"That's so sweet," Donna whispered. She looked like she might cry, and then she looked pleased.

"You're feeling bad and you're worried about me.

It's nothing like that. He has headaches*episodes*where he doesn't remember much. Poor thing." Donna leaned closer, "Between you and me, I don't think his mom and dad were as wonderful as he makes them out. But he's strong, and he's optimistic. He doesn't even see his therapist any more. Just as well. It sounded like the man was taking him for a ride in the last few years anyway."

"How so?"

"You know, keeping Bill on for the monthly check. I was surprised to hear it because when Bill mentioned the man's name I thought maybe we had the same doctor. I was so silly." She laughed at herself.

"I took that as a sign that we were meant to be together. But my Dr. Carol wasn't his Dr. Carrol because mine was a woman and she liked to be called by her first name and his doctor had the last name spelled with two r's."

"So much for fate." Tara forced herself to keep her lips tight together so she wouldn't sing an alleluia.

She would have thrown her arms around Donna and crushed her in a bearhug, but then she'd have to explain herself.

"The mistake's understandable.

Albuquerque's not that big a place.

I can see how you'd jump to that conclusion."

"Oh, that was even sillier. His doctor Carrol isn't even in Albuquerque. He's in Santa Fe." Donna opted for a handful of crackers this time, no cheese, and sat cross-legged on the couch, happy the conversation was lighter. She picked through the crackers looking for those that were perfectly golden.

"I'd be a basket case if I had to drive all the way to Santa Fe to see my shrink. Wouldn't you?"

Tara laughed, "I don't know. I think I might drive that far if I thought that was the doctor who could help me."

"Reverend Halliday, it was so good of you to come. I hope we'll see you again.

Charlotte shook the reverend's one hand in her two and smiled sweetly. He was a huge man with more than his share of extra padding. She'd spent most of the evening wondering if her delicate dining room chairs would hold up until dessert. Now she was sending him on his way, with a little prayer of thanks. The chair had survived.

"I enjoyed myself thoroughly, Mrs. Weber."

"Charlotte, please," she responded generously.

"Charlotte. Well, I always thought Woodrow would make a fine governor, but after meeting you I think he's the perfect candidate. It would be wonderful to have a woman in the mansion who enjoyed doing the things women should. The current governor's wife seems to think that she should have her hand in matters of government. Absurd."

"Well, I enjoy keeping house, boring as that is.

And I'm so glad you enjoyed the dinner. The only problem I'd have as the governor's wife is dealing with all those people who'd want me out of the kitchen."

Reverend Halliday laughed, gathered his own wife, and lumbered down the walk, leaving behind a pleased Charlotte. She felt triumphant, even though evenings such as this belonged to Woodrow. She set the stage, he stood center. Charlotte was very proud of him and would be his partner to the end.

"Good night!"

Woodrow was beside her now, calling out to the retreating figures. They didn't turn. They hadn't heard him. That was fine. Woodrow put his hand on her shoulders as she closed the door. He kissed the top of her head.

"Come on, I'll help with the dishes."

"You don't have to, honey," Charlotte said, secretly pleased when Woodrow trailed her to the dining room and began stacking.

"You had such a miserable day I'm surprised you made it through the dinner. I can't believe Tara asking you to put that man in the hospital just like that."

"Charlotte, she has a point. I just can't imagine winning that one, and I've taken such a trouncing on the rapist case and now this basketball betting scam with the high school."

Woodrow raised his voice. He was talking to the air. Charlotte was already in the kitchen with the water running. He carried in six dishes, three winegla.s.ses, and a handful of silver. He deposited them in the sink, sank into a chair, and rubbed his eyes under his gla.s.ses. Charlotte was his best friend, his confidante. Luckily he hadn't married someone with problems as big as his own.

"I'm no expert, Woodrow, but it seems to me that George has a point. Any press is good as long as your name is in front of the public. The governor is getting so much coverage with this crack baby thing. Then he adopted that little baby.

Sometimes I wonder if he didn't do that just for press value."

"Charlotte." Woodrow verbally waggled a finger at her overstatement.

"Well, Woodrow, you never know. I do think if there's anything to Tara's client's case, you ought to go for it. I've listened to you talk about the law.

From what you say, a jury would be sympathetic to the victim in this case. They wouldn't need a lot of evidence, would they? I mean sympathy counts for a lot. Look at those two brothers who murdered their parents in California." Charlotte stacked a few plates in the dishwasher, stole a look at her husband, saw the hurt in his face, and quickly amended her lecture.

"But of course you're the expert, honey.

Whatever you think best. I'm sure you know what's right for everyone."

Woodrow stood up. He was too tired to talk anymore.

"It's not a matter of making a decision, Charlotte.

Sympathy wouldn't hold up on appeal even if I managed to convict on one piece of evidence and sympathy. And Tara hasn't told me who this man is."

"Oh, you could figure it out," Charlotte said brightly , holding her soapy hands over the sink.

"You are the smartest man I know, Woodrow Weber.

I'm so proud of you. You'll get what you need.

A confession or something."

"Or something," Woodrow said quietly.

"I thiink I'm going to bed. Do you mind?"

"Of course not. You go on. I won't be a minute."

Her hands were back in the water. She was happier doing the dishes alone anyway. The ch.o.r.e freed her mind and she let it roam. Plans for the Women Voters Coalition tea were refined. She mentally composed a short two-fold mailer with pictures and she thought about all the things Woodrow had told her about Tara. Another pitfall was die last tfiing Woodrow needed.

Charlotte sighed and rinsed the last of the gla.s.ses. She flipped off the kitchen light and headed upstairs, taking off her jewelry as she went.

She turned off die stairwell light on die landing, and began to unb.u.t.ton her blouse. She'd slip into die pink negligee Woodrow liked so much. But when she got to the bedroom, Woodrow was asleep, his gla.s.ses askew on his nose, an unread brief lying on his chest.

Gently Charlotte took the brief, put it on die bedside table, and kissed her husband's forehead.

Woodrow mumbled, his sleep disturbed, and turned on his side. Charlotte covered him, then changed into the flannel pajamas she kept for nights just like this.

Finally, crawling in beside her husband, Charlotte put her hand on his shoulder and patted, wishing for all the world that she could make all the bad things go away so Woodrow could do what he was meant to do.

Nine.

Tara took the Turquoise Trail, a winding trek that degenerated from four lanes of blacktop to two just outside Albuquerque as it headed straight into Santa Fe. It would have been faster to take Interstate 25, but Tara needed time alone. Away from Albuquerque she might be able to decide if she was crazy.

During the last two days Bill Hamilton had been a perfect house guest.

He had fixed a fence rail.

Tara had heard him laughing, making suggestions for Donna's latest book. And always, when they happened to cross paths alone together, he asked if she had heard anything. Oh please, he would say politely, had she heard? And Tara lived this odd nightmare and she hadn't heard anything.

That really scared her. That terrorized her in the bright light of day instead of the dark of night She needed a break and she needed to do something constructive.

Her eyes drifted to the mesa as she drove. She was dazzled by the red blanket of earth and the seamless canopy of robin's-egg blue sky, the breathy clouds, the hidden sun, and a flutter of snow. The scene empowered her and she hated the thought of it. Empowerment! A crazy concept concocted by the media to make women think they weren't living up to some stunning potential. But Tara believed one either had power or didn't. At least she'd believed that until Bill Hamilton had come into her life.

He had taken away her power of objectivity because Donna was involved. He had destroyed the power of her position; it was now at odds with her emotions as a friend. Now Tara wondered if he'd made a dent in her power of persuasion. What should have been a simple series of inquiries was now suspect because of Woodrow's silence. He hadn't returned her calls and that left her uncertain and nervous. Bill Hamilton should have been in a state mental facility within days, yet he still lounged in her home, grinned at her, and slept with Donna Ecold.

Swinging the Jeep onto the shoulder of the road, Tara left the car and stretched. She breathed in, raised her face, closed her eyes. She prayed silently, standing, that some surety would come to her soon.

If she'd thought it would help, Tara Limey would have knelt on the earth and clasped her hands, begging to be captain of her own destiny again.

Tara opened her eyes. No burning bush appeared at her feet; the earth didn't open up to spew forth its spirits. She was alone with this unfamiliar turmoil. Tara got back in the car and went forward, not back.

She made Santa Fe by noon. An easy drive into a town she appreciated, but never really enjoyed.

There were too many people, too close together, spending too much money on things they didn't need. Tara honked at a woman in an immense fox coat who had left the door of her yellow Mercedes wide open while she ran into a shop to drop something off or grab something up. Maneuvering the Jeep around the open door, she hoped the car behind her would take that door off its hinges. To keep frustration at bay. Fate gave her a freebie. A parking s.p.a.ce big enough for the Jeep opened up on Canyon Road. Tara tucked the car into the s.p.a.ce, hopped out, and started looking for the office of Dr. Stanford Carrol, psychiatrist.

She found it in a pink stucco building above a lovely store, its windows full of antiques and unusual collectibles from third-world countries. A tin box caught Tara's eye. She pa.s.sed by easily. Donna was on her mind. She climbed a narrow flight of stairs, once painted brick red and now charmingly chipped and worn. Bill moved into her mind with Donna. Tara stumbled. The mere thought of him unnerved her. These were the steps he'd climbed even as a boy. She wondered if his mind was as disturbed then as hers was now. Did he frighten himself? Did he feel nothing as he walked to his appointment? She stopped to admire the beautiful little courtyard and calm herself. Tara reveled in the quiet as she slicked back her long hair and twisted it into a rope.

To her left was a door painted hunter green.

The door to her right was cornflower blue.

Straight ahead was one stained the natural color of the wood. Stanford Carrol's name was printed neatly in black on that one. An interesting psychological statement, this. No color, wood laid bare.

She walked through it into Dr. Carrol's office.

There were no bells or whistles, not even a receptionist in a short skirt and Indian-p.a.w.ned silver waiting to offer her a.s.sistance in a subdued, but lyrical, voice. Instead, Tara found herself in a small, whitewashed room. The walls were bare, the furniture exquisite: a small table, two overstuffed armchairs, and a love seat. There were side tables at either end of the love seat, a giant ashtray on one of them. Nice touch. Nonjudgmental, this Dr.

Carrol, or simply aware that when the mind is cracked, a nasty habit can be calming. Very cute.

Very chic. Very Santa Fe. Very quiet and it was this last that unnerved Tara most.

She waited, rea.s.sessing her surroundings. No one came in after her, but no one came out from behind the office door, either. Tara paced in the small room, then knocked on the door. Nothing.

Her heart lurched, her stomach churned, and she hated herself for it. Fantasy had never been her thing, and now she was indulging in it on a regular basis. In her mind's eye she saw the door flung open. Bill Hamilton here, surprising her, a maniacal head doctor hot on his heels, both of them reaching for her .. .

Tara tsked, a noise of loathing at her own ridiculous imagination. She reached for the k.n.o.b, and just as she touched it, before she actually had a grip, the door flew open and Tara screamed. So did the young woman on the other side of the door.

"Oh no! Look what I did!" she exclaimed, whipping a huge cloth from the back pocket of her very short shorts. She fell to her knees, putting aside the giant watering can she had in the other hand. She scrubbed furiously.

"Hey, you scared the bejeebbies out of me. I can't believe this. Stan will be furious. He's really funny about his carpets. Not like you can hurt wool with water. What about the sheep, for goodness' sake? They stand out in the rain and everything." She wiped a little more then glanced up.

"Oh, hey, I apologize. You look awful.

I scared the living daylights out of you, too, huh?

Come on, sit down."

Tara had laid herself back against the wall, the breath knocked out of her. In her mind's eye it had been Bill there, Bill screaming back at her.

Perhaps it was the idea that her imagination could be so fertile that paralyzed Tara more than anything else.

"No. No, really." Tara backed away from the girl.

"I'm fine, honest. You just surprised me. I knocked and no one came, so I a.s.sumed I was alone."

"I was way in the back. Can't hear a thing in Stan's office *cause it's soundproof. That's so no one hears what's going on inside." Her fingers posed for emphasis and Tara was reminded of a Balinese dancer. For some reason it seemed odd that she wasn't chewing bubble gum.

"Stan can't hear outside his office. There's a light on his desk that tells him when people come in. Want to see it?"

Tara's smile was shaky, but she managed it. This girl was so cute she couldn't help but like her.

"No, thank you. Is he back there though? I do have an appointment."

"Oh, you're the one." The moppet-coiffed girl backed off and retrieved her watering can.

"He told me you might come while I was here. I'm the Green Girl." Proudly she held up her watering can and patted a plant spritzer at her waist.

"I take care of the plants in offices around here. I have a key and everything. They all trust me, you know, so that's why Stan gave me a message to give to you. He said you could either wait or meet him at the Loretto Chapel. You know where that is?"

"I have an idea."

"Good, *cause I'm busy. I have a ficus that's weeping all this sticky stuff and it's really yucky."

She stuck out her tongue and screwed up her nose and looked cuter than Meg Ryan.

"I wouldn't want to take you away from that."

"Oh thanks. I'm so glad. I wouldn't mind walking you over there, but this is kind of important," the girl said. " "Course it's not as important as what Stan's doing." She moved and Tara smelled spring.