Meg reached out, touched May's hand. "You trusted a man who told you he loved you. Now he's counting on you to be good ole accommodating May, the woman who puts her family first and makes life easy for Dr. Dale Monroe."

May looked confused by that, maybe even a little frightened. Meghann understood; women like May had forgotten a long time ago how to make waves.

That was fine. It was her lawyer's job anyway.

"What should we do? I don't want to hurt the children."

"He's the one who's hurt the children, May. He's stolen money from them. And from you."

"But he's a good father."

"Then he'll want to see that they're provided for. If he's got a shred of decency in him, he'll hand over half of the a.s.sets without a fight. If he does that, it'll be a cakewalk."

May knew the truth that Meghann had already surmised. A man like this didn't share well. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then, we'll make him."

"He'll be angry."

Meghann leaned forward. "You're the one who should be angry, May. This man lied to you, cheated on you, and stole from you."

"He also fathered my children," May answered with a calm that Meghann found exasperating. "I don't want this to get ugly. I want him . . . to know he can come home."

Oh, May.

Meghann chose her words carefully. "We're simply going to be fair, May. I don't want to hurt anyone, but you d.a.m.n sure aren't going to be screwed over and left dest.i.tute by this man. Period. He's a very, very wealthy orthodontist. You should be wearing Armani and driving a Porsche."

"I've never wanted to wear Armani."

"And maybe you never will, but it's my job to make sure you have every option. I know it seems cold and harsh right now, May, but believe me, when you're exhausted from raising those two children by yourself and Dr. Smiles is driving around town in a new Porsche and dancing the night away with his twenty-six-year-old piano teacher, you'll be glad you can afford to do whatever you want. Trust me on this."

May looked at her. A tiny, heartbreaking frown tugged at her mouth. "Okay."

"I won't let him hurt you anymore."

"You think a few rounds of paperwork and a pile of money in the bank will protect me from that?" She sighed. "Go ahead, Ms. Dontess, do what you need to do to protect my children's future. But let's not pretend you can make it painless, okay? It already hurts so much I can barely breathe, and it has just begun."

Across the blistered expanse of prairie gra.s.s, a row of windmills dotted the cloudless horizon. Their thick metal blades turned in a slow and steady rhythm. Sometimes, when the weather was just right, you could hear the creaking thwop-thwop-thwop of each rotation.

Today, it was too d.a.m.n hot to hear anything except the beating of your own heart.

Joe Wyatt stood on the poured-concrete slab that served as the warehouse's front porch, holding a now-warm can of c.o.ke, all that was left of his lunch.

He stared at the distant fields, wishing he were walking along the wide rows between the trees, smelling the sweet scent of rich earth and growing fruit.

There might be a breeze down there; even a breath of one would alleviate this stifling heat. Here, there was only the hot sun, beating down on the metal warehouse. Perspiration sheened his forehead and dampened the skin beneath his T-shirt.

The heat was getting to him and it was only the second week of June. There was no way he could handle summer in the Yakima Valley. It was time to move on again.

The realization exhausted him.

Not for the first time, he wondered how much longer he could do this, drift from town to town. Loneliness was wearing him down, whittling him away to a stringy shadow; unfortunately, the alternative was worse.

Once-it felt long ago now-he'd hoped that one of these places would feel right, that he'd come into some town, think, This is it This is it, and dare to rent an apartment instead of a seedy motel room.

He no longer harbored such dreams. He knew better. After a week in the same room, he started to feel things, remember things. The nightmares would start. The only protection he had found was strangeness. If a mattress was never "his," if a room remained unfamiliar territory, he could sometimes sleep for more than two hours at a time. If he settled in, got comfortable, and slept longer, he invariably dreamed about Diana.

That was okay. It hurt, of course, because seeing her face-even in his dreams-filled him with an ache that ran deep in his bones, but there was pleasure, too, a sweet remembrance of how life used to be, of the love he'd once been capable of feeling. If only the dreams stopped there, with memories of Diana sitting on the green gra.s.s of the Quad in her college days or of them cuddled up in their big bed in the house on Bainbridge Island.

He was never that lucky. The sweet dreams invariably soured and turned ugly. More often than not, he woke up whispering, "I'm sorry."

The only way to survive was to keep moving and never make eye contact.

He'd learned in these vagrant years how to be invisible. If a man cut his hair and dressed well and held down a job, people saw him. They stood in line for the bus beside him, and in small towns they struck up conversations.

