THE STARS WERE LAUGHING

Spring 2023 (Spring 2016)

Children in a family are like flowers in a bouquet; there'salways one determined to face in an opposite direction from the waythe arranger desires.

- Marcelene Cox

Catherine moved mechanically about the room, packing away thetreasures of a lifetime. Clothing was meticulously folded; bookswere sorted and stacked in cartons; treasured keepsakes - framedphotographs, a grass- and sweat-stained soccer jersey, a whole shelffull of tarnished athletic trophies - were sorted into piles. Thephotographs could be given away for others to enjoy. The jersey andthe trophies had meaning only for their owner - and because of him,to her and his father. Those things she wrapped carefully in paperand tucked into a carton to be stored away.

She stopped often, lingering over some items, her throat tight,blinking back tears, but painful as this task was, she could not bearto relinquish it to others.

*****

Catherine cradled the phone slowly and sighed. A moment laterVincent appeared in the bedroom doorway.

"What is it?" he asked. "Victoria's well?"

"She's fine," Catherine answered wearily. Vincent knew she'dbeen talking with their daughter, currently attending school inEngland.

"She doesn't want to come home after she graduates," she wenton. "She wants to start college over there."

Vincent nodded. "Her last letter hinted as much," heagreed.

"And you're not upset?" she asked.

"No. Saddened, perhaps. Victoria needs space, Catherine, andtime. She'll be home when she's ready."

Catherine knew he was right; he almost always was. Still, thepast six months had been difficult ones. Charles was at Harvardfinishing medical school; Jacob was married and living in thetunnels; Vicky was in England. And last fall, Evan had taken himselfthree thousand miles in the other direction to accept a baseballscholarship to California's Stanford University. Only Devin's sonCarey still lived with them, filling the house with the sounds ofyouth.

"I'm going to call Evan," she decided. "Maybe he'll know whenhe'll be home for the summer."

"And hearing his voice will cheer you," Vincent added, makingher smile. He always understood.

He went back to the study and Catherine picked up the phone anddialed. She counted six rings before a breathless male voiceanswered.

"Yeah?"

"Kyle?"

"Yeah," Evan's roommate answered. "Who's this?"

"This is Evan's mother," she told him. "May I speak to him,please?"

"Not here," Kyle answered succinctly.

"Do you know where he is? Or when he'll be back?" She knewbetter than to leave word for Evan to call her back. Either Kylewould forget to deliver the message or Evan would forget to make thecall.

"Gee, I dunno, Ms. Chandler," Kyle admitted, sounding suddenlysheepish. "He hasn't been around for a while."

"Define 'while,' please."

"Uh... a couple of weeks, I guess. Maybe three. Ever since hegot hurt."

"Hurt?" She could hear the alarm in her voice, and suddenlyVincent loomed in the doorway once more.

"Yeah, he hurt his shoulder," Kyle explained.

"Badly?"

"I don't think so. He didn't seem worried. Just mad."

That sounded suspiciously like a sports injury. Evan hadsuffered enough of those in his life - pulled muscles, strainedligaments, minor sprains and bruises. He hated being sidelined.

"You haven't seen him since?"

"No."

"Not in more than two weeks?"

"No."

She refrained from asking why he hadn't bothered to call her. "Kyle, did he say where he was going?"

"No. Just said if he couldn't play baseball, there was nopoint in being here. And took off."

That more or less confirmed her guess about a sports injury. "Did he take anything with him?"

"Just his cameras and some clothes," Kyle answered. "Hiscomputer's still here, and his baseball stuff, and stereo. And heleft all his books."

There seemed to be little else to be learned from talking toKyle. "If you hear from him, will you let me know?" she asked.

Kyle promised, but Catherine didn't have much faith that he'dfollow through. She hung up the phone.

"Evan's gone," she told Vincent bleakly. "He's leftschool."

"Several weeks ago," he affirmed, and she guessed he'doverheard most of her side of the conversation.

"I can't believe he didn't think to call and let me know."

"He's a boy, Catherine," Vincent reminded her. "You should bethinking of what to do next."

"I have been. I'll call the university and find out how my soncan disappear from their institution without anyone telling me. OnlyI can't call until tomorrow because it's Sunday."

Catherine rose early after a sleepless night and went to theoffice. Although it was too early to call California, there wereother avenues to try. She'd conducted innumerable skip-traces in thedays when she was investigating cases instead of trying andadministrating them, and she knew the drill.

She began with the bank that had issued Evan's credit card. Because the account also had her name on it, she was able to learnthat Evan hadn't used the card since his disappearance. Chargesbefore that time included a sports medicine clinic in San Jose. Thelast transaction was a sizable cash advance from a machine on theUniversity campus.

She watched the clock until offices in the Pacific time zonecould be expected to open. Her first call was to Stanford.

What the university had to say, though, was singularlyunhelpful. No, Evan Chandler hadn't been to class in seventeen days. The university hadn't notified anyone because Mr. Chandler waseighteen - legally an adult, and responsible for his own actions. Venting her frustration on the hapless clerk on the other end of thephone would have been useless, so Catherine thanked her politely andhung up.

Next she tried the medical clinic. The man she spoke to waspolite but firm. "I'm sorry. I can't release any informationwithout a signed release."

"I'm his mother," Catherine pleaded. "I just want to know whatwas wrong with him."

"Please understand, ma'am. We're required to keep all patientinformation confidential."

"May I speak to the doctor, then?"

"The doctor won't be able to release that information either,"he answered patiently. "You need a signed release."

"Young man," she said, biting the words off crisply, "my son ismissing. I don't know where he is. I am trying to trace him. Now,how do you expect me to get a signed release under thosecircumstances?"

"I don't know..."

"I understand that. All I want is to speak with the doctor whotreated my son."

"I... hold on just a moment."

Canned Muzak drifted over the line, grating at her already rawnerves. The second hand on the wall clock swept around once, twice. One of the trial attorneys tapped on her door and stuck his head in,but retreated when she shook her head and frowned. Another minutewent by, and another. She was beginning to wonder if the man haddecided to rid himself of her by leaving her to dangle on holdindefinitely when the Muzak stopped and the line came to life.

"This is Dr. Mason." It was a woman's voice, cool and poisedand a little impatient.

"Dr. Mason, my name is Catherine Chandler. I'm calling aboutmy son Evan, whom I believe is a patient of yours."

"I have his file in front of me, Ms. Chandler, but, as Jefftold you, we can't release any information about his condition."

"Did Jeff tell you my son is missing?"

There was a pause. "Yes. Yes, he did. It's why I agreed tospeak with you, but really, Ms. Chandler, I can't..."

"I'm an attorney, Doctor. Believe me, I understand aboutconfidentiality. But I'm also a mother, and I'm concerned about myson. Isn't there anything you can tell me? His state of mind whenyou saw him, perhaps? Was he calm? Agitated? Please, Dr.Mason."

"Ms. Chandler, I see here that your son has listed you as theperson to be notified in case of emergency."

