“I can’t imagine why Carrie’s husband is here.”

“Really?” Glenn’s speculative gaze made Beth Ann turn away.

She shook her head and then guilt pulsated in her stomach. She didn’t want to lie to her dearest friend. “He might have mentioned something about Bernie inheriting a software company…”

Glenn was silent for so long that Beth Ann looked up. Eventually he asked, “Does he want Bernie?”

Beth Ann shrugged. “Do you think he knows the truth?”

“I don’t think so, but you should probably tell him anyway.”

“Are you nuts?” Beth Ann whirled around, then burst into tears, the thought sending terrible waves of dread through her. What if Christian did want Bernie? With his money, his clout, he’d cream her in court.

Glenn enveloped her in a warm hug. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to tell him. Now—while you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I have everything to lose. I could lose Bernie.”

Dear Reader,

In our ever-changing world, the definition of family shifts, as well. Families expand and contract as people come into our lives or sadly, leave. But every person in the family, whether present or not, contributes to the wisdom, love and laughter shared by all.

In this story, the family is held together by the grit and love of Bethany Ann Bellamy. Caught between the energy of a youngster at the beginning of life and the needs of an elder nearing the end, Beth Ann doesn’t have the time to nurture her own life, her own dreams. Then she meets Christian Elliott, a man of great wealth and power but little understanding of what is truly important.

Please join Beth Ann and Christian as they journey together to discover that what is most real is often least appreciated.

I love to hear from my readers, so feel free to write me at P.O. Box 2883, Los Banos, CA 93635-2883 or visit me at www.superauthors.com.

Sincerely,

Susan Floyd

Mr. Elliott Finds a Family
Susan Floyd

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my dear friend, Annie, who’s found a family all her own.

A special thank-you to Lynne Collins, Darylee Ishimatsu,

Trix Peck, Brenda Latham, Suzanne Davis, Apryl Smith,

Leslie Grigsby and Melinda Wooten, who have all

generously shared their journey through

motherhood and their children for observation.

To Mom, Mother Bate and Grandmother Lucille—

we are forever in your debt.

To my own Fluff, a special pink elephant named Eledent.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

RAAAH! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Bethany Ann Bellamy woke to the wail. She rolled over and groaned, steeling herself against the sound, vowing she wasn’t going to be the one to get up.

Not this time.

Just ten days old, Bernadette was Carrie’s responsibility. Beth Ann shut her eyes tightly in a vain attempt to ignore the plaintive cry of the small infant. An ache throbbed behind her left temple. She had been painting nonstop for the past month, her career as a watercolor artist just beginning to flower. With a small show in Sunnyvale opening in a matter of weeks, she didn’t have time—

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Beth Ann pulled the pillow around her ears. Couldn’t Carrie hear that?

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

The unhappiness in the cry propelled Beth Ann out of bed. If she didn’t get Bernie, Iris surely would. At eighty-seven, Iris needed every moment of rest she could get. Having Carrie, pregnant and cranky, around the past months had taken its toll on all of them. Pushing her feet into worn slippers and pulling on a faded green chenille robe, Beth Ann stumbled out into the hall, her eyes bleary with sleep deprivation, her subconscious still wrestling with a problematic sap green splatter in the center of a near perfect watercolor wash. She heard a creak in Iris’s bedroom.

“I’ve got her, Grans,” Beth Ann whispered as she shuffled past.

Raaah!

Poor Bernie. It wasn’t her fault. Beth Ann padded quietly to the small room where Bernie and Carrie slept. At the sound of the door squeaking open, Bernie stared up at her, distress in her large eyes. Then her tiny mouth opened.

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Beth Ann scooped up the infant, gently cradling her head, pressing her close to her chest. Bernie instinctively sought to connect with a nipple.

“Shh. Bernie-Bern-Bern,” Beth Ann crooned as she rocked her, supporting her head, pushing her higher up on her shoulder. “You’re okay, sweetie. Shhhh, shhh. Bernie’s okay.”

Raaah, raaah, raaaahh, raaaahh.

“Let’s go find your mommy. Where’s your mommy?”

Raaah, hiccup, raaah?

“I know, sweetie. You’re so hungry.”

Still rocking Bernie, Beth Ann swiftly negotiated the narrow halls and sharp angles of the sixty-year-old, one-story bungalow that she and Carrie had grown up in. In the large kitchen, she took out a bottle of prepared formula from the fridge, shook it vigorously and popped it in the microwave, her hand automatically pressing buttons. As they waited, Beth Ann tickled Bernie’s rounded cheek. Twenty-eight seconds later—ding!

“Where’s your mommy, sweetheart?” Beth Ann whispered as Bernie fought against the rubber nipple, her tiny head turning away in her frustration to find suction.

Raaah, raah. Gulp. Success.

Bernie sucked greedily and stared intently at Beth Ann, her infant, frog-like eyes, protruding and blurry. Beth Ann kissed her small pink forehead, still peeling, and ran a gentle finger across the fine dark fuzz that couldn’t conceal the pulsing soft spot.

Then Beth Ann saw Carrie’s carefully formed round letters on a thick, manila legal-sized envelope lying conspicuously on the kitchen table.

I’m going crazy! I’ve got to get out of here.

I’m going back to Christian. Bernie will be fine with you.

I owe you one.

Caroline

Careful not to jostle Bernie, Beth Ann sat on a kitchen chair stunned.

No. She hadn’t. Even with postpartum depression, Carrie wouldn’t— Carrie couldn’t—

With one hand, Beth Ann opened the envelope and stared in disbelief at the quarter-inch stack of crisp, new hundred dollar bills. Back to Christian. Bernie suckled away, none the wiser, her seven pounds heavy against Beth Ann’s arm.

Yes, she had.

Her half sister had abandoned her baby.

CHAPTER ONE

Two years later

IN HER TWO-PIECE, yellow ducky pj’s, Bernie scuttled past Beth Ann with a toddler’s gleeful scream. The plastic no-slip on her feet slapped against the hardwood floor as she sought her ultimate destination—the out-of-doors, where the fog, thick with late spring chill, socked in the tiny one-story Victorian bungalow so badly Beth Ann couldn’t see the large gnarly oak tree twenty yards from the back door. Smothering the California Central Valley in a silent blanket of thick wet mist, the low ground Tule fog was almost comforting, protecting their home in blessed anonymity—anonymity that would be gone in one short hour, when Christian Elliott was supposed to arrive.

“Bernie.” Beth Ann tried to make her voice sound stern, but Bernie’s infectious laughter caused her lips to twitch, as the toddler, on her tiptoes, successfully turned the knob on the back door only to be stopped by the locked screen. Beth Ann thought she could actually see the heat of the house along with the precious pennies needed to provide it being sucked out by the fog. However, in a scant two weeks, when the temperatures soared into the nineties, they’d be wishing for the chill the fog brought in.

Since Carrie’s death eighteen months ago, Beth Ann had talked with Carrie’s husband twice. Once at the funeral and once last week. She had only met him a single time before Carrie’s death, the day after she had flown down to San Diego nearly nine years ago with two purposes in mind—to meet the man Carrie had eloped with and to discuss their grandmother’s long-term care.

Surrounded by paperwork, barking terse orders into the phone, as his large hand swiftly signed documents, Christian Elliott gave her a rather obscure gray stare and a quick, surprised nod from his executive teak desk, before answering yet another phone line. Dressed in her comfy jeans and a San Jose Sharks T-shirt, Beth Ann felt like the dowdy country cousin in his opulent penthouse office, especially in relation to Carrie—called Caroline by everyone in her new life—who was carefully coiffed from her professional makeup to the precision cut of her raven dark hair. Her coordinated linen pant-suit merely acted as an elegant backdrop to her breathtaking, almost untouchable, beauty.

Rather than giving her new brother-in-law a hearty welcome to the family as she intended, Beth Ann was rendered speechless as she gawked at the spectacular floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of the San Diego harbor.

At lunch, Carrie seemed anxious for Beth Ann to be on her way, declaring halfway through Beth Ann’s pastrami sandwich at the corner deli that she absolutely could not miss her tennis lesson with Pierre. She promised they would get together later. After three days of touring San Diego by herself, Beth Ann took the hint and left.

At Carrie’s funeral, even though Christian had arranged for her, Grans and Bernie, who was just six months old at the time, a suite at his family’s five-star hotel as well as unlimited limousine service, he did not recognize Beth Ann until she introduced herself. Even then, with over five hundred mourners at the funeral patting him on the arm, it was easy for her and her small family to fade into the background. They didn’t blame him for his inattention. After all he had just lost his wife. She’d felt a tug of pity for the man, his too handsome face somber. He had everything the world could offer, but even that couldn’t shield him from the most tragic of losses.

Bernie squealed again, her intentions obvious, momentarily distracting Beth Ann from the oppressive thoughts of Christian’s terse phone call, where he more or less commanded her to be home because he would be in the area briefly on his way to Napa for an important business engagement. He needed to talk to her. Thank goodness, he didn’t plan on staying long. Bernie, her face pressed against the screen door, oblivious to the damp chill, contented herself with several loud flat-palmed pounds on the screen, laughing as her hand bounced back at her.

“Go garden,” Bernie declared with extraordinary enunciation and another big pat and squeal.

Beth Ann grimaced as a small rip in the side of the screen got larger. She quickly got up and closed the door, steering Bernie back into the kitchen.

“We can’t even see the garden. Maybe when the sun says hello, we’ll go. Besides it’s time for you to visit Mrs. Potty.”

“No!” Bernie protested automatically and then looked to Beth Ann as if her reaction would tell Bernie whether or not she, in her nearly two-year-old mind, really objected.

“Bernie.”

“No!” Bernie reinforced her position with a shout. “No want potty! No like Mrs. Potty.”

“You love Mrs. Potty,” Beth Ann reminded her gently. “Mrs. Potty is your friend. Remember every day you need to give Mrs. Potty your poop and pee.”

The phone rang.

With no warning and a playful growl, Beth Ann picked up the two-year-old, smothering Bernie’s fat cheeks and squirming neck rolls with kisses. Bernie screamed, giggled, but didn’t renew her objection as Beth Ann pulled down her pajama bottoms, stripped off the still clean diaper and plopped her on the potty before answering the phone on its fourth ring with a breathless, “Hello?”

