"It doesn't matter when I was born. My mother was Evelyn Jones Whitfield. She was born in Minnesota, and her parents and all her other relatives are dead. She told me so, lots of times, and I believed her. I still believe her."

Claire rose slowly to her feet. "When were you born?"

Katherine looked up at the ceiling in despair, then back at Claire. "November twenty-second, 1972."

"What did your mother look like?"

"She had brown hair. She wore it short around her ears."

"Did she wear gla.s.ses?"

"Contacts."

"Was there a tiny s.p.a.ce between her two front teeth?"

"Very tiny."

"Did she have a laugh that sounded like someone had just run a hand down the piano keys?"

Katherine blinked back a wave of emotion. "I can't do this. Don't make me do this. It's impossible."

"I thought so, too. Until Jackson-"

"Jackson?" Katherine latched on to his name as if she were reaching for a life preserver. "Jackson Tyler told you something?"

"He said you had Margaret's quilt. And you do."

"He also said I was his daughter."

Claire shook her head. "Margaret would have never... Well, she wouldn't have."

"He's a liar, a con artist. Even Zach told me that," Katherine said desperately. "You can't believe a word Jackson says. And if he knows I have the quilt, then he must have snuck in here and taken a look. He's a trespa.s.ser, too."

"Yes." Claire gave a small, uncertain shake of her head. "And I don't understand, because Margaret died about six years after she left here. I know because Harry sent someone to look for her. And you said your mother died-"

"When I was twelve. See, they can't be the same person. My mother is buried in Beverly Hills."

"And my daughter is buried in Paradise. Unless..." Claire let the word hang in the air, growing in importance the longer it remained there.

"Unless someone is lying," Katherine whispered. "Unless one of those graves is empty."

"Don't say that," Claire said sharply. "My husband wouldn't lie to me. He couldn't have."

"And my mother wouldn't lie to me. She couldn't have."

"I have a photograph of Margaret," Claire said abruptly. "In my purse. Where did I put it?"

Katherine picked up the black leather purse on the bed and handed it to her.

Claire opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. She flipped through the credit cards and photos, finally stopping. "This is Margaret. The photograph was taken just a few weeks before she left." Claire slipped the photo out of its plastic casing and handed it to Katherine. "Do you recognize her? Is she your mother?"

Katherine hesitated. She was suddenly very afraid to look.

"You have to look," Claire said. "I know it's difficult, but please."

Katherine gazed into Claire's eyes. "You don't understand. If my mother was your daughter, then everything I know about her is a lie."

Claire put her hand over Katherine's hand, the picture touching both of their fingers, burning them with the truth.

Finally Katherine looked down, tears blurring her vision so that she had to blink three times before she could focus on the photograph, before she could truly see the woman's face. What she saw ripped her heart in two.

"It's her," she whispered. "It's my mother."

Katherine sat down on the bed, the photograph held tightly in her fingers. The young woman in the photo stood in the secret garden, laughing at the camera, waving her finger at whoever was taking the picture. There was no mistaking her mother's smile or her teeth or the shape of her face. The woman in the photograph-the woman Claire called Margaret Stanton-was also Evelyn Jones Whitfield.

Claire sat down next to Katherine, staring at the photo with the same intensity, the same wonder, the same disbelief. The minutes ticked by in silence, nervous, bewildering silence.

"I wonder why she didn't tell me," Katherine said slowly. "Why all the lies? I was her child. How could it have hurt for me to know the truth?" She looked over at Claire. "Why did she leave home in the first place? Why did she run away? Do you know who my father is?" The questions shot out of her like bullets from a gun, a rapid fire that left Claire shaking her head.

"One at a time, Katherine. Please. I'm not thinking clearly either. This has been a terrible shock for me as well as for you."

"You-you must be my grandmother." Katherine now understood the familiarity she'd felt with Claire that first day in the garden. The scent of lavender had drawn her to the garden, drawn her to Claire, just as it had originally drawn her to the chest.

"I guess I am." Claire bit down on her lip, her eyes watering once again. "I can't believe I'm looking into my grandchild's face. And it's such a beautiful face." Claire touched Katherine's hair. "You're a lovely young woman, and you're Margaret's baby. I can hardly believe it."

"I'm having a little trouble myself." Although Katherine had to admit the thought of having Claire Stanton for a grandmother was very appealing. She'd liked her from the start. And she'd never had a grandmother before.

"We're going to get to the bottom of this," Claire promised, putting her hand on Katherine's arm.

