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PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
EMILIE RICHARDS

“[A] heartfelt paean to love and loyalty…”

—Publishers Weekly on The Parting Glass

“An engrossing novel…Richards’s writing is unpretentious and effective…and her characters burst with vitality and authenticity.”

—Publishers Weekly on Prospect Street

“Well-written, intricately plotted novel…”

—Library Journal on Whiskey Island

“Emilie Richards presents us with a powerfully told story that will linger in the heart long after the final page.”

—BookPage on The Parting Glass

“A romance in the best sense, appealing to the reader’s craving for exotic landscapes, treacherous villains and family secrets.”

—Cleveland Plain Dealer on Beautiful Lies

“A multi-layered plot, vivid descriptions and a keen sense of place and time.”

—Library Journal on Rising Tides

“A fascinating tale of the tangled race relations and complex history of Louisiana…this is a page-turner.”

—New Orleans Times-Picayune on Iron Lace

EMILIE RICHARDS
FOXRIVER

Dear Reader,

I’ve been fortunate to live in wonderful places I can share in my novels. I started my writing career in New Orleans, the setting for Iron Lace and Rising Tides. I made two extended trips to Australia, the setting for Beautiful Lies, and I spent many years in bustling Cleveland, the home of Whiskey Island.

When it came time to move again, I was as interested in a unique and colorful setting for my next novel as I was in school systems and health care facilities. When northern Virginia appeared on my family’s horizon, I knew I’d found another home rich in history, culture and natural beauty.

From my front door I can easily drive to mountains and beaches. Or I can take a shorter drive to some of the most beautiful rural scenery imaginable: Virginia horse country, where farms and million-dollar estates rise from rolling hills and Thoroughbreds graze inside miles of winding stone fences.

It took only one visit to Loudoun County to know I’d found the setting for my next book.

So this time come with me to the world of foxhunting and steeplechasing, and a society that values the way a man sits a horse as much as it values his family name. I hope you’ll find it as fascinating as I have.

I always enjoy hearing from my readers. Please write me at P.O. Box 7052, Arlington, Virginia 22207.

From the unpublished novel Fox River, by Maisy Fletcher

Today, when I think of Fox River and all that happened here so many years ago, I am unwillingly wrapped in shades of green. The fresh, sweet green of pasture deepening toward the horizon, the evergreen of forest shading inevitably to the blue-green of Virginia hills until, at last, mountains merge with a misty sky.

It is the same sky, more or less, that others see. The sky that stretches over California and China and the farthest regions of Antarctica. It is the sky under which I was born, under which I lived the events told in this story. The same sky that sends sun and rain to make the grassy hills of Fox River as verdant, as lush, as any in the world.

But I, Louisa Sebastian, am the only person who sees the proud man silhouetted against this Fox River sky, the man erect on a stallion that no one else will mount, a man so wedded to the horse beneath him that I am reminded of the mythical centaur, and my breath, despite everything I know of him, catches in my chest.

Today, when I am forced to think of the events that happened at Fox River, I am swallowed by shades of green and by the blood that so long ago stained blades of grass a bright and terrible red. In the many years since, the grass has grown and the rain has washed away visible traces of blood, but I know the earth beneath has yet to recover, that if I were to dig in that very place, the dirt beneath my fingernails would be rusty and tainted still.

Had I only known what awaited me as I rode to Fox River that first afternoon, I would have galloped back to my cousin’s estate to seclude myself. I would have pleaded illness or injury and asked that my trunks be packed immediately for my return to New York.

But, of course, the future is never ours to know. Only the past is ours to contemplate and mourn forever.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

1

The citizens of Ridge’s Race, Virginia, claimed that Maisy Fletcher lived her life like a pack of foxhounds torn between two lines of scent. She had worn many disguises in her fifty years, each of them clearly revealing the flighty, distractible woman beneath. Jake Fletcher, her husband for twenty years, disagreed. Jake claimed that his wife had no trouble making up her mind.

Over and over and over again.

Today, those who knew Maisy would have been shocked to see the purpose in her stride and the lack of attention she paid to everything and everyone that stood between her and the front door of the Gandy Willson Clinic, just outside historic Leesburg. She ignored the horsehead mounting posts flanking the herringbone brick sidewalk, the magnolias flanking the portico. She paid little attention to the young couple sitting stiffly on a green bench under the magnolia to her left. More tellingly, she brushed right past the young security guard who asked for her identification.

“Ma’am, you can’t go in there without my seeing some ID,” the young man said, following close at her heels.

Maisy paused just long enough to survey him. He looked like an escapee from the Virginia Military Institute, hair shaved nearly to the scalp, acne scars still faintly visible. He had the same hostile stare she associated with new cadets, a product of exhaustion and harassment.

Normally she might have winked or stopped to question him about his upbringing, his opinion of the Washington Redskins’ chances this season, his take on the presidential election. Today she turned her back. “Don’t try to stop me, son. I’m as harmless as a butterfly in a hailstorm. Just go on about your business.”

“Ma’am, I have to—”

“My daughter’s a patient here.”

“I’m going to have to call—”

She reached for the door handle and let herself in.

She had never been inside the Gandy Willson Clinic. Through the years, acquaintances had disappeared into its confines for periods of “rest.” Some of them boasted of time spent here, adding “G.W.S.” after their names like an academic achievement. “G.W.S.” or Gandy Willson Survivor, was a local code, meaning “Don’t offer me a drink,” or “Give me the strongest drink in the house,” depending on the length of time out of treatment.

Maisy wasn’t surprised by what she saw. Gandy Willson catered to the wealthy elite. The chandelier gracing a cathedral ceiling was glittering crystal, the carpet stretching before her had probably robbed a dozen third world children of a normal adolescence.

The security guard hadn’t followed her inside, but another, older, man strode from his office to head her off as she stepped farther into the reception area. He was in his sixties, at least, bespectacled, perfectly tailored and attempting, without success, to smile like somebody’s grandfather.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” He extended his hand. “I’m Harmon Jeffers, director of Gandy Willson.”

She debated taking it, but gave in when she saw the hand wavering with age. She grasped it to steady him. “I’m Maisy Fletcher, and my daughter Julia Warwick is a patient here.”

“Julia’s mother. Of course.” His unconvincing smile was firmly in place.

There was no “of course” about it. Maisy and Julia were as different from one another as a rose and a hibiscus. For all practical purposes they were members of the same general family, but the resemblance ended there. This month Maisy’s hair was red and sadly overpermed. Julia’s was always sleek and black. Maisy had gained two unwanted pounds for every year she’d lived. Julia survived on air. Maisy was average height. Petite Julia barely topped her shoulder.

And those were the ways in which they were most alike.

Maisy drew herself up to her full five foot four, as the small of her back creaked in protest. “I’m here to see my daughter.”

“Shall we go into my office? I’ll have tea sent, and we can chat.”

“That’s very old Virginia of you, Dr. Jeffers, but I don’t think I have the time. I’d appreciate your help finding Julia’s room. I hate barging in on strangers.”

“We can’t let you do that.”

“Good. Then you’ll tell me where she is?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s imperative we talk. Your daughter’s recovery depends on it.”

Maisy lifted the first of several chins. The others followed sluggishly. “My daughter shouldn’t be here.”

“You disagree that your daughter needs treatment?”

“My daughter should be at home with the people who love her.”

The young couple who’d been sitting on the bench entered and shuffled lethargically across the carpet. He put his hand on Maisy’s shoulder to steer her away from the door. “Mrs. Warwick’s husband feels differently. He feels she needs to be here, where she can rest and receive therapy every day.”

Maisy cut straight to the point, as unusual for her as the anger simmering inside her. “Just exactly how many cases of hysterical blindness have you treated?”

“This is a psychiatric clinic. We—”

“Mostly treat substance abusers,” she finished for him. “Drug addicts. Alcoholics. My daughter is neither. But she might be by the time she gets out of here. You’ll drive her crazy.”

“There are people who will say your daughter is already well on her way.” He lifted a bushy white brow in punctuation. “There is nothing wrong with her eyes, yet she doesn’t see. For all practical purposes she’s totally blind. Surely you’re not trying to tell me this is a normal event?”

She drew a deep breath and spaced her words carefully, as much for order as for emphasis. “My son-in-law brought her here directly from the hospital because he didn’t want Julia to embarrass him. She came because he threatened her. She’s not here because she believes you can help her.”

“She’s not receiving phone calls just yet. How do you know this?”

“Because I know my daughter.”

“Do you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

That stopped her, as he probably knew it would. She supposed that with all the good doctor’s training, finding an Achilles’ heel was as elementary as prescribing the trendiest psychotropic drug.

