Harvesting The Heart Part 18

"This horse is named Donegal," my mother said, and the word brought back what it always had-the name of the county in Ireland where my father had been born, the place he never stopped telling us about when I was little. Tumbling clover like emeralds; stone chimneys brushing the clouds; rivers as blue as your mother's eyes. Tumbling clover like emeralds; stone chimneys brushing the clouds; rivers as blue as your mother's eyes.

I remembered Eddie Savoy saying that people can't ever wholly give up what they've left behind. "Donegal," I repeated, and this time as my mother held out her arms, I stepped into their quiet circle, amazed that the vague wisps of old memories could crystallize into such warmth, such flesh and blood.

"I spent years hoping you would come," my mother said. She led me up the steps to the farmer's porch of the small white clapboard house. "I used to watch the little girls walk down to the stable for their lessons, and I kept thinking, This one will pull off her riding helmet, and it's going to be Paige." At the screen door, she turned to me. "It never was, though."

My mother's house was clean and neat, almost Spartan. The porch was empty, except for a white wicker rocking chair, which blended into the background paint, and a bright-pink hanging begonia. The front hall had a faded Oriental runner and a thin maple table, on top of which was a set of Shaker boxes. To the right was a tiny living room; to the left, a staircase. "I'll get you settled in," my mother said, although I had never said I would be staying. "But I've got some lessons this afternoon, so I won't be around much."

She took me up to the second floor. Straight ahead at the top of the staircase was the bathroom, and the bedrooms were to the right and the left. She turned to the right, but I got a glimpse of her own room-pale and breezy, with gauze curtains billowing over the white of the bed.

When I stepped into the doorway of the other room, I drew in my breath. The wallpaper was a busy tumble of huge pink flowers. The bed was a frothy canopy, and on a chest against the wall were two porcelain dolls and a stuffed green clown. It was the room of a little girl. "You have another daughter," I said. It wasn't a question really, but a statement.

"No." My mother walked forward and brushed the cool cheek of one of the dolls. "One of the reasons I decided to lease this stable was because of this room. I kept thinking how much you would have liked it here."

I looked around the room at the sugar-candy decoration, the suffocating wallpaper. I wouldn't wouldn't have liked it as a child. I thought about my bedroom at home in Cambridge, which I didn't like, either, with its milk-colored carpet, the near-white walls. "I was eighteen when you got this place," I pointed out. "A little old for dolls." have liked it as a child. I thought about my bedroom at home in Cambridge, which I didn't like, either, with its milk-colored carpet, the near-white walls. "I was eighteen when you got this place," I pointed out. "A little old for dolls."

My mother shrugged easily. "You were kind of stuck in my mind at five years old," she said. "I kept thinking I'd go back and get you, but I couldn't do that to your father, and besides, if I went back I knew it would be to stay. Before I knew it, you were all grown up."

"You came to my graduation," I said, sitting down on the bed. It was a hard mattress, unforgiving.

"You saw me?"

I shook my head. "Private eye," I said. "Very thorough."

My mother sat down beside me. "I spent ten hours in Raleigh-Durham, trying to make up my mind about getting on that plane. I could, then I couldn't. I even sat down on one flight and ran off before they closed the door."

"But you came," I said, "so why didn't you try to talk to me?"

My mother stood up and smoothed away the wrinkles on the bedspread so that it looked as though she'd never sat down. "I didn't go there for you," she said. "I went there for me," me,"

My mother checked her watch. "Brittany's coming at two-thirty," she said. "Cutest little kid you've ever seen, but she's never going to make it as a rider. Feel free to come down and watch, if you like." She looked around as if something were missing. "You have a bag?"

"Yes," I said, knowing that even if I wanted to I could not make myself stay at a motel. "It's in my car."

My mother nodded and started to walk out, leaving me on the bed. "There's food in the fridge if you're hungry, and be careful because the toilet lever sticks a little, and if you need me in a hurry there's a sticker on the phone with a number that goes straight to Pegasus's barn, and they can get me."

It was so easy to talk to her. It came effortlessly; I could have been doing it forever. I supposed I had, but she hadn't been answering. Still, I wondered how she could be this matter-of-fact, as if I were the kind of visitor she got every day. Just thinking about her made a headache come behind my eyes. Maybe she knew better and was doing this to skip all the gutted history in between. When you don't keep looking back, it's that much easier not to trip and fall.

