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Chapter 1

I approached Middle River at midnight--pure cowardice on my part.
Had I chosen to, I might have left Washington at seven in the
morning and reached town in time to cruise down Oak Street in broad
daylight. But then I would have been seen. My little BMW
convertible, bought used but adored, would have stood out among the
pickups and vans, and my D.C. plates would have clinched it. Middle
River had expected me back in June for the funeral, but it wasn't
expecting me now. For that reason, my face alone would have drawn
stares.

But I wasn't in the mood to be stared at, much less to be the
night's gossip. As confident as my Washington self was, that
confidence had gradually slipped as I had driven north. I drank
Evian; I nibbled a grilled salmon wrap from Sutton Place and
snacked on milk chocolate Toblerone. I rolled my white jeans into
capris, raised the collar of my imported knit shirt, caught my hair
up in a careless twist held by bamboo sticks--anything to play up
sophistication, to no avail. By the time I reached Middle River, I
was feeling like the dorky misfit I had been when I left town
fifteen years before.

Focus, I told myself for the umpteenth time since leaving
Washington. You're not dorky anymore. You've found your niche.
You're a successful woman, a talented writer. Critics say it; the
reading public says it. The opinion of Middle River doesn't matter.
You're here for one reason, and one reason alone.

Indeed, I was. All I had to do was to remember that Mom wouldn't be
at the house when I arrived, and my anger was stoked. I wrapped
myself in that anger and in the warm night air when, in an act of
defiance just south of town, I lowered the convertible top. When
Middle River came into view, I was able to see every sleepy
inch.

To the naive eye, especially under a clear moon, the setting was
quaint. In Peyton Place, the main street was Elm. In ours,
it was Oak. Running through the center of town, it was wide enough
to allow for sidewalks, trees, and diagonal parking. Shops on
either side were softly lit for the night in a way that gave a
brief inner glimpse of the purpose of each: a lineup of lawn mowers
in Farnum Hardware, shelves of magazines in News 'n Chews, vitamin
displays at The Apothecary. Around the corner was the local pub,
the Sheep Pen, dark except for the frothy stein that hung high
outside.

On my left as I crossed the intersection of Oak and Pine, a
barbershop pole marked the corner where Jimmy Sacco had cut hair
for years before passing his scissors to Jimmy the younger. The
pole gleamed in my headlights, tossing an aura of light across the
benches on either side of the corner. In good weather those benches
were filled, every bit as much the site of gossip-mongering as the
nail shop over on Willow. At night they were empty.

Or usually so. Something moved on one of them now, small and low to
the seat, and I was instantly taken back. Barnaby? Could it be? He
had been just a kitten when I left town. Cats often lived longer
than fifteen years.

Unable to resist, I pulled over to the curb and shifted into park.
Leaving my door open, I went up the single step and, with care now,
across the boardwalk to the bench. I used to love Barnaby. More to
the point, Barnaby used to love me.

But this wasn't Barnaby. Up close, I could see that. This cat,
sitting up now, was a tabby. It was orange, not gray, and more
fuzzy than Barnaby had been. A child of Barnaby's? Possibly. The
old coot had sired a slew of babies over the years. My mother, who
knew of my fondness for Barnaby, had kept me apprised.

Soothed by the faint whiff of hair tonic that clung to the
clapboards behind the bench, I extended a hand to the new guard.
The cat sniffed it front and back, then pushed its head against my
thumb. Smiling, I scratched its ears until, with a put-put-putter,
it began to purr. There is nothing like a cat's purr. I had missed
this.

I was straightening when I heard a murmur. Cats have claws, it
might have said, but when I looked around, there were no shadows,
no human forms.

The cat continued to purr.

I listened for a minute, but the only sound here on the barbershop
porch was that purr. Again, I looked around. Still, nothing.

Chalking it up to fatigue, I returned to my car and drove on--and
again the town's charm hit me. Across the street was the bank and,
set back from the sidewalk, the town hall. The Catholic church was
behind me and the Congregational church ahead, white spires gently
lit. Each was surrounded by its woodsy flock, a generous
congregation of trees casting moon shadows on the land. It was a
poet's dream.