"Yes."

The doctor gave a heavy sigh. "As an attorney, I suppose youunderstand about hypothetical situations," she said slowly.

"Of course."

"Then, speaking hypothetically, of course, I suppose it'spossible a young man very similar to your son might have come herecomplaining of pain in his upper chest, near his shoulder."

"Yes?"

"If I had examined this young man, I might have found him tohave suffered a torn rotator cuff."

"I'm sorry, I don't...."

"...know what a rotator cuff is," the doctor finished for her. "No reason you should. Unless you're an athlete and you've tornyours."

"Is it serious?"

"Again, not unless you're an athlete. It's generallyconsidered a debilitating injury for baseball players because ithampers the throwing motion. For a pitcher, it's usually a careerending injury."

Evan was a pitcher. Catherine swallowed. "This hypotheticalyoung man... was it his left shoulder that was injured?"

There was a pause, punctuated by the rustling of paper. "Yes,"the doctor answered after a moment. "It was."

"Was he upset?"

There was another pause. "I'm sorry," the doctor said at last. "I see so many people - I'm afraid I don't recall your sonclearly..."

Catherine let out a long, slow, painful breath. "I understand. Thank you, doctor," she said quietly. "I can't tell you how much Iappreciate this."

"It's all right," the doctor answered, just as quietly. "I'm amother, too."

Catherine was massaging her temples and trying to think of thenext step in her search when someone tapped on her closed officedoor. She didn't answer, and after a moment, the door opened and JoeMaxwell stuck his head in.

"Hey, Radcliffe. Can I come in?"

She forced a smile. "Hi, Joe."

He took that as an invitation. "What's up, Cath?" he askedgently, closing the door. "You've been holed up in here allmorning."

How like Joe to know something was wrong. "It's Evan," sheadmitted, and he smiled.

"What's he done now?"

"Disappeared."

"What?" He stopped smiling. "What are you talking about?"

"He's gone, Joe. No one's seen him in nearly three weeks."

He was suddenly tense, alert. "What do the police say?"

She smiled faintly. "No one's called the police. He packedsome things, took a cash advance on his credit card. I think he ranaway."

Joe snorted. "Evan's too old to run away. Listen, I've got anold buddy, works for the police department in San Jose. That's nearStanford. Let me give him a call, see what he can find out."

"I think he ran away, Joe," she repeated sadly. "He hurt hisshoulder, couldn't play ball anymore."

"Oh." Joe sank onto the battered couch. "That would do it." He ran a hand through his silvered hair and Catherine knew he wasworried, too. It was Joe, after all, who'd taken Evan to the park onweekends, teaching him to throw and catch, showing him how to judge afly ball, and tossing pitch after pitch for Evan to hit. They werebuddies.

"I'm sure he's all right," she began, trying to reassureherself as much as him. "He was just upset, so he packed his stuffand left."

"How's Vincent taking it?"

"He's always so much calmer than I am," she admitted. "Youknow Vincent."

He nodded. "Yeah. Do you know what Evan took with him?"

Odd, how much easier it had been to keep her composure whenshe'd had her anger to sustain her. She felt her smile slipping. "His clothes, his roommate said. And he took his cameras," shewhispered. Her voice wobbled on the last word and Joe was on hisfeet and around her desk to put his arms around her.

She let him comfort her for only a moment before pushing himaway. "Thanks, Joe," she told him, "but much more of that and I'llbe a weepy mess. I'm okay."

He studied her for a moment. "All right. But you tell me theminute you hear something, okay? And let me know if you want me tocall my friend."

"I will," she promised. "Joe?"

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?"

"In the almost twenty-nine years we've known each other, have Iever told you how much I appreciate your friendship?"

He grinned, looking suddenly boyish despite the silver gilt ofhis hair and the lined face that went not only with age, but theresponsibilities of his position as District Attorney, as well. "Ibelieve you've mentioned it once or twice," he said. "But it's niceto hear again. You're pretty special to me, too, you know."

This time, her smile was genuine. "I know that, Joe."

After she'd exhausted all the available options in her searchfor Evan, Catherine threw herself into her work. She'd always beenable to use the concentration required in precise legal work todistance herself from her problems, if necessary, and this afternoon,the years of practice paid off.

Near the end of the day, one of the interns dumped a stack ofnew case files on her desk. Part of her job was to assess each caseand assign it. The current caseloads of each of the attorneys in herdivision were taken into account, as were individual strengths andweaknesses. It wasn't taxing, merely time-consuming. Might as wellget it done, though.

She'd reduced the tall stack to a dozen or so smaller ones whenshe opened one of the last unassigned files. A murder. She flippedthrough the police report. She'd grown used to grisly crime scenephotos and these weren't even particularly bloody. The body of ayoung man, wearing only sweatpants and running shoes, had been foundin an alley near his West Side apartment.

The suspects, she noted clinically, were two thugs believed tohave been hired by the victim's business partner. But it was one ofthe photographs that kept drawing her attention. The victim had beenblond, in his twenties, handsome in a rugged sort of way. He'd beena tall man who had exercised regularly: even death couldn't disguisethe definition of muscle in his arms and bare torso. He was a manwho should have been able to take care of himself, and yet here hewas, lying in an alley with a pair of bullet holes in his chest.

She shivered. Evan was big, broad through the shoulders andchest. She'd seen him last summer helping in the tunnels, strippedto the waist, grappling with a section of steel pipe. She'd seen themuscles rippling across his back and standing out on his arms. Likehis father, he was tremendously strong. Evan could take care ofhimself. But what possible use was that strength, that power,against a gun, a knife?

She slapped the folder closed, shoved it randomly into one ofthe piles and jerked to her feet. Assigning the rest of the fileswould have to wait for later; she was going home.

The house, when she reached it, was dark and silent. Careywould be at school, she guessed, taking advantage of the universitylibrary to study. Vincent was Below, as he always was at this hour. She wondered for a moment if he'd been able to attend properly to hismany duties and responsibilities or if, like her, he'd merely gonethrough the motions.

Upstairs, she checked the answering machine. The readoutshowed one message waiting. Her heart surged in hope, but the voicewas only that of a Helper, the message a mundane one informingVincent of used clothing available for pickup.

She reset the machine with a sharp jab of her finger. Behindher, the panel to the hidden stair slid open.

"You didn't find him," Vincent observed calmly. Toocalmly.

"No," she managed, through clenched teeth. "Not yet."

"Perhaps he doesn't mean to be found," Vincent said. He put ahand on her shoulder, massaging gently. "I know you're concerned,but..."

"Concerned?" she nearly shrieked. "Concerned doesn't begin toexplain the way I feel, Vincent. My son is missing!"

"He's my son, too," Vincent said, too reasonably.

"He's missing!" she shouted.

Vincent stood unresisting, absorbing the bitterness she threwat him. His very passivity fueled her outburst.

"Don't you understand? He's gone! He could be anywhere...something could have happened to him. Something awful. He could bein a hospital, or..." She couldn't bring herself to express thedreadful thought aloud.