My mother stopped at the threshold of the door and held her hand against the wooden frame. "Paige," she said, "are you married?"

A sharp pain ran straight down my spine, a sick ache that came from her being able to talk about phone lines and lunch but not knowing the things a mother is supposed to know. "I got married in 1985," I told her. "His name is Nicholas Prescott. He's a cardiac surgeon."

My mother raised her eyebrows at this and smiled. She started to walk out of the room. "And," I called after her, "I have a baby. A son, Max. He's three months old."

My mother stopped, but she did not turn around. I might even have imagined the quiet tremble of her shoulders. "A baby," she murmured. I knew what was going through her mind: A baby, and you left him behind, and once upon a time I left you. A baby, and you left him behind, and once upon a time I left you. I lifted my chin, waiting for her to turn around and admit to the cycle, but she didn't. She shifted her weight until she was moving down the stairs, humbled and silent, with the parallel lines of our past running cluttered through her mind. I lifted my chin, waiting for her to turn around and admit to the cycle, but she didn't. She shifted her weight until she was moving down the stairs, humbled and silent, with the parallel lines of our past running cluttered through her mind.

She was standing in the center of the oval-the ring-and a girl on a pony danced around her. "Transitions, Brittany," she called. "First you're going to take him to a trot. Squeeze him into it; don't lean forward. Sit up, sit up, push those heels down." The girl was leggy and small. Her hair hung in a thick blond tail from beneath the black riding helmet. I leaned against the rail where I'd stood earlier, watching the squat brown horse jaunt its way around in a circle.

My mother walked to the edge of the ring and adjusted one of the redwood rails so that it was lower to the ground. "Feel when he's going too fast and too slow," she yelled. "You need to ride every step. Now I want you to cross the diagonal.... Keep stretching down in your heels."

The girl steered the horse-at least I thought she did-coming out of the corner and making an X across the ring. "Okay, sitting trot," my mother called. The girl stopped bouncing up and down and sat heavy in the saddle, wiggling a little from side to side with every step of the horse. "Half seat!" my mother called, and the girl bounced up once, freezing in the position that held her out of the saddle, hanging on to the horse's mane for dear life. My mother saw me and waved. "Let's cross the diagonal again, and you're going to go right over this cavalletti," she said. "Ride him right into the woods." She crouched down, her voice tense and her body coiled, as if she could will the horse to do it correctly. "Eyes up, eyes up ... leg, leg, leg!" The horse did a neat hop over the low rail and slowed down to a quiet walk. The little girl stretched her legs out in front of her, feet still in the stirrups. "Good girl," my mother called, and Brittany smiled. "We can end with that."

A woman had come up beside me. She pulled out her checkbook. "Are you taking lessons with Lily?" she asked, smiling.

I did not know how to answer. "I'm thinking about it," I said.

The woman scrawled a signature and ripped off the check. "She's the best there is around here."

Brittany had dismounted, neatly sliding off the saddle. She walked up to the fence, leading the horse by the reins. My mother glanced at me, looking from my head to my shoulders to my walking shorts and sneakers. "Don't worry about tacking Tony down," she said. "I think I need him for another lesson." She held out her hands for the reins and watched as Brittany and her mother disappeared up the hill toward the barn.

"My three-thirty has the flu," she said, "so how'd you like a lesson for free?"

I thought of the horse that morning taking the jumps with the power of a locomotive, and then I looked at this little horse. It had long dark eyelashes and a white patch on its forehead in the shape of Mickey Mouse. "I don't think so," I said. "I'm not the type."

"I never was, either," my mother said. "Just try it. If you don't feel comfortable, you can get off." She led me toward the little redwood rail and paused, holding the horse's reins. "If you really want to know about me, you should try riding. And if you really want me to know about you, I can learn a h.e.l.l of a lot just by watching you in the saddle."

I held the horse's reins while my mother adjusted the stirrup lengths and pointed out the names of things: blanket, pad, and English saddle; bit, bridle, martingale, girth, reins. "Step on the cavalletti," my mother said, and I looked at her blankly. "The red red thing," she said, kicking the rail with her foot. I stepped onto it with my right foot and then tucked my left foot into the stirrup. "Hang on to the mane and swing yourself over. I'm holding Tony; he isn't going anywhere " thing," she said, kicking the rail with her foot. I stepped onto it with my right foot and then tucked my left foot into the stirrup. "Hang on to the mane and swing yourself over. I'm holding Tony; he isn't going anywhere "

I knew as soon as I was sitting that I looked ridiculous. A little girl might have looked cute on a pony, but I was a fully grown woman. I was certain my legs almost touched the ground. I might as well have been riding a burro. "You're not going to kick him," my mother said. "Just urge him into walking."