She took a moment to regroup, to focus her considerable energy on what she had to do. “I will see my daughter.” She surprised herself and said it without blinking, without breaking eye contact. “Either you can help me, or you can help me make a scene.”

“We’ll sit and talk a few minutes. If you’re still inclined to see her, I’ll send a message. But if she doesn’t want you here, you’ll have to leave.”

She threw up her ring-cluttered hands.

He led her down the hallway to the door he’d come through. His office was much as she’d expected. Leather furniture, dark paneled walls covered with multiple framed diplomas, a desk as massive as a psychiatrist’s ego. She always wondered if professional men measured the size of their desks the way adolescent boys measured their penises.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She had two choices—to perch on the couch’s edge like a child in the principal’s office or settle back and appear completely defenseless. She was sure the stage had been set that way. She settled.

Dr. Jeffers sat forward, cupping his hands over his blotter, and nodded sagely. “So you don’t believe this is the right place for Mrs. Warwick?”

Maisy glanced at her watch. It was an insubstantial rhinestone-and-pearl encrusted bauble, and she wore it with everything. Now she wished the hands would move faster.

“This is my daughter we’re talking about. No one knows her better than I do, which is not the same as saying I know everything about her. But I do understand this. She’s a private person. Her strength comes from within. She will not want to share those strengths or any weaknesses with a stranger. You are a stranger.”

“And she’ll want to share them with you?”

“I do wish you’d stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Correct me, then, but I’m under the impression you think you can help her and I can’t.”

“Being with people who love her will help her. I know she’s desperate to see Callie—”

“You can’t possibly know these things, Mrs. Fletcher. Perhaps you’re projecting? Your daughter’s spoken to no one except her husband since she arrived.”

“I know she’s desperate to see Callie,” Maisy repeated a bit louder. “Are you listening or aren’t you? She’ll be frantic to see her little girl. If you think a frantic woman is a good candidate for therapy, then you need to go back to medical school.”

“There is only one frantic woman in this clinic, and she’s sitting across from me,” he said with his pseudo-grandfatherly smile.

With some difficulty Maisy hoisted herself to her feet, but before she could say anything the telephone on his desk rang. As he picked up the receiver, he held up a hand to stop her from leaving. When he’d finished, he glanced up and shrugged.

“It seems you’re not the only frantic woman in this clinic, after all. Your daughter knows you’re here.”

Maisy waited.

He rose. “She’s demanding to see you. Her room is upstairs. Follow the corridor to the end, turn left, and you’ll see the staircase. At the top, make your first left, then a right. Her room is at the end of the hall. But just so you know, it’s my responsibility to notify Mr. Warwick that you’ve visited Mrs. Warwick against medical advice.”

“Dr. Jeffers, are you a psychiatrist or a spy?”

“Dear lady, you have some mental health issues you need work on yourself.”

It was a testament to her mental health that she left without responding.

Julia knew her mother had come. Maisy and Jake’s pickup had a bone-jarring rattle as audibly distinct as the belching of its exhaust system. For years Bard had tried to convince Jake to buy a new truck, but Julia’s stepfather always refused. He was a man who would do without comfort rather than spend money foolishly, not a stingy man, simply one who believed in taking care of what he owned.

At the sound of the truck in the parking lot, Julia had found her way to the window to confirm her suspicion. She wasn’t sure what she expected, a sudden lifting of darkness, a sneak peek at a world she hadn’t seen in weeks. She felt the cool glass under her fingertips, traced the smooth-textured sill, the decorative grids. But she wasn’t allowed even the pleasure of an afternoon breeze. The window was locked tight.

She had realized then that she had to ask for help. Practical help, not the kind she had supposedly checked herself in to receive. After the first day she had realized that the Gandy Willson Clinic was the wrong place for her and that her sessions with Dr. Jeffers would be nothing more than a battle of wits. She would hide her feelings, and he would subtly berate her for her lack of cooperation.

Luckily there was at least one staff member who seemed genuinely interested in her. Karen, the nurse on duty, agreed to call Dr. Jeffers and relay Julia’s demand. If Maisy Fletcher had come to see her daughter, he was not to send her away. If he did, Julia would be the next to leave.

When Maisy turned into the hallway, Julia knew her mother was coming by the bustling of her footsteps. Maisy was always in a hurry, as if she had somewhere important to go, although, in truth, destination was never a priority.

“Julia?”

“In here, Maisy.”

The door swung open, a welcome whoosh of fresh air followed by a gentle bang.

“Sweetheart.”

Julia heard and smelled her mother’s approach, and in a moment felt Maisy’s soft hands against her cheeks. Then she was wrapped in the overpowering fragrance of violets and the soft give of her mother’s arms around her.

Julia slipped her arms around her mother’s waist as Maisy joined her on the bed.

“How did you know I was here?” Maisy said.

“I heard the pickup. I guess it’s a good thing Jake hasn’t gotten a new one.”

“That’s not what I was thinking on the way over. I almost left it by the side of the road. Darn thing has never liked me.”

“That’s because you push it too hard.” It was the story of Maisy’s life.

“How are you?”

Julia straightened and folded her hands in her lap. For once Maisy seemed to take the hint and moved away a little to give her daughter breathing room. “No better, no worse,” Julia said.

“Dr. Jeffers is an officious little bastard who probably couldn’t cure a hangnail.”

“Don’t be so easy on him.”

Usually at this point Julia would have gotten up to roam the room. Only now, that particular escape was fraught with danger. She had carefully memorized the layout, but she wasn’t sure she could navigate it with her mother watching. For a moment her heart beat faster and her breath seemed to come in short gasps. The world was a black hole sucking at her, threatening to pull her into its void forever.

“What are you doing here, sweetheart?” Maisy asked.

Julia willed herself to be calm. “One place is exactly like another when you can’t see.”

“That simply isn’t true. You need to be with people who love you, in a place you know well. Not with strangers.”

“Look around. It’s almost like home. I have my own fireplace, a room full of antiques—so I’m told. The view is undoubtedly priceless.”

“The only priceless thing in this room is my daughter, and she doesn’t belong here.”

Julia’s sightless eyes filled with tears. She rose. It was safer to risk butting up against the furniture than her mother’s love. “Bard thought it would be best for everyone.”

“And you agree?”

“He doesn’t always get his way, Maisy. I just thought that this time, he might be right.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s afraid for Callie.” Julia stretched a hand in front of her and was disconcerted to discover that she wasn’t as close to the wall as she’d expected. She inched forward until she could touch it before she spoke again.

“He says my…condition is confusing and upsetting her, that she feels somehow to blame—”

“Ridiculous.”

Julia faced her, or thought she probably did. “How would you know?”

“Because I’m her grandmother. I’ve called her every day since the accident, and we went out for ice cream after school yesterday. Callie knows it isn’t her fault that Duster balked at the jump and you took it headfirst without him. Those are the chances anybody takes when she’s training a new horse.”

“Right after the fall Callie told me she was sure Duster balked because she’d startled him with her pony.”

“But didn’t you explain that Duster had balked half a dozen times in the past and would again? That’s what she told me. I don’t think she feels guilty anymore, she just feels lonely and afraid you aren’t coming back.”

Julia swallowed tears. “Did you tell her I’m coming back as soon as I’m well?”

“She’s eight. At that age a grandmother’s word isn’t quite as good as a mother’s.”

“The fall had nothing to do with this…this condition. Did you tell her that, too?”

“I did, but that’s harder for her to understand.”

“How can she? I don’t understand it myself. One minute I can see, the next I can’t. Only there’s nothing wrong with my eyes. There’s nothing wrong with any part of me except my mind.”

Maisy was silent, waiting, Julia supposed, for her to bring herself back under control. One thing mother and daughter did have in common was a mutual distaste for emotional fireworks. Julia began to prowl the room, hands extended. She found a desk chair and held on to it. “I’m not crazy,” she said at last.

“Are you afraid I think so?”

“Bard says it’s all about mind over matter. He wants me to be a big girl, square my shoulders and go about my business. If I put my mind to it and work hard while I’m here, I’ll see again.” She thought she managed a wry smile. “That’s what he would do, of course.”

“He might be surprised. There are some things in life that even Lombard Warwick has no say in.”

“I close my eyes, and every single time I open them again, I expect to see, but I can’t. I’ve fallen off horses plenty of times, but this was different. When I flew headfirst over that jump, I remember thinking about Christopher Reeve. His horse balked, and now he’s confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. When I hit the ground I was afraid to move, afraid I might not be able to sit up or walk again. I must have blacked out. When I woke up…”

She felt her way around the desk, then over to the window. She faced her mother again. “When I woke up I didn’t open my eyes. I raised a leg, then an arm. I was so relieved. I can’t tell you how relieved I was. I hadn’t even broken anything. Then I opened my eyes.”