But I was no poet. Nor was I naive. I knew the ugly little secrets
the darkness concealed, and it went far beyond those men who, like
Barnaby, sowed their seed about town. I knew that there was a place
on the sign between Farnum and Hardware where and
Son had been, until that son was arrested for molesting a
nine-year-old neighbor and given a lengthy jail term. I knew that a
bitter family feud had erupted when old man Harriman died,
resulting in the splitting of Harriman's General Store into a
grocery and a bakery, two separate entities, each with its own
door, its own space, and its own sign, and a solid brick wall
between. I knew that there were scorch marks, scrubbed and faded
but visible nonetheless, on the stone front of the newspaper
office, where Gunnar Szlewitchenz, the onetime town drunk, had lit
a fire in anger at the editor for misspelling his name in a piece.
I knew that there was a patched part of the curb in front of the
bank, a reminder of Karl Holt's attempt to use his truck as a
lethal weapon against his cheating wife, who had worked
inside.

These things were legend in Middle River, stories that every native
knew but was loathe to share with outsiders. Middle River was
insular, its face carefully made up to hide warts.

Holding this thought, I managed to avoid nostalgia until I passed
the roses at Road's End Inn. Then it hit in a visceral way. Though
I couldn't see the blooms in the dark, the smell was as familiar to
me as any childhood memory, as evocative of summer in Middle River
as the ripe oak, the pungent hemlock, the moist earth.

Succumbing for an instant, I was a child returning with chocolate
pennies from News 'n Chews, shopping alone for the first time,
using those rosebushes as a marker pointing me home. I could taste
the chocolate, could feel the excitement of being alone, the sense
of being grown-up but just a tad afraid, could smell the
roses--unbelievably fragrant and sweet--and know I was on the right
path.

Now as then, I made a left on Cedar, but I had no sooner completed
the turn when I stepped on the brake. On the road half a block
ahead, spotlit in the dark, was a tangle of bare flesh, one body,
no, two bodies entwined a second too long in that telltale way. By
the time they were up and streaking for the trees amid gales of
laughter, I had my head down, eyes closed, cheeks red. When I
looked up, they were gone. My blush lingered.

"Pulling a backabehind," it was called by the kids in town, and it
had been a daredevil antic for years. Middle River's answer to the
mile-high club, pulling a backabehind entailed making love in the
center of town at midnight. This couple would get points off for
being on Cedar, rather than on Oak, and points off if the coupling
failed to end in, uh, release. Whether they would tell the truth
about either was doubtful, but the retelling would perpetuate the
rite.

Growing up here, I had thought pulling a backabehind was the
epitome of evil. Now, seeing two people clearly enjoying
themselves, doing something they would have done elsewhere anyway,
I was amused. Grace would have loved this. She would have written
it into one of her books. Heck, she would have done it herself,
likely with George, the tall, sexy Greek who was her first and
third husband and, often, her partner in rebellion.

Still smiling, I approached the river. The air was suddenly warmer
and more humid, barely moving past my flushed face as I drove. The
sound of night frogs and crickets rose above the hum of my engine,
but the river flowed silently, seeming this night unwilling to
compete. And yet I knew it was there. It was always there, in both
name and fact. Easily 70 percent of the town's workforce drew a
weekly paycheck from the Northwood Mill account, and the river was
the lifeblood of the mill.

A short block up, I turned right onto Willow. It wasn't the
fanciest street in town; that would be Birch, where the elite lived
in their grand brick-and-ivy Colonials. But what Willow lacked in
grandeur it made up for in charm. The houses here were Victorian,
no two exactly alike. The moon picked out assorted gables,
crossbars, and decorative trim; my headlights bounced off picket
fences of various heights and styles. The front yards were nowhere
near as meticulously manicured as those on Birch, but they were
lush. Maples rose high and spread wide; rhododendron, mountain
laurel, lilac, and forsythia, though well past bloom, were all
richly leafed. And the street's namesake willows? They stood on the
riverbank, as tall and stately as anything weeping could be, their
fountainous forms graceful enough for us to forgive them the mess
their leaves made of our lawns.