I touched my foot gently to the horse's flanks, but nothing happened. So I did it again, and the horse shot off, bouncing me from left to right until I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around its neck. "Sit up!" my mother yelled. "Sit up and pull back." I summoned all my strength and did what she said, sighing when the horse slowed to a quiet walk that barely jogged me at all. "Never "Never lean forward," my mother said, smiling, "unless you're planning to gallop." lean forward," my mother said, smiling, "unless you're planning to gallop."

I listened to my mother's calm directions, letting all the words run together and feeling the simple meter of the horse's movements and the scratch of its hide against my bare calves. I was amazed at the power I had. If I pushed my right leg against Tony's side, he moved to the left. If I pushed my left leg against him, he moved right. He was completely under my control.

When my mother urged the horse to a trot by clucking at him, I did what she said. I kept my shoulders, my hips, and my heels in a straight line. I posted up and down, letting the horse's rhythm lift me out of the saddle and holding the beat until the next hoof fell. I kept my back erect and my hands quiet on Tony's withers. I was completely out of breath when she told me to sit back and let the horse walk, and I turned to her immediately. It wasn't until then that I saw how much I wanted her approval.

"That's enough for today," she said. "Your legs are going to kill you tonight."

She held the reins while I slid out of the saddle, patting Tony on the side of his neck. "So what do you know about me now that you didn't know before?" I asked.

My mother turned, her hands on her hips. "I know that at least twice during that half hour you pictured yourself galloping across a field. And that if you had fallen the first time Tony pulled away a little fast, you would have got right back on. I know you're wondering what it's like to jump, and I know that you're more of a natural at this than you think." She tugged on the reins so that the horse separated us. "All in all," she said, "I can see that you are very much like me."

It was my job to make the salad. My mother was simmering spaghetti sauce, her hands on her hips in front of the old stove. I glanced around the neat kitchen, wondering where I would find a salad bowl, tomatoes, vinegar.

"The lettuce is on the bottom shelf," my mother said, her back to me.

I stuck my head into the refrigerator, pushing past nectarines and Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers to find the head of iceberg lettuce. My father believed you could tell a lot about people from their kitchens. I wondered what he'd have to say about this one.

I started to peel the leaves off the lettuce and rinse them in the sink, and looked up to find my mother watching me. "Don't you core it?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You know," my mother said. "Take the core out." She rammed the heel of the lettuce against the counter and neatly twisted it out. The lettuce fell open in a series of petals. "Your father never taught you that?" she said lightly.

My spine straightened at the criticism. No, No, I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her. He was too busy doing other things. Like guaranteeing my moral conscience, and showing me how to trust other people, and letting me in on the unfair ways of the world He was too busy doing other things. Like guaranteeing my moral conscience, and showing me how to trust other people, and letting me in on the unfair ways of the world "As a matter of fact," I said quietly, "he did not." "As a matter of fact," I said quietly, "he did not."

My mother shrugged and turned back to the stove. I began tearing the lettuce into a bowl, ripping it furiously into tiny pieces. I peeled a carrot and diced a tomato. Then I stopped. "Is there anything you don't take?" I asked. My mother looked up. "In your salad, I mean."

"Onion," she said. She hesitated. "What about you?"

"I eat everything," I told her. I chopped cuc.u.mber, thinking how ridiculous it was that I did not know what vegetables my own mother would eat in a tossed salad. I couldn't prepare her coffee, either, or conjure her shoe size, or tell a stranger which side of the bed she slept on. "You know," I said, "if our lives had been a little different, I wouldn't be asking these things."

My mother did not turn around, but her hand stopped stirring the sauce for the span of a breath. "Our lives weren't a little bit different, though, were they?" she said.

I stared at her back until I could not stand it anymore. Then I threw the carrots, the tomatoes, and the cuc.u.mber into the bowl, while the rough anger and the disappointment pressed back-to-back and settled heavy on my chest.