"There are still things I don't understand. Where is my mother buried?"

Claire's expression turned troubled and somewhat angry. "I swear if Harry lied to me about Margaret's death, well, I just don't know what I'll do. He sent a private investigator to look for Margaret a few years after she left. We kept hoping she'd come home on her own, but she never did. I was beside myself with worry, imagining her alone in the world, trying to raise a baby all on her own. So Harry hired someone to look for her. A year later, he showed me the investigator's report saying that Margaret had died a few weeks earlier and had been buried in a cemetery in Oregon."

"Oregon? My mother never lived in Oregon."

Claire took in a breath and went on. "According to the report I read, Margaret's landlady had paid for the burial and told the investigator that Margaret had lived alone and had given her baby up years ago. Harry had the casket dug up and flown home, so we could bury her here in Paradise."

"Then you never saw her face, her body?" Katherine hated to ask the question, but it had to be brought out in the open.

"No." Claire paused, meeting her eyes. "What about you?"

"Mitch.e.l.l woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that my mother had been killed in a car crash. She was buried three days later. There was a closed casket. But-I did see her that day, the day of the crash. She was alive when I was twelve years old. If this is a photograph of Margaret, then there's no way she's buried here in Paradise."

Claire stood up and paced restlessly around the room. "Harry," she said. "He did this. I can't believe he did it, but there's no other explanation."

Katherine looked back at the photograph. Her mother was Margaret Stanton. Unbelievable. She'd come to Paradise to find her father, only to find her mother instead. She glanced over at Claire, who stood by the window, gazing out at the streets of Paradise.

"Do you know who my father is, Mrs. Stanton?"

Claire glanced over her shoulder. "I'm afraid I don't. Margaret refused to say. She thought her daddy might bring out his shotgun and force a wedding."

"Is that why she left town?"

"Yes. She had confided in me that she was pregnant. Actually, I'd begun to suspect because she was so pale, and she never felt like eating. When I caught her throwing up her breakfast one morning, she broke down and cried right there on the bathroom floor, her hair matted down with sweat, her eyes huge and filled with fear. I took her in my arms and I promised her it would be all right."

Claire turned back to the window. "But I hadn't counted on Harry's reaction. He was horrified, ashamed, angry. He screamed for three solid days that she could not have a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child. That she could not flaunt her sin in front of the town and G.o.d. Harry told her she either had to marry the father, give up her baby for adoption, or leave town. She was barely nineteen years old, but just as stubborn as her father."

"So she left."

"I let her go, Katherine. I stood by my husband's side and watched my pregnant daughter load her suitcase and that chest into her car and drive away. I never saw her again. And my last image is of her crying, looking at me as if I'd betrayed her. And I guess I had done exactly that." Claire turned to Katherine with a pained expression on her face. "She hated me when she left. I'm surprised she never told you any of it. I would have thought..."

"Thought what?"

"That she would have made sure you hated me, too."

"My mother told me she was born in Minnesota, that her name was Evelyn Jones and that her parents were dead. She said she was all alone in the world, save for me. Until she met Mitch.e.l.l, of course."

"Mitch.e.l.l?"

"My stepfather. She married him less than a year before she died. When she died, Mitch.e.l.l agreed to raise me, since I didn't have any other relatives. Otherwise, I would have gone into foster care."

Claire shook her head. "If only we'd known about you. I don't understand why the private investigator didn't find you. Or why he said Margaret was dead."

"Maybe Harry wanted you to stop looking."

A light dawned in Claire's eyes. "Yes. That's it, of course. Harry was tired of my crying and moaning, so he decided to put me out of my misery like he'd shoot a sick horse. By telling me Margaret was dead, he forced me to let go of her, to grieve, but not to antic.i.p.ate a reunion. My G.o.d! I can't believe he did that to me. You know, I would have kept looking, and I would have had five more years to find her." Claire leaned her head against the window. "I might have seen her one more time. I might have met you when you were a child. I might have been able to help you when Margaret died. It's not fair. It's just not fair."

Katherine didn't know what to do. This was her grandmother, and she was in terrible pain. Part of Katherine wanted to comfort Claire. The other part was still angry about what she'd just heard, about how Claire and Harry had sent their supposedly beloved daughter out in the world pregnant and alone. Maybe Claire deserved this pain.

"I have to get out of here," Katherine said abruptly. "I can't do this right now. It's too much." She grabbed her purse and left the room before Claire could try to stop her.