Quaint downtown, quintessentially New England homes, historic
mill--I understood how a visitor could fall in love with Middle
River. Its visual appeal was strong. But I wasn't being taken in.
This rose had a thorn; I had been pricked too many times to forget
it. I wasn't here to be charmed, only to find an answer or
two.

Naturally, I was more diplomatic in the voice message I had left
earlier for Phoebe. The few questions I had asked since I'd been
here last hadn't been well received. Phoebe was unsettled and
Sabina defensive. I didn't want to get off on the wrong foot
now.

With Mom gone, Phoebe, who was the oldest of us three, lived alone
in the house where we grew up. If I still had a home in Middle
River, it was here. I didn't consider staying anywhere else.

"Hey, Phoebe," I had said after the beep, "it's me. Believe it or
not, I'm on my way up there. Mom's death keeps nagging at me. I
think I just need to be with you guys a little. Sabina doesn't know
I'm coming. I'll surprise her tomorrow. But I didn't want to
frighten you by showing up unannounced in the middle of the night.
Don't wait up. I'll see you in the morning."

The house was the fifth on the left, yellow with white trim that
glowed in my headlights as I turned into the driveway. Pulling
around Phoebe's van, I parked way back by the garage, where my car
wouldn't be seen from the street. I checked the sky; not a cloud.
Leaving the top down, I climbed out and took my bags from the
trunk. Looping straps over shoulders and juggling the rest, I
started up the side stairs, then stopped, burdened not so much by
the weight of luggage as by memory. No anger came with it now, only
grief. Mom wouldn't be inside. She would never be inside
again.

And yet I pictured her there, just beyond the kitchen door, sitting
at the table waiting for me to come home. Her face would be
scrubbed clean, her short, wavy blonde hair tucked behind her ears,
and her eyes concerned. Oh, and she would be wearing pajamas. I
smiled at the memory of that. She claimed it was about warmth, and
perhaps it was, though I do remember her wearing nightgowns when I
was young. The change came when I was a teenager. She would have
been in her forties then and slimmer than at any time in her life.
With less fat to pad her, she might have been chilled. So maybe it
really was about warmth.

I suspect something else, though. My grandmother, who had always
worn pajamas, died when I was fourteen. The switch came soon after.
Mom became her mother then, and not only in bedtime wear. With
Connie gone, Mom became the family's moral watchdog, waiting up
until the last of us was home without incident--without incident,
that was key, because incident led to disgrace. Public drunkenness,
lewd behavior, unwanted pregnancy--these were the things Middle
River talked about in the tonic-scented cloud that hovered over the
barbershop benches, through the lacquer smell in the nail shop,
over hash at Omie's. Being the butt of gossip was Mom's greatest
fear.

Grace Metalious had hit the nail on the head with that one. As
frightened as the fictitious Constance MacKenzie was of her secret
leaking out in Peyton Place, she was more terrified of being
talked about when it did.

Mind you, other than the fiasco with Aidan Meade, I never gave Mom
cause for worry. I didn't date. What I did, starting soon after I
could drive, was to go down to Plymouth on a Saturday night, stake
out a table at a coffee shop, and read. Being alone in a place
where I knew no one was better than being alone on a Saturday night
in Middle River. And Mom would be waiting up for me when I
returned, which eased the loneliness.

Feeling the full weight of that loneliness now, I went on up the
stairs, opened the door, and slipped inside. Mom wasn't there, but
neither was the kitchen I recalled. It had been totally renovated
two years before, with Mom already ill, but determined. I had seen
the changes when I was here for the funeral, but, climbing those
side steps, my mind's eye still had pictured the old one, with its
aged Formica countertops, its vintage appliances and linoleum
floor.