Bernie made a move to get up, but Beth Ann gave her the evil eye and Bernie settled back down.

“Bethy.” A familiar, deep voice chuckled.

“Read me that,” Bernie commanded loudly, pointing like a queen to her pile of books next to the potty.

“Why don’t you read the book?” Beth Ann suggested. “You sit on the potty and read to Fluff while I talk to Pop-pop.” Beth Ann pushed Bernie’s favorite stuffed bear and a book into her outstretched arms.

“Fuffy!”

“Glenn.” Beth Ann breathed a sigh of relief as Bernie babbled behind her, instructing the ragged brown bear to listen carefully. “Am I glad to hear from you. You were supposed to be here by now.”

“Is he there yet?”

Beth Ann looked out the window, searching for an unfamiliar car, but the fog obliterated any view she could have of the driveway. “No. Not yet. Where are you?”

“Stuck on 101 by Morgan Hill. A big rig spilled something and they’re taking their sweet time cleaning it up.”

“Morgan Hill?” She tried not to sound disappointed. “It’ll take you at least an hour to get here.”

“At least,” Glenn agreed. “You going to be okay?”

“I suppose. I just have nothing to say to him.” Beth Ann tried to make her voice neutral, but noticed that her hands shook as she cleared away the breakfast dishes. She wiped a hot dishcloth over Bernie’s high chair and sighed as she stepped on a soggy Oatie-O. And then another. Cereal everywhere. It was a wonder Bernie got any sustenance at all. Beth Ann used her thumbnail to scrape a mashed oat round off the well-worn hardwood floor. “I’m just nuts. I can’t wait until he says his piece and then moves on. What could he want anyway? He didn’t even ask about Bernie. I don’t want to see him—”

“He’s your sister’s husband.”

“Was,” Beth Ann corrected, blinking back her tears. “And we know what kind of husband he was.”

“Actually, we don’t,” Glenn said reasonably. “We know only what Carrie wanted us to know. You have no idea whatsoever what kind of husband or what kind of man he is.”

“I’m not listening.” Beth Ann began to hum loudly.

“So are you about eleven now?” Glenn asked with exasperation. “Carrie wasn’t perfect.”

“But she shouldn’t be dead,” blurted out of her mouth before she could stop it.

She had waited a long time for Carrie to come back and get Bernie. After two weeks, she had called and was told by the maid that Carrie hadn’t yet returned home but was expected back in six weeks. Just six weeks, Beth Ann had told herself. During that turbulent time of adjustment, Beth Ann tried the best she could to meet her art obligations so her first show would open on time, strapping Bernie to her chest as she painted. To Bernie’s credit, she slept most of the time, seemingly comforted by the close proximity to Beth Ann. By the end of the six weeks, even though Beth Ann had not carried Bernie in her womb, she carried her in her heart. So much so, that Beth Ann secretly hoped Carrie would never return. Then, more weeks slipped by and they received the phone call from the Elliott’s family attorney.

There was a long silence. Glenn cleared his throat, his voice subdued. “Yes. You’re right. She shouldn’t be dead.”

“I know we weren’t close anymore, but I miss her—”

“I done,” Bernie announced, threw Fluff and the book onto the floor and stood up.

“Wait,” Beth Ann said more sharply than she intended, putting a restraining hand on Bernie’s shoulder and peering into the potty-chair bowl. “Just a minute, Glenn. Bernie, you’re done when there’s poop or pee in the potty.”

“I done,” Bernie repeated, her voice a hairs-breadth trigger from a tantrum.

“When there’s poop in the potty,” Beth Ann said firmly.

“No poop,” Bernie insisted in a plaintive whine.

“I think you do. You always have poop after breakfast. Can you make a poop for Mommy?” she cajoled, willing Bernie’s bowels to move in the potty rather than the diaper.

“Poop, poop, poop, poop, poop,” Bernie chanted.

Beth Ann could hear Glenn hold back a laugh. The sound of a bedroom door creaking made Beth Ann turn quickly. The bright ruffle of a pink petticoat caught the corner of her eye as it whizzed past the open entryway to the kitchen and down the hall. The front door opened and then banged shut.

“Oh, jeez! Grans! Stop!” Beth Ann called futilely and then spoke hurriedly to Glenn, “Iris just took off. Be careful when you get on this side of Pacheco Pass. We’re socked in.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Glenn assured her, his voice patient. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Beth Ann wished she could believe him. She poked her head out the front door and craned her neck to see if she could spot Iris but the only thing she saw was opaque fog. For a woman a year from ninety, Iris could travel alarmingly fast, even in a pink petticoat with ruffles. It was no small consolation that their bungalow was surrounded on three sides by vast parcels of farmland belonging to the family dairy behind her. There were a thousand places for Iris to hide. The fog only created more of a problem.

“Come on, Bernie. Let’s go get Nana,” she said hurriedly. She peeked into the potty, relieved to find a small tinkle if no poop. “Good girl, Bernie. You tinkled in the potty.”

Beth Ann grabbed a wipe and attended to Bernie, refastening the disposable diaper around the toddler’s chubby legs, pulling up her pj’s, stuffing her arms into her winter coat with practiced speed. Setting the toddler on a hip, Beth Ann raced out of the house desperate to find some sign of Iris. She could be lost for hours in this fog, wearing only a petticoat. It was insane. Not insane, Beth Ann corrected herself, feeling a muscle strain in her right shoulder from Bernie’s weight. Touched.

Beth Ann took a deep breath willing herself not to panic. Iris had good days and bad days. On good days, she was an older version of the same woman who had single-handedly raised two unruly, prepubescent girls during a time when her peers were enjoying their retirement. On Iris’s bad days, Beth Ann could only mourn the woman Iris had been, a small part of Beth Ann dying with every subsequent episode Iris experienced. At those times, Beth Ann was partly grateful Carrie wasn’t present to see Iris’s decline and partly resentful that she now bore the burden alone. She bore many of Carrie’s burdens, the least of which wriggled impatiently on her hip.

After having surveyed the boundaries of the acre parcel, looking up in all the fruit trees, checking the storage sheds—all of Iris’s favorite hiding places—Beth Ann realized with a sinking heart that Iris must have left the property to hit the high road. The isolated country road was a long one, nearly three miles, but at the end was a major east-west freeway that connected Highway 5 with 99. With a rapid walk, she hauled Bernie to the street at a half trot, hoping to get a glimpse of the direction Iris would take. With a leaping heart, Beth Ann thought she saw a flash of pink, but wondered if it were simply the play of light off the fog.

Trying not to become disoriented, Beth Ann gingerly made her way in the direction of the truck and breathed a sigh of relief when it came into focus. With practiced hands, she stuffed Bernie into the car seat, digging the car keys out of her jeans pocket and willing her heart to stop beating so fast so her throat could open up. Beth Ann held her breath as she turned on the low beams and carefully backed out onto the road. She couldn’t see more than ten feet in front or behind her and the last thing she wanted to do was unwittingly knock Iris over. It was ludicrous to drive in this stuff. But it was even more ludicrous to try to chase Iris down on foot.

She cranked the steering wheel left and had no visibility as she shifted from reverse to drive. She slowly, slowly pulled onto the road, driving as far right as she could, creeping at five miles an hour, praying Iris would come into sight. The muted screech of tires and a blunted scream sent shivers down Beth Ann’s back and she resisted the urge to accelerate, her heart pounding in her ears and dread shooting up her neck. She didn’t want to become a victim or, worse, add to any injuries.

Bernie sat unusually silent as if she knew something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.

“Nana?” she whispered.

“We’re going to get Nana,” Beth Ann said reassuringly, hoping it wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded.

“Nana, okay?”

“I hope so.”

“Nana, careful?”

“Maybe not so careful this time.”

“Careful, careful,” Bernie told her, her large blue eyes solemn.

“I know, Bernie-Bern-Bern, careful, careful.”

It seemed to take forever to get to the accident, the headlight beams of a car were angled awkwardly off the side of the road. Miraculously, Iris was still standing when they arrived at the scene, the right side of a chrome bumper just inches from her bony legs. Beth Ann pulled over, unhooked Bernie, her back and shoulders feeling the strain of Bernie’s weight. She shifted the toddler onto her hip, snagged an old zip-front housecoat that she’d learned to keep in the truck for just these episodes and hurried to Iris.

“I wet myself,” Iris said, looking down at her soaked bunny slippers.

Beth Ann nodded sympathetically. “If I were almost hit by a car, I’d wet myself, too. Here, sweetie, put this on. It’s freezing out here.”

“I want to wear my pearls.”

“You can wear your pearls when we get home. But put this on now,” Beth Ann repeated, deliberately keeping her voice low and soothing.

“Nana, put on,” Bernie echoed insistently, as Beth Ann pulled the housecoat over the frail woman with one hand and then shifted Bernie further up her hip. Thank goodness, Iris was being cooperative today. She obediently put one arm in the blue sleeve and then the other, then looked down to find the zipper. With shocked horror, suddenly aware of her state of undress, she pulled the zipper all the way up to her chin. Her thin, pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Beth Ann, what am I doing out here?” she asked, anxiety crowding her voice. She looked around, searching for something familiar in the landscape but the fog obliterated any view at all.

“Going for a walk, I imagine,” Beth Ann said equably, her heart rate finally slowing. At this point, she couldn’t even look at the driver who had reversed and straightened the car, a Jaguar no less, and had gotten out. Now that the crisis was over, Beth Ann felt absolutely drained, not inclined to explain anything to anyone, her mind only focused on holding down the fort until Glenn got there.

“Is she okay?” the tall stranger called, the deep timbre unfamiliar, the annoyed tinge in his voice belying how shaken he was.

Beth Ann nodded with a casual wave and a quick glance over her shoulder, and said with a dismissive nod, forcing her voice to be cheerful, “She’s fine, thanks. Sorry about that.”

“She shouldn’t be wandering about by herself.”

Beth Ann could hear his condemnation mixed with agitation but said nothing as she led Iris to the passenger side of the truck.