“And you couldn’t see.”

Julia had told her mother all this in the hospital where she’d been taken after the accident, but she continued, needing, for some reason, to repeat it. “I thought, how strange. I must have been here for hours. Callie must have ridden back to get help and they can’t find me. I thought it was night, but such a black, black night. As it turns out I was unconscious for less than a minute.”

“Does it help to go over this again and again?”

“Nothing helps. The fog doesn’t lift. It doesn’t even waver. And you know what the worst moment was? Worse than waking up blind? When they told me there was nothing wrong with my eyesight. Conversion hysteria. I’m a hysteric.”

“You’re a wonderful, sensitive, intelligent woman. You’re not a psychiatric label.”

“I’m in a psychiatric clinic! Maybe it has fireplaces and antiques, but it’s still a clinic for the mentally ill.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Julia realized she had to tell Maisy the rest of it. “There are things you don’t know.”

“Well, you’re not the first to say so.”

Julia tried to smile but couldn’t. “Before this, before I even saddled Duster that day, things hadn’t…hadn’t been going well.”

Maisy was silent. Julia knew that if she could see her mother, Maisy would be twisting her hands in her lap. The hands would be covered with rings. Maisy loved anything that sparkled. She loved bright colors, odd textures, loose flowing clothing that made Julia think of harems or Polynesian luaus. She was a focal point in any crowd, the mother Julia’s childhood schoolmates had most often singled out for ridicule, a bright, exotic flame in a community of old tweeds and perfectly faded denim.

“You don’t want to hear this, do you?” Julia asked.

“Julia, I’m sitting here waiting.”

“You never want to know when things aren’t going well, Maisy. If you wore glasses, they’d be rose-colored.”

“No doubt,” Maisy agreed. “Cats’-eye glasses with rhinestone frames, and you would hate them. But trying to keep a positive attitude isn’t the same as refusing to see there’s another side of life.”

Julia felt ashamed. She loved her mother, but there was a gulf between them as wide as Julia’s twenty-nine years. She had never quite understood it and doubted that Maisy did, either. How two women could love each other and still be so different, so far apart in every way, was a mystery.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to criticize.” Julia started back toward the bed, or thought she did. “It’s just that I don’t want to make this worse for you….”

“Let’s make it better for you, instead. Tell me what’s been happening. And move a little to your left,” Maisy directed her.

Julia adjusted; her shin contacted the bed frame. “I’m going to need a white cane.” The last word caught.

Maisy took her hand and helped her sit. “Has Dr. Jeffers given you a prognosis?”

“No. He rarely speaks during our sessions, and when he does, he just asks questions. Why didn’t I seek help when the problems started? Why do I think I’m being so defensive? Why don’t I want my husband involved in my treatment?”

“Would Bard like to be involved?”

“I doubt it, but I’m sure he’s never told the doctor outright.”

“Tell me about the problems you mentioned before.”

“I was having blinding headaches.” She smiled grimly. “Pardon the pun.”

“The doctors know this?”

“Yes. They’ve scanned every inch of my brain, done every test a neurologist can dream up, called in every specialist. They can’t find anything physical.”

“What else?”

“I…” Julia tried to decide how to phrase the next part. “My work was suffering.”

“Your painting?”

Julia nodded. “I had a commission for a family portrait of the Trents. You remember them? They have that pretty little farm down toward Middleburg, just past the Gradys’ place? Two very blond children who show their ponies with Callie? A boy and a girl?”

“I think so.”

“We had three sittings. I never got things right.”

She wasn’t sure how to explain the next part. She’d had no success with Bard or Dr. Jeffers. Bard told her she was simply overwrought and making her problems worse. Dr. Jeffers scribbled notes, and the scratching of his pen had nearly driven her crazy.

She tried again. “It was worse than that, actually. I did preliminary sketches. The Trents wanted something informal, something with their horses and pets out in the countryside. The sketches were fine. I had some good ideas of what I wanted to do. But when I tried to paint…”

“Go on.”

“I couldn’t paint what I saw. I would begin to work, and the painting seemed to progress without me. Mr. Trent is a stiff, formal man who’s strict with the children. That’s all I was able to capture on canvas. He looked like a storm trooper after I’d roughed him out. At one point I even found myself painting a swastika on his sleeve.”

“Maybe you weren’t painting what you saw but what you felt. Isn’t that part of being an artist?”

“But I had no control over it.” Julia heard her voice rising and took a moment to breathe. “And it was true of everything I painted in the month before the accident. I would try hunting scenes, and they weren’t lovely autumn days among good friends anymore. We chase foxes for the fun of it, not to destroy them. But every painting I attempted seemed to center on the hounds tearing a fox to bits. They were…disturbing, and when I was finished with a session, I’d feel so shaken I was afraid to start another.”

“Maybe it was simply fatigue. Maybe you needed a break.”

“Well, I got one, didn’t I?”

Maisy was silent, and Julia didn’t blame her. What could she say? If Julia’s sight was not restored, she would never paint again.

“When you were a little girl,” Maisy said at last, “and something bothered you, you would go to your room and draw. It was the way you expressed yourself.”

“It still is. But what am I expressing? Or what was I? Because I won’t be able to do it again unless something changes radically.”

“Come home with me, Julia. If Bard doesn’t want you at Millcreek, come back to Ashbourne. You know there’s room for you and Callie. We can find a therapist you trust. Jake wants you to stay with us, too. You know he does.”

Julia loved her stepfather, who had brought balance to Maisy’s life and gentle affection to her own. He was a kind, quiet man who never ceased to marvel at his wife’s eccentricities, and Julia knew he would welcome her with open arms.

For a moment she was tempted to say yes, to return to her childhood home and bring her daughter to live there, too. Until her sight was restored or she’d learned to live with her impairment. Then reality got in the way.

She shook her head decisively. “I can’t do that. My God, Bard would be furious. He had to pull strings to get me admitted here. He’s convinced I need to be away from everything and everyone before I’ll get better.”

“And what do you think?”

“I hope he’s right. Because I don’t think I can stand being here very long. I feel like I’m in prison. I know how Christian—” She stopped, appalled at what she’d nearly said.

“You know how Christian feels,” Maisy finished for her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you speak his name.”

Julia stiffened. “I haven’t been thinking about Christian. I don’t know where that came from.”

“You’ve lost your sight, he lost his freedom. Both of you are living in places you didn’t choose. The connection is there.”

“I don’t want to talk about Christian.”

“You never have.”

There was a rustling noise at the doorway. With something close to gratitude, Julia turned her head in that direction.

“A nurse is here,” Maisy said.

“Mrs. Warwick?” Karen, the nurse who had made the telephone call for Julia, entered the room, making enough noise as she did to help Julia know where she was. “Dr. Jeffers thinks you need to rest now.”

For once Julia had to agree with her psychiatrist. She was suddenly weary to the bone. She felt the mattress lift as Maisy stood.

“You do look tired. I’ll be back tomorrow,” Maisy said. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Callie?”

“Tell her I love her and I’ll be home soon. Tell her I can see her in my dreams.”

“You’ll think about what I said?”

Julia nodded, then realized her mother might not be looking at her. It was just another of those small things the sighted took for granted.

“I’ll think about it.” Her throat was clogged with words she hadn’t said. A part of her wanted to beg Maisy to take her home to Ashbourne, to the quaint stone cottage where she had lived until her marriage. Another part insisted that she stay and suffer here at Gandy Willson, that if she suffered hard enough, she might find a cure.

Karen spoke. She had a soft, husky voice and warm hands. Odd observations, but the only ones Julia was equipped to make. “I guess you know Mrs. Warwick isn’t supposed to have any visitors except her husband, but unfortunately, Dr. Jeffers has a meeting tomorrow afternoon at three, so he’ll be away and unable to monitor things closely. Anyone could slip right in.”

“I see,” Maisy said.

“Thank you.” Julia understood what Karen was trying to do.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.” Julia felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, then Maisy’s lips against her cheek. When Karen and Maisy were gone, the room was as empty as Julia’s heart.

2

Like their counterparts in Great Britain, the great farms and estates of Virginia were often given names. Ashbourne was one such, a large, distinctive house and three hundred acres made up of serpentine hills and rock-strewn creeks. The Blue Ridge Mountains were more than shadows touching the land; they were a presence that anchored it and coaxed the hills into craggier peaks and wider hollows. Maisy never ceased to be amazed at Ashbourne’s natural beauty or the twist of fate that had brought her here as the young bride of Harry Ashbourne, master of the Mosby Hunt.