In the warm glow of under-cabinet halogens, this new kitchen was
vibrant. Its walls were painted burgundy, its counters were beige
granite, its floor a brick-hued adobe tile. The appliances were
stainless steel, right down to a trash compactor.

I didn't have a trash compactor. Nor did I have an ice dispenser on
the refrigerator door. This kitchen was far more modern than mine
in Washington. I was duly impressed, as I had been too preoccupied
to be in June.

The kitchen table was round, with a maple top, wrought-iron legs,
and ladderback chairs of antique white. Setting my computer bag on
one of the latter, I turned off the lights, went through the hall
and into the front parlor to turn off its lamp. There I found my
sister Phoebe, under a crocheted afghan on the settee. Her eyes
were closed; she was very still.

Of the three of us, she resembled Mom the most. She had the same
high forehead and bright green eyes, the same wavy blonde hair, the
same thin McCall mouth. She looked older than when I had seen her
last month, perhaps pale from the strain of carrying on. Totally
aside from any physical problems she might be having, I could only
begin to imagine what the past month had been like for her. My own
loneliness in coming home to a house without Mom was nothing
compared to Phoebe's feeling it all the time. Not only had she
lived with Mom for all but the short span of her own marriage, but
she worked with Mom too. The loss had to be in her face day in and
day out.

Lowering my bags, I slipped down onto the edge of the settee and
lightly touched the part of her under the afghan that would have
been an arm. "Phoebe?" I whispered. When she didn't move, I gave
her a little shake.

Her eyes slowly opened. She stared at me for a blank moment, before
blankness became confusion. "Annie?" Her voice was
uncharacteristically nasal.

"You got my message, didn't you?"

"Message," she repeated, seeming muddled.

My heart sank. "On your voice mail? Saying I was coming?" I had
assumed the lights were left on for me.

"I don't . . . on my voice mail? I think so . . . I must have." Her
eyes cleared a little. "I'm just groggy from medicine. I have a
cold." That explained the nasal voice. "What time is it?"

I checked my watch. "Twelve-ten." Deciding that grogginess from
cold medicine was reasonable, I tried to lighten things with a
smile. "The kitchen startled me. I keep expecting to see the old
one."

I wasn't sure she even heard my remark. She was frowning. "Why're
you here?"

"I felt a need to visit."

After only the briefest pause, she asked, "Why now?"

"It's August. Washington's hot. I finished the revisions of my
book. Mom's gone."

Phoebe didn't move, but she grew more awake. "Then it is about Mom.
Sabina said it would be."

"You told Sabina I was coming?" I asked in dismay. I would rather
have called Sabina myself.

"I was over there for dinner. I couldn't not say."

Fine. I didn't want to fight. Sabina would have found out soon,
anyway. "I miss Mom," I said. "I haven't taken the time to mourn. I
want to know more about those last days, what was wrong with her,
y'know?"

"What about the house?"

I frowned. "What about it?"

"Sabina said you'd want it."

"This house?" I asked in surprise. "Why would I want it? I
have my own place. This is yours."

"Sabina said you'd want it anyway. She said you'd know all the
little legal twists, and that it would be about money."

"Money? Excuse me? I have plenty of money." But I wasn't surprised
Sabina would think I wanted more. She was always expecting the
worst of me, which was why I would have preferred to phone her
myself to let her know I was here. Then I might have nipped her
suspicions in the bud.

"Have I asked for anything from Mom's estate?" I asked now.

Phoebe didn't reply. She looked like she was trying to
remember.

"Mom's been dead barely six weeks," I went on. "Has Sabina been
stewing about this the whole time?"

"No. Just . . . just once she found out you were coming, I
guess."

That quickly, I was back in the midst of childhood spats. Sabina
was the middle child, which should have made her the peacemaker of
the family, but that had never been the case. The eleven months
between Phoebe and her had left her craving attention, a situation
I had aggravated with my arrival when Sabina was barely two.

Now I said, "This is why I called you and not her. I knew she
wouldn't be happy about my visit, and that's really sad, Phoebe.
Middle River's where I grew up. My family is here. Why does she
have to feel threatened?"