He continued walking closer, his voice now with a sharp edge of authority to it. Beth Ann took a deep breath, bracing herself for the onslaught of words. “I could’ve killed her. Are you sure she’s all right? Maybe you should get her checked out by a doctor.”

Beth Ann sighed and nodded, impatient to have him on his way. Then she opened the passenger side of the truck and helped Iris clamber in. When she had safely belted the older woman in, closed and locked the truck door, Beth Ann called as brightly as she could, “She’s fine. Not a scratch on her. I’ll get her home, clean her up and she’ll be as good as new.”

“Bethany Ann Bellamy?”

Her head snapped up in surprise at the formal use of her name, her eyes narrowing with dread as he came closer out of the fog. She was startled by his bearing and presence. She shouldn’t have been. Carrie always favored the austere type.

“Yes?” Beth Ann deliberately made her voice clipped, masking her recognition.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

With long easy strides, the man walked toward her, looking her over from head to toe. She returned his assessment with cool detachment. He was dressed impeccably. Buff-colored casual linen slacks, well-fit to his long legs, a button-down light green cotton shirt and fine brown leather jacket accentuated his lean, powerful frame. She looked down at his feet, not surprised by the expensive shoes. They matched the look of the vintage Jaguar. She could smell a rich, spicy cologne and swallowed hard as she met his compelling gray eyes, eyes the color of fog and just as chilly. She glanced at his left hand. He still wore his wedding band.

The best defense was a good offense.

“No,” she lied, badly at that, her voice trembling. “I have no idea who you are.”

Christian immediately stopped in his tracks when the woman glanced at him nervously, tightened her hold on the child and then looked furtively at the truck, ready to disappear into the fog. He studied the angles of her pixie face, her narrow chin, the damp brown, almost red, curls made unruly by the wet of the fog, searching for a resemblance to Caroline.

He found none.

While Caroline had been tall, nearly five-ten, with model-like proportions, the top of this woman’s curls would probably just brush the bottom of his chin. Maybe, if he stared at her hard enough, he could see some likeness around the nose and forehead. Her eyes were unfathomably dark, so dark that he couldn’t tell where her pupils ended and her irises began. So unlike Caroline’s sky-blue eyes. Maybe they shared the same nose. But, then again, maybe that was just the fog, his nerves or wishful thinking.

“Who are you?” Beth Ann repeated, her tone tough and uncompromising, even a shade rude for a woman so petite.

Christian cleared his throat. “Christian. Christian Elliott. Caroline’s husband.”

Beth Ann stared at Carrie’s husband, scanning his face. Her pulse thudded at the base of her throat. Even though she’d had a week to prepare for this meeting, she felt as if she were being choked and the shock made the back of her eyes water. For the briefest of seconds, she believed if she looked around this tall, remote man, she would see Carrie hiding in the car, laughing and saying her death was all just a big joke and Beth Ann shouldn’t take her so seriously and these past two years had only been a terrible dream. Her heart thumped against her chest in anticipation, as she shifted around, trying to peer through the fog at his car. But the Jag was empty.

She glanced up at the man, her bottom teeth plucking at her top lip, biting down hard to keep the tears back.

“You’re early,” she said, wincing at the roughness of her tone. Beth Ann put Bernie down, keeping a firm grip on a wiggling wrist as the toddler immediately tried to break free. Then Bernie looked up, way up, into the face of the handsome stranger and with a fit of shyness, turned away to clasp her arms tightly, very tightly, around Beth Ann’s knee almost buckling her leg as she buried her face in Beth Ann’s thigh. Beth Ann straightened herself and loosened Bernie’s squeeze as she smoothed back the little girl’s brown curls.

Christian stared at both of them, then surprisingly retreated two steps to put a more comfortable distance between them. He stared hard at Bernie, who ventured a peek and then dug her chubby cheeks deeper between Beth Ann’s legs.

“I didn’t know how long it would take to get here,” he said by way of explanation, then added, awkwardly, “Your directions were good. But the fog and all.”

Beth Ann blinked.

“Oh,” she said abruptly. “Well, come on. I have coffee ready.” She picked up Bernie again, who remained uncharacteristically silent, as if she sensed Beth Ann’s rising panic. Beth Ann turned to get into the truck.

A firm voice added behind her, “Carrie’s husband is always welcome at our house.”

Iris, the real Iris, had returned, her gray head poking out of the truck window, the confusion gone from her face, the authority back in her voice. She gave Beth Ann a matriarchal look of reproach. Beth Ann breathed a sigh of relief with Iris’s return to reality. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be that bad a visit.

“Yes,” she agreed quietly, finally remembering her manners as she shifted Bernie higher up her hip and opened the driver’s side door. She glanced at him, noting how out of place he looked standing in the middle of the road, the fog just beginning to clear around him. He belonged behind a teak desk in a penthouse office in San Diego, not on a dirt road in Mercy Springs with newly plowed fields surrounding him. “Carrie’s husband is always welcome at our home. Follow me. It’s just down the road.”

With Bernie strapped into her car seat, Beth Ann noticed her hand shook so badly she could barely put the key into the ignition. She felt a reassuring pat on her shoulder.

“All is well,” Iris said, her voice soothing and clear. “This is just what is supposed to be happening.”

Beth Ann gave her a watery glance and a half smile, wondering how many times Iris had said that to her, until it had almost become Beth Ann’s personal mantra. All is well. All is well. Beth Ann took a deep breath and tried to remember what peace felt like. All was well. But it wasn’t well. If it were, Bernie’s adoption would be signed and sealed and Christian Elliott wouldn’t be sitting twenty feet behind them in a car that cost twice her annual salary.

“He can’t have Bernie,” Beth Ann said tightly, as she started the engine.

“He doesn’t want Bernie. He wants Carrie,” Iris responded, her voice clear and unperturbed. And then she said, the focus in her eyes drifting away again, “I want to wear my diamond tiara today. I want you to put my hair up.”

Beth Ann glanced in the rearview mirror as she guided the truck onto the road. Christian Elliott was looking down, his thumb and forefingers pressed between the bridge of his nose and his eyes. Then he looked up and blinked rapidly before following her.

When Beth Ann turned into the driveway, Christian pulled in neatly beside her. Unhooking Bernie from the car seat first, she took the toddler and scrambled to get Iris who had opened the truck door. By the time she got around to the other side, another surprise. Christian, with a small formal bow, cordially offered his arm to assist Iris down, his large hand wrapped securely around Iris’s frail one, giving her complete support, catering to her as if she were a queen disembarking from a horse-drawn carriage rather than a faded pickup truck. He murmured something in her ear that made her laugh, her embarrassment miraculously forgotten.

They all trooped silently into the house, then across the living room and through a swinging door that led into the kitchen. Beth Ann immediately put Bernie down and said to Christian, taking advantage of another adult, “Do you mind watching her for a minute, while I go help Iris?” It was easier to watch Bernie when she was confined to a limited space.

Christian shook his dark head, his gray eyes unreadable. “Not at all.”

Bernie was furiously digging in a pile of toys. “Stay with this nice man, Bernie,” Beth Ann instructed the back of the toddler’s head. “Fluff is under the chair. Remember, where you threw him? Why don’t you read a book to him?”

She looked up and politely addressed Christian as she opened the creaky baby gate that blocked the kitchen’s open entry to the hall, using her head to indicate the room directly across that hall. “We’ll be right there, never out of hearing. Call if you need anything. I’ll be back in a minute.” She carefully secured the gate behind her and followed Iris into the bedroom.

Christian shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, looking around and seeing much wear on the old bungalow, more evident by the clutter that had the stamp of decades of habitation on it. A far cry from Bella Grande, his family’s estate, which he had left just the day before. Even when he was young, the only decoration in the mansion besides the art on the walls was the great vase of flowers his mother arranged every morning in the cathedral entryway.

No clutter anywhere. Not even snapshots of the family unless one counted the looming oil portraits of his grandfather and father, so creepy that Christian had avoided walking down those particular halls until he’d learned not to look at them. He shook his head. Why was it that his mother had never allowed the natural paper trail of life in the house? The memorabilia young children might collect, like the first edition Superman comic book that had cost him three weeks of kitchen duty in military school. Christian’s throat closed at the arbitrary memory, indignation rising like bile. It should have been safe next to his father’s evening paper. She never discarded his father’s paper.

Now as he looked around the dilapidated kitchen covered with happy scrawls, predrawings if one could call them that, on the refrigerator, bundles of herbs dangling upside down over the kitchen sink, an edge of bitterness caught in the back of his throat. The warm aura of the disarray was powerful. He clearly remembered Caroline telling his mother, right after she met him that she had no living family, then backtracking hastily when her sister had showed up at his office unannounced.

The timing of Beth Ann’s unexpected visit those many years ago couldn’t have been worse. He’d been in the middle of closing a two hundred and fifty million dollar acquisition that wasn’t being acquired as neatly as he had expected, his staff of lawyers and accountants scrambling to tie up the loose ends of a poorly constructed contractual agreement, which he was loathe to blame on his longtime school friend and executive vice president, Maximilian Riley. When the deal had been finalized a day later, he specifically asked Caroline about taking Beth Ann to see the sights, because he remembered her mentioning that she would be in town until the end of the week, but Caroline had coolly replied that he was mistaken, her half sister, emphasis on the half, was only in town for the day.

Now, Christian Elliott studied an old photograph propped up on a shelf that held an assortment of well-used cookbooks stuffed full of pieces of aged paper and felt a small ember of anger in the pit of his stomach add to the bitterness in his throat. He focused on the photograph, squelching, as he’d been taught so effectively, the residual resentment toward his mother and his wife, willing himself to see Caroline in the past. He barely recognized her, her long dark hair in crooked braids, her dress too small, her bony wrists sticking out from the cuffs, her front teeth much too big for her mouth. Caroline must have undergone intensive orthodontia.