"Don't you care, Vincent?" she flung at him. "Or are you justgoing to stand there?"

"What would you have me do?" His voice was still even, but nolonger serene. Her frustration drove her past the new, deadly notein his calm. She ignored the question.

"Doesn't that incredible composure of yours ever crack?" Shepaced back and forth, her hands moving in rough, choppy gestures. "Don't you feel anything? Don't you..."

"Catherine!" Her name emerged as a half-shout, half-roar; itfilled the room, striking her as surely as a slap, jarring her fromher mindless tirade.

Tears glinted in eyes that sparked with a fury to match herown; his hands alternately clenched and opened as if he longed tostrike out. She, at least could make phone calls, could make aneffort to search. Vincent was denied even that small comfort. Allhe could do was wait. How much greater was his helplessness thanhers; how much greater, then, was his fear?

Tears of shame flooded her eyes. "Oh, Vincent," she whispered,and crossed to him. "I'm sorry." She put her arms around his waist,her head on his shoulder. After a moment his arms closed around herand his cheek came to rest against her forehead.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated. "The things I said weren't fair. Weren't true. You're as upset as I am. I know that."

"I hate the helplessness," he admitted heavily. "I hate notbeing able to do anything. And to have you fling that at me..."

"I know. You didn't deserve that."

"It's not like when he was little, and wandered away from yourside," he said.

His words brought the memory flooding back, of a Saturdayafternoon in a Fifth Avenue department store. Evan couldn't havebeen more than four, and she'd had Vicky with her as well.

She was holding Vicky in one arm and let go of Evan's hand tolook at something. When she reached back down for his hand, he wasgone.

Her first thought was that he'd just wandered away, but a quickwalk through the surrounding racks showed no sign of him. Asalesclerk noticed her growing anxiety and helped her look again. NoEvan. The clerk summoned a manager and within a few minutes thestore made an announcement on the P.A. system, giving Evan'sdescription and asking shoppers and store employees alike to keep aneye out for him. Catherine grew more and more frantic; after fifteenminutes, the floor manager called the police.

While talking with the police, Catherine had glanced throughthe store manager's open door to see Jamie just outside, in earnestconversation with a bystander who was obviously telling all about thelost little boy. Jamie'd vanished by the time Catherine finishedgiving the necessary information to the police, taking word toVincent, who already knew something was dreadfully wrong.

By the time Catherine reached home, Vincent had organizedHelpers and tunnel folk in an intensive search. After four of thelongest hours she'd ever endured, Vincent had brought Evan home,dirty and tearstained, but unharmed, and placed him in her arms. AHelper had found him in Central Park. Somehow he'd crossed FifthAvenue by himself - something that still made Catherine shudder withhorror - and had become lost while looking for the park entrance tothe underworld. Shopping, he'd informed his mother, was yucky.

"No," she agreed now. "You were able to do something; I wasthe one who had to be home in case the police called. I remember howhelpless I felt, how awful it was. All the things you must befeeling now."

"Shh," he murmured. "It's all right. I know your pain."

She drew back to look at him. "But I should have knownyours."

He didn't contradict her statement. Instead, he listened asshe recounted what she'd learned during the day.

"I don't know what else to do," she finished. "I don't knowwho else to call. But I can't help feeling there's still something Ican do..."

"Yes," he answered simply.

"What?"

"You can go to California."

She'd argued with him, but not very hard, and as always whenhe'd made up his mind, Vincent prevailed. The next morning found heron a plane to California. She chafed at the hours in the air, unableto relax and enjoy the rare and unexpected leisure.

At least she wouldn't have to check the hospitals or thepolice. After their talk last night, Vincent had picked up thetelephone himself to call Joe Maxwell. Joe had called back thismorning to say his friend in San Jose had found no evidence of Evanhaving met with misfortune or foul play.

She landed in San Francisco and rented a car for the shortdrive to Stanford, where the university was located. Universitypersonnel seemed more willing to help than they had over the phone,but had no more information today than they had yesterday. CitingEvan's partial baseball scholarship, one of the deans directed her tothe athletic department, where she met Greg Stuart, the university'shead baseball coach.

"You know, it's a shame about Evan," the man said, after she'dintroduced herself. "Talented boy. Hated to see him get hurt."

"Could you tell me what happened, Mr. Stuart?"

"Greg, please. Sure, it was the first week of spring practice. I had the boys throwing easy, you know, because of the winter off. But boys think they're indestructible, nothing can happen tothem."

As the mother of three sons, Catherine knew that well enough. "And...?" she prompted.

"And maybe Evan was throwing the ball harder than he should, ormaybe it was just bad luck. Anyway, his shoulder started hurtinghim. I sent him to the trainer who told him to take it easy for acouple of days and see if it got better. When it didn't, we sent himto the sports medicine clinic in San Jose."

"Yes, I've talked to them."

"Torn rotator cuff. I've seen that time and again, Ms.Chandler. There's surgery to fix it, you know, but they never comeback as good as they were. Only pitcher I ever knew to come backfrom a torn rotator cuff was Tommy John, back in the 1980's. And hewent from a fastball pitcher to a control pitcher.

"Evan could do that, too, you know. He's coordinated enough. Has better control than some pitching in the majors. But he's lostthat 90 mile per hour fast ball. Lost it for good."

"Did that upset him?" Catherine asked.

"Upset him? I don't know about that. He came in here after hesaw the doctor, and we talked. Talked about him having the surgeryand being redshirted this year; talked about him playing some otherposition, where his arm didn't matter so much. As good a hitter ashe is, he'd make a hell... excuse me, heck of a first baseman, but hewasn't interested in that. He wanted to pitch. If he couldn't dothat, well, I'll tell you. That boy just had too many other thingshe wanted to do. He didn't want to spare the time to have thesurgery and rehabilitate that arm, learn to throw again."

He leaned forward in his chair. "No, ma'am. I didn't knowhe'd left the campus, but I can't say it surprises me. That boy hasdreams. Dreams he can't fulfill here. It was wrong of him to gowithout telling you, of course, but maybe he was afraid you'd try tostop him."

For Catherine, the pieces all fell together. "Yes," shemurmured. The anxious apprehension lightened a little. "I'm surethat's it."

If she'd known, she certainly would have tried to stop him. Itwas typical of Evan, though, to see only his own narrow vision. Atleast she knew he was all right, or had been when he'd left school. More annoyed now than worried, she flew home.

Spring turned to summer. Charles graduated from medicalschool, came home to start his internship, and reestablished hisrelationship with Elizabeth Burch. When Charles and Elizabethmarried in the fall, Evan's whereabouts were still unknown.

Evan's nineteenth birthday passed without word and fall creptinto winter. Catherine secretly hoped he would make it home forWinterfest, his favorite of the holidays celebrated Below, but itcame and went without him. Christmas loomed as a hollow occasion. Vicky had chosen to spend the holiday in England, helping at thechildren's hospital where she volunteered. Charles and Elizabethplanned to spend this, their first Christmas together, withElizabeth's family.

