"What were you interested in back then?" He gazed across the water, watching ripples spread from where some creature had broken the surface, and considered all the things he'd wanted-escape, freedom, power, wealth, success. They could all be summed up in one word. "Survival."

"Me too," she agreed softly. She gave him a weak smile. "Who would ever have thought we'd have something in common?"

It was ironic. Holly, with her privileged upbringing in a storybook town and her prestigious family name, and Tom, raised poor in a hellish neighborhood, with his nothing name. For her, survival had meant feeling wanted, even if only for the length of time it took an eager young man to finish the sex act. For him, it had meant getting everything in great measure.

And they'd both succeeded-too well, in fact. She couldn't imagine a man who would want her for anything besides sex, and he couldn't find a woman who wanted him for anything besides the success.

"What's your favorite color?" he asked.

"You tell me."

He glanced at her clothes-black trousers and red sweater under a tan jacket-then remembered the dresses she'd worn each time he'd seen her in recent weeks. "Green." It flattered her in all its shades, played up the creamy tint of her skin, and highlighted the red in her auburn hair.

"What's your favorite color?" she asked.

"Green."

She grinned. "I should have guessed. The color of money."

"The color you look best in," he corrected. The green dress she'd worn to his birthday dinner. The flashy, sexy dress that Saturday night in Buffalo . The deep, dark green she'd chosen for the dance.

"Smooth answer," she teased. "What's your favorite holiday?"

"You and your holidays. Just because you never outgrew them doesn't mean other people didn't."

"What does that mean? You can't think of any to name? Let me help you. There's Christmas and Easter and the Fourth of July. That's when the town fathers blow a small fortune on fireworks in the sky. Come on, your favorite holiday," she prodded.

It was easier to think of the ones that weren't his favorites. He'd outgrown Halloween pretty quickly. Valentine's Day was just an excuse for people to expect expensive gifts. Even with a good Irish name like Flynn, St. Patrick's Day wasn't noteworthy. Christmas and Thanksgiving were family holidays that left him feeling nothing so much as alone. "Fourth of July," he said, choosing the answer by default.

"Why?"

"Because I like fireworks, and I don't mind the risk of getting burned."

She smiled seductively at his answer, but went on with her questions. "What's your favorite word?"

"Oh, come on. No one has favorite words."

She got to her feet and came to stand in front of him, hands in her pockets. "Sure they do. Think about it. What one word do you like to say? To hear? What word makes you feel good?"

Looping his arm around her waist, Tom pulled her close, ducked his head, and murmured his answer before kissing her. "Yes."

For a moment she held herself stiff, then abruptly she melted against him, bringing her could into full contact with his. The rock behind him was hard, her could soft. The air was cold, the kiss hot. Hungry. Demanding. Greedy. Better than the last.

When he pulled away, she blinked and whispered, "Wow."

"Thank you."

"No," she said, dazedly shaking her head. "That's my favorite word. Wow." She moved away as if she didn't want to, then gave a final shake of her head to clear it. It didn't make her sound any more alert, any sharper, or any less well-kissed. "It's snowing. We'd better head back."

It was a light snow, tiny flakes that melted before they hit the ground, but Tom didn't argue with her. He followed her up the embankment, then back down again. When the trail widened, he moved to walk beside her, then slid his arm around her and tugged her closer. After a moment's resistance, she came willingly, even going so far as to put her arm around him.

But only until the inn came into sight. Then she pulled away, putting distance between them. Was she worried that someone would see them and think she was softening to him and his proposal?

He wanted to think she was, but he wouldn't bet on it yet. Sure, she'd been perfectly willing to kiss him out there, but her kissing him wasn't the problem. She'd been willing to do that practically from the day they'd met. It was all part of her goal-seduction. Which conflicted with his goal of abstinence until marriage.

Then he looked down at her-her hair glistening with melted snowflakes, her cheeks pink from the cold, and her mouth kissed free of lipstick and looking damned inviting-and amended the statement of his goal. Abstinence was fine up to a point.