Harry was gone now, dead for nearly twenty-five years. Ashbourne lived on, holding its breath, she thought, for Harry’s daughter Julia to reclaim it and restore it to its former glory.

The main house at Ashbourne was a gracefully wrought Greek Revival dwelling of antique cherry-colored brick and Doric columns. Symmetrical wings—two-story where the main house was three—gently embraced the wide rear veranda and flagstone terrace. In Harry’s day the gardens of hollies and mountain laurels, Persian lilacs and wisteria, had been perfectly manicured, never elaborate, but as classic and tasteful as the house itself.

Over the years the gardens had weathered. Ancient maples, mimosas and hickories had fallen to lightning or drought; the boxwood maze that Harry had planted during Maisy’s pregnancy had grown into an impenetrable hedge obstructing movement and sight until a landscaper had removed it. Over the years the meticulous borders of bulbs and perennials had naturalized into a raucous meadow that ate away at grass and shrubs, spreading farther out of bounds each season.

Maisy preferred the garden that way. The house was empty now, and the black-eyed Susans, corn poppies and spikes of chicory and Virginia bluebells warmed and softened its aging exterior. Neither the house nor the gardens had fallen to rack and ruin. She made certain all the necessary maintenance was done. Jake did much of it, a man as handy as he was good-natured. But the property was simply biding its time until Harry’s daughter decided what should be done about it.

Maisy and Jake lived in the caretaker’s cottage, a blue stone fairy-tale dwelling that was the oldest building on the property. The cottage perched on the edge of deep woods where foxes and groundhogs snuggled into comfortable dens and owls kept vigil on the loneliest nights.

The cottage was two-story, with a wide center hallway and cozy rooms that huddled without rhyme or reason, one on top of the other. The furnace and the plumbing groaned and clattered, and the wind whistled through cracks between window frames and ledges. Maisy and Jake were in agreement that the house’s idiosyncrasies were as much a part of its charm as its slate roof or multitude of fireplaces.

The sky was already growing dark by the time Maisy returned from her visit to the Gandy Willson Clinic. Inky cloud layers lapped one over the other, shutting out what sunset there might have been and boding poorly for a starry night. She often darted outside two or three times each evening to glimpse the heavenly show. She made excuses, of course, although Jake was certainly on to her. She fed the barn cats, three aging tortoiseshells named Winken, Blinken and Nod. Sometimes she claimed to check gates for the farmer who rented Ashbourne’s prime pasture land to graze long-horned, shaggy Highland cattle. No excuse was too flimsy if it kept her on the run.

She traversed the wide driveway and pulled the pickup into its space beside the barn, taking a moment to stretch once she was on the ground. Every muscle was kinked, both from sitting still and the lack of functioning shock absorbers. She vowed, as she did every time she drove Jake’s truck, that she would have it hauled away the very next time he turned his back. She had her eye on a lipstick-red Ford Ranger sitting in a lot in Leesburg, and in her imagination, it beeped a siren song every time she passed.

As she’d expected, she found Jake in the barn. There were several on the property. The one that Harry had used to stable his world-renowned hunters was at the other side of the estate, empty of horses now and filled with artists and craftsmen to whom Maisy rented the space as a working gallery.

This barn was the original, smaller, built from hand-hewn chestnut logs and good honest sweat. Jake used it as his repair shop. There was nothing Jake couldn’t take apart and put back together so that it ran the way it was intended. People from all over Loudoun and Fauquier counties brought him toasters and lawnmowers, motor scooters and attic fans. Mostly they were people like Jake himself, who believed that everything deserved a shot at a miracle cure, people who were wealthy enough to buy new goods but maintained a love affair with the past.

When she arrived, Jake was bent over his workbench. Winken crouched at the end, lazily swatting Jake’s elbow every time it swung into range. The three felines were right at home in the barn. Like so much that Jake repaired here, they had been somebody else’s idea of trash. Maisy had found them one winter morning as they tried to claw their way out of a paper bag in the Middleburg Safeway parking lot, tiny mewling fluffballs that she’d fed religiously every two hours with a doll’s bottle, despite a serious allergy to cat dander and a craving for an uninterrupted night of sleep. Now, years later, they kept the barn free of mice and Jake company. Cats, she’d discovered, were serious advocates of quid pro quo.

“I’m back.”

Jake turned to greet her. When he was absorbed in his work he forgot his surroundings. He had the power of concentration she lacked, so much that she often teased that a burglar could steal everything in the barn, including the cobwebs, while he was working on a project.

He wiped his hands on a rag before he came over to kiss her cheek. “Did you see her?”

“Yes, I did. But not without a fight.” She knew he wouldn’t ask what she’d learned. He would wait for whatever information she wanted to reveal. She glanced over his shoulder. Blinken had joined her sister, and the two were investigating Jake’s latest project. “Work going well?”

“Liz Schaeffer brought me a mantel clock that’s been in her family for three generations. Ticking fifty beats to the minute.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I’ll have to see if I can find a new part, but most likely.” He swallowed her in his arms, as if he knew she needed his warmth. “I made chili for dinner. And corn bread’s ready to go in the oven.”

“You’re too good to me.” She relaxed against him, looking up at a face that was growing increasingly lined with age. Jake had never been a handsome man, but he had always been distinguished, well before the age the adjective usually applied. His hair was snow-white, but still as thick and curly as it had been the first time she saw him—and still, as then, a little too long. His eyes were the brown of chinquapins, eyes that promised patience but of late showed a certain fatigue, as well. Sometimes she was afraid that he was simply and finally growing tired of her.

“Let me put things away and I’ll be in to finish the meal.”

She moved away in a flurry of guilt. “Don’t be silly. I’ll put the corn bread in the oven and make a salad.” She paused. “Do we have lettuce?”

He smiled a little. “Uh-huh. I shopped yesterday.”

“Where was I?”

“Holed up in your study.”

“Oh…”

“I like to shop, Maisy. I always see somebody I know. I do more business between the carrots and eggplant than I do on the telephone. Go make a salad.”

She made it to the doorway before she turned. “Would you mind if Julia and Callie came to live with us?”

He looked up from his workbench. “Was that Julia’s idea?”

“I made the offer.” She paused. “I pushed a little.”

“Like a steamroller on autopilot.”

“She shouldn’t be there, Jake. You know that place. She’s miserable.”

“You know Julia and Callie are welcome here.”

“Was I wrong to push?”

“You’re a good mother. You always do what you think is best.”

She knew the dangers of acting on instinct, yet she was pleased at his support. “I’m going back tomorrow.”

“Bard won’t be happy if you interfere.”

She stepped outside and peered up at the sky, now a seamless stretch of polished pewter. The temperature was dropping, and she shivered. Autumn was exercising its muscle. Maisy decided that after dinner she would ask Jake to make a small fire in the living room, then she would tell him in detail everything that Julia had said.

She wondered, as she did too often now, if he would find the recounting of her day too tedious to warrant his full attention.

Julia knew Bard would visit after dinner, not because his schedule was predictable but because he needed to see for himself that everything at the clinic was under control. In the early days of their marriage, that quality had reassured her. She was married to a man who had answers for everything, and for a while, at least, she had been glad to let him have answers for her.

She felt a vague twinge of guilt, as she always did when she had disloyal thoughts about Bard, the man who had stood beside her at the worst moment of her life. Bard could be overbearing, but he could also be strong and reassuring.

In some ways Bard was the product of another era. He was older than she, almost twelve years older, but it was more outlook than age that separated them. Bard would have felt at home in King Arthur’s court, a knight happiest slaying dragons. But Bard would never be a Lancelot. He wasn’t motivated by religious fervor and rarely by romance. Dragons would fall simply because they stood in his path.

At seven o’clock Julia found her way to the dresser where her comb and brush were kept. Her black hair was shoulder-length and straight, easy enough to manage, even when she couldn’t see it. She brushed it now, smoothing it straight back from the widow’s peak that made it difficult to part.

She didn’t bother with cosmetics, afraid that lipstick poorly applied was worse than none at all. Earlier she had changed into wool slacks and a twin set because her room was cooler than she liked. Maisy always insisted she’d feel warmer if she gained weight, but Julia doubted she was destined to add pounds at this particular juncture of her life. The clinic food was exactly what she’d expected, low-fat and bland—garnishes of portobello mushrooms and arugula notwithstanding.

She was just buttoning her sweater when a gentle rap on the door was followed by Karen’s voice. “It’s chilly in here. Would you like a fire tonight? Dr. Jeffers has given permission.”