In this picture, Beth Ann was substantially taller, her clothes too loose, her arm draped protectively around Caroline’s thin shoulders, her curls bushy with frizz. Caroline hadn’t grown up under even modest circumstances, he noted dryly, wondering how Caroline had managed to transform herself, allowing others to believe she had come from an affluent family, carrying with her the taste and confidence of the very rich. Yet another lie. Christian nodded, the bitter taste still in his mouth. Apparently, his money had supplied her with all the props she’d needed to carry off that confidence.

“Go ’way!” A loud voice startled Christian out of the past. He looked down at the little girl, no taller than the top of his kneecap, who stood poised in the middle of the room, her finger in her mouth, staring up at him with great dislike. She glanced around and when she saw that Beth Ann was not in the kitchen anymore, shrieked, “No!” and ran to the baby gate. “Mommy!”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Beth Ann crooned from across the hall. “Mommy’s helping Nana. I’ll be right back.”

“Noooooo! Want come.” The wail was mournful, heartbreaking. Bernie started to climb the baby gate, which moaned and creaked under her weight. Christian moved to pull her off the old gate, convinced it would collapse with Bernie on it.

“Stay right there,” Beth Ann told her sharply, then said, “Why don’t you ask, uh, Uncle Christian to read you and Fluff a book.”

Christian smiled uneasily. He had never been around very many children, especially of this stature. What could Fluff be? He looked around the room and deduced the well-used bear—though more matte than fluff—forlornly stuck on its side under a weathered kitchen chair must be Fluff. With a quick swipe Christian retrieved the bear and said in the most reassuring voice he could muster, “That’s okay, uh, Bernadette. Your mom’ll be back soon. She’s just helping your grandmother. I’ll read you and, er, Fluff a book. Which book would you like me to read?”

He held Fluff out as a peace offering.

Bernie wasn’t impressed and clung to the gate, mutiny in her eyes. She ignored Fluff and resumed her climb.

“No,” Christian said in a firm gentle voice that came out of nowhere. He tried to be reasonable. “Your mom is busy now. Let me read you a book.”

Bernie turned a suspicious blue eyeball toward him. A two-second pause had Christian thinking he’d successfully negotiated a signature worthy agreement, until Bernie’s face screwed up, her button nose almost disappearing as her plump cheeks turned redder and redder with her indignation. Her cherry lips opened and the loudest screech that Christian had ever heard in his life came out of her tiny lungs. “Go away! No want book! Want— Arrgghh!”

As Christian shook his head to clear his ears, Bernie stopped scaling the baby gate and plopped on the floor, the stress of not getting what she wanted far too great for her two-year-old tolerance. “Arrgghh!”

“Bernie! Stop that!” Beth Ann barked from across the hall. The sound of her mother’s voice was enough to bring Bernie out of her tantrum and she looked at him with a resentful gaze. Then her bottom lip quivered and her baby blues pooled with tears the size of Arizona raindrops in the summer.

“I’m right here,” Beth Ann called, her voice so soothing Christian felt his own tension slip away from his spine. “I’ll be right with you, Bernie-Bern-Bern. Nana’s almost done.”

“Mommmmy!” The wail was heartbreaking, full of genuine emotion and distress. The tears spilled over and Bernie peered at Christian. At that moment she looked so much like Caroline that Christian’s heart stopped. He bent down, staring intently into her eyes, then picked her up to hold her at arm’s length so he could study her features more closely. Bernie was so startled by his movements she stared back at him, almost in awe. It took only a second for her to decide she was having none of this either. She started to thrash, madder now she was off the ground. He studied her face, the resemblance now gone, and wondered if he’d only imagined it.

“Thank you,” Beth Ann said quickly coming back, hopping over the baby gate, holding her arms out, almost snatching Bernie from him. “I’ll take her now.”

“Mommy!” Bernie uttered with relief and gave Christian a baleful glance as she clung to Beth Ann’s neck.

Christian was shaken. Why would he see Caroline in this child? Why?

CHAPTER TWO

BETH ANN CLASPED the small body next to hers, trying to calm the beating of her own heart. She knew the panic was caused by the image of Christian holding the squalling Bernie. In two months, Bernie’s adoption would be final, but he didn’t know that and he wasn’t going to know that. She willed her heart to stop pounding. She was getting upset about nothing. There was nothing in his behavior that indicated he even knew Bernie was Caroline’s. Beth Ann hugged Bernie tighter until the toddler protested with a wiggle and another indignant yelp. Beth Ann relaxed her hold and then said in an overly bright tone, “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

Christian continued to stare at Bernie. And then he shook his head, “No, no thank you.” After a pause, he asked, “How’s, uh, Iris?”

“Grans is fine. I’ve given her a sedative, which puts her right to sleep. She’s had a busy day. Been up since four.” Beth Ann glanced at the clock, surprised it was only nine. “This is about the time she takes a nap.”

“Iris is your, er?”

“Have a seat,” she offered while Bernie clung to her neck. Beth Ann winced and shifted Bernie’s grip to her shirt. With one hand, she poured herself a cup of coffee, carrying it well away from Bernie.

She watched as Christian looked around and then sat, but only after meticulously picking an Oatie-O off the seat.

Beth Ann smiled nervously, putting her hand out to take the piece of cereal from him, and apologized. “Sorry. Professional hazard. They’re probably stuck to the bottom of your shoe as well.”

To his credit, he didn’t look, but merely grazed the hollow of her palm with his fingertips as he deposited the Oatie-O in her hand, which she tossed away before settling herself across the kitchen table from him. She pushed the coffee out of Bernie’s reach, then leaned over to grab Fluff and put him in her daughter’s hands.

“You sure I can’t get you any?”

Christian shook his head.

Self-consciously, she scooped four heaping teaspoons of sugar into her mug along with a generous splash of milk, left over from Bernie’s cereal. She caught him staring and grimaced. “I use it for the drug it is. I like the smell but hate the taste.” After a minute, she added, “Iris is Carrie’s grandmother.”

His elegantly arched eyebrow raised. “Caroline’s grandmother? Not yours?”

Beth Ann shook her head and looked outside with a small laugh. Iris was Carrie’s grandmother, Bernie was Carrie’s daughter and here she was sitting in her kitchen talking to Carrie’s husband, suddenly feeling responsible for all three of them.

“No, not mine,” she said softly. “We were half sisters. We had the same mother, different fathers. Iris is Carrie’s father’s mother.” Smiling, she asked, “So, what can we do for you?” Beth Ann tried to make her voice neutral, but it came out more chirpy than she intended. “It must be important if you couldn’t talk about it over the phone.” She tightened her hold on Bernie.

“Do you know what DirectTech is?” he finally asked, his tone slightly patronizing.

“It’s a software company,” Beth Ann replied. Her head was beginning to pound. She took a sip of coffee, and Bernie wriggled to get down. Beth Ann let her slip to the floor, where she immediately clambered to get up again.

“A software company we acquired eight years ago—”

“We?”

“My family’s business.”

Beth Ann looked at him warily and asked, “What exactly is your family’s business?”

“We acquire things.”

“Venture capitalists?”

He shrugged. “If you want to call it that. We invest in companies—or buy them—build them up, then sell them when the timing’s right.”

“Do you keep anything?”

“Some things. We have a couple of resort hotels that we’ve held for two generations.”

“Oh.” Beth Ann glanced down, suddenly noticing how grubby and rough her hands looked. Just yesterday she had tried a new painting technique she’d read about in Watercolor magazine and hadn’t been able to get the stains out from under her fingernails. She pushed her hands under the table and surveyed the kitchen, noticing its shabby appearance, and was thankful she had taken yesterday afternoon to clean the house from top to bottom. At least Bernie’s fingerprints weren’t prominently displayed on the door of the faded avocado-green refrigerator. She then looked up at Christian completely at a loss for something else to say.

The silence stretched between them. Christian stared at the two people across the table from him. Beth Ann stirred her coffee, tasted it and added another two scoops of sugar. She gave him a half smile before her gaze danced away. She kissed the top of Bernie’s unruly curls and then took another sip. He felt slightly uncomfortable, as if he were the cause of her silence. What was he supposed to do but tell her the truth? Why suddenly, sitting in this kitchen, did he feel a deep sense of embarrassment about what his family owned? His eyes followed her gaze, as she now stared at an old china cabinet stuffed full of paper, cards and envelopes. Lots and lots of mail. Much of it unopened, he realized.

He cleared his throat. “I was asking whether or not you were familiar with DirectTech.”

“Oh, yes.” She turned attentively toward him.

“It’s worth quite a bit these days.”

“And tomorrow it could be worth nothing,” Beth Ann replied.

Christian smiled and said politely, “That’s possible, but not likely. We don’t generally acquire duds.”

“So what does this have to do with me?”

He paused, wondering if she ever read her mail. He glanced back over to the cabinet. Apparently not. Then he said, “I’d like that coffee now.”

Beth Ann put Bernie down and headed to the coffeepot. Bernie followed, frowning at him as she went. He gave her a tentative smile. She scowled.

Beth Ann handed him a mug of coffee and then pushed the sugar in his direction. She gestured to the old refrigerator. “There’s milk in the fridge.”

Christian nodded his thanks and said, “I take it black.”

“After you drink that, you might want to reconsider,” she advised and sat down. She looked impatiently at the clock.

“Expecting someone?” he inquired.

“What?” Beth Ann asked, her cheeks flushing.

“You keep looking at the clock.”

Beth Ann turned away guiltily. She was wishing with all the power in her that Glenn would sprout wings and appear on her doorstep. Then she shook herself. Why couldn’t she face Carrie’s husband by herself? Why did she need reinforcements? He seemed to be a perfectly reasonable man. She should just let him say his piece. After all, he had to be in Napa for an important meeting. She perked up at the idea. Wouldn’t Glenn be impressed if she handled this on her own?

“I do have a friend coming,” Beth Ann admitted cautiously. “But you were telling me about DirectTech.”

“It’s hers.”

The words were spoken so softly Beth Ann didn’t think she heard him correctly. Beth Ann noticed him staring intently at Bernie who scowled back at him. As Bernie tried to climb onto her lap, her sharp elbows dug into Beth Ann’s thigh. “Ow. Uh, excuse me?” Beth Ann asked as she helped Bernie up.

“It’s hers.” He jerked his head toward Bernie.