Phoebe still hadn't stirred on the settee, but her eyes were as
sharp as Mom's could be when she was worried we had done something
wrong. "She doesn't know you anymore. I don't either."

"I'm your sister."

"You're a writer. You live in the city and you travel all over. You
eat out more than you eat in. You know celebrities." Her
eyes rounded when she recalled something else. "And your
significant other is on TV all the time."

"He isn't my significant other," I reminded her.

"Roommate, then," she conceded and took a stuffy breath. "But even
that's totally different from Middle River. Single women don't buy
condos here with single men."

"Greg and I protect each other--but that's getting off the subject.
I'm your sister, Phoebe," I repeated, pleading now, because
the discussion was making me feel even more alone than I had felt
entering the kitchen and finding no Mom. "I've tried to give
in the last few years. Isn't that what our vacations were about?
And the money for the new van? And even the new kitchen," I added,
though my part was the appliances alone. "Why do you think I would
try to take something you have?"

Seeming suddenly groggy again, Phoebe lifted an arm from under the
afghan. She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbed them with thumb and
forefinger. "I don't know. I don't keep lists."

"Phoebe," I chided.

"I guess not, but Sabina says--"

"Not Sabina," I cut in. "You. Do you distrust me, too?"

In a reedy voice, she said, "I'm confused sometimes." Her hand fell
away. She opened her eyes, looking pitiful, and again, my heart
sank. Something was definitely wrong.

"It's your cold," I reasoned, but was suddenly distracted. With the
afghan lowered, I could see what she was wearing. Smiling, I
teased, "Are those pajamas?"

She was instantly defensive. "What's wrong with pajamas?"

"Nothing. It's just that it was a Mom thing to do."

"She was cold. Now I'm cold."

The room was not cold. If anything, it was hot. I had entered town
with my top down, while Phoebe had her windows shut tight. The
house had no AC. Even the warmth outside would have stirred the air
in here. Surely the moisture of the night would have helped
Phoebe's cold.

Again, I thought how wan she looked. "Have you been sick long?" I
asked.

She sighed. "I'm not sick. It's just a cold. They're a fact of
life. Customers bring them into the shop all the time. It's late.
I'd better go to bed."

I rose from the settee and shouldered my bags, then glanced back.
Phoebe was holding the arm of the settee with one hand while she
pushed herself up with the other. She reminded me of Mom the last
time I had seen her. That wasn't good.

"Seriously, Phoebe, are you okay?"

On her feet now, she held up both hands. "I. Am. Fine. Go on. I'll
get the light."

I was in the hall when the parlor went dark, leaving the stair lit
by a lamp at the top. I went on up, then down the hall to the room
that had always been mine. Dropping my bags inside, I turned back
to wait for Phoebe. She walked slowly, seeming a tad unsteady.
Middle-of-the-night grogginess? Possibly. But the niggling I had
felt after being here last time was now a bona fide burr.

She came alongside, very much Mom's height, which was several
inches shy of mine, and said, "Your room's just the same. I haven't
touched anything."

"I wasn't worried. What about your room? Are you still sleeping
there?"

"Where else would I sleep?"

"Mom's room. It's the biggest. This is your house now. You have a
right to that room. Didn't Sabina suggest it last time I was
here?"

"I guess," Phoebe said, confused again. "But it'd mean moving all
my things, and I've been in my room for so long." Her eyes grew
plaintive. "Do I really have the energy for that?"

She should have it. She was only thirty-six. Clearly, though, she
was depleted both physically and emotionally. I wondered how she
managed to handle the store.

Rather than express doubt when she seemed so vulnerable, I said,
"So, what time will you be up in the morning?"

"Seven. We open at nine."

"Can you stay home if your cold is worse?"

"It won't be worse."

"Okay then. I'll see you for breakfast?"

She nodded, frowned, added, "Unless I sleep later. I've been
exhausted. Maybe it's the cold. Maybe it's missing Mom." With an
oddly apologetic smile, she went on past me, down the hall.