She supposed permission was necessary. After any time at Gandy Willson, even a patient in her right mind would want to throw herself into the flames.

“You’re smiling,” Karen said.

She realized it was true. “It’s the thought of a fire,” she lied. “What a nice idea.”

She fumbled her way across the room and sat on a chair by the bed, listening as Karen brought in logs. The sounds were all familiar, as was the burst of sulphur when the match was lit.

“Just a tiny one,” Karen said. “Nothing more than kindling. But it will warm you. We’re having trouble with the heat in this wing.”

Julia thanked her, then sat listening as the wood began to crackle.

In the hospital, immediately after the accident, she had found it impossible to measure time. Without visual clues, one moment still seemed much like the next. The sun or the moon could be sending rays through her window and she wouldn’t know. The overhead lights could be on or off, the news on her neighbor’s television set could be either the morning or evening edition.

Little by little she’d learned new cues to guide her. The buzzing of the fluorescent lamp in the corner when light was needed in the evening, or the scent of disinfectant when the hallway was mopped each morning. The cues were different here, but just as predictable.

She had also learned that time passed more slowly than she realized. Without the constant distractions of a normal life, each second seemed to merge in slow motion with the next. She had never understood Einstein’s theories of time and space, but she thought, perhaps, she was beginning to.

After she was sure she’d been sitting for at least a day, she heard Bard’s perfunctory knock. He always rapped twice, with jackhammer precision. Then he threw open the door and strode purposefully across the floor to kiss her cheek.

Tonight was no different. He was at her side before she could even tell him to come in. She smelled the Calvin Klein aftershave she had helped Callie pick out last Christmas, felt the rasp of his cheek against hers.

“You look tired.” He had already straightened and moved away. She could tell by his voice.

“Sitting still all day will do that to you,” she said.

“You need the rest. That’s why you’re here.”

She was here to keep from embarrassing him. She suspected that not one of their mutual friends knew exactly what had happened to her, and she wondered what story he was telling. “I would get more rest at home. I could find my way around. Get a little exercise. I’d feel more like sleeping.”

“We’ve been over and over this, Julia.”

The forced patience in his voice annoyed her. “You’ve been over and over this, Bard. I’ve had very little to say about it.”

“I understand your sessions with Dr. Jeffers aren’t going well.”

“If you mean that I haven’t miraculously regained my eyesight, then yes. They haven’t gone well.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

She could feel her frustration growing. “Bard, stop talking to me like I’m Callie’s age, please. I’m blind, not eight. Exactly what did you mean?”

“Dr. Jeffers says you’re not cooperating. That you’re resistant to treatment.”

“I am resistant to spilling my guts so he’ll have something to write on his notepad.”

“How do you know he writes anything?”

“I can hear the scratching of his pen. I have four senses left.”

“Why are you resisting his help?”

“He isn’t offering help. He’s a Peeping Tom in disguise. He wants to see into every corner of my life, and I don’t see any reason to let him.”

“You’d prefer a guide dog?”

She clamped her lips shut. As he barreled through his days, Bard had developed a theory that life was an endless set of simple decisions, for or against. Accordingly, he had boiled down Julia’s recovery. Either she let Dr. Jeffers cure her or she remained blind. He didn’t have the inclination to consider the matter further.

“I guess that means no.” He sounded farther away, as if he’d taken up her favorite spot at the window.

“What do you see?” she asked. “I’d like to know what’s out there, so I can imagine it when I’m standing there.”

For the first time he sounded annoyed. “That sounds like you’re making plans to live with this.”

“It’s a simple, nonthreatening question.”

“I see exactly what you’d expect. Trees, flower beds, lawn. A slice of the parking lot. Hills in the distance.”

“Thanks.”

“I hear Maisy came to visit today. Against orders.”

His voice was louder, so she imagined he was facing her now. She pictured him leaning against the windowsill, long legs crossed at the ankles, elbows resting comfortably, long fingers laced as he waited for her answer. She remembered the first time she had really noticed Lombard Warwick.

She had known Bard forever. The town of Ridge’s Race—nothing much more than a gas station, post office and scenic white frame grocery store—was named for an annual point-to-point race that extended between two soaring ridges on either side of town. It was also the address of dozens of million-dollar farms and estates, including Ashbourne and Millcreek Farm, which was Bard’s family home. Ridge’s Race had a mayor and town council, churches along three of the four roads that intersected at the western edge of town, and a community as tightly knit as a New England fishing village.

Because of the difference in their ages, she and Bard had never attended school together. Even if they’d been born in the same year, their educational paths wouldn’t have crossed. Bard was destined for the same residential military school his father had attended. Julia, the product of an egalitarian mother who believed class segregation was nearly as harmful as racial segregation, was destined for the local public schools.

They hadn’t attended church together, either. There was a plaque listing generations of Warwicks on the wall at St. Albans, the Episcopal church where the most powerful people in Ridge’s Race convened on Sunday morning. There were Ashbournes on the plaque, as well, and Julia had been christened there, a squalling infant held firmly in the strong arms of the father who had died when she was only four. But for as long as Julia could remember, on the rare occasions when Maisy took her to church, Maisy drove into Leesburg or Fairfax and chose congregations and religions at random.

Even without common churches or schools, Bard had been a presence in Julia’s life. Millcreek Farm was just down the road. As a little girl she had seen him pass by on sleek Thoroughbreds or in one of a series of expensive sports cars. She had seen him in town, discussed weather and local politics while waiting in line at the post office, watched him shop for bourbon and bridles in Middleburg. Until she was twenty he had been a local fixture, like miles of four-rail fencing and Sundowner horse trailers.

Then one day, when her whole world lay in pieces at her feet, she had finally taken a good look at Lombard Warwick, sought-after bachelor, son of Brady Warwick and Grace Lombard, heir to Millcreek Farm, graduate of Yale law school, owner of champion hunters in a region filled with exquisite Thoroughbreds.

She thought now that Bard had been at his peak that year. He’d been thirty-one and appallingly handsome. His dark hair hadn’t yet been touched by gray; his green eyes had been clear and untroubled. He had a long, elegant jaw shadowed by a jet-black beard, and hatchet-sharp cheekbones that defined a face as confident as it was aristocratic. He had a way of looking at a female that had taught more women about their sexuality than Mama’s muddled lectures or high school health class.

She hadn’t fallen in love with him, but she had been drawn to his strength and self-assurance, something nearly as powerful that had, in the end, changed her life.

Today Bard had much of the same physical appeal. He was heavier, following in the footsteps of his father, who had seriously taxed the county’s sturdiest quarter horses. So far the extra pounds merely made Bard more a man to be reckoned with. He was tall and big-boned, and he carried himself with military bearing. He was rarely challenged and even more rarely beaten in any endeavor.

The other changes were subtler. The eyes were still untroubled, but troubling. The silver at his temples was attractive, but misleading. Age hadn’t brought with it serenity. He was intelligent, but not necessarily insightful, able to bide his time but never, never patient.

Now was no exception. “Julia, I’m waiting to hear why Maisy was here. This new push to go home…that wouldn’t happen to have come from her, would it?”

“Is it suddenly necessary to report all conversations with my mother?”

“I don’t want her upsetting you.”

His voice had risen a tone. She could visualize him tugging at an earlobe, the one visible vice he allowed himself when he was angry.

“Bard, you’re upsetting me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re trying to run my life.”

“Dr. Jeffers thinks she’ll set back your recovery. This is Maisy we’re talking about. I’m surprised she was able to find her way here, that she didn’t end up on some side road sorting autumn leaves by size and color.”

She was torn between outrage and a vision of Maisy doing exactly that. “She loves me. And she’s worried.”

His voice softened. “We’re all worried, sugar. And that’s why I want you well as soon as possible.”

“I don’t want to stay here. I can see a therapist privately. We can hire someone to help me. It would be enormously less expensive than keeping me here.”

“But not as beneficial.”

She knew it was time to remove the kid gloves. She straightened a little, carefully turning her head until she was certain she was looking at him. “You don’t want me at home because you’re embarrassed. You don’t want anyone to know that a wife of yours has gone off the deep end and manufactured her own personal handicap.”

“You’re completely forgetting about Callie. Do you think it’s good for her to see her mother like this? She’s upset enough as it is. She doesn’t need a daily dose of you walking into walls and tripping over doorways.”

Her frustration blazed into full-blown anger. “What’s the sudden concern for Callie, Bard? Most of the time you don’t think twice about her.”

“I’ll assume that’s coming directly from your mother, too.”

“It’s coming directly from me.”

“I don’t fawn over Callie. That certainly doesn’t mean I don’t care about her.”