We ate on the porch, and afterward we watched the sun go down. We drank cold peach wine coolers from cognac gla.s.ses that still had price stickers on their bottoms. My mother pointed out the mountains in the background, which rose in swells so close they seemed within reach. I concentrated on physical things: the bones of our knees, the curve of our calves, the placement of freckles, all so similar. "When I first moved here," my mother said, "I used to wonder if it was at all like Ireland. Your father was always saying he'd take me there, but it never happened." She paused. "I miss him very much, you know."

I stared at her, softening. "He told me you were married three months after you'd met." I took a large gulp of wine and smiled tentatively. "It was love at first sight, he said."

My mother leaned back her head so that her throat was straight and white and vulnerable. "It could have been," she said. "I can't remember all that well. I know I couldn't wait to get out of Wisconsin, and then Patrick magically appeared, and I always felt a little sorry that he had to suffer when I found out it hadn't been about Wisconsin at all."

I saw this as my lead-in. "When I was little," I said, "I used to dream up these scenarios that had made you leave. I figured once that you were connected to a gang and you'd slipped up and they threatened the safety of your family. And another time I figured that you maybe had fallen in love with someone else and run off with him."

"There was someone else," my mother said frankly, "but it was after after I left, and I never loved him. I wasn't going to take that away from Patrick too." I left, and I never loved him. I wasn't going to take that away from Patrick too."

I put the gla.s.s down beside me, tracing its edge with my fingertip. "What made you leave, then?" I asked.

My mother stood up and rubbed her upper arms. "d.a.m.n mosquitoes," she said. "I swear they're here all year. I'm going to check on the barn." She started to turn away. "You can stay or you can come."

I stared at her, astonished. "How can you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Just change the subject like that?" I hadn't come all this distance just to be pushed farther away. I walked down the two steps of the porch until we were standing eye-to-eye. "It's been twenty years, Mom," Mom," I said. "Isn't it a little late to be dodging the question?" I said. "Isn't it a little late to be dodging the question?"

"It's been twenty years, dear," dear," my mother shot back. "What makes you think I remember the answer?" She broke her stare, looking down at her shoes, and then she sighed. "It was not the mob, and it was not a lover. It wasn't anything like that at all. It was something much more normal." my mother shot back. "What makes you think I remember the answer?" She broke her stare, looking down at her shoes, and then she sighed. "It was not the mob, and it was not a lover. It wasn't anything like that at all. It was something much more normal."

I lifted my chin. "You still haven't given me a reason," I said, "and you are far from what is considered normal. Normal people do not vanish in the middle of the night and never speak to their families again. Normal people do not spend two decades using a dead person's name. Normal people do not meet their daughter for the first time in twenty years and act like it's an ordinary visit."

My mother took a step back, anger and pride making violet slashes in her eyes. "If I had known you were coming," she said, "I would have taken my G.o.dd.a.m.ned red carpet out of storage." She started off toward the barn, and then she stopped and faced me. When she spoke, her voice was more gentle, as if she'd realized too late what she had said. "Don't ask me why I I left, Paige, until you can tell yourself why left, Paige, until you can tell yourself why you you left." left."

Her words burned, flaming my cheeks and my throat. I watched her slip up the hill toward the barn.

I wanted to run after her and tell her it was her fault that I'd left; that I knew I had to take this opportunity to learn all the things I had never learned from her: how to look pretty; how to hold a man; how. to be a mother. I wanted to tell her that I never would have left my my husband and husband and my my child under any other circ.u.mstances and that, unlike her, I was going back. But I had a feeling that she would have laughed at me and said, child under any other circ.u.mstances and that, unlike her, I was going back. But I had a feeling that she would have laughed at me and said, Yes, that's the way it begins. Yes, that's the way it begins. And I had a feeling that I would not be telling the complete truth. And I had a feeling that I would not be telling the complete truth.

I had left before I had any inkling that I wanted to find my mother. I had left without giving my mother a second thought. No matter what I had brainwashed myself to believe by now, I hadn't even considered going to Chicago until I was several hundred miles away from my home. I needed to see her; I wanted to see her-I understood what had prompted me to hire Eddie Savoy. But it was only after after I'd left Max and Nicholas that I thought of coming here. It wasn't the other way around. The truth was that even if my mother had lived just down the street, I would have wanted to get away. I'd left Max and Nicholas that I thought of coming here. It wasn't the other way around. The truth was that even if my mother had lived just down the street, I would have wanted to get away.