“Bern’s?” She sucked in a deep breath. “What do you mean DirectTech is Bernie’s? You must mean you’ve brought Bernie the software. Well, thank you very much.” She flashed what she hoped was a friendly smile. “We certainly appreciate it and we’ll save it for when she’s keyboard literate.”

“Not the software,” he said, his voice abrupt. He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “The company. It’s hers.”

“No.”

“Well, yes. Don’t you read your mail?”

“Yes, I read my mail.”

“Didn’t you get something from my attorney for Bernadette?”

Beth Ann searched her memory, and then remembered the fat envelope. “Bernie got something from a lawyer,” Beth Ann corrected him, her face growing hot from his scrutiny. “But I thought it was a hoax. Bernie’s much too young to receive mail. I tossed it.” She was lying. It was actually in a safe pile along with Bernie’s legal papers. She’d planned to have the lawyer handling Bernie’s adoption look over the document the next time she saw her.

“Do you always toss documents worth several million dollars?”

“Routinely,” Beth Ann said blithely, wondering if there was a way to buy more time. She didn’t need his involvement right now. She changed the subject and asked, “So why are you here? I’m sure it isn’t just to remind me to read my mail.”

“Call it idle curiosity,” he replied, his voice almost amused.

“About?”

“About Caroline’s other life.”

Other life. Beth Ann swallowed hard and cursed Carrie for putting her in such a position. Bernie had inherited a fortune. She glanced out the window surprised to see the old oak tree. The fog must have lifted.

When was it, exactly, that her life had become so complicated?

In college, free and single, working on her Masters of Fine Arts, all she’d had to worry about was the soft blur of colors and trying to control, cajole really, the wet medium to fit the impressions in her head. Too much wet and mold grew on the paper. Too little, not enough blur. She spent hours, chasing the elusive values of light that plagued her even in her sleep, especially as she tried to infuse some spark of life into a painting already long dead, flat and mottled from her vain attempts at repair. There was a time, just before a depressed and pregnant Carrie arrived, when Beth Ann had had the promise of a lucrative career in art.

But not today.

The offers had waned because first she couldn’t deliver her paintings on time and later because there was nothing new even to deliver. Between Bernie and Iris, she just couldn’t maintain the momentum she needed to paint, to finish what she had already started.

Beth Ann had gone from painting six hours a day to six hours a week to six hours a month. And then she’d stopped painting altogether when Bernie came down with the croup and was in the hospital for five days. Beth Ann had frantically tried to call Carrie, but she was nowhere to be found. The hospital bills wiped out both her and Iris’s savings and Beth Ann had been forced to take out a mortgage on Iris’s long-paid-for house to pay the balance of the bill and to get herself and Bernie insurance. At least, Iris had Medicare. Between Iris’s social security and university pension, the residuals still dribbling in from Beth Ann’s sporadic sales and the drawing and painting classes she taught for the city’s parks and recreation program, they were doing okay. Not great, but okay. Okay enough that Beth Ann could stay home most of the time.

Bernie wriggled impatiently on her lap. Beth Ann stared at the man sitting across from her and took another sip of coffee. Finally, she said, “What do you mean by Carrie’s other life?”

When Bernie squirmed more and slid to the ground, Beth Ann used the opportunity to put some distance between herself and the piercing gray stare. She went to the ancient dryer tucked in the corner of the kitchen and rifled through the clean laundry, looking for clothes for Bernie. Half a kitchen away, she could now safely ask, “Why do you want to know about Carrie’s other life? Don’t you think that it’s a little late now?”

The second question slipped out before she could stop it.

She was surprised at how bitter she sounded and she suppressed a feeling of guilt, ashamed she’d allowed her anger to show. She pulled out a small T-shirt and frowned at the hole under the sleeve and the brown splotch she couldn’t get out. She looked for something newer and matching and swallowed hard when she realized she had neither. Bernie’s clothes were mostly hand-me-downs supplied by Elena Marquez, the dairy farmer’s wife. With a quiet sigh, she quickly assembled a small outfit for Bernie, a faded green monster-truck T-shirt and a pair of loose blue toddler sweats, pants that Bernie could easily pull on and off. She returned to the kitchen table, avoiding the gaze of the almost oppressively silent man sitting there. She focused her attention on the little girl, well aware that his silver eyes were fixed on Bernie’s faded blue striped socks and palm-size tennis shoes.

“Nana?” Bernie asked as Beth Ann stripped off the toddler’s pajamas, tugging the top over her head. She pulled on Bernie’s little T-shirt, glancing up and flushing when she met Christian’s pale eyes, withdrawn and shuttered close. She felt a chill run down her spine. How could Carrie have ever married a man whose humorless expression bored into a person, as if he was dissecting every part of her?

“Nana’s napping now,” Beth Ann replied making her voice as even as she could. “Give me your arms.” Bernie’s arms came up immediately.

She finally addressed Christian. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“She looks like a boy,” Christian said suddenly.

Beth Ann’s back stiffened.

“Dressed like that, I mean,” he added.

“My friend has three boys and the clothes were perfectly good,” Beth Ann replied, not able to control the defensiveness in her voice.

Christian stayed quiet, but his eyes followed her every move.

Beth Ann caught Bernie between her legs. “Give me a foot,” she instructed and Bernie put her foot into the pant leg. “Other foot.”

“I pull up!” Bernie insisted.

“Yes, you pull up your pants, just like you do after you go poop,” Beth Ann agreed and watched Bernie’s chubby hands fight for coordination as she grasped the elastic and tugged with such toddler might that the waist ended up at her armpits. Beth Ann fixed them, pulling out Bernie’s self-inflicted wedgie, paying more attention to the smaller details of Bernie’s attire than she normally would. With a small pat on Bernie’s behind, Beth Ann opened up the baby gate and sent her off to get her hairbrush.

Christian forced himself to relax, mentally surveying the layout of the small bungalow. The house went back a lot further than he thought, the hall cutting the house in half lengthwise. Bernie’s room was near the back—he could hear the direction of her footsteps. The grandmother was directly across the hall from the kitchen. So by elimination, that made Beth Ann’s room the one up front across from the living room. Which had been Caroline’s room?

After he and Caroline had gotten married, he’d wanted to find a place of their own, but Caroline had quickly fallen in love with Bella Grande along with the well-trained staff. Declaring he was absolutely crazy to want to live anywhere else, she’d halfheartedly toured the homes he’d arranged for her to see, then convinced him that his parents’ estate was the best place for them to settle. Perhaps an early sign that their marriage was disintegrating.

Now, he caught a small glimpse of the reason behind Caroline’s driving need to reside at Bella Grande. She denied her ordinary beginnings and used him to reinvent herself to the point of obliterating her family, her sister, her grandmother. First it was the mansion, then it was the cruises. When two-week holidays had turned into three-month or five-month journeys, he’d known Caroline had stumbled upon a life-style.

When she’d return home, she’d always declare she wasn’t going to travel again, that she was sick of the crowd, of the food. But after about three weeks, he saw the brochures, found the tickets on her dresser, felt her restlessness. He’d responded by working harder, ridding himself of the fanciful notions of children gleefully screaming on the vast lawns of his parents’ estate, adjusting to the fact that when Caroline was in town, her cruising friends would slobber over him because of his family’s name.

It had been almost a relief when Caroline would call to say she was extending the cruise of the hour for another few weeks. In the seven years they were married, Caroline had traveled for probably five of them, if all the months were strung together. It had happened so subtly that even if Christian had wanted to, there was no way to protest. When he finally did, she’d spoken so bitterly he’d had to force himself to walk away.

Their arguments weren’t about money.

He had enough money for God knew how many trips. Even with all her excesses, Caroline had never made a dent in his personal fortune, much less the vaster family one. No, she’d sharply pointed to several of his flaws—his failure to engage in verbal combat, his grueling, self-imposed work schedule, his lack of affection, his inability to fill the bottomless pool of adoration Christian perceived she needed in order to maintain her self-esteem.

His jaw tightened and he pushed away the thoughts that caused his stomach to churn. He didn’t want these feelings. He hadn’t wanted to come here. But Mrs. Murphy, his battle-ax of a personal assistant, more surrogate mother than secretary, had insisted. Told him to get the signatures once and for all so he could put Caroline to rest. Meanwhile, she would change the locks on the entire building and shut down his private elevator to ensure that he would continue to travel north to Napa Valley to take his physician’s prescribed three-month vacation—far, far away from work.

Mrs. Murphy knew leaving the office wasn’t easy for him. She knew how much he resisted the endless days filled with nothing but the guilt that haunted him. For too long, work had been his one constant, the only element that could seal up the cracks left by Caroline’s death. Even though they hadn’t passionately loved each other at the end, Caroline had been his wife and her death had affected him much more than he would have ever anticipated.

Many times he wanted to believe that she was just away on an extended cruise. But the image of Caroline’s body, crushed in her beautiful, brassy-red convertible was permanently etched in his mind. He carried it with him every day, saw it during his sleepless nights. Thank God Mrs. Murphy had stepped in during the crisis and had steered the financial conglomerate through competitive waters. Max—who was paid more and was supposedly his right-hand man—had been practically useless during the turbulent days that followed Caroline’s death.

Weary, ready to be on the road, away from this small bungalow, away from the woman who looked at him so suspiciously, Christian forced himself to focus on his main objective. Once he had her signature, he would deal with the feelings, the long days ahead of him.

He repeated, “DirectTech, the company, is Bernadette’s and we need you to sign some paperwork. I’ve got copies in the car.”

Beth Ann sat at the table, her face averted as she began to tame Bernie’s wild curls with firm strokes. He watched her spritz Bernie’s hair with some sweet smelling detangler and then pull half of it into a pigtail. Eventually, she looked up and asked cautiously, “Why is it hers?”

“DirectTech was Caroline’s. She willed it to Bernadette. You wouldn’t know why, would you?” When he received no other answer than a brief shake of Beth Ann’s head, Christian continued, “My parents gave the company to her as a wedding present. They thought it would be nice if she had an income of her own.” He pointed at the toddler whose head bobbed as her mother fastened the other pigtail securely. “She’s going to be guaranteed an income for life.”