Jacob, Amanda, and Carey were there, though, and after thetraditional exchange of gifts, Jacob and Carey retired to the kitchento prepare the holiday dinner. Amanda lit the dining room fireplaceand brought out candles and fir boughs that Catherine had been toodispirited to put up.

Outside, a snow storm raged, but inside was warm and bright,and after while, Jacob and Carey joined the family in the diningroom.

"Almost done," Jacob announced.

"Good." Amanda looked up from the centerpiece she wascreating. "I'm starving."

The doorbell pealed once, briefly. "I'll get it," Jacob said,and went out.

Carey went into the kitchen to check on dinner and Amanda gotup to light the candles on her completed centerpiece. Catherineexpected the caller was someone lost, or perhaps a group of stalwartcarolers, but Vincent suddenly froze, as if listening. As wascustomary when Vincent was on the main floor, Jacob had closed thedoor when he left, muffling any sound, but evidently Vincent couldhear something she couldn't.

And then Jacob called them. "Mom! Dad! Come here!"

Vincent was already on his feet, but he paused to let her gofirst. Their curiosity piqued, Carey and Amanda came, too. Jacobwas in the small, square vestibule, helping a tall figure removelayers of snow-crusted clothing.

Catherine paused, her heart thumping, and the figure turnedtoward her and smiled Evan's wary grin.

"Hi, Mom," he said softly. "Merry Christmas."

Amid a babble of excited voices, Evan was gathered in, first byCatherine, so glad to have him home she thought her heart mightburst.

Vincent was next and paused with his hands on Evan's shoulders. "You frightened your mother."

Evan ducked his head. "I know. I'm sorry."

Catherine scowled in Vincent's direction and gave Evan's arm areassuring squeeze.

Unchastened, Vincent went on. "You frightened me, too."

Evan's head came up again and he met his father's eyes. "Iknow. I promise I won't disappear that way again."

"No," Vincent agreed, and hugged him. "Welcome home, myson."

After Evan slung a friendly arm around Amanda's shoulders andbent to kiss her cheek, he exchanged a flurry of affectionate puncheswith Carey.

"Cut it out, you two," Jacob chided. "You'll break something." His damp shirt hinted at a brotherly embrace shared while Evan wasstill covered with snow. "Come on. Your timing's perfect, Evan," headded over his shoulder. "Dinner's ready."

Amanda set another place while Jacob and Carey retired to thekitchen to bring out the meal.

Succulent baked ham, garnished with pineapple and glazed withspices and brown sugar, creamy mashed potatoes, delicately seasonedstring beans and hot rolls were brought forth. For a few minutes,the only conversation concerned the passing of food.

"Okay," Carey said, when everyone was served. "Spill it. Where have you been?"

Evan shrugged. "All over. The west coast, mostly. California, Oregon, Washington. Beautiful country out there, youknow. Spent some time in Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, too."

"Taking pictures," Jacob guessed.

"Lots of 'em," Evan agreed. He glanced sideways at his motherand pulled something out from under his sweater. "I brought you apresent."

"I don't need a present, Evan," she told him. "Having you homeis all I wanted."

"Two presents, then," he said, grinning, and put the object inher hands.

It was a small, glossy magazine called WESTERN TRAVEL. Thecover depicted the silver and white tumble of a waterfall starkagainst a backdrop of dark stone and deep green moss. The lacy edgesof trees could be seen around the edges, forming a frame.

"A beautiful place," Vincent murmured, looking over hershoulder.

"A terrific shot," Evan agreed. "But it's not mine. Look atpage forty-three."

Obediently Catherine flipped the pages. The rest of the familywas crowded around her chair now, their cooling meals ignored. Shefound the right page and held it so all could see. There were twophotographs, one above the other, and Vincent's clawed finger wentunerringly to the lower of the two.

"This," he said with certainty. A huge, sloping monolith ofpinkish rock stood outlined against a stormy sky. Lightning streakedacross the clouds in jagged brilliance. On the horizon, the sunpeeked through, backlighting the monolith in an eerie yellowglow.

"It's breathtaking," Amanda murmured. "What is it, Evan?"

"It's in New Mexico. They call it Shiprock. At least," hesaid, grinning, "the white man does. The local Indians - the Navajo- call it Tse' bit' A'i. That means 'the rock with wings.' It'spretty impressive even when it isn't storming. Just sticks up out ofthe desert. You can see it for miles. And I came across it at justthe right time. Taking that picture was pure luck, and nothingelse." He gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "Just in time,too."

The others went back to their chairs. "What does that mean?"Jacob challenged him.

"I promised myself I wouldn't come home until I'd soldsomething. I didn't know it was going to take so long. And I wantedto come home."

"You could have called. Written." Catherine couldn't keepherself from chiding him.

"I almost did. A dozen times. But then I'd take a reallygreat picture and I'd think, I'll sell this one, and then I'll gohome."

"To have the magazine, you must have sold the photo weeks ago,"Jacob pointed out.

"I did," Evan admitted. "I almost came for Thanksgiving. Butthe dream was to bring proof I could do it. So I made myself wait. Since then, I've sold two more. One to this," he pointed to themagazine in Catherine's hands, "and one to another little west coastmagazine called DESERT LIFE." He grinned. "Once you've sold one,it's easier to sell others."

"Will you come home now?" Catherine asked. "Go back toschool?"

"No, Mom. My next goal is to get a cover. And sell somethingto a national publication."

"NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC," Carey guessed.

Evan grinned. "Someday, I hope. Right now, I'd be happy withTRAVEL & LEISURE." He looked around the table. "It's reallygood to be home."

In the days that followed, Evan was the quintessential familyman; he spoke on the phone with his sister, met his newsister-in-law, went out in the evenings with Carey. He spent hourswith his father, showing off his photographs and relating the storybehind each one. He even managed to meet Catherine for lunch once ortwice.

His shoulder had healed, he said. It didn't trouble him anylonger, though, as his coach said, he'd never throw a ninety mile perhour fast ball again. "No great loss," he said with a shrug. "Ihave other talents."

The other talents extended to waiting tables in a greasy spoondiner, replacing windshields at an auto glass shop, and night clerkat a discount motel, all a means of surviving, and buying film.

He steadfastly refused to discuss returning to school.

"It's not for me, Mom, any more than it was for Jacob."

"Jacob loved school," she argued back. "It was our world hedisliked. With your mind, Evan, you could do anything. Beanything."

"Good," he answered brusquely. "I want to be aphotographer."

"He's so stubborn," she fumed later, to Vincent. "All he talksabout is hopping around, taking pictures. He has no interest insettling down."

"Reminds me of Devin," Vincent agreed tranquilly.

"I'm not sure Devin isn't somehow behind all this," she flared. "And I don't understand how you can be so calm. What kind of futurewill he have if he doesn't go to college?"