The point where she said yes.

* * * Margery sat alone in the lobby, staring at the family portrait on the wall, and wondered why the hell Holly had chosen to display that particular photograph. It wasn't as if she hadn't had other choices. The farmhouse had been filled with portraits of dead McBrides when she and Lewis had moved in-dead, judgmental McBrides, who'd stared down at her with condemnation. For a time she had believed that they'd known how much she hated their house, their town, even, at times, their descendant.

On one of Lewis's countless trips away-his stupid, more-important-than-her trips-she'd ripped every family portrait from the walls and tossed them into boxes and corners in the attic. He hadn't even noticed for a month, and then only because she'd pointed it out to him in a fit of pique. He hadn't cared.

That had been the hardest part to bear. At some point he'd stopped loving her, and then he'd stopped hating her. He had shown her nothing but indifference. He'd made his trips, had his affairs, ruined her life, and hadn't even cared.

Her fingers curled around the curved arms of the chair where she sat, pressing so hard that she was sure the wood's carved pattern would be visible on her fingertips. All her life she'd been blessed with passion, but too often it appeared in the form of anger, rage, helplessness, and hopelessness. She'd never felt anything in half measures.

Late this Friday evening, she felt hopeless. After last week's humiliation at the dance, she'd vowed to sober up, never again to do anything that might embarrass her daughter. She'd made it through the first few days, when she was sick as a dog with her hangover, when she was struggling with the burden of her shame, without even thinking about a drink. She'd made it though the next few days, too, but booze had been on her mind. Everything she did reminded her of drinking. Everything she ate would taste better, she was convinced, with a glass of wine, a snifter of brandy, or a good Irish beer. Awake, she craved it. Asleep, she dreamed of it.

Late this Friday evening, she'd given in to it.

She had waited until everyone was asleep and the desk clerk had gone home for the night before creeping downstairs to the kitchen. Not wanting to be greedy, she'd poured herself one watered-down drink. One, and that was all. It would satisfy her craving and still leave her as sober as a preacher.

One drink. She could handle that.

But one drink hadn't even taken the edge off her hunger. The second had done that. The third had begun to dissolve it. By the time she'd finished the fourth, she'd begun to feel normal again. The uneasiness was gone. The shakiness was disappearing, too. She was starting to feel like her old self again.

The trick was moderation. No more getting falling-down drunk. No more drinking to the point where she lost control of her tongue. No more appearing in public obviously intoxicated. She could have a few drinks-a mimosa with breakfast, wine with lunch and dinner, a cocktail or two in the evening. If that wasn't enough, then she would drink in her suite. Alone. Away from disapproving eyes. No one would find reason to complain, and Holly would have no cause to give her those looks. God, she hated those damning-her-to-hell McBride looks!

"What are you doing?"

Startled, Margery jumped, then watched her daughter emerge from the shadows of the back hallway. "You frightened me," she said, raising one hand to her chest in mock alarm. "For a moment I feared it was Millicent McBride come back to haunt me."

Holly stood utterly still, debating, Margery knew, whether to stay and talk or to flee her presence. She held her breath while waiting, then gave a tiny, inaudible sigh when her daughter moved closer. "Millicent hasn't shown herself in the last fifteen years."

"Of course not. I was gone. She never showed herself to anyone but me. Your father thought I was hallucinating. You thought I told charming tales ... until you got older." It seemed as if it had happened in an instant. One moment her little girl had been bouncing on the bed, pleading, "Tell me about the ghost, Mama," and the next, she'd given her that haughty McBride look and asked coldly, "Drunk again, Margery?"

Holly's gaze shifted from Margery to the glass on the table beside her. Suspicion darkened her eyes, and her mouth tightened in a way that reminded Margery so much of Lewis. It created a tightness in her chest that threatened to suffocate her, that made her long for just one more taste of scotch to ease it. Instead, she smiled faintly. "It's just plain orange juice. Would you like some?" Her hand was less than steady when she offered the glass, but her gaze didn't waver as she watched Holly lift the glass, sniff, then take a sip. She'd had her scotch in the kitchen, then washed the glass well before filling it with juice. She was glad for the precautions as, with a flush, Holly returned the glass.