“And?” Beth Ann’s eyes were wary.

“And you were named as the trustee.” He gave her a hard stare, that she deflected by looking away. She was very good at not making eye contact.

“Oh, that’s easy. I won’t sign,” Beth Ann said, her voice almost relieved, as she stood. “If that’s all you need to know, I guess you can leave now.” She started to walk to the front door. Christian stayed solidly seated, ignoring her obvious signal that he should make his exit. She couldn’t physically oust him, could she?

“I’d like to have another cup of coffee,” he said politely, draining what was left, and holding out his mug. It was awful, but it would keep him here until he had what he wanted.

Beth Ann’s face turned red and she said tightly, “I’d rather you left. I have a friend coming soon.”

“Poop!” Bernie said urgently, tugging at the seat of her sweats, frozen where she stood.

“Poop? You’re kidding!” Beth Ann yelped with wide eyes and scuttled the toddler across the kitchen floor. “Let’s go, Bernie-Bern-Bern. Let’s go give the poop to Mrs. Potty.”

Christian got up and poured some more coffee. Beth Ann looked up and frowned silently as she watched his actions, her hands pulling Bernie’s sweats down around her knees and releasing the tape on her diaper. He met her brown gaze directly and she glanced away.

“Potty training stops for nothing,” she commented abstractly.

He couldn’t help but be mildly interested in what they were doing, the communion between mother and daughter clearly apparent as she helped Bernie onto the low potty.

Then they all waited.

The combination of Beth Ann’s wry smile and her nurturing care of the toddler stirred feelings he’d buried away in a very deep part of his soul. This small part of him secretly wished he and Caroline had shared such moments. Maybe then they wouldn’t have drifted so far apart. As an envious outsider, he watched Beth Ann gently rub Bernie’s back. If he squinted hard enough he could imagine the woman was Caroline not her sister. In his fantasy, he wouldn’t be a stranger in such a loving household, but an integral part of it.

The image placed before him—Beth Ann talking reassuringly to Bernie, her little face scrunched as she bore down—was an intimate snapshot reserved for family. Only family cared enough to celebrate the triumphs of proper waste disposal. He’d never seen his mother look at him so lovingly and although he couldn’t remember the event, he had no doubt she wasn’t even remotely involved with his toilet training. He wondered if she had even changed a diaper.

“I pooped!” Bernie announced loudly, as she stood and looked into Mrs. Potty, while Beth Ann cleaned her off with a wet wipe.

Beth Ann nodded with a beaming smile that took his breath away. It was the smile of an angel, sending deep dimples into her cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. Even the light dusting of freckles across her nose glowed. Christian couldn’t help but be jealous of the attention and admiration that Bernie was getting. He wondered why Beth Ann’s smile seemed to have the effect of a low-grade volt of electricity, stimulating some distant physical impulses that he’d assumed had died long before Caroline.

“Yes, you certainly did,” her voice deepened with affection. “You pooped in Mrs. Potty and now what do we have to do?”

Bernie looked at her, her face pensive with concentration.

“Remember,” Beth Ann said, her voice prompting. “We wash our hands. Wash our hands, wash our hands, wash our hands.”

“Wash our hands, wash our hands,” Bernie sang. She scrambled to the kitchen sink, up onto a chair and pushed her hands under the faucet. “Soap!” she commanded.

“Soap, just a little.” Beth Ann handed her a half-used bar of hotel soap. “Scrub, scrub, scrub.”

“Scub, scub, scub.”

After Bernie finished rinsing, the window was cracked slightly to ventilate the room, and the evidence of her latest achievement was properly flushed away. Then Bernie ventured to him, staring up at him with great blue eyes, the exact same color as Caroline’s, fringed with the darkest, longest eyelashes he had ever seen. She placed a chubby, still damp hand on his thigh, leaned forward and informed him, “I pooped in Mrs. Potty.”

Christian had never been so touched in all his years. He could see her earnestness and smell the strong soap that mingled with her baby scent. Her plump cheeks just invited a touch or a pinch. What did one say to capture the significance of the occasion?

“Sweetie,” Beth Ann interrupted, steering Bernie away from him. “I think he knows.”

Christian wasn’t sure he liked Beth Ann’s not-so-subtle attempts to keep distance between himself and the toddler.

“But poop!” Bernie was obviously proud of her accomplishment. She then tilted her head and batted her eyelashes at Beth Ann. “Garden? Sun says hello.”

Beth Ann looked out the window. “You’re right. The sun does say hello. Okay. Where’s your jacket? Go get your jacket and we’ll go out in the garden.” Christian thought she looked relieved, using the excuse to take Bernie to the garden as a way to avoid their inevitable conversation. Bernie went to find her coat, her feet pounding on the hardwood.

“Beth Ann!” came the plaintive wail from across the hall.

Christian watched as Beth Ann stood still, her face torn as she was pulled in two directions. If he noticed her glow before, now he saw the haggard dark circles under her eyes, the fine lines that would deepen with age, the tightness around her mouth. Why did he suddenly want to kiss that mouth, soften the edges—

Bernie came back, dragging her coat across the floor, a chubby fist clutched around a sleeve.

“Let’s go check on Nana,” Beth Ann said, grasping Bernie’s wrist.

Bernie fell to the floor, coat and all, legs splayed in a skater’s death spiral. Christian blinked and watched her face shrivel up again. He braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.

“No! Garrr-dennn!”

“We need to check on Nana,” Beth Ann insisted as she tried to untangle Bernie from her coat.

“Beth Ann?” The frail voice was even more panicked.

Christian watched the display unfold before him, feeling rather like a guest on a rambunctious talk show. Bernie was spread-eagle on the floor, screaming as if she were being tortured. Beth Ann was trying to get her to stand up, and Iris was across the hall wailing in distress.

“Cavalry is here!” a cheerful voice announced as the door banged open.

“Glenn!” Beth Ann looked up in relief, and Christian felt a small twinge of jealousy, as her face relaxed into a smile welcoming the new guest.

“Beth Ann!”

“Garrrdennn!”

The tall, handsome man, with classic features and a smile that would make any woman’s heart throb, brought that green twinge up several notches as he gave Beth Ann an affectionate smooch on the cheek, then turned toward Bernie with a playful growl. “And who’s this doing all the screaming?” He swooped down and picked up Bernie who stopped midcry as her world spun crazily around her.

He hung her upside down, then placed exaggerated kisses all over her face until she giggled with laughter.

“Oh, Pop-pop!” she said with such adult exasperation that everyone laughed.

Two more notches on the green scale.

“Beth Ann!” The wail came again.

“Excuse me,” Beth Ann said hurriedly.

“Looks like I came at the right time, sweetheart,” Glenn said with certain affection.

Off the charts. The green scale no longer was an adequate measure of the envy Christian felt. He stared at the tall man, nearly the same height as himself, and grudgingly admitted that some women might find him attractive, if they liked the blond ski instructor type. With Bernie propped on his right arm and his left hand massaging the nape of Beth Ann’s neck, Glenn looked like a welcome member of this little family. Glenn gave Beth Ann a quick kiss on the top of her curls. “Go to your charge. I’ll take care of this rug rat.” Glenn renewed his tickling of Bernie who screamed with laughter.

Beth Ann looked at Bernie and Glenn, then at Christian. “I’ll be right back. Help yourself to the coffee.” She gestured toward Christian. “Oh, by the way. This is my friend, Glenn. Glenn, that’s Christian Elliott, Carrie’s husband.”

And then she was gone, her escape seeming well-timed.

CHAPTER THREE

BETH ANN could have kissed Glenn. On an average day, Beth Ann felt as if she were coming apart at each joint in her body. Now, she realized it was tension alone that held her together. If Glenn hadn’t come when he had, she wasn’t sure what she would have done. She didn’t want Christian’s software company, his contracts, his presence. She didn’t want any ties to Carrie’s other life, any reminders that would make Bernie wonder when she was older why she wasn’t good enough for Carrie or for Carrie’s husband.

Beth Ann was covered by a cold sweat. Asking questions that were uncomfortably dangerous, Carrie’s husband was too threatening to her insulated world. She had tried to make herself believe that if the adoption were finalized, she would be able to greet Carrie’s husband with the hospitality he deserved. But she knew that wasn’t the case. Carrie had made things too difficult for Beth Ann to be honest, much less hospitable. Put on top of that the unthinkable—Bernie inheriting a software company! It gave Beth Ann a headache just considering all the implications.

“Beth Ann? Is that you?”

“Yes, Grans. It’s me.” Beth Ann pasted on a smile and then walked in to Iris’s bedroom, still the same after twenty-some-odd years. Beth Ann remembered the first time she’d seen the room. She and Carrie had been there just a day, dropped off hastily by Carrie’s father, her stepfather. She’d thought it the most beautiful room she had ever seen. It smelled like fresh lavender, and the nightstand and vanity were draped in delicate lace. She had been ten then, Carrie just six. She had stood in the door and admired Iris’s bed, a dark mahogany four-poster, also draped in an intricately crocheted spread.

“Not tired?” asked Iris, old even then.

A ten-year-old Beth Ann wordlessly shook her head.

“Is Caroline sleeping?”

“We call her Carrie,” Beth Ann corrected her.

“Then I will call her Carrie, too,” Iris said softly. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’m not tired,” Beth Ann replied politely.

“Well, I am. Why don’t you sit on the bed with me and keep me company, while I finish this little drawing for your mother.”

Beth Ann reluctantly climbed up to sit stiffly on the bed. Her hand traced the pattern on the bedspread.

“Do you like it?” Iris held up a pen-and-ink drawing of a wildflower.

“It’s pretty.”

“I can teach you how to do it.”

“My mom’s the best artist in the world. She said she would teach me.”

Iris nodded. Then she stated gently, “Your mom’s pretty sick.”

“She’s going to get better,” Beth Ann said defensively. “She promised she would. We’re only going to be here for a little bit.”

Iris nodded. “That’s right. A little bit.”