“I said you don’t think twice about her. Callie is my job. I make the decisions. I give the attention.”

“And because it’s been your job, Callie expects you to be well and able to take care of her.”

“She needs me with her, whether I can see or not. Children imagine the worst if the grown-ups in their lives aren’t honest.”

“I’ve reassured her.”

“Are you spending time with her? Have you taken her out to eat? Taken her to a movie? Helped with her homework?”

“I have a job. I’m doing what I can.”

Bard’s job had never been a source of tension before, because Julia had always been home to fill in the gaps. He was a real estate attorney for Virginia Vistas, one of the area’s largest development firms. When he wasn’t closing and negotiating deals, he worked with the developers both as an attorney and a private investor. He had a gift for knowing when to buy and sell God’s green earth that made the substantial holdings he’d inherited from his wealthy parents a mere line or two in his financial portfolio.

“Are you spending any time with her?” she asked. “She loves to ride with you. Have you taken her riding?”

“The last time she rode with one of her parents wasn’t exactly a roaring success.”

“More reason. She needs to see that my accident was a fluke.”

“I’m doing what I can.”

“She needs more.”

“Then you’ll need to get better quickly, won’t you? Callie’s welfare should be an incentive.”

“You can be a bastard, can’t you?”

He was silent. Without visual cues, she could only imagine the expression on his face. But the possible range wasn’t pretty.

“I’ll take her riding this weekend,” he said at last.

It was a concession, but not much of one, since today was only Monday. “Bard, nothing that’s happened to me is under my conscious control. And it may not go away quickly. If it doesn’t, I have no intention of staying at Gandy Willson just because you want me out of sight.”

“I’d like you to stop saying that. You need to stay here to get well.”

“You can catch Callie before she goes to bed. Please go home and read her a story for me.”

He was silent a moment. “All right. But I’ll let her read to me. She needs practice.”

It was an old argument. Callie had a form of dyslexia that made reading a struggle. Bard believed if the little girl just read out loud enough, her disabilities would disappear. No matter how much she hated it or how much it upset her.

“Will you read to her instead, please?” Julia asked. “She can practice reading when everything else is back to normal.”

“You want me to spend time with her, but you want to tell me exactly how to spend it.”

“If you spent more time with her, I wouldn’t have to tell you.”

When he spoke, he was standing directly in front of her. She hadn’t even heard him move. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll read to her. But will you stop fighting everything and everyone and concentrate on seeing again?”

She didn’t repeat that all the concentration in the world wasn’t going to bring back her eyesight. She recognized a compromise when she heard one. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” she promised.

“That’s my girl.” He bent and kissed her, not on the cheek but full on the lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“That would be wonderful.” His voice was husky. “I hope you will see me tomorrow.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m flying down to Richmond early in the morning, and I won’t be by until after dinner. Sleep well.”

That was a promise she couldn’t make. “You, too.”

He closed the door gently enough, but moments later it still resounded. She was left with an assortment of feelings.

She had never dealt well with her own emotions. Only rarely had she understood what fed the creative well inside her or sealed it completely. She had found it best not to tamper. Painting or drawing, even sculpting—something she’d only done infrequently—had become her outlet. Perhaps she didn’t understand anything better when she’d finished, but she felt better. And that was good enough.

Now a desire to sketch seized her with a force that almost took away her breath. She got to her feet and felt her way around the room until she came to the desk. She slid her fingers underneath, feeling for a drawer. She was rewarded with what felt like a wooden knob, and when she grasped it, she felt the drawer sliding toward her. When it was open, she poked her fingers inside and felt for paper or a pen, but the only thing residing there was what felt like a slender telephone book, despite the fact that her room had no telephone.

To prevent theft, Bard had taken her purse. At the time she hadn’t thought that he was also taking pens and memo pad, her only means of drawing. Why would she have? How odd to think that a blind woman would want to draw something she couldn’t see.

Yet she did. With such an intensity, such a hunger, that she felt, for a moment, that she might starve if she couldn’t.

Before she could think what to do, Karen knocked and entered. “I saw your husband leave. Will you need help getting ready for bed, Mrs. Warwick?”

She wanted to weep with relief. “Karen, this probably sounds ridiculous. But I’m an artist, and even though I can’t see, I need to draw. I don’t need anything fancy. Just a notepad, if you have one. A pencil or two, even a pen. Would that be too much trouble?”

Karen didn’t answer for a moment, just long enough to let Julia know she wasn’t thinking about where she might find supplies.

“Mrs. Warwick, the thing is, Dr. Jeffers has forbidden it. He ordered the nursing staff not to provide you with art supplies.”

Julia still didn’t understand. “What possible reason could he have for that? Is he afraid I’ll slit my throat with a pencil?”

“I think…I think he believes it’s an escape from reality. That he wants you to face your problems directly.”

Julia drew a startled breath.

Karen hurried on. “Do you want me to call him at home? I could tell him what you’ve asked and see if I can get permission. He might want to come and talk to you about it himself.”

Julia slashed her hand through the air to cut her off. She knew what Dr. Jeffers would say. He was locked firmly in the psychiatric past, when psychoanalysis was the only therapy worth mentioning.

“I’m so sorry,” Karen said. “I don’t agree with him. But if I helped you…”

“I’ll get myself ready for bed.”

“I really am sorry.”

Julia didn’t trust herself to answer.

“I’ll just scatter the wood. The fire’s almost out anyway.”

Julia stood stiffly and waited until Karen closed the door. Anger was now a boiling cauldron inside her. Rarely had she felt so unfairly treated. At this, the most frightening moment of her life, she was locked away among strangers she couldn’t see, the prisoner of outdated therapies and psychiatric whims.

She had never been a rebel. In all areas of her life, her choices were usually fueled by concern for others. Even as an artist, she had never rocked the boat. She painted traditional portraits and landscapes. At William and Mary she had been the despair of art professors who had praised her talent and urged her to break free of convention.

She wanted to break free now. She had followed all the rules, and look what had happened to her. Her own body had betrayed her.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, but it was like a gust of wind fueling glowing embers. From the other side of the room she heard a faint pop from the fireplace. She wondered what was left of the fire Karen had made. The nurse had scattered the logs. Nothing more than kindling, she’d called them. There might not be anything now except coals.

Or there might be a stick or two, partially burned and black as charcoal. She abandoned the idea immediately, but it formed again, a foolish, dangerous rebellion that could burn down the clinic. At the very least she would never have another fire in her room, no matter how cold the weather.

She made her way to the fireplace and placed her palms against the opening. It was glass, as she’d expected from the noises Karen had made opening and closing it. She found the handles to pull it apart and was rewarded with a screech as the panels parted. She knelt on the hearth and held her palms against the opening. The heat was minimal. The fire must have been small, just as Karen had said.

She knew she might get singed, but she didn’t care. She lowered her hands and felt along the seam between the tile hearth and brick lining. At first she was unsuccessful, but as she inched forward, she felt a piece of wood that was cool to the touch. She investigated it carefully with her fingertips. It seemed to be about two inches in diameter, more kindling than log. She gripped it in her right hand and inched her left along its length. It grew hotter as she progressed, until she drew scorched fingertips back in alarm.

She guessed that the tip was still glowing. She lifted the stick higher and gently ground the tip against the floor of the fireplace for a moment. Then she inched her hand along its length again. She repeated the ritual several times until she was finally satisfied. She lifted it higher and waved it in front of her face. The kindling was barely smoking now, not actively alight, and most likely well on its way to becoming ash.

What did it matter if she was imagining what this makeshift charcoal pencil could do? She couldn’t see the result. It was the motion that mattered, the translation of the visions in her mind.

She stood and realized she was trembling with excitement. How much of it was the thrill of the mutineer and how much the thrill of the artist? She didn’t know or care. She was about to transform an unthinkable situation.

She chose the widest stretch of wall, one without pictures or shelves to block her movements. She stood an arm’s length away and wondered what color the wall was painted. She wished that she had asked Karen or Bard. She imagined it as white and realized it didn’t matter, since she would never see what she was about to draw, except in her own mind.

And she doubted that Dr. Jeffers would hold showings.

She spoke out loud. “I’m just glad it’s not wallpaper.”

She took another deep breath, and the glowing embers of her imagination burst into flame.

3

On the morning after her visit to Julia, Maisy was awakened by pounding on her front door. She was at her most energetic and creative late at night. Unless she was forced to, she rarely rose before ten. The bedside clock said seven.

She rolled over and felt for Jake’s warm body, but the other side of the bed was empty. For a moment she thought she might ignore the summons, then it sounded again, louder and more insistent.