"Want me to turn out the lamp?" I asked.

She looked back. "Lamp?"

I indicated the one at the top of the stairs.

She stared in surprise. "No. Leave it on. If it had been on that
night, Mom wouldn't have tripped. It was dark. If she'd been able
to see, she wouldn't have fallen, and if she hadn't fallen, she'd
still be alive."

"She was ill," I reminded her. "It wasn't so much the dark as her
balance."

"It was the dark," Phoebe declared and disappeared into her
room.

I didn't sleep well. Once I opened the windows, pulled back the
covers, and removed every stitch of clothing, I could deal with the
heat, but the city girl I had become wasn't used to the noise.
Traffic, yes. Sirens, yes. Garbage trucks, yes. Peepers and
crickets, no. Naturally, lying awake, I thought about Mom, about
whether Phoebe was sick, too, and, if so, whether it was from lead
or worse, and each time I woke up, I thought of those things. Dawn
came, and the night noises died, which meant that the river
emerged. Our house sat on its banks. The waters rushed past,
carrying aquatic creatures from upstream, leaves and grasses from
its banks, all hurrying past the stones that lined its bank.

Seven came, and I listened for Phoebe, but it wasn't until
seven-twenty that I heard signs of life in the house. Wearing a
nightshirt now, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, about to
stand, when Sabina slipped into the room.

Sabina and I were Barneses, with Daddy's midnight hair, pale skin,
and full mouth. When we were kids, these features had come together
on her far better than they had on me. Sabina was pretty and
popular. I was neither. We were both five-eight, though Sabina had
always insisted she was half an inch taller than I was. I didn't
fight her on it. There was plenty else to fight about. Even as she
approached the bed now, I felt it coming.

I tried to diffuse things with a smile. "Hi. I was going to call
you. Is Phoebe awake?"

"No," Sabina replied in a low voice. She folded her arms and held
them close. "I wanted to talk with you first. This has been really
tough on her, Annie. I don't want you riling her up."

Dismayed by the abruptness of her attack, I said in a
conversational tone, "I'm doing okay, thanks for asking. How are
you?"

She didn't blink. "We could spend five minutes on niceties, but
this is really important. Phoebe is having trouble accepting that
Mom's gone. I don't know why you're here, but if you're thinking of
doing anything to stir up trouble, please don't."

I was annoyed enough to lash back. "Phoebe is doing more than
'having trouble accepting that Mom's gone.' She looks physically
ill. She says it's a cold. I'm wondering if it's something
else."

"Oh, it is," Sabina confirmed, "but it's nothing you can fix. The
way she's acting--like Mom did? It's a natural thing that sometimes
happens when a loved one dies. I talked with Marian Stein about
it."

"Who's Marian Stein?"

"A therapist here in town. I'm on top of this, Annie."

"Is Phoebe seeing her?"

"Of course, not. Phoebe doesn't need therapy, just time. This'll
pass."

"Has she seen her doctor?"

"No need. Colds disappear. Symptoms pass."

I knew not to mention lead. It wouldn't be well received. So I
said, "Mom was diagnosed with Parkinson's. It can run in
families."

Sabina's eyes hardened. "And that," she said, still in a low
voice but laced now with venom, "is why you shouldn't be here. She
needs encouragement. You're so negative, you'll set her
back."

"Oh, come on, Sabina," I scoffed. "I have enough sense not to
mention this to her. But I Googled Parkinson's after Mom was
diagnosed. If Mom had it, and if Phoebe has it, you or I may stand
a greater risk. Aren't you worried about that?"

"If Mom had it?" Sabina charged. Her arms were knotted
across her middle.

"There are other causes for the symptoms she had," I blurted out
and regretted it instantly.

"I knew it! I knew you'd stick your nose in! Well, where were you
last year or the year before that or the year before that? Fine and
dandy for you to criticize us now--"

"I'm not criticizing."