"Why are you sitting here looking at that picture?"

"I've been wondering why you chose to hang it. It's not exactly a portrait of a happy family."

"No, it isn't. But then, we weren't a happy family, were we?"

"And that was all my fault."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. It's what you've always thought. You never blamed your father for one thing, but me-" Catching herself, Margery dragged in a steadying breath. She'd promised herself before she'd come here that she was not going to do this. No arguments, no accusations, no laying blame. She'd done enough of that in her life.

Seeking a softer, less defensive tone, she asked, "Having trouble sleeping?"

"A bit."

"I-I like your young man."

Wariness changed to annoyance. "What made you think of him? The mention of the word sleep in connection with me? Do you just automatically assume that there's always someone in my bed?"

"N-no, no, not at all. It's just ... I just assumed that he's the reason you're having trouble sleeping. Aren't men usually the reason women lose sleep?"

Holly still scowled at her, but the anger was slowly seeping from her pretty eyes and incredible mouth. Whatever problems Margery and Lewis had shared in their lives, and there had been plenty, they'd certainly created a beautiful daughter. Even without makeup in the middle of the night, she was lovely enough to make a mother's heart ache.

Even though she believed her mother didn't have a heart.

Grudgingly, Holly sat down in the opposite chair, tucking her bare feet underneath her. "Did you have a lot of sleepless nights with Daddy?"

"More than I could count." Once she'd found out about his affairs, she'd fretted every single night he'd slept someplace else. She'd wondered if he told his lovers the same sweet lies he'd once told her, if they were prettier than she, if they knew something she didn't and that was why he preferred their company to hers. When he came home, she'd always confronted him, and at first he'd sworn there was no one else. Then one day he'd stopped denying it. He'd simply given her that look, then ignored her. For the rest of their marriage.

"Why?"

Blinking, Margery looked at Holly.

"Why did you lose sleep over Daddy?"

There had been times when Margery had relished the idea of telling Holly every sordid detail. She'd threatened Lewis with it in arguments, had threatened to tell his precious little girl exactly what kind of man he was, and he'd threatened her right back with promises of divorce. He'd died before either could make good, and since then ... A person was entitled to at least a few illusions about their parents. Since Holly had none about her mother, she should be allowed to hold on to the ones about her father.

"Living in Bethlehem , his travel schedule." Smiling weakly, she waved her hand. "Just things. You'll find out when you and your young man settle down."

"We're not getting married," Holly said through clenched teeth.

"I heard you'd said that."

"Then why didn't you believe it?"

"Because, baby girl, Tom Flynn didn't get to be one of the most powerful men in the state by taking no for an answer." Margery gave her a sidelong look. "What do you have against him?"

"Nothing."

"Then it must be the marriage part that's putting you off. Why?"

"Well, gee, let's consider that. It couldn't be because you and Daddy were so happy together. Couldn't have anything to do with the way you two fought all the time, now could it? Or the way you both got so angry and went off to lick your wounds and forgot all about me?"

She looked as if she expected an argument. Margery didn't give her one.

"You're right, we did. We were terrible parents, and we punished you for our own and each other's sins. But you're not like us, Holly. You're a lovely, intelligent, capable, generous woman. Any marriage you make will be in a different universe from ours."

Once the surprise disappeared from her face, Holly said, "That's not the only reason. I have no desire to be married. I don't need a man in my life."

"No, of course not. But they certainly come in handy from time to time."

"You mean sex. I can get that without the constriction of marriage."

"Actually," Margery said with a delicate smile, "I meant when things go wrong. When the car won't start or your tire goes flat or you turn on the heat in the middle of a blizzard and get nothing but cold air. But, dear, as long as you mentioned it, that, too. Though if you make a good choice, it won't be just sex. It'll be lovemaking, and there's a difference. Trust me."

