"Thanks for bringing me the coffee and the muffins. They were good."

Claire beamed. "You're welcome. I was happy to do it."

About a thousand sarcastic comments exploded in Nicole's brain. They were coming so fast, she would have trouble picking one. She remembered what had happened yesterday, what she'd said and what Claire had done and vowed to try not to be such a bitch.

"You got up early."

Claire eased into the chair by the bed. "I was at the bakery at four-thirty. Sid nearly had a heart attack. I promised I wouldn't screw up. I told him I just wanted to help. He didn't believe me at first, but then he put me to work. I did the sprinkles and sorted bagels and that kind of stuff."

Idiot work, Nicole thought. Where the new kid always started. "Kid" being the key word.

"Why would you do that?" she asked. "Get up that early, go down there and do the crappy jobs?"

Claire frowned. "Because this is a family business and you can't go there yourself. I know I can't fill in for you specifically, but I can free up someone else to do what's important."

The words made sense, but in this context they were way confusing. "You're a famous concert pianist. You probably make millions a year. Why do you care about the bakery?"

Claire stared at her as if she wasn't all that bright. "You're my sister. Of course I care."

After everything that had happened. After all that had been said. For the first time in a long time...maybe ever...Nicole felt very, very small.

"Look, I-" She pressed her lips together. Apologizing wasn't her best skill. "About last night. What I said." She sighed. "I'm sorry."

Claire nodded. "I know. I'm sure I'd say the same thing in your position."

Somehow Nicole doubted that.

"It's okay," Claire added.

Nicole didn't believe that, either. But she'd apologized and now she would try to be nicer.

"The bakery is really interesting," Claire said. "Everything happens so fast. All those products. Sid made me stay away from the chocolate cake, but I saw a few of them coming out of the oven."

"The famous Keyes Chocolate cake," Nicole grumbled. "It's a moneymaker."

The recipe had been a family secret for generations, and a local Seattle favorite. In the 1980s, a local politician looking to make a good impression had delivered one to President Reagan. It had been served at a White House dinner where the president had declared it better than jelly beans.

Three years ago, Nicole had received a call from one of Oprah's producers, saying the cake would be featured on the show. Nicole had hired a company to handle the influx of calls, braced her employees for eighteen-hour shifts and flown to Chicago with high expectations.

Oprah had been lovely and had gushed about the cake for all of eight seconds, before shifting the conversation to Claire and a performance the talk show queen had seen just weeks before. There had been a brief flurry of orders, followed by nothing.

"I don't know how you do it," Claire said earnestly. "Run the business. It's a lot of work. How do you know how many doughnuts and bagels to make, and what kind? All those people working for you must be tough, too. I only have to deal with Lisa and sometimes that's a problem."

"We know what sells," Nicole said, ignoring the need to snap at her. "We have years of history to look at."

"But you run a very successful business."

Nicole shrugged. "I've been doing it for years. I started helping out when I was a kid. By the time I was in high school, I was handling most of it. I took over everything a couple of years later."

Her father had never been interested in the bakery. He'd done it out of obligation. But Nicole actually enjoyed her work.

"I couldn't have done it," Claire said. "I don't have any business sense."

"You don't have any practice," Nicole pointed out. "Things would have been different if you'd stayed."

Claire bit her lip. "I'm sorry I left."

Nicole had the sense of being sucked into a conversation she didn't want to have. "You were six," she said grudgingly. "It's not like you had a choice."

"But you got stuck with everything here. The bakery, being on your own, Jesse."

"I screwed up that last one for sure," Nicole muttered, trying not to fall into the painful combination of betrayal, anger and hurt that always filled her when she thought about Jesse and Drew.

"I'm sorry about that."

"How'd you find out?" Nicole couldn't imagine Wyatt talking about it.

"Jesse told me. She stopped by a couple of days ago. She's the one who called me to ask me to come help out." Claire's mouth twisted. "I don't understand how she could have done that."

"Me, either," Nicole said, hating that she wanted to ask how Jesse was. Did she actually miss her? After what she'd done? Impossible. "Let's change the subject."

"Okay. Wyatt asked me to look after Amy."

"Have you done any babysitting?"

"No. Is it hard?"

Nicole thought of a dozen snippy comments, each more hurtful than the one before. Instead she smiled. "I guess it could be with another kid, but not with Amy. She's a sweetie. I'm sure you two will get along great."

CLAIRE WAITED by the bus stop as Amy waved to her friends, then climbed down.

"How was your day?" Claire signed, then took the girl's backpack.

"Good," Amy signed back, then said, "You've been practicing."

"Some. I'm trying." Claire motioned to her rental car. The plan was for her to pick up Amy, then take her back to Nicole's house. She paused by the passenger side door.

"I need to go shopping," she said, speaking slowly and facing Amy so the girl could read her lips. "I need different clothes. Maybe jeans."

Amy signed something Claire didn't recognize.

"Casual," the girl said.

"Right. I need a cookbook, too." She finger spelled cook and then signed book. "Something really easy. Do you want to come with me or go to Nicole's?"

Amy pointed at her. "Shopping."