Back then I had blamed it on Max's nosebleed-but that had just been the spark that set off the fire. The real reason was that my confusion ran too deep to sort out at home. I had had to go. I didn't have any other choice. I didn't leave out of anger, and I didn't want to leave forever-just long enough. Long enough to feel that I wasn't doing it all wrong. Long enough to feel that to go. I didn't have any other choice. I didn't leave out of anger, and I didn't want to leave forever-just long enough. Long enough to feel that I wasn't doing it all wrong. Long enough to feel that I I mattered, that I was more than a necessary extension of Max's or Nicholas's life. mattered, that I was more than a necessary extension of Max's or Nicholas's life.

I thought of all the magazine articles I'd read on mothers who worked and constantly felt guilty about leaving their children with someone else. I had trained myself to read pieces like that and silently say to myself, See how lucky you are? See how lucky you are? But it had been gnawing at me inside, that part that didn't quite fit, that I never let myself even But it had been gnawing at me inside, that part that didn't quite fit, that I never let myself even think think about. After all, wasn't it a worse kind of guilt to be about. After all, wasn't it a worse kind of guilt to be with with your child and to know that you wanted to be anywhere but there? your child and to know that you wanted to be anywhere but there?

I saw a light flash on in the barn, and all of a sudden I knew why my mother had left.

I went up to the bathroom and undressed. I ran hot water in the claw-footed tub and thought about how good it would feel on the clenched muscles of my thighs. Riding had made me aware of places on my body that I hadn't known existed. I brushed my teeth and stepped neatly into the tub. I leaned my head back against the enamel rim, closed my eyes, and tried to will away thoughts of my mother.

Instead I pictured Max, who would be exactly three and a half months old the next day. I tried to remember the milestones he should have been reaching now, according to that First Year First Year book Nicholas had brought me. Solid foods, that was the only one I could remember, and I wondered what he thought of bananas, applesauce, strained peas. I tried to imagine his tongue pushing out against a spoon, that unfamiliar object. I smoothed one hand over the other and tried to remember his silky powdered touch. book Nicholas had brought me. Solid foods, that was the only one I could remember, and I wondered what he thought of bananas, applesauce, strained peas. I tried to imagine his tongue pushing out against a spoon, that unfamiliar object. I smoothed one hand over the other and tried to remember his silky powdered touch.

When I opened my eyes, my mother was standing over the bathtub, wearing a yellow wrapper. I tried to cross my arms over my chest and to twist my legs, but it was too small a tub. A flush of embarra.s.sment ran from my belly up to my cheeks. "Don't," she said. "You've turned out quite beautiful."

I stood up abruptly, grabbing a towel and sloshing water all over the floor in my hurry. "I don't think so," I murmured, and I threw open the bathroom door. I ran to my little-girl room, letting the steam steal down the hall to veil my image from my mother.

When I first woke up, before I was fully conscious, I thought that they were at it again. I could so clearly hear in my imagination the voices of my mother and father attacking, tangling, retreating.

They were not fights; they were never really fights. They were triggered by the simplest things: a burned souffle, a priest's sermon, a supper my father came home to late. They were only half-arguments, started by my mother and quelled by my father. He never picked up the gauntlet. He'd let her scream and accuse, and then, when the sobs came, his soft words would cover her like a soft blanket.

It didn't scare me. I used to lie in bed and listen to the scene that had been replayed so many times I knew the dialogue by heart. Slam: Slam: that was my mother at the bedroom door, and seconds later it would open again, once my father came upstairs. In the months after my mother left, when I was doing my remembering, I thought of the arguments and I added the pictures I could never see, fashioning them like actors in a grainy black-and-white film. So, for example, here I envisioned my parents back-to-back, my mother tugging a brush through her hair and my father unb.u.t.toning his shirt. "You don't understand," my mother said, her words always. .h.i.tched and high, always the same. "I can't do it all. You expect me to do everything." that was my mother at the bedroom door, and seconds later it would open again, once my father came upstairs. In the months after my mother left, when I was doing my remembering, I thought of the arguments and I added the pictures I could never see, fashioning them like actors in a grainy black-and-white film. So, for example, here I envisioned my parents back-to-back, my mother tugging a brush through her hair and my father unb.u.t.toning his shirt. "You don't understand," my mother said, her words always. .h.i.tched and high, always the same. "I can't do it all. You expect me to do everything."