"Tell me something, Catherine."

She regarded him with suspicion. "What?"

"You once told me law school wasn't your choice. That it wassomething your father expected of you."

She nodded.

"You were fortunate. You found a way to use your training forothers, doing work you love."

"I haven't tried to push any of them into a particular path,"she defended herself. "I know they have to choose their ownways."

"Yet you expect certain things... and abandon thoseexpectations only grudgingly."

She sank down on the side of the bed. "I do, don't I?" shesaid softly. "I don't realize it until someone points it out. Isuppose it's because part of me believes that's what a good parentdoes..."

"It's what your father did," Vincent agreed. "Yet you resentedit."

"A little. As Evan resents me. My efforts to channelhim."

"Evan is a free spirit, Catherine," he said, sitting beside herand taking her hand. "He isn't meant to be channelled, or contained. He must do the things he's meant to do."

She gazed at him. "You're right, of course," she admitted,finally. "When I forget, will you remind me?"

Over the next few years, Evan could be counted on to turn upevery four or five months, usually without prior warning. In betweenvisits, he wrote, usually postcards, and called, generallycollect.

At irregular intervals, unsolicited magazines and theoccasional newspaper arrived at the house. Someone, usually Vincent,would pore through them until locating a photograph accompanied bytiny print identifying the photographer as Evan Chandler. Stock carsstraining around a dusty curve, an old man and his granddaughtereating ice cream outside a weatherbeaten rural store, a busy Chicagostreet corner. Evan captured a thrilling moment from a festival inSpain, and a tragic one when a Brazilian train derailed and collidedwith a bridge abutment.

A carefully saved stack of these periodicals filled one drawer ofVincent's desk.

There were dry spells, though, long periods when no magazinesarrived. Evan survived those periods with odd jobs that, inCatherine's estimation, required little skill and less intelligence. With Vincent's encouragement, though, she managed to keep her doubtsto herself.

"Hi, Mom, it's me." Catherine turned the answering machine'svolume up and Evan's voice filled the room. "Coming home day aftertomorrow for a few days. Don't know what flight, but I'll catch acab. Oh, and instead of my room, I want to stay in Jacob's becauseit has the double bed. I'm bringing my wife." The machine clickedoff.

"His what?" She punched the rewind button. Surely she'd heardhim wrong.

Vincent came through the sliding door. "What's wrong?"

"Your son."

Apparently her tone of voice was enough to identify the son inquestion, because Vincent didn't ask for further clarification. "What has he done now?"

She pushed the play button. "...my wife," Evan's voicerepeated.

"That's what he's done," she answered grimly. "He's gottenmarried."

Evan arrived, as promised, two days later. Catherine took theday off in order to be home to greet him and his bride; the otherchildren were coming for dinner. Vincent was Below, and, except forwhen he slept, would remain there.

Evan's cavalier attitude towards his father's situation, thoughtypical Evan behavior, annoyed her and she fought to put on apleasant face as a yellow cab pulled up to the curb. She watchedthrough a window as Evan got out. He pulled out his batteredbackpack and the usual plethora of camera bags and set them on thesidewalk while he reached back in for a pair of collapsiblesuitcases. On the other side of the car, a woman got out and leanedover to pay the driver. She and Evan spent a moment arranging thebaggage - he got the camera cases and suitcases, she carried thebackpack. Together they climbed the steep front steps.

Catherine opened the door for them and waited while they putdown all the things they'd just carried up. "Hi, Mom." Evan greetedher with a hug and turned proudly to the woman at his side. "This isAmelia."

Evan's new wife was about Catherine's height, slender, but witha wiry toughness. Dark curls framed a narrow face in which browneyes sparkled, and she had a charming, impish smile. Catherine likedher immediately, in spite of herself. She held out her hand. "Welcome, Amelia."

"Amelia's a correspondent with GNA," Evan explained as theywent upstairs. "Global News Association. We met at a prison riot inMexico City."

"And he's been following me from assignment to assignment eversince," Amelia added.

"Got married in Paris last weekend," Evan went on. "We camehere so Amelia could meet everybody. Next week, we'll go to Seattle. That's where Amelia's family lives," he confided. "It'll be my turnto be on display."

Catherine sighed. Evan, as always, was irrepressible. "Let'shope they're able to overlook some of your less charming attributes,"she murmured.

Evan looked stricken. "What? You don't think I'mperfect?"

She couldn't help a laugh. "No, Evan, I'm afraid I've knownyou much too long for that." She reached up and patted his cheek. She glanced around the room, making sure all was in readiness. "I'llbe in the study when you've finished unpacking."

"I know," Evan answered.

She wondered, as she went down the stairs, if the flicker ofuncertainty in his eyes was real or imagined.

Dinner that night was a festive family occasion. Jacobprovided the meal, arriving at the front door with a series ofcontainers. Some were steaming; others required immediaterefrigeration.

Catherine couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him comein that way - usually he and Amanda used the tunnel entrance in thebasement. But an unobtrusive appearance in the kitchen might provokeAmelia's curiosity while an ostentatious arrival at the front doorwouldn't. Charles and Elizabeth had met them at an inconspicuoustunnel entrance and brought them by car.

Carey and Vicky, married now, arrived a few minutes later. After the cacophony of greetings and introductions were made, thefamily retired to the dining room for dinner.

While she couldn't help being annoyed with Evan for his hastyand thoughtless arrival, Catherine was impressed by her newestdaughter-in-law. Amelia was bright, articulate, and possessed of aquick wit and charming sense of humor. It was easy to see why Evanwas attracted to her.

And he was. Catherine had never seen any overt likenessbetween Evan and his father... until now. Surely the expression Evanwore when he smiled at Amelia was the same one Vincent had when helooked at her.

"So tell me," she said, as Charles helped Jacob serve thesalad. "How long have you known one another?"

"You see?" Evan said to his wife. "I told you she'd ask."

"Be quiet, Evan." Amelia turned her smile Catherine's way. "Six weeks. I know it isn't very long..."

"No," Catherine agreed faintly. Six weeks was hardly time toget to know a person, much less fall in love and marry. Sheswallowed, and realized Vicky was frowning at her. Some of theindignation she felt must be spilling over. At least she could counton years of courtroom experience to maintain a pleasant facade.

"We're given to long courtships in our family," Jacobexplained. "For instance, I've known Amanda since she was born." Hesmiled at his wife, sitting beside him. "We even slept in the samecradle as infants. And Carey and Vicky met when they werefifteen..."

"I turned sixteen the next week," Carey interjected.

"I know, but fifteen sounds better. And Charles knew Elizabethfor what, a year and a half before you married?"

Charles nodded solemn agreement. "We're the impatient onesaround here, or at least we were. Mother and Father knew each otherfour years before they married."

"Where is your father?" Amelia inquired. "I was hoping to meethim."

The room fell quiet as everyone seemed suddenly intent on thefood. After a brief pause, Charles cleared his throat. "He's awayright now," he said, giving his mother an uneasy glance. "We're notcertain when to expect him back."