She sat up and tried to remember what day it was. When that proved an impossible task she swung her legs over the bedside and felt for her slippers. She grabbed a royal-purple satin bathrobe on her way out the door and fluffed her perm with stiff fingertips as she navigated the stairs. When she peered out the stairwell window and saw who was standing at the front door, she sighed. But it was nine years too late to crawl back under the covers.

The door wasn’t locked. She swung it open and peered at her son-in-law through heavy-lidded eyes. Bard Warwick was convinced that if Maisy simply adjusted her time clock, the rest of her life would fall into place.

“Has something happened to Julia or Callie?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

She stepped back and he entered. He was dressed for business in a dark suit and patterned tie topped with a navy London Fog. She noticed for the first time that it was drizzling and his dark hair was beaded with moisture.

In Maisy’s mind Bard was the best and worst Virginia had to offer. He was athletic and intelligent, self-disciplined and stuffed with both Southern manners and charm. What he wasn’t was particularly straightforward or altruistic.

Bard’s view of himself was like a humorous tourist map. The city in question was the center of the universe, towering above other inconsequential dots like Los Angeles, Hong Kong or London. From birth he had been given everything a boy could ask for, and while those advantages might humble another man, to Bard they were simply tools that had been provided for his convenience.

She was afraid Julia was yet another blessing placed in his path. A man to whom everything came too easily was often a man without a frame of reference.

“Since I’m up now, we might as well have coffee.” She trudged toward the kitchen, aware that her son-in-law had already judged her early-morning attire and found it wanting.

“I don’t want coffee. I’m on my way to the airport. I just want a quick chat, Maisy.”

“I can’t talk without coffee in my hand. Not before noon.”

She supposed he was following her as she wound her way through a hallway cluttered with odds and ends she’d picked up along life’s amazing journey. She turned right and heard him behind her. In the kitchen she gestured toward a seat at the table, then opened the freezer to remove the coffee.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

He sat gingerly, as if he wasn’t sure what he would find if he swung his legs under the table. The house was never dirty, but the hallway wasn’t the only part that was cluttered. Maisy was a collector. Not a pack rat with bundles of newspapers or old cardboard boxes, but a collector of ceramic figurines, scraps of lace, buttons, gloves and quilt squares, lithographs and discarded books. She saw stories in everything, felt vibrations of lives lived and emotions experienced when she held someone’s beloved treasure in her hands. Bard saw it as one step from mania.

“I’m told you visited Julia yesterday.”

She carried the coffee can to the pot and fished in the drawer below it for a filter. She scooped away birthday candles, coasters, balls of string and pizza coupons before she realized she was looking in the wrong drawer. “I did. You’ve filed her away like yesterday’s mail, Bard.”

“That’s a colorful way to put it, but not one bit true. She needs help, and I don’t know what else to do.”

For a moment she was taken aback. He sounded genuinely overwhelmed, something she hadn’t expected. “She needs to be with people who love her, not with strangers.”

“Maisy, in the years I’ve known you, you’ve been a musician, a Mary Kay spokeswoman, a publicist for some Eastern guru with bad breath and dirty feet, a vegetarian and a holy roller. When were you ever a psychologist?”

“It doesn’t take a psychologist, Bard. It takes good common sense.”

To his credit he did not point out that no one thought common sense was Maisy’s strong suit. “Do you know what your daughter did last night?”

“I feel sure you’re about to tell me.”

“She scratched pictures on her wall. She took a piece of firewood out of the fireplace—the God damned fireplace I’m paying a fortune for her to enjoy—and she scratched pictures. Like some sort of cavewoman.”

This was so unlike Julia that Maisy had to rearrange everything she knew about her daughter to fit it in.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Well, I guess I took you by surprise.”

“Why didn’t she just ask for paper and pencils?”

“Hostility? Do you think?”

She had to admit it sounded like the act of a pissed-off woman. “Did she have access to art supplies? If she’d asked for them?”

“Dr. Jeffers feels she needs rest and quiet.”

She was beginning to understand. “And not art supplies.”

“Julia doesn’t need to draw. She needs to talk. Besides, damn it, she can’t see! She’s blind, or at least pretending to be!”

She was stunned. “You don’t believe her? You think she’s making this up? My daughter isn’t perfect, but she doesn’t lie.”

“No? There are a few things in her past she sure doesn’t bandy about.”

“Bard, Julia can’t see. If you think she can—”

“I know she thinks she can’t. I believe her. But there’s nothing wrong with her eyes! Nothing!”

“Except that she can’t see through them.”

He pounded his fist on the table, another highly uncharacteristic show of emotion. “You wouldn’t know it after the way she acted last night, would you?”

“This is just another example of why she shouldn’t be there.”

“Enough.” Bard rested his head in his hands. “I don’t want you to see her again while she’s in the clinic, Maisy. Dr. Jeffers thinks you brought this on, and so do I. He called me about an hour ago, and he was very upset.” He lifted his head. “I want you to understand, this isn’t personal. I just can’t have you interfering with her treatment. She’s my wife.”

“She’s my daughter.”

He pushed back his chair and rose from the table. “You need to listen to me. Closely. Most of the time you’re harmless, but not in this instance. I don’t want you near her until her sight’s been restored. Julia has a lot of thinking to do, and you’re going to get in the way.” His voice dropped. “I won’t have it.”

A man spoke from the doorway. “What won’t you have?”

Maisy turned and saw a bareheaded Jake dressed in a canvas raincoat. No matter the weather, Jake started each day with a long walk. She supposed after living with her all these years it was a way of pumping some predictability into his life.

“I want Maisy to stay away from Julia.” Bard started toward Jake. “Will you make her listen to reason?”

Jake didn’t smile. “Maisy doesn’t take orders well. It’s one of her finer qualities. If she needs to see her daughter, she will.”

Bard’s face was a mixture of emotions. Maisy was too fascinated to be angry he was trying to rally her husband against her. She made another plea. “Look, I offered to have her come here if you don’t want her at Millcreek. I’m home all day. I can help her get her bearings—”

“She doesn’t need to get her bearings! For God’s sake, Maisy, she needs to see again! And with you fawning all over her and waiting on her hand and foot, why should she?”

Jake stepped forward to meet him. “You think your wife lost her eyesight because she wants to be taken care of?”

When Bard answered at last, his face was expressionless. “You have ties to her. I understand that, but right now, I’m in charge of her recovery. Stay away from her. Please. Until she’s ready to come home. Then we can talk about what’s best for her.”

“Julia is in charge of her own recovery,” Maisy said, spacing the words carefully.

Bard shook his head. “If you won’t agree, I’m going to have to make my feelings clear to Dr. Jeffers.”

“I suspect you’ve already done that,” Jake said. “Is there anything else you need this morning?” He stepped aside to make his point.

Bard started past him. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Maisy didn’t respond, and Jake didn’t speak again until their front door closed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m trying to remind myself that for the sake of my daughter and granddaughter I have to be nice to Lombard Warwick, even when he’s in a snit.”

“This has been hard on him, Maisy. He’s trying to cope as best he can.”

“By giving orders and making decisions.”

“He’s not so bad. He thinks he has Julia’s best interests in mind.”

Maisy filled the pot with fresh water before she flipped on the coffeemaker. “Well, he did say that usually I’m harmless.”

Jake chuckled. “He doesn’t know you as well as he thinks.”

She smiled, but it died quickly. She told Jake what Bard had said about Julia sketching on the wall. “I’m going to see her again today.”

“Do you want me to come along?”

Maisy considered before she shook her head. “No. One of us needs to stay in Bard’s good graces. If you don’t come, we can preserve the illusion that you don’t completely agree with me.”

“And that’s an illusion?”

“Do you agree?”

He came over and took cups out of the cupboard, setting them on the counter in front of her. Then he went to the refrigerator for the cream. “If you’re going because you want to be sure she has choices, you have my full support.”

“I just want the best for Julia.”

He set the cream in front of her. “You sound remarkably like Bard.”

The warm glow of Julia’s rebellion only lasted until the early hours of the next morning. She awoke when the morning nurse came in to check on her. She heard the woman’s soft gasp and hasty exit.

The jig was up.

By the time she had showered and finished breakfast, she knew she was overdue for a visit from her psychiatrist. She had to commend his self-control.

When Dr. Jeffers finally arrived, she was sitting by the window, listening to the rain falling on a wet landscape. She could picture the autumn leaves, heavy-laden and resistant. But they couldn’t resist for long.

“So, Julia, we have here a little protest.”

She had been contrite until she heard Jeffers’ tone. Had he not sounded as if he were talking to someone with the IQ of an earthworm, she might have apologized.