"Sssh, May," my father murmured. "You take it so hard." I imagined him turning to her and grasping her shoulders, like Bogart in Casablanca. Casablanca. "n.o.body expects anything." "n.o.body expects anything."

"Yes you do," my mother screamed, and the bed creaked as she stood. I could hear her pacing, footsteps like rain. "I can't do anything right, Patrick. I'm tired. I'm just bone-tired. Dear G.o.d, I just wish -I want-"

"What do you want, a mhuirnan?" a mhuirnan?"

"I don't know," my mother said. "If I knew, I wouldn't be here."

Then she would start crying, and I would listen to the gentle sounds that drifted through the wall: the b.u.t.terfly kisses and the slip of my father's hands over my mother's skin and the charged quiet that I later learned was the sound of making love.

Sometimes there were variations-like when my mother begged my father to go away with her, just the two of them, sailing in a dugout canoe to Fiji. Another time she scratched and clawed at my dad and made him sleep on the couch. Once she said that she still believed the world was flat and that she was hanging at the edge.

My father was an insomniac, and after these episodes he'd get up in the dead of the night and creep down to his workshop. As if on cue, I'd tiptoe out of my room, and I would crawl under the covers of their big bed. It was like that in our family; someone was always filling in for someone else. I'd press my cheek against my mother's back and hear her murmur my name, and I held her so close my own body trembled with her fear.

I had heard the cries again tonight; that's what made me wake so suddenly. But my father's voice was missing. For a moment I couldn't place the crowded wallpaper, the intruding moon. I slipped out of bed and turned in at the bathroom, then I redirected myself and walked till I stood at the threshold of my mother's room.

I hadn't dreamed it. She was curled beneath the covers, her fists pressed to her eyes. She was crying so hard she couldn't catch her breath.

I shifted from one foot to the other, nervously wringing the sleeve of my nightshirt. I just couldn't do it. After all, so much had happened. I wasn't a four-year-old child, and she was no more than a stranger. She was practically nothing to me.

I remembered how I had flinched at her touch this afternoon, and how annoyed I had been when she took my arrival as easily as she'd take an afternoon tea. I remembered seeing my face reflected in her eyes when she was talking about my father. I considered the room, that G.o.d-awful room, that she had had waiting for me.

Even as I crossed the floor I was listing all the reasons I shouldn't. You don't know her. She doesn't know you. She shouldn't be forgiven. You don't know her. She doesn't know you. She shouldn't be forgiven. I crawled under the covers. With a sigh that unraveled the years, I put my arms around my mother and willingly slid back to where I'd started. I crawled under the covers. With a sigh that unraveled the years, I put my arms around my mother and willingly slid back to where I'd started.

chapter 28

Nicholas Nicholas Prescott was already unofficially engaged to Paige O'Toole when they went out on their fourth date. Nicholas picked her up at that waitress Doris's apartment, a small flea-ridden building in Porter Square. He'd left a message while she was working, telling her to wear something along the lines of haute couture because he was taking her to the top that night. He did not know that she spent an hour asking Doris, the neighbors, and finally the reference librarian at the Boston Public Library what haute couture meant.

She was wearing a simple black sleeveless sheath. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a loose knot; her eyes were wide and luminescent. Her shoes were fake alligatorskin, with spike heels-the kind of shoes his college friends had called f.u.c.k-me pumps-although with someone like Paige wearing them, that term would never have come to mind.

At the end of their other three dates, Nicholas had gone no further than gently cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and from her quiet trembling he knew that was enough. In spite of the fact that she'd run away from home, that she was not college educated, and that she was a waitress in a diner, to Nicholas, Paige O'Toole was as chaste as they came. When he pictured her, he thought of the image of Psyche from the White Rock ginger ale label, a girl-woman kneeling on a boulder, staring at her reflection as if she was surprised to see it in the water below. The way Paige was shy to smile, the instinctive habit she had of covering her body when Nicholas touched her-it all added up. They had never spoken of it; Nicholas wasn't like that. But he believed in the strength of coincidence, and surely there was a reason he had been in Mercy when she had begun to work there: Paige did not know it, but she had been waiting for him all her life.

"You look wonderful," Nicholas said, kissing the spot below her left ear. They were waiting for the elevator.

Paige smoothed her hands over the dress, tugging as if it didn't fit her like a second skin. "This is Doris's," she admitted. "I didn't have any couture, so we went through her closet. Would you believe this is from 1959? We spent the whole afternoon taking in the seams."