Charles was clearly unhappy with his role in this; he hadargued unsuccessfully against their father's exclusion from thisdinner. "She might as well find out," he'd said on the phone. "She's one of us, now."

"Not yet," Catherine had replied firmly. "Who knows how longthis marriage of Evan's may last? You know how he is."

"I do know," Charles answered. "If he's bringing her home,it's because he has confidence in her. I think we ought to haveconfidence, too."

Charles's outlook, she suspected, was colored by the ease withwhich his wife and father-in-law had accepted Vincent's differences. What was more surprising was that Vincent's inclination was thesame.

"She's my son's wife," he'd argued gently. "I want to meether."

"Yes, of course, Vincent, but not right away. Let us get toknow her a little, see what she's like."

"Evan knows her," he'd reminded her.

But Evan had known her only six weeks, which wasn't nearly longenough for Catherine's peace of mind.

Later, in their room, she recounted the evening to Vincent. "She's a very pleasant young woman."

"She's good for him?" Vincent asked.

Catherine stopped to think. "I think she is. He says he'sgoing down to GNA's head office to see if he can get on as a staffphotographer. You know he hasn't wanted to do anything but freelancebefore."

"Freelancing makes him happy," Vincent replied.

"I know," she agreed, "but I don't see why he can't hold on tosomething and still be happy."

"He's been a photographer for six years. That should count forsomething."

"You're right," she conceded. "Anyway, Amelia says there'sanother married couple working for the wire service - both reporters- and the service cooperates by dispatching them on the same storywhenever possible." She frowned. "Although you'd think at somepoint they'd want to settle down, maybe have some children."

"Catherine." Vincent's chiding was gentle.

"Oh, I know, Vincent, but I just don't understand him."

A tap on the door interrupted. "It's Evan," Vincent answeredCatherine's questioning glance. "He's alone," he added with just atouch of asperity.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open just far enough forEvan to slip inside.

His gaze slid across her, seeking Vincent. "Dad." He crossedthe room and gave his father a welcoming embrace.

"Your mother says Amelia is a lovely young woman," Vincentgreeted.

It was all Evan needed. "She is," he agreed eagerly. "Look, Ibrought you a picture."

Vincent accepted the photograph and studied it carefully. Evanpeered over his shoulder.

"This is my favorite photograph," he said. "The way her skinglows, and the light shining through her hair. Her smile. Hereyes."

"She looks as if she likes to laugh," Vincent observed.

"She has a wonderful laugh. She makes me happy, Dad."

"Yes," Vincent agreed, turning his attention to his son. "Ican see that she does. You're fortunate to have found a woman whodoes that." His smile took in Catherine, as well. "As am I."

A quirk at the corner of Evan's mouth was clearly connectedwith the resentful glance he tossed in her direction and she couldsee Vincent following his line of thought.

"She is your mother, Evan," he said gently. "She loves you. And," this last was accompanied by a small smile, "she is the rightwoman for me."

Evan's expression turned sheepish. "Yeah, Dad. I know." Hekissed his father's stubbled cheek and, after the barest ofhesitations, kissed Catherine as well. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Evan," Vincent answered, for both of them.

Evan paused in the doorway. "You don't need to worry, Mother,"he said, looking at her directly for the first time. "I haven't toldher anything." He went out, closing the door with a solid thump.

It was an admonition, a rebuke, and it took her a moment torecover. When she turned, Vincent had busied himself with the tieson his vest. "Am I wrong in this, Vincent? I mean, we scarcely knowthis girl."

"Evan knows her," he said, repeating his earlier argument.

"Six weeks. He's only known her six weeks. How can he knowenough?"

He let his hands drop. "Ten days," he said softly. "I neededonly ten days to know all that was necessary. I would," he addedpointedly, "like to meet my new daughter-in-law."

"You will," Catherine promised him rashly. "You will. Justnot yet. Please? Wait. Until I'm sure."

He nodded, his agreement much more a concession to her fearsthan an expression of any reservations he harbored, and bent again tohis vest. "Between you and Father," he remarked, sliding the garmentfrom his shoulders, "it's a wonder I was ever allowed out of mychamber."

"Father tried to protect you," she answered sharply. "So doI."

"Father's judgement was often flawed," he pointed out. "Afterall, one of the things he tried to protect me from was you."

Despite her best efforts, Catherine arrived home late the nextevening. She hurried up the steps, fully expecting to find Evan andAmelia waiting, but to her surprise, there was no one home. She wasupstairs, about to change her clothes, when she heard the front dooropen and voices on the stairs. She went out on the landing to meetthem.

"I'm sorry to be so late," she apologized, more to Amelia thanto Evan. "And I haven't given a thought to dinner..."

"It's okay," Evan interrupted brusquely. "We've eaten."

She paused. "Oh."

"I called your office to tell you," he told her. "They saidthey'd give you the message."

"I didn't get back to the office this afternoon."

"I'm sorry you didn't know," Amelia said softly. "We didn'twant you to have to go to the trouble of preparing something afterworking all day. I hope we haven't inconvenienced you."

Catherine forced a smile. Something of Evan's old hostilitytainted the atmosphere, but that wasn't Amelia's fault. "Not atall," she assured her. "Evan will tell you I'm not much of a cook. But having a son whose hobby is cooking has advantages. My freezeris full of ready-to-microwave meals. I'll just warm one instead ofthree."

If Evan's smile was frosty, Amelia's was genuine. "Good. I'mglad it's no trouble. May we sit with you while you eat?" sheoffered.

"It's not necessary," Evan answered, before Catherine couldspeak. He took Amelia's arm, steering her towards the next flight ofstairs. "Mom probably has work to do. And we have a big daytomorrow. Goodnight, Mom," he tossed back, over his shoulder.

"Goodnight, Evan," she answered faintly, watching theirprogress until they disappeared. "Goodnight, Amelia."

Amelia's voice, floating down, was the last thing she heard. "Goodnight, Catherine."

It was clear that Evan was avoiding the awkwardness of anintimate family dinner, when the family would consist only of Evan,Amelia, and Catherine. Catherine couldn't blame him; even Amelia,who knew nothing of the circumstances, couldn't miss the strainedatmosphere whenever Catherine and Evan were together. Still, shemourned the lost opportunity to come to know her daughter-in-law. And fretted, because without knowing her, how could she come to trusther?

The next evening, Evan and Amelia quarreled. Catherinewouldn't have known except for Vincent, whose keen hearing could pickup sounds rendered ordinarily inaudible by the solid construction ofthe townhouse.

Studiously ignoring the sounds she couldn't hear, he bent overhis worn volume of Shakespeare, his shoulders hunched indiscomfort.

"Don't worry," she told him. "All newly married couplesdisagree."

He closed his book and placed it carefully on the table. "Wedidn't."

"We did once in a while. Not as often as some of my friendsadmit to, though." She smiled, hoping to distract him. "We hardlyqualify as your ordinary couple, you know."