"I'm perfectly capable of calling a mechanic or a repairman to handle those kinds of problems, and whether you call it sex or lovemaking, it's still the same act. There can't be much of a difference."

"Spoken like a woman who's never been properly loved," Margery said with a sorrowful sigh. And was that her fault, too? Had she and Lewis neglected their daughter's emotional needs so completely she'd buried them away? Because they hadn't loved her the way they should have, did she believe she was unlovable? Or had she convinced herself that she was immune to love-didn't want it, didn't need it, was never going to have it?

God help them, she and Lewis had a lot to answer for.

Rather than respond, Holly left her chair and stalked barefoot across gleaming wood floors to the doors. "Is it still snowing?"

"I don't know. I haven't looked." Margery followed her, but kept her distance. When Holly leaned against the jamb on one side of the double doors, she leaned against the other. "Oh, it is. Isn't it lovely?"

"I've never heard you say anything the least bit complimentary about this house or this town."

Margery smiled. "Snow covers a myriad of sins. Even you would find beauty in New York blanketed by snow."

"Maybe." Gazing out again, Holly casually said, "You must be missing it. When are you going back?"

Truthfully, Margery did miss it, but not the way she had before. The older she got, the more acutely she felt the emptiness in her life, regardless of where she was. The things she'd missed so terribly about the city weren't the things that, in the long run, truly mattered. If they were-if life in the city were so perfect-why did she drink to cope there, just as she had in Bethlehem ? If her life was so good there, why was she so damned lonely?

"Don't worry, dear. I'll get out of your hair soon." Before Holly could feel obligated to respond graciously, she changed the subject. "I like that girl Bree. You know, she seems so familiar to me. Does her family have some connection to Bethlehem ? Are they people I might have met?"

Holly gazed at her for a moment, then the wariness slowly faded. "I doubt it. As far as I know, she has no ties to the town. She just left home without much money and wound up here. But you're right. There is something familiar about her."

"One of these days I'll figure it out." Margery faked a yawn, then glanced at the grandfather clock that had tormented her every waking hour when she'd lived in the farmhouse. Now she found its steady ticking and relentless chiming of passing hours oddly comforting. "It's almost two o'clock . We'd better get to bed." She started up the stairs, then turned back. "I enjoyed talking with you tonight, Holly. Thank you."

Turning away from her daughter's puzzled, distrustful look, she held her head high and climbed the stairs to the second floor. There she let herself into her room, closed and locked the door, sat down on the bed ... and began to cry.

Chapter 12.

T he snow stopped during the night, leaving a few inches on the ground that quickly turned to slush in the streets. Bundled against the cold, Agatha Winchester stood on the porch of the house she shared with her sister and watched the activity in the yard. Nathan Bishop was shoveling her driveway, and Brendan, his young nephew, was at work on the sidewalk. Considering that Brendan's shovel was child-sized, and he had to cope with both the tool and Ernest, his beloved stuffed bear, he was making good progress, Agatha thought, and she didn't hesitate to tell him so. With a heart-tugging grin, he thanked her, persuaded Ernest to give her a wave, then returned to work.

"Miss Agatha, come build a snowman with us," Josie, Brendan's eight-year-old sister, called. She and Alanna, the oldest of the Dalton children, had gathered a rather dirty snow-could and were starting to work on the head.

Rather than point out that there really wasn't enough snow for a proper snowman, or question the appropriateness of a woman her age building snowmen at all, Agatha went down the steps to join them. Josie met her halfway and enveloped her in a hug. "Guess what, Miss Agatha? Lannie's birthday is coming soon, and she's gonna be twelve years old, and guess what she wants?"

"Josie!" Alanna warned, but that didn't deter her sister one bit.

"Caleb Brown!" Josie declared. "All she wants for her birthday is Caleb Brown with a great big bow on his head!"