A little bit turned out to be forever. After her mother had died, her stepfather had visited just once to let his mother know he didn’t want the children, not even Carrie, his own blood. As Carrie slept, Beth Ann cried silently, leaning up against the door, her chest aching, listening to him argue with Iris. He was the only father she had ever known. The next morning, he was gone and Iris never spoke his name again.

Beth Ann took a deep breath. Bernie would never, ever wonder whether she was loved. Ever.

“I hear voices,” Iris said plaintively.

“Yes. Glenn is here. Remember, I told you he was coming to keep an eye on Bernie so I could get back to painting.” She hoped. It had been a long time since she’d painted, really worked at it, rather than merely dabbling with interesting techniques and calling it work. When she’d stopped painting, neither Glenn nor his life partner, Fred, who was a highly regarded art dealer, had condemned her. Even when she didn’t follow through on several projects, Fred did his best to cover for her, simply telling her to let him know when she was ready.

Two months earlier she had thought she was ready. So, believing the effort would spur her back into painting more regularly, she’d sent some slides of her older work to a hotel in Merced that wanted to use their lobby to showcase local artists. It had cost her a big gulp in pride. Before Bernie, she’d been accepted to some of the most prestigious Bay Area galleries. Way beyond showing in a local hotel. Still when the white envelope bearing the hotel’s logo had arrived a few days ago, she couldn’t even open it. She didn’t know what she feared most: the rejection or the acceptance.

Iris frowned, then brightened. “Has Carrie come to visit?”

Beth Ann shook her head. “No, sweetie. Carrie’s dead. Remember?”

Iris looked away puzzled. “Why did I think Carrie was here?”

“Carrie’s husband is here,” Beth Ann said after a moment’s hesitation. “Remember the man that stopped you on the road?” Damn near ran her down.

“Carrie’s husband?” She looked puzzled. “When did she marry?”

“Years ago.”

Iris’s forehead wrinkled. “Did we go to the wedding?”

Beth Ann shook her head. “No, sweetie. They got married kind of quickly.” She started straightening Iris’s covers. “Do you want to get up? I can fix your hair and put in your diamond tiara before I take Bernie to the garden.”

Iris sunk back down into the pillows. She closed her eyes. “No. I feel tired. I don’t want to wear my tiara today.”

Beth Ann kissed her on the head, wondering if she should take her to the doctor later in the afternoon. “Sleep well, Grans.” Before she left, she switched on the portable baby monitor, then quietly closed the door.

When Beth Ann got to the kitchen, she found that it was completely deserted, but she heard screams of excitement outside. Despite its gray start, the day had turned out to be beautiful. Not yet noon and the sun shone brightly. She saw Bernie, bundled in her coat, scrambling wildly through a pile of decaying leaves as Glenn chased her from behind. Christian leaned against the old oak, watching intently, the collar of his leather jacket turned up as he nursed a mug of coffee.

Bernie lifted something and gave it to Glenn. Then she turned and gave whatever it was to Christian. Both men thanked her with enthusiastic nods of their heads. Suddenly aware that she had a moment of peace, Beth Ann was reluctant to open the door and join them. If Carrie’s husband would just go away— It made no difference that Bernie was an heiress. As far as she was concerned, his money, his software company, his silver Jaguar and expensive shoes only made it heartwrenchingly clear that Carrie had chosen things over her own daughter. Beth Ann would not give him the chance to make the same choice. Bernie would not be rejected twice.

CHRISTIAN IGNORED the persistent ache behind his left ear and watched Bernie who dug furiously into the ground with a toy shovel and then chortled with glee when she found a huge beetle that raced to get out of the way. She reached to pick it up with two fingers, but it scurried past her and she followed, her little face pinched with her efforts to coordinate her eyes with her hands.

“Bug!” she declared and looked straight up at Christian. His heart jerked. Caroline. His fist tightened and he felt the sharp rock jab into his skin. He opened his hand. Glenn had long since discarded his, but Christian examined the garden rock, really an oversize piece of amber gravel, that Bernie had so judiciously bestowed upon him. Bernie shrieked with excitement, chattering away as she continued to doggedly pursue the bug, trying alternately to step on and grab it until it managed to squeeze its body through a small hole and out of reach.

Having been eluded, Bernie walked around in aimless circles. Her mind already searching for her next adventure. The steaming pile of compost looked promising.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Bern-Bern,” Glenn said as he intercepted her, pulling her up against him, then giving her a big affectionate squeeze and a wet smacking kiss on her cheek.

Christian felt slightly satisfied when Bernie screamed her protest and wriggled violently to be let down. Glenn obliged. Her mind now fixated on trying to move a small boulder, Bernie began to push.

The two men stood awkwardly, both watching Bernie, who got tired of pushing and decided to defeat the rock by sitting on it.

“I’m sorry about Carrie,” Glenn said finally.

“Thank you,” Christian replied and took a sip of coffee. It was cold now and it still tasted awful. The second cup was worse than the first. No wonder Beth Ann put so much sugar in it.

Glenn laughed.

“What?”

“She makes terrible coffee, doesn’t she?”

“Is that why you didn’t take any?” Christian raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Glenn admitted. “I let her keep one or two of her illusions. One is that it’s coffee in general that tastes so bad—not her coffee in particular.”

“I think she might have an idea.”

Glenn smiled. “Maybe, but that hasn’t made her want to learn how to make better coffee. She just adds more sugar and cream.”

They fell silent again.

After a moment, Christian asked, “Have you been friends long?”

Glenn shrugged. “Depends on what you think is long. We’ve known each other since graduate school.”

“Graduate school?” Christian felt an unflattering wave of guilt at his surprise. He would never have imagined Beth Ann would have gone to college much less received a higher degree. Caroline had no degrees he knew of.

Glenn shot him a speculative look, then said, “Don’t know much about her, do you?”

“Well—” Christian felt his face grow hot. Why was he so reluctant to admit he knew absolutely nothing?

Glenn nodded. “She paints, teaches when she has to, but mostly holds together her little family single-handedly.”

“Single-handedly?” Christian asked, a flare of something coming up from under his ribs. “She’s not married?”

Glenn called out to Bernie who was now lying on the rock, her head lolled backward, the tips of her curls brushing the dirt. She sat up quickly and then toppled over sideways. She chortled, babbling at them unintelligibly, clearly emphasizing the last syllable, as if she were scolding them. She placed her hands on her hips to make her point.

“No, she’s not married.”

“Divorced?” Christian tried to make his voice casual.

“Nope. Never married.”

“So Iris has lived here all her life?” Christian looked around.

Glenn shook his head. “No. From what I understand, she was a botany professor, a science artist. She came here from U.C. Berkeley to retire. Taught Beth Ann most everything she knows about art.”

“Are you Bernadette’s father?” The question came out much more baldly than Christian had planned.

Glenn took a long time to answer. He looked at Christian, his eyes guarded, and Christian knew he was being thoroughly surveyed. Finally, Glenn asked, “What would make you think that?”

Christian felt as if he was negotiating one of the trickiest liaisons known to man. Then he shrugged and observed bluntly, “Bernadette called you Pop-pop.”

“A nickname,” Glenn replied, his eyes watching Bernie’s progress, as she tried to balance on the rock, her baby gibberish supplying background noise.

“What is she saying?” Christian couldn’t help asking when Glenn said something back to her.

“I have no idea,” Glenn replied with an honest smile. “But we’re sure it’s something important and Beth Ann is a stickler for responses.”

“Bernadette seems to talk well for someone her age.”

“We think so.” Glenn laughed. “But then we also think she’s a genius.”

“Did you know Caroline?” Christian asked, abruptly changing the subject. He wondered if Caroline would have found Glenn attractive. She had a way of fluttering from one handsome man to the next. She was very flirtatious, but he’d never thought to doubt her fidelity.

Glenn glanced away and hedged. “I met her a couple of times. I wouldn’t say I knew her.”

“Mommy!” Bernie squealed and ran to meet Beth Ann.

“Bernie-Bern-Bern. What have you been up to?”

“Gar-den,” Bernie said and then jumped up and said something rapidly before shouting “Bugs” and wandering off. She pressed her face against another rock, which left a dark smudge of dirt on her cheek.

“You know you’re in charge of the cleanup,” Beth Ann told Glenn. “I just gave her a bath last night.”

“It’s only dirt, sweetheart. It’ll wash off. So go paint. I’ve got things covered.”

“Thank you.” She handed him a baby monitor. “Iris is sleeping for now. But she’s had a tough day. She’s going to be really hungry when she wakes up, so be sure to get to the kitchen before she does. She had all four burners going with empty pots on them last weekend.”

“Again?” Glenn asked with sharp surprise.

Beth Ann’s face tightened imperceptibly and she concentrated on staring at Bernie. “It’s not again,” she denied. Christian watched her turn away from Glenn and again wondered about their relationship.

“Didn’t something similar just happen?” Glenn asked.

“No. It was a mistake. More my fault than hers,” Beth Ann said dismissively.

“Beth Ann, she’s nearly ninety.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Christian, an intensely private individual, had never seen a soul close up as fast as she did. It was as if she wasn’t even present anymore.

“So,” she said, her voice cheerful, changing the subject. “What’s in the box in the hall?”

“Mostly samples. Fred got a whole case of new paints. It’s a start-up brand, and he thought you might be feeling experimental. He wants a report on how the colors compare to the old faithfuls.”

Beth Ann laughed. “My whole life is an experiment. I’ll call him tonight and thank him. You don’t know how much that helps. I didn’t know how much more I could squeeze out of a dry tube.” She glanced at Christian. “Watercolors,” she said briefly, filling him in.

“Of course.” He nodded as if he knew what she was talking about.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” Bernie said insistently.

“Just a minute, Bern. I’m talking with Pop-pop.”

Bernie was quiet for a quick second and then said more loudly, “Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy—”

Beth Ann shot Christian another glance. He was amazed she remembered he was there, and his heart thumped louder as she gave him a rueful smile. “And I was the one who couldn’t wait until she said ‘mommy.’ Teaching her to talk seemed like a good idea then.” She chuckled, then turned to Glenn. “Can you get them lunch? I want to get as much done as I can before you take off.”

“Will do.”

“And...”

“And?”

Beth Ann looked around quizzically, past Christian, as if she had forgotten what it was she had say.