She had no idea where she was going, but somehow she'd get there.

An hour later, Claire Stanton stormed up the walkway to her house, fury fueling every step that took her closer to Harry, closer to the truth. She'd treated her husband with respect for fifty years. She'd stood by him the way she'd promised on her wedding day. And twenty years ago she'd stood next to him when they'd buried their daughter. But what had they really buried? An empty box of dreams?

A tiny voice inside of her told her to slow down, to tread carefully. Harry's heart couldn't stand too much shock. But she couldn't listen to the tiny voice, because it was overridden by the thundering roar of her anger.

"Harry," she cried. "Where are you?"

She looked in the study, but it was empty; so were the living room and dining room. She took the stairs two at a time and crossed the hall into the master bedroom. Harry came out of the bathroom as she entered the room, a comb in one hand, a wet towel in the other. A tall slim man with gray hair, piercing brown eyes, and an unforgiving chin, he suddenly seemed like a stranger to her. When he saw her face, he stopped in midstride.

"Claire, what's wrong?"

"Everything is wrong. Every d.a.m.n thing. Who did we bury in the ParadiseValleyCemetery twenty years ago?" she demanded.

The blood drained out of his face and he reached out a hand to the bedpost to steady himself. "Margaret. We buried Margaret."

"Did we?"

Harry didn't answer right away. He couldn't lie, not when he sensed she already knew the truth.

"Why would you ask me such a thing?"

"Because I met someone today, someone who has Margaret's smile and Margaret's walk and even Margaret's quilt."

"No," he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, yes."

"That's impossible."

"Her name is Katherine Whitfield. When I showed her a photograph of Margaret, she told me that Margaret was her mother. Her mother, Harry." Claire paused, letting the words sink in. "Her mother, Margaret, who died when Katherine was twelve years old, fifteen years ago, not twenty."

"It's not the same person."

"I knew you'd say that. I told myself the same thing. But Katherine has Margaret's hope chest. She has the quilt. She has letters Margaret wrote."

"Maybe she got them from somewhere else."

"You wouldn't have any doubts if you'd seen Katherine." Claire's voice broke and her eyes filled with moisture. She didn't want to cry, not until she'd gotten it all out, not until she'd made him tell her the truth.

"Maybe you just want to see Margaret in this woman. Maybe it's in your imagination."

Claire shook her head in bewilderment. "Why are you still lying to me?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Katherine identified the woman in my photograph as being her mother, and her mother died in California, Harry. Her mother is buried in a cemetery near Los Angeles. So tell me, if Katherine Whitfield's mother is our daughter, Margaret, tell me how Margaret could be buried in the ParadiseValleyCemetery five years before her death?"

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed and rested his face on his hands. He no longer looked strong and stern and powerful, just old and tired and scared. Finally he lifted his head, his own eyes moist.

"I'm sorry, Claire. You don't know how sorry I am. I just wanted you to stop hurting."

"So you faked Margaret's death?"

"It didn't start out that way. I hired Walter Simmons to find Margaret. But he couldn't pick up a trail. It was as if she'd vanished. He spent more than a year looking for her, a year in which I watched you grow thinner and thinner. You never ate. You rarely slept. Some days you didn't even get dressed. I couldn't stand watching you die in front of my eyes."

"So you killed off Margaret instead." She felt an overwhelming sense of rage. "How could you do that?"

"I had to do something. You wouldn't let go of her, and she wasn't ever coming back."

"So you paid Walter Simmons to write up a phony report and fly an empty coffin back from Oregon. My G.o.d! I can't believe you could be so devious. We had a funeral, Harry. The whole town came. We all grieved, every one of us. And you pretended to grieve with us. How could you do that? How could you look at yourself in the mirror?"

"It was clear that Margaret wasn't coming back, Claire. The only way you were ever going to stop suffering was by acknowledging that she was gone. Since we couldn't find her, I figured she might as well be dead."

Claire couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Might as well be dead? Do you know how much worse it was to think that my baby was dead?" Her voice rose to a shrill piercing tone. "Do you know how I grieved for her, how I wished she could have had a few more minutes on this earth? It was fifty times worse imagining her dead than imagining her somewhere else. You not only killed her, you almost killed me."

Harry's eyes filled with pain. He reached out a hand for her but let it drop to his side when she refused to take it.

"I did keep looking off and on even after..." Harry's voice drifted away. "As recently as the last two months I've had Walter looking for Margaret, just to see if there was any slim hope."