He didn't smile back. "So I've repeatedly been remindedrecently," he said, and went to open the study door.

The solid thump of footsteps pounded on the stairs and she halfrose to stop him. An instant later Evan came into view and paused,half hidden by Vincent's bulk.

"Is everything all right?" Vincent asked.

"No." Evan snarled the word. "She thinks... no, she knows I'mlying to her. She knows I'm lying and she can't understand why. Andthere's nothing I can tell her." He looked past Vincent's shoulder. "I hope you're happy, Mom. You're ruining my marriage."

Catherine was too stunned to formulate an answer. Vincentcaught Evan's arm and propelled him from the door, closing it solidlybehind them. Catherine had a moment's panic at the thought ofVincent on the landing where Amelia, should she decide to followEvan, might see him, then realized they'd crossed the hall to thebedroom.

"Nothing I ever do is good enough for her." Evan's raisedvoice, filled with resentment, reached her through the spaciousalcove jutting off the far end of the study. The connecting bedroomdoor, usually kept closed, must be ajar. "My judgement is neversound enough," he went on. From the way his voice faded in and out,he was pacing. "She questions everything."

"Is it possible your past record supports her mistrust?"Vincent asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"I was a kid, Dad, with a kid's judgement. Isn't she evergoing to let me off the hook for that stuff?"

"Someday."

"You don't think I'm still a kid, do you?"

"No. Ten years ago, you'd have been shouting at me, too."

The bed sighed as Evan sank down on it. "It's not your fault,Dad," he said.

"If there is fault, it is mine," Vincent argued gently. "Lookat me."

"I wouldn't want you any different than you are," Evan saidfiercely. "But..."

"But?" Vincent prompted him.

"Charles told me about when you met Elizabeth's father," Evansaid. "How Mom didn't want you to, but you did it anyway. Can't youdo that again? For me?"

Vincent was silent for so long Catherine began to panic.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, and she let out the breath she'dunconsciously been holding. "Your mother had known Elliot foryears," he went on. "Her heart already trusted him. It was only hermind that protested."

"And this is different?"

"Her heart... is filled with terror. I cannot compound that,Evan. I can't. I'm sorry."

The bed sighed again as Evan stood up. "Things haven't changedmuch, have they, Dad?" he asked wearily, and she heard the door closebehind him as he went out.

Catherine waited for Vincent to return to the study. When hedidn't, she went to look for him. He was standing quite still, hisgaze distant and troubled.

"Vincent?"

He didn't look at her. "Why?" he asked. The bitterness Evanhad displayed earlier was Vincent's now. "Why must I always beforced to choose?"

"Choose?" she repeated, uncertainly.

"Between the ones I love," he elaborated. "Between you and myson."

"Vincent, I..."

"I know your fear, Catherine. How could I not? But it isunfounded."

"You can't know that," she answered, but the argument soundedfeeble even to her ears. There was no logic here, only thetremendous weight of fear. "You don't know her."

"My son loves her." Vincent strode to the hidden panel andshoved it open. "Catherine, forgive me. I need time alone."

"Vincent..." She moved after him, but wasn't quick enough. Hestepped through the opening and closed it behind him; by the time shewrenched it open, he had vanished.

He'd gone Above, to perch on a building somewhere and ponderthe city while he ordered his thoughts. He was angry with her, shethought, as angry as he'd ever been. And it wasn't Vincent's way toshout or argue.

Catherine changed for bed and crawled between the sheets, whereshe lay wide-eyed, her thoughts moving restlessly between Vincent andEvan and Amelia. If only there was an easy answer. She was stillwrestling with her fear when she dozed off in the wee hours.

She woke to the jarring buzz of her alarm clock. Groggy, shetried to put out a hand to silence it, but something hampered hereffort and it took a moment to realize it was Vincent. He washolding her close, her back against his chest, their legsentwined.

His hand went out and slapped the button on the alarm,silencing it in mid-squawk. She lifted her head and his armstightened, keeping her there. "Vincent," she whispered.

"I'm here."

So he wasn't angry any more, if he ever had been. Maybe he wasjust disappointed. That stung, and she wriggled around to face him. He shifted to accommodate her, but didn't open his eyes. "I'm sorry,Vincent," she whispered into his neck. "I'm trying. I reallyam."

"No one knows that better than I," he answered softly, hisbreath stirring the hair at her temple. "I love you."

He said it rarely, preferring to demonstrate his love in smallgifts, adoring looks and tender touches. But she was grateful tohear him say it now, and lingered in his arms, her cheek against hischest.

"Did you sleep much last night?" she asked presently, and feltthe negative shake of his head.

"Not much."

"How long have you been here?" she pressed him.

"A half hour," he admitted. "Perhaps a little more."

She pulled back, wondering how she could have missed the linesof fatigue in his face. "I have to get up or I'll be late, but youshould stay here," she urged, stroking his cheek. "Sleep."

"I can't." He kissed her softly and pushed back the covers. "Jacob and Jamie are expecting me."

"Security meeting," she guessed, sitting up. "Changing theways again."

"Yes." He rose and pulled his long nightshirt over his head. "If it will please you, I'll rest this afternoon."

That he still wished to please her, after all that hadhappened, brought tears to her eyes. "It will please me."

Vincent was gone by the time she emerged from her shower. Shedressed quickly and went downstairs.

To her surprise, Amelia was already in the kitchen, standingnear the window with a steaming cup cradled between her hands. Sheturned when Catherine came in. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Catherine answered. The coffee maker worked ona timer, when she remembered to set it up the night before. Withguests in the house, she'd been brewing a full pot instead of theusual two cups, and the glass carafe was nearly full. She poured acup and moved to join Amelia at the window. "Not much of a view,"she said.

"I like it," Amelia disagreed. "It's cozy, sort of. I mean,it's small, but the trees are pretty, and the flowers, all held in bythe high fence. And the vegetable garden. Is that your hobby? Gardening?"

Catherine chuckled at the thought. "I grow roses in tubs onthe terrace," she said. "But basically, I have two brown thumbs. Carey's the gardener. He grew up on a farm and sometimes misses theearth and growing things. The apartment where he and Vicky livedoesn't have any yard at all. So he comes here." She eyed herdaughter-in-law. "You're up early."

"I'm what they call a lark," Amelia said. "An early bird. Evan's still asleep," she added.

"I'm not surprised. He's not fond of mornings." Catherinesmiled. "He gets that from me, I'm afraid. I'm only up now becauseI have to go to work."

"Evan says you're an attorney. With the D.A.'s office. Thatsounds exciting."

"There are moments," Catherine admitted. "But mostly it's thesame routine. Much like your work, I imagine. The thrill of seeingyour byline, but all the drudge work researching behind it?"

"Sometimes," Amelia agreed. "But other times, the storypractically writes itself. That's fun."

Catherine glanced at her watch and decided she had time foranother cup. "Come and sit down, Amelia," she urged, indicating thelittle table. "How are you liking New York?"