“I’m having an Iris moment,” she laughed, and then slapped her forehead. “Oh, yes. There’s plenty of food. Make sandwiches—don’t cut the crust off for Bernie even though she’ll want you to. Give her turkey instead of peanut butter. I’m seeing if she’s allergic. Your choice of canned soup. Potato chips—”

“Above the fridge.”

“Only a handful after Bern’s eaten most of her sandwich or she’ll just eat potato chips and no sandwich or soup. And applesauce.”

“Yes, sir.” Glenn saluted.

Beth Ann made a face at him.

Christian watched the exchange silently. It wasn’t as if she were being overly rude. After all, she had a life, and he had the eerie sensation of being plopped in the middle of it. She afforded him no special treatment. He frowned into the coffee cup. And he wasn’t certain if he liked that. He had always commanded attention, even as a young man. But of course, having Elliott as a last name didn’t hurt, and three generations of money probably helped. But here, none of that seemed to matter.

Unlike most people who would immediately be trying to capitalize on the fact they had just been given a multimillion dollar software company, Beth Ann acted as if he had offered her a dead cockroach. So different from Caroline, who’d made it very clear from the very first moment they’d met that she was acutely, intimately aware of his existence.

They’d met through Max, who had been introduced to Caroline at an exclusive private party. She was the love of his life, Max had declared, but then graciously bowed out when it became apparent that Caroline only had eyes for Christian. He’d been drawn to how earthy, and even rather naive, she was. He found her a refreshing change from bored debutantes. She was so eager to learn about what he was interested in, listening for hours as he talked about the company, the business.

The next thing he knew, he was introducing her to his mother, and the two of them bonded quickly. His mother always liked projects and Caroline had no qualms about becoming one. Caroline relished, polished, and upheld her role as the future Mrs. Christian Elliott. Maybe a little too much. Still when Christian persuaded Caroline to elope, forgoing the large wedding that his mother was planning, she seemed almost relieved. He now realized why.

He also knew that he had no idea what earthy was. If Caroline was earthy, Beth Ann was the magma that formed the earth. When he saw Beth Ann turn back to the house, he realized she was leaving and there was going to be no further discussion of the software company, of Caroline, of anything.

“I need to talk with you.” Christian stepped forward and grabbed her arm to halt her.

Beth Ann looked at him, then down at the hand that closed around her elbow. “Maybe later,” she said shortly, and tugged at her arm. He released her, understanding that she didn’t have to talk to him if she didn’t want to. He wasn’t even related. His resentment began to close his throat. Part of being married meant getting to know your spouse’s family, and he felt unrealistically that Caroline, by her secrecy, had robbed him of that. Here was a family unit, perhaps more unconventional than any he had ever experienced, but he greatly disliked the fact that he was categorically placed outside the inner circle.

If he hadn’t felt so desperate, he would have laughed at the irony. His sister-in-law seemed reluctant to acknowledge his existence. Usually, Christian Elliott was begged to participate in the most exclusive of the exclusive, his family an integral spoke of the most prestigious circles in Southern California. Yet here he was, his feelings battered because some farmgirl artist person would barely look at him.

“How much later?” he asked, forcing his voice to be casual.

Beth Ann shrugged noncommittally. “I have to paint. I don’t often get the luxury of an undisturbed stretch of time. Glenn’s here until—” She looked at Glenn inquiringly.

“I’ve got to be in Fresno by noon tomorrow to meet with a client.”

“Glenn paints, too,” Beth Ann informed Christian.

“So when can we talk?”

Beth Ann glanced around. “I don’t know. How long are you here for?”

He’d planned to be on his way to the Napa Valley twenty minutes ago, the documents signed and ready for express shipping to his attorney.

“Indefinitely,” he answered.

“Indefinitely?” Her voice squeaked. He saw that he’d rattled her and wondered why. She backed away from him, her eyes just barely shuttering abject anxiety. She shook her head. “You know, I can’t really think about this now—”

With an abrupt turn she started to walk away. Christian followed her, giving a quick glance at Glenn who stood watchfully by, ready to insert himself if need be.

“Give me a time and place. I’ll be there,” he said insistently.

She was quiet and then stopped. Beth Ann looked back at Glenn who shrugged. She stared so hard at Christian’s shoulder he thought he might have dandruff. Then she heaved a big sigh. “Tonight. Los Amigos on Pacheco Boulevard. Seven o’clock,” she said wearily. “I’ll give you enough time for a dinner and coffee. Will you leave us alone then?”

“Los Amigos at seven,” Christian agreed and held up the coffee mug in his hand.

Beth Ann took it from him, peering into it. “You drank it,” she said in surprise.

“Los Amigos at seven,” Christian repeated, not understanding the feeling of hope welling through him. “I’ll be there.”

EVEN THOUGH her head was throbbing, Beth Ann worked for the rest of the morning. She took a small break for lunch and then went back to her attic for more. Really, what she spent most of her time doing was procrastinating. She straightened her files of reference photos. She organized the slides of her previous works. She studied them and looked around at the stuff she had been sporadically working on. Then she noticed the dust on the desk and decided to clean her work area.

As the light faded into dusk, she had not picked up her paintbrush at all. She swallowed her frustration, closing her eyes to the throbbing in her sinuses. Lack of sleep, she excused herself, not to mention the events of the morning. She had been up for the past several nights with Iris, making sure she wasn’t wandering around the kitchen trying to roast marsh-mallows on the gas stove. Between that and Bernie’s advanced mobility and ever increasing curiosity, Beth Ann’s watercolors, which at one time had been a refuge, had been reduced to another source of anxiety.

When Fred had called in March with the news that the Merced hotel was opening up its lobby to new artists, she had been less than enthusiastic because she had very little new work. Okay, she had no new work. But she’d promised Fred she would try, at least make a start back into the art world, as small as her local region was.

The only thing she’d managed to do was discover how good she was at avoiding painting. Between family crises and sporadically teaching weekend classes for the city’s parks and rec department, there didn’t seem to be time. Now, as she looked at the half-finished paintings that hung around her, a few damp only because she’d accidentally spilt water when she was cleaning, she knew she couldn’t blame Bernie or Iris or the lack of paints anymore. She turned on the light, realizing suddenly how dim it had gotten. A single tap on the door gave her an excuse to formally stop.

“Come in,” she called, trying to make her voice stronger, in case it was Iris.

“Done yet?” Glenn poked his handsome head in.

“Yeah. No light. My eyes are shot,” Beth Ann said guiltily, allowing the fatigue to creep back into her voice. She ran the water in the attached sink. Fred had run the plumbing up to the attic so she could do her work here. She pretended to wash out her brushes, and her water cans. “What time is it?”

Glenn glanced at her big clock that read eleven twenty-four.

“Battery died. I haven’t changed it yet,” she confessed.

“It’s just after six-thirty. You’ve got a date at seven.”

Beth Ann pulled a face. “I can’t even imagine what he wants. If I weren’t so tired, I’d have a talk about it with you.”

“Talk about it with me anyway.” Glenn sat down. “I’m dying to find out how things went. What did he say?”

“Where are Bernie and Iris?” Beth Ann asked.

“Bernie’s still zonked out and Iris is in her room looking at her pictures.”

Beth Ann nodded. That sometimes absorbed Iris for nearly an hour. “Any crises?”

Glenn shook his head. “Nope. Everyone seemed to be on their best behavior.” He looked at her piercingly. “So. That was Carrie’s husband?”

Beth Ann stared out the round picture window that overlooked the garden and the big oak, another improvement courtesy of Fred. She watched the horizon scatter brilliant reds and oranges from end-to-end. She studied the color of the sky, a perfect French ultramarine blue, and watched the lights of an airplane track across it.

“Yes,” she answered slowly. “That was Carrie’s husband. Did he stay long?”

Glenn shook his head. “Nope. As soon as you left, he left, too.” He gave her a sly smile. “Though he did ask what kind of flowers you were partial to.”

Beth Ann made a face. “You’re kidding.”

“Would I kid about flowers? I think he wants to get on your good side.”

Beth Ann was silent.

“So, Bethy, why is he here?” Glenn probed. At her exasperated look, he admitted freely, “Yes. I’m under strict orders from Fred to report to him as soon as I know anything.”

She stared at her old friend, feeling his empathy emanate toward her. They had been comrades for too many years for her to hide anything from him. She had met both Glenn and Fred in graduate school, the three of them quickly befriending each other, eventually sharing a three-bedroom house. Iris had expressed concern about her granddaughter living with two men, but Beth Ann had assured her they were just friends. Besides, Fred was gay and Glenn had a girlfriend. When Iris met the two for the first time, Beth Ann had been relieved when Iris squeezed her hand, approving the friendship.

Their relationship didn’t end with graduation. When she moved back to California, she was pleasantly surprised to find that within a few months, both Fred and Glenn had found a place together in San Jose. After they’d popped the champagne for their housewarming, the two men had exchanged glances with each other and gently told her they were intimately involved.

Beth Ann had been stunned only because she’d had no idea that Glenn was gay. Once she’d closed her mouth, she’d hugged them both fiercely, her blessing genuine. Her unreserved joy for them had only deepened their friendship, especially after Glenn’s family had reacted terribly to his announcement. Fred, originally from the Midwest, had long established a cordial if not enthusiastic relationship with his parents, exchanging cards at birthdays and Christmas but not much else. However, after their commitment ceremony, Fred’s mother had started sending Glenn birthday cards as well.

Just friends. Beth Ann shook her head. No, just family.

Conventional or not, Glenn and Fred were as much her family as Bernie and Iris. They’d turned the attic into her studio. They’d stood by her side when Carrie abandoned Bernie. They’d come at anytime of the day or night, driving the hour and a half to baby- and grandmother-sit when Beth Ann couldn’t stand it anymore. They were present for every important event in her life—from the rise and fall of her short art career to the death of her sister to Bernie’s first steps to the mental decline of her grandmother.

But she remained silent, feeling like she wanted to be a color. If she were that perfect French ultramarine blue, she wouldn’t have to think about Carrie or Carrie’s husband or his reasons for being in Mercy Springs.

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