she could be daring. John had said a telegram would set everything in motion. She had prayed about it, asking as always for a sign. Stani's first letter, in which he wrote of the hours he was spending working on the Mozart project, made her somehow anxious. He was composing on the train, in the car, in the hotel rooms, he said, working in snatches of time wherever he was. He sounded driven, almost feverish. This was something new; she'd certainly never seen him in this mood, although John had described times when he pushed too hard. She finally accepted her uneasiness as the sign she needed. She would go to Berlin, spend four wonderful days with him, and see for herself that Stani was really able to keep up such a pace.
Dear Reader,

You've just finished the first installment in the Miracle at Valley Rise Series. Before moving on to the next book, Entreat Me Not, please take a minute or two to return to the point of purchase and leave a brief review. Your thoughts on this book not only encourage me, but help lead others to Valley Rise in the future

Thanks so much and happy reading!

Karen

About the Author

Karen Welch was born in Richmond, Virginia and grew up in nearby Amelia County. After a twenty year sojourn in North Florida, she now lives in Southeast Kansas with husband John and children and grandchildren nearby.

Contact Karen at welchkaren@yahoo.com and follow her at  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Karen-Welch/535693969790765?ref=hl for updates on the Miracle at Valley Rise Series. You can also follow her blog, Lost in the Plains at <http://valleyrise.blogspot.com/>.