Claire smiled. "They grow up so fast."

Twenty minutes later, they were at Alderwood Mall. Claire had already called Nicole to say they would be a while. After parking, she and Amy headed for Macy's.

"You need jeans," Amy said as she signed.

Claire fingered her wool slacks. More than jeans. She needed a whole wardrobe that wasn't expensive and difficult to take care of. Cashmere was nice, but not every minute of every day.

Once they were inside, Amy took charge. Claire tried not to be upset about the fact that an eight-year-old knew more about shopping than her. The truth was, she rarely shopped. Lisa, her manager, brought a selection of clothes to Claire's apartment or her hotel room if they were on the road, Claire tried them on and kept the ones she liked.

She wore classic styles from expensive designers. Her performing clothes were mostly long black dresses...variations on a theme. She didn't own jeans or T-shirts or a sweatshirt. Which was all about to change.

Amy led her to a table of jeans in different colors. Claire picked dark blue and black, then followed the girl to racks of shirts and knit tops. Some were plain, but others had embellishments-printing, or appliqued flowers. Even small rhinestones. She grabbed a jean jacket, a couple of pairs of dressier jeans, sweatshirts, casual sweaters and a couple of white cotton blouses.

Amy picked up T-shirts, a halter top in bright pink and a couple of lacy tunic tops Claire wasn't sure about. Then they made their way to the dressing room.

Thirty minutes later, she had a casual wardrobe filled with easy-care cotton and fun colors. She bought jeans with flowers sewn on the back pockets and skimpy T-shirts that fit snugly enough to both make her nervous and make her feel good about herself.

She bought blouses and a couple of sweatshirts, along with a few sweaters. Nothing in black, nothing she couldn't wash. The five bags they dragged back to the car had cost less than the last designer blouse and skirt she'd bought only two months ago.

Amy helped her stow the bags in the trunk. Claire pushed it shut.

"That was fun," she said, then signed, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Amy said. "Bookstore now."

They stopped for ice cream first, at the Cold Stone Creamery, then sat in the sun at a metal table to eat their snack.

"How was school?" Claire asked.

"Good," Amy signed, then switched to voice. "We practice speaking," she said slowly. "Practice every day."

"Can you hear anything?" Claire asked.

"Tone. Not words."

"What if I yell really loud?"

Amy giggled, then signed, "I'm deaf."

Claire couldn't imagine not hearing. Memories of music she'd played filled her head, making her ache to be at the keyboard again. Her fingers curled into her palms. How could she both love and hate playing at the same time? No matter how she filled her day, the nagging sense of needing to practice haunted her. Yet the thought of sitting down at a piano made her chest tighten with the first whispers of a panic attack.

"Were you always deaf?" Claire asked.

Amy nodded, then moved her hands, signing what Claire assumed was born.

"I'm lucky," the girl continued, both signing and speaking. "I can hear a little. Some don't."

"Do you feel sound?" Claire asked, hitting her chest with the palm of her hand. "In your body?"

"Music. I feel music."

She wondered if Amy would be able to feel her play. If putting her hands on the piano would produce enough vibration. Would she be able to tell the difference between notes? Would she recognize the difference in pieces? Would a concerto feel differently than a Broadway show tune?

She was about to suggest they experiment when she remembered that she didn't play anymore. She'd just been panicking a minute before. Why was it so easy to forget she wasn't that person anymore?

They finished their ice cream and went to the bookstore. Amy helped her pick out a couple of basic cookbooks.

"Now I can cook dinner," Claire said.

Amy nodded and flipped through the book. She pointed to a meat loaf recipe.

Claire read the list of ingredients. It didn't look hard.

"For tonight?" she asked.

Amy nodded.

The recipe suggested mashed potatoes and carrots. Under vegetables she actually found a recipe for mashed potatoes and a chart that told her how long to steam carrots. It was a miracle.

"Grocery store?" she asked Amy.

The girl smiled at her. "I know where."

They made their way to a grocery store, with Amy giving great directions. Claire chuckled as she wondered who was babysitting whom.

They gathered potatoes, carrots, an onion, found the hamburger, although Claire was momentarily stumped by the different kinds. She bought the one that cost the most and hoped it was right.

"Your daughter is so pretty," an older woman said as she walked past them. "She has your eyes."

The comment surprised Claire, but she smiled. "Thank you. She looks a lot like her dad."

"I'm sure he's a handsome man."

Claire thought about the last time she'd seen Wyatt. He'd been on the landing, in Nicole's house. As usual, he'd been frustrated by her. She wasn't sure why she pushed all his buttons; she certainly wasn't trying.

"He's pretty cute," she admitted.

The woman smiled and moved on.

Amy touched Claire's arm. "What did she say?"

"She thought you were my daughter. She said we had the same eyes."

Amy studied her for a second, then raised her hand, fingers together, thumb across her palm. "Blue," she said, wiggling her hand back and forth.

Claire repeated the sign. They did both have blue eyes, and they were blond, she thought. Amy was lucky-her beautiful color was natural while Claire's required a touch-up and highlights every four weeks.

"My mom is gone," Amy said. "She moved away."