"Very much," Amelia answered. "Though I probably don'tremember half of what I've seen. Evan believes in cramming a lotinto a day."

"He was always like that, even when he was a little boy,"Catherine remembered. "Impatient. Wanting things to happen rightaway. Long-range planning isn't his strong suit."

"I know." Amelia fell silent, seeming absorbed in the designaround the rim of her cup.

"And how are things with you and Evan?" Catherine askedcautiously.

Amelia looked away. "All right."

"Are you sure? You seem unhappy."

Amelia sighed. "Since we've been here, Evan seems distant anddistracted. Last night we quarreled, and he walked out. I don'tthink he went far, because he wasn't gone very long..."

"He came down and talked to his father," Catherine said,without thinking.

Amelia stiffened. "I thought his father was away."

Damn. Well, she'd done it now. "No," she said. "He'sback."

"Evan's very fond of his father," Amelia said, after a moment. "He talks about him a lot. Things he says. Little pearls of wisdom,you know? But then, there are things he won't say. Like about hisfather being home. He didn't tell me that. It's like he doesn'ttrust me. He says he does. He says he'll tell me everything, intime. When it's right." She snorted. "I don't even know whatthat's supposed to mean."

"Maybe he's just asking you to trust him," Catherinesuggested.

Amelia's head snapped up. "Funny you should be the one to saythat," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"About trust. He says you don't trust him."

Catherine blinked. "I don't understand. Of course I trusthim."

Amelia shook her head. "He says you don't. He says..." Shehesitated, swallowing visibly. "He says you're the one who won't lethim tell whatever it is he's keeping from me." Her voice softened. "All he wants, really, is for you to trust him."

Catherine looked at the young woman across from her, saw thefirm set of the chin, the clear, open gaze. Evan believed in her. She had a sudden vision of Evan at age nine coolly hustling friends -his and Vicky's - out of the house because Vicky'd fallen and gashedher knee and was crying for her daddy, of Evan at eleven, lyingeasily and well to a nosy neighbor who wondered about Catherine'sabsentee husband. He'd always been steadfast when it came to hisfather, she realized, better at the necessary duplicity than theothers, in fact.

"You love him," she said, surprised.

Amelia looked momentarily startled, then nodded. "How could Inot? He's so smart, you know? And kind and sweet and funny."

Her enthusiasm was infectious; Catherine smiled.

"You must already know all this, though," Amelia said. "You'rehis mother."

"I'm sure I don't see him the same way you do," Catherinereplied.

Amelia blushed. "No. Probably not." She took a sip ofcoffee. "What was he like when he was little? I'll bet he was asweet little boy."

Catherine smiled. "Sometimes. More often he was stubborn. Hespent a great deal of his youth being angry with me."

"He said that." She smiled. "He called you stubborn. He saysyou're always sure you're right."

Stubbornness. Vincent, too, claimed it was a trait she andEvan held in common. She wondered now if sheer obstinacy didn't havesomething to do with her refusal to allow Evan to explain his fatherto his wife.

"He's probably right about me being stubborn, too," sheadmitted aloud. "But he's wrong about me always thinking I'm right." She swallowed her misgivings, damped down the fear, and let go ofone more of her certainties. "I think," she said slowly, "you shouldask Evan to tell you about his father."

The entire family, alerted by Catherine, was waiting when Evanand Amelia came downstairs that evening. Vincent stood farthest fromthe door, his back turned as he contemplated the empty fireplace.

Evan and Amelia stopped behind him; Evan cleared his throat. "Dad?"

Vincent turned slowly. Catherine could see him bracing, as healways did when meeting someone new. She shifted her glance toAmelia, and held her breath as Vincent completed his turn.

There was no surprise in her face, no sign her smile was forcedas she offered her hand. "I don't know what to call you," sheconfessed, and Vincent smiled, and told her his name.

"Impressive," Carey said, close by Catherine's elbow. "Iwasn't nearly that cool when I met him."

"Me, either," Elizabeth chimed.

"Me, either," Catherine heard herself confess, impresseddespite herself. "I wonder what Evan told her."

"Wasn't anything I said," Evan informed them, over hisshoulder. "I just showed her a picture."

As an introductory ploy it was deceptively simple, andCatherine wondered why no one had ever thought of it before. Formany years, of course, there had been no likenesses of Vincent. Butever since Evan had become adept in a darkroom, there had been a few,prints and negatives carefully guarded. Perhaps the idea had neededa photographer to bring it to light.

Carey and Elizabeth had drifted away and Vincent altered hisstance to include Catherine in the conversation he was having withEvan.

"...I knew when I heard her name," Evan was saying.

Vincent tipped his head in puzzlement. "Her name?"

"Come on, Dad, you're the literary scholar. It's from LewisCarroll."

Vincent frowned a little as he searched his memory. "NotAlice, surely. Or Through the Looking Glass. Nor any of hispoems."

"No," Evan agreed. "None of those."

Vincent shook his head. "I cannot think."

"I know it by heart. Knew it, even before I met her. 'Theysay that we Photographers are a blind race at best; that we learn tolook at even the prettiest faces as so much light and shade; that weseldom admire, and never love. This is a delusion I long to breakthrough - if I could only find a young lady to photograph, realizingmy ideal of beauty - above all, if her name should be - (why is it, Iwonder, that I dote on the name Amelia more than any other word inthe English language?) - I feel sure that I could shake off thiscold, philosophic lethargy.'" Evan looked fondly at Amelia, who wasat his elbow, smiling up at him. "The first time I saw her, Ithought, she's my Amelia. It never occurred to me that it wouldreally be her name."

"He wouldn't believe me for the longest time," Amelia chimed,laughing. "And it was a lot longer before he'd tell me why."

Catherine had never thought of Evan as a poetic soul, but shewas beginning to change her mind. She was changing her mind aboutEvan in a lot of ways. Maybe he really had grown up.

Later, when the rest of the family went home, Amelia and Evansat with Catherine and Vincent in the study.

"Yours is an unusual name," Vincent said to Amelia. "LewisCarroll notwithstanding."

She smiled. "I'm named for Amelia Earhart."

Vincent's eyebrows rose gently. "Was she a relative,perhaps?"

"No. Just someone admired, I guess. My brother's name isLindberg," she added.

"Ah. Your parents have an admiration for airplane pilots."

"They are pilots. That's how they met. In a touring airshow."

"Flying airplanes? That must be a joyful feeling," Vincentsaid, a bit wistfully.

"It is," Amelia told him. "There's nothing up there but youand the sky. It's beautiful."

"You're a pilot, as well?"

She nodded. "I've been flying since I was twelve. My momtaught me."

While they were deep in conversation, Catherine excused herselfand went down to the kitchen to pour fresh glasses of wine forherself and Amelia, soda for Evan, and water for Vincent.

"Here, I'll take that."

Startled, she turned to find Evan behind her. "I didn't hearyou come in."

He grinned. "I'm sneaky. I'll get