Now she was angry again. “I will not be kept from doing the things I need to in order to get better.”

“And you think defacing our walls will make you better?”

She was teaching herself not to play his game. “When I checked myself in, I expected rules. This particular whim of yours was simply cruel. You’re unhappy with my so-called lack of cooperation, so you’re taking away the things that mean the most to me.”

“You sound suspicious of my motives.”

She considered that. “You may well think you’re doing this for my benefit, but the result is the same.”

“And the result would be?”

“Let’s stop dancing around. I’m not going to improve if I spend my whole time butting heads with you. I’m willing to stay, but I want to be able to have visitors and art supplies.”

“Supplies you can’t see.”

“I see pictures in my head as clearly as I ever did.”

“Tell me about them.”

She considered that, too. “Not until I can trust you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Oh, so it’s a bargain, is it? Is that how your life works, Julia? You withhold favors until you get what you want?”

“A healthy person doesn’t give too much without the confidence she’ll get something in return. I’m asking for simple things anyone else would take for granted.”

“It’s difficult to tell exactly what you had in mind when you were drawing. I’m sure it would be clearer if you could see, or if you’d had better tools. But I think I’m looking at a landscape of some sort. Hills? Perhaps a stream?”

“I don’t think we’ve reached a decision.”

She thought he sighed. “I’ll have to give this some thought.”

She heard the scrape of a chair, as if he was standing up. She ventured one parting shot. “Dr. Jeffers, let’s face the fact that this might not be the best place for me. If we can’t come to an understanding, then I’ll check myself out. No hard feelings.”

“I’m not sure I can let you do that.”

She was taken aback. “I admitted myself voluntarily. You’d have trouble painting a blind woman as a threat to anyone.”

“You might well be dangerous to yourself, as that stunt last night proved. I’m surprised you didn’t burn down my clinic.”

A touch of panic gripped her, an old friend by now. “The fire was out and I was careful.”

“But what comes next? I think you’re seriously depressed and capable of acting out. A bad combination.”

Oddly, instead of anger she experienced a surge of relief, which pruned the panic at its roots. Now she knew what she had to do. “I think we’re done here.”

He was silent, and she wished she could see his expression. When he did speak, he was farther away, at the door, she guessed. “You have an appointment this morning with our internist.”

“I had a physical at the hospital.”

“Will you argue about this, too? We like to be thorough. Then you and I have an appointment at four-thirty. I’ll see you, then.”

She wouldn’t see him. She would be gone by then. Any ambivalence she’d had about leaving had disappeared in the wake of his threats.

At three o’clock Julia heard Jake’s pickup. By three-fifteen she knew Maisy had run into trouble, because she still hadn’t arrived at Julia’s door. Julia rang for Karen and waited impatiently until the young nurse came to her room.

“Karen, my mother’s here again to visit. Would you find out what’s keeping her?”

Karen sounded unhappy. “They aren’t going to let her up here to see you, Mrs. Warwick. Dr. Jeffers says it runs counter to your treatment plan. Security has orders. I’m sorry.”

“Is she still here?”

Karen hesitated, then she lowered her voice. “I’ll find out. Do you want me to give her a message?”

“Yes, tell her to wait for me.”

“Wait?”

Julia was on her feet. “I’m coming down. I’m going home. This is outrageous.”

“But you can’t do that. You signed yourself in.”

“I’ll sign myself out. And I’m going to do it right this minute, so don’t ask me to wait.”

“Dr. Jeffers isn’t here to—”

“Good.”

“But we can’t take you down there. We have orders—”

“Damn it, I’ll find my own way, then. And if I break my neck while I’m at it, my mother can sue Gandy Willson.” Julia started toward the door. She felt her way past the desk and dresser before she bumped into Karen.

Now Karen was pleading. “You’re going to get us in real trouble.”

Julia hesitated a moment; then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. Just tell Jeffers the truth. You tried to reason with me. I refused to listen. I am refusing, that’s no lie.”

“Let me call him.”

“Do whatever you want. But he can’t get back before I leave.”

“Let me talk to your husband.”

“Good luck. He doesn’t listen very well.”

Karen’s voice caught. “Please, don’t do this. Wait until—”

Julia was a small woman, but she drew herself up to her full height. “Please get out of my way.”

“But you’re going to get hurt,” Karen wailed.

“I hope you’ve moved.” Julia started forward, feeling for the doorway. She brushed Karen as she wiggled through.

In the hallway now, she realized how disoriented she was. There was an elevator by the nurses’ station, but she remembered being told that operation depended on a key. Dr. Jeffers had apologized for not having any vacant rooms on the first floor, which were state-of-the-art and handicapped accessible. He had promised her the first one that became available. At the time it hadn’t mattered. Now she realized how convenient this was for him. She was a prisoner of her own sightlessness. She was going to have to navigate the stairs alone.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me which way to go?”

“I can’t,” Karen said clearly. In a much lower voice she said, “Are you absolutely determined?”

“I’m leaving.”

She lowered her voice still more. “Go right. At the end, go left. The stairs are on your right, at the very end of that corridor. I’ll meet you there.”

Julia understood. No one would fault Karen for giving in at that point and helping her patient to the first floor. She would be negligent to do anything else. But first Julia had to make it to the stairs alone.

Julia took a deep breath, buoyed by the knowledge that at the very least she wasn’t going to tumble headfirst down a full flight of steps. She turned and took a step, then another. The hall was eerily silent. She wondered where the other patients were. Making pot holders or brownies in occupational therapy? She’d met no one since she arrived. No one had attempted to make her socialize. As she adjusted, Dr. Jeffers had wanted her to be alone with her thoughts.

She slid her hand along the wall beside her, taking another shuffling step. Each time she put her foot down, she expected anything but solid floor. She was falling into darkest space, disoriented and more frightened with each step. But the alternative frightened her more. If she was forced to stay, the depression Dr. Jeffers had cited would grow to be as real as the blindness that held her in its sway.

The wall dropped away, and startled, she jerked her hand back. Her feet were still planted firmly. She stood still for a moment, trying to picture her predicament. She realized that she must have encountered an open doorway, that there would probably be more than one on the hall. She lifted her left foot and replanted it in front of the right, feeling first with her toe to be certain the floor hadn’t suddenly dropped away, as well. Satisfied she kept moving. After what seemed like several yards she felt the wall again, but closer than it had been, as if she’d veered off course.

She straightened and continued on. She had no idea how far she would have to travel. The hall could be a few more yards or many. She had driven by the clinic a thousand times, and now she tried to picture the building. Were the wings long? They were additions to an antebellum mansion, which was now the central reception area, but the additions were old, as well.

She didn’t know how long she took to find her way to the end. She counted six doorways before she sensed something in front of her. She was sweating, even though the hallway was chilly. She was also trembling, afraid that each step would pitch her into space. Too well she remembered the terror of flying through the air, the sudden vision of total paralysis, the knowledge that she was about to hit the ground.

The realization that she could no longer see.

She stretched out her hands, but she touched nothing. She inched forward, arms extended, until her palms contacted glass. She was at the end of the hall, at a window, she guessed, and now it was time to turn left.

She turned, right hand still touching the window to help orient her. Relief was seeping through the fear. She was going to make this terrible journey in time to reach her mother. Maisy wouldn’t leave without a drawn-out fight. But she had to hurry.

Julia took a step, then quickly, another. Her toe caught on something just in front of her, and before she could steady herself, she pitched forward to her knees.

Her cheek rested against the branches of a tree. She stifled a cry, then felt for her bearings. She had stumbled over a plant of some sort, a small tree in a pot. An interior decorator’s vision.

She didn’t linger. She used the pot to steady herself and got to her feet. She had fallen and lived through it. She had gotten back up. She was moving. She might trip again. She would keep moving.

Nearly at the end of the second hallway, she heard a warning just before she stumbled over what felt like the edge of a carpet and sprawled chest down on the floor. This time it took her a moment to catch her breath. Pain shot through her right knee, but before she could find her way to her feet, she felt strong arms helping her up.

“Damn it!” Karen sounded as if she wanted to weep. “I don’t care if I lose my job. There have to be better places to work. If your mother’s gone, I’ll drive you home myself. I have a little boy at home. I just didn’t want—”

Julia felt for Karen’s hands. “I’m going to need help. Come with me. At least until you can find a job you like better.”

“I’d like flipping hamburgers better than this.”

“Let’s go find my mother.”

“Can you make the stairs?”

Julia managed a smile. “I’ll do anything to get out of here.”

“Don’t forget I’ll have my arm around you. Just put one foot in front of the other.”

Julia found that was a lot easier with Karen walking beside her.