But if a man let himself go, if he forgot to cut his hair and wore a faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt and ragged, faded Levi's, and carried a ratty backpack, no one noticed him. More important, no one recognized him.

Behind him, the bell rang. With a sigh, he stepped into the warehouse. The icy cold hit him instantly. Cold storage for the fruit. The sweat on his face turned clammy. He tossed his empty c.o.ke can in the trash, then went back outside.

For a split second, maybe less, the heat felt good; by the time he reached the loading dock, he was sweating again.

"Wyatt," the foreman yelled, "what do you think this is, a d.a.m.n picnic?"

Joe looked at the endless row of slat-sided trucks, filled to heaping with newly picked cherries. Then he studied the other men unloading the crates-Mexicans mostly, who lived in broken-down trailers on patches of dry, dusty land without flushing toilets or running water.

"No, sir," he said to the florid-faced foreman who clearly got his kicks from yelling at his workers. "I don't think this is a picnic."

"Good. Then get to work. I'm docking you a half an hour's pay."

In his former life, Joe would have grabbed the foreman by his sweaty, dirty collar and shown him how men treated one another.

Those days were gone.

Slowly, he walked toward the nearest truck, pulling a pair of canvas gloves out of his back pocket as he moved.

It was time to move on.

Claire stood at the kitchen sink, thinking about the phone conversation with Meg yesterday.

"Mommy, can I have another Eggo?"

"How do we ask for that?" Claire said absently.

"Mommy, may I please please have another Eggo?" have another Eggo?"

Claire turned away from the window and dried her hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven door. "Sure." She popped a frozen waffle into the toaster. While it was warming, she looked around the kitchen for more dirty dishes- And saw the place through her sister's eyes.

It wasn't a bad house, certainly not by Hayden standards. Small, yes: three tiny bedrooms tucked into the peaked second floor; a single bathroom on each floor; a living room; and a kitchen with an eating s.p.a.ce that doubled as a counter. In the six years Claire had lived here, she'd painted the once moss-green walls a creamy French vanilla and replaced the orange s.h.a.g carpeting with hardwood floors. Her furniture, although mostly secondhand, was all framed in wood that she'd stripped and refinished herself. Her pride and joy was a Hawaiian koa-wood love seat. It didn't look like much in the living room, with its faded red cushions, but someday, when she lived on Kauai, it would stop people in their tracks.

Meg would see it differently, of course. Meg, who'd graduated high school early and then breezed through seven years of college, who never failed to mention that she had buckets of money, and had the nerve to send her niece Christmas gifts that made the others under the tree look paltry by comparison.

"My waffle's up."

"So it is." Claire took the waffle from the slot, b.u.t.tered and cut it, then put the plate in front of her daughter. "Here you go."

Alison immediately stabbed a piece and popped it into her mouth, chewing in that cartoon-character way of hers.

Claire couldn't help smiling. Her daughter had had that effect on her since birth. She stared down at the miniature version of herself. Same fine blond hair and pale skin, same heart-shaped face. Although there were no pictures of Claire at five, she imagined that she and Alison were almost carbon copies of each other. Alison's father had left no genetic imprint on his daughter.

It was fitting. The minute he'd heard Claire was pregnant, he'd reached for his running shoes.

"You're in your jammies, Mommy. We're gonna be late if you don't hurry."

"You're right about that." Claire thought about all the things she had to do today: mow the back field; recaulk the showers and bathroom windows; bleach the mildewed wall in cabin three; unplug the toilet in cabin five; and repair the canoe shed. It was early yet, not even 8:00, on the last day of school. Tomorrow, they'd be leaving for a week of rest and fun at Lake Chelan. She hoped she could get everything done in time. She glanced around. "Have you seen my work list, Alison?"

"On the coffee table."

Claire picked up her list from the table, shaking her head. She had absolutely no memory of leaving it there. Sometimes she wondered how she'd get by without Alison.

"I want ballet lessons, Mommy. Is that okay?"

Claire smiled. It occurred to her-one of those pa.s.sing thoughts that carried a tiny sting-that she'd once wanted to be a ballerina, too. Meghann had encouraged her to dream that dream, even though there had been no money for lessons.

Well, that wasn't quite true. There had been money for Mama's Mama's dance lessons, but none for Claire's. dance lessons, but none for Claire's.

Once, though, when Claire had been about six or seven, Meghann had arranged for a series of Sat.u.r.day-morning lessons with a junior high friend of hers. Claire had never forgotten those few perfect mornings.

Her smile faded.

Alison was frowning at her, one cheek bunched up midbite. "Mommy? Ballet?"

"I wanted to be a ballerina once. Did you know that?"

"Nope."

"Unfortunately, I have feet the size of canoes."

Ali giggled. "Canoes are huge huge, Mommy. Your feet are just really big."

"Thanks." She laughed, too.

"How come you're a worker bee if you wanted to be a ballerina?"

"Worker bee is what Grampa calls me. Really I'm an a.s.sistant manager."

It had happened a long time ago, her choosing this life. Like most of her decisions, she'd stumbled across it without paying much attention. First, she'd flunked out of Washington State University-one of the many party casualties of higher education. She hadn't known then, of course, that Meghann was basically right. College gave a girl choices. Without a degree, or a dream, Claire had found herself back in Hayden. Originally, she'd meant to stay a month or so, then move to Kauai and learn to surf, but then Dad got bronchitis and was down for a month. Claire had stepped in to help him out. By the time her father was back on his feet and ready to resume his job, Claire had realized how much she loved this place. She was, in that and in so many things, her father's daughter.

Like him, she loved this job; she was outside all day, rain or shine, working on whatever needed to be done. When she finished each ch.o.r.e, she saw tangible proof of her labor. There was something about these gorgeous sixteen acres along the river that filled her soul.

It didn't surprise her that Meghann didn't understand. Her sister, who valued education and money above everything, saw this place as a waste of time.

Claire tried not to let that condemnation matter. She knew her job wasn't much in the great scheme of things, just managing a few campsites and a couple of cabins, but she never felt like a failure, never felt that her life was a disappointment.

Except when she talked to her sister.

CHAPTER THREE.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, CLAIRE WAS READY TO LEAVE on vacation. She took a last pa.s.s through the tiny house, looking for anything forgotten or left undone, but everything was as it should be. The windows were locked, the dishwasher was empty, and all the perishables had been taken out of the fridge. She was straightening the shower curtain when she heard footsteps in the living room. on vacation. She took a last pa.s.s through the tiny house, looking for anything forgotten or left undone, but everything was as it should be. The windows were locked, the dishwasher was empty, and all the perishables had been taken out of the fridge. She was straightening the shower curtain when she heard footsteps in the living room.

"What in the name of a frog's b.u.t.t b.u.t.t are you still doing here?" are you still doing here?"

She smiled and backed out of the minuscule bathroom.

Her father stood in the living room. As always, he dwarfed the small s.p.a.ce. Big and broad-shouldered, he made every room seem smaller by comparison. But it was his personality that was truly oversize.

She'd first met him when she was nine years old. She'd been small for her age, and so shy she only spoke to Meghann in those days. Dad had seemed larger than life when he stepped into their travel trailer. Well Well, he'd said as he looked down at her, you must be my daughter, Claire. You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen. Let's go home. you must be my daughter, Claire. You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen. Let's go home.

Home.

It was the word she'd waited for, dreamed of. It had taken her years-and more than a few tears-to realize that he hadn't offered the same welcome to Meghann. By then, of course, by the time Claire understood the mistake, it was well past the time to rectify it.

"Hey, Dad. I was making sure everything was ready for you to move in."

His grin showed a row of Chiclet-white dentures. "You know d.a.m.n well I ain't moving in here. I like like my mobile home. A man doesn't need this much room. I got my fridge and my satellite TV. That's all I need." my mobile home. A man doesn't need this much room. I got my fridge and my satellite TV. That's all I need."

They'd been having this discussion ever since Claire had moved back to the property and Dad had given her use of the house. He swore up and down that the mobile home hidden in the trees was more than room enough for a fifty-six-year-old single man.

"But, Dad-"

"Don't talk about my b.u.t.t. I know it's getting bigger. Now, dance on over here and give your old man a hug."

Claire did as she was told.

His big, strong arms enfolded her, made her feel safe and adored. He smelled faintly of disinfectant today. That was when she remembered the bathroom that needed fixing.

"I'll leave in an hour," she said. "The toilet in cabin-"

He spun her around and pushed her gently toward the door. "Get going. This place isn't going to fall apart without you. I'll fix the d.a.m.n toilet. And And I'll remember to pick up the PVC pipe you ordered and to stack the wood under cover. If you remind me again, I'll have to hurt you. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is." I'll remember to pick up the PVC pipe you ordered and to stack the wood under cover. If you remind me again, I'll have to hurt you. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."