"--but you weren't around. We were, Annie. Phoebe and I took
Mom to the doctor, got her medicines, made sure she took them when
she would have forgotten. Phoebe has been running the store for the
last five years--"

"Five?"

"Yes, five. It's been that long since Mom was functioning
well."

Five years put a crimp in the lead theory. It would mean Mom had
become ill long before the store was awash in lead-paint dust.
There might yet be a connection, certainly with regard to Phoebe,
but it would take some looking.

I was annoyed. "Why wasn't I told back then?"

"Because you weren't here!" Sabina shouted and immediately lowered
her voice. "And because the symptoms were so mild we thought it was
age at first, and because Phoebe was there to cover at work, and
because Mom would have been horrified if she'd known we were
talking behind her back. You know how she was. She hated
being talked about. So we didn't tell you--didn't tell
anyone--until the symptoms made it obvious, and even
then you stayed away. So don't criticize us, Annie," she
warned. "You have no idea what it's been like. We did the best we
could."

I was quiet. What could I say to that? Yes, I felt guilty. I had
from the moment I learned Mom had died. I kept telling myself I was
here on a mission; that was the initial premise. But maybe my
mission was broader than I had allowed. So mentally I amended that
premise with Truth #1: Yes, I had come to Middle River to learn
whether Mom had died of something that was now affecting Phoebe,
but I was also here out of guilt. I owed my sisters something.
I wanted to make it up to them that I hadn't helped when Mom was
sick.

Not that I could say that to Sabina. The words would positively
stick in my throat.

Instead I asked, "How are Lisa and Timmy?" They were Sabina's kids,
aged twelve and ten respectively. I actually knew how they were; I
had an active e-mail relationship with them, and had been in touch
with them a lot in the last month, though I don't think Sabina knew
it. Her kids were astute; they knew there was tension between
Sabina and me. My relationship with her kids was a little secret we
kept. None of us was risking Sabrina's wrath by rubbing her nose in
it.

She did relax a bit at mention of the kids. "They're fine. Excited
that you're here. They'll probably ride their bikes over later.
They want to know how long you're staying."

"They want to know," the devil made me ask, "or you do?"

She didn't deny it. "Me. Phoebe, too. This is her house."

It was a definite reminder. "For the record," I said, "I don't want
the house. I don't want the store. I don't want Mom's money. The
only thing I want, which I told you in June, is to have this room
to use when I come."

Sabina looked dismissive, clearly doubtful I was telling the truth.
"How long are you staying?"

"Assuming Phoebe has no problem with it, until Labor Day."

"A whole month?" she asked, seeming alarmed. "What'll you do
all that time?"

"I have some work. Mostly I want to relax. Give Phoebe a hand. Help
her get better. Talk with people around town."

"Who?"

The sharpness of the question put us right back in the boxing ring.
"I haven't really thought that far."

"Are you kidding? Annie Barnes hasn't thought that far? I know what
you're here for, Annie. You're here to cause trouble. You'll walk
innocently around town like you did when we were kids, asking
questions you have no business asking, pissing people off right and
left, and then you'll go back to Washington, leaving us to mend
fences. And then there's the thing about writing. You have some
work. What work?"

"Whatever final edits my publisher wants on next spring's book.
Written interviews that they'll need. Plotting a new book."

Sabina's mouth tightened. "Are you planning to write about us now
that Mom is gone?"

"No."

"I think you are. You'll ask your questions and piss us off, and
then when you're back in Washington and we're cleaning up the mess,
you'll write something that'll make the mess even worse." She held
up her hands, palms out. "I'm asking you. Begging you.
Please, Annie. Mind your own business." The plea was barely out
when she turned, strode to the door, and pulled it open.

Phoebe stood there. Seeming wholly oblivious, simply surprised to
see Sabina, she said, "I didn't know you were here. But I'm making,
um, I think, what was it I was thinking, well, I think I'll make
eggs for breakfast. Should I make enough for three?"

Excerpted from LOOKING FOR PEYTON PLACE © Copyright 2005
by Barbara Delinsky. Reprinted with permission by Pocket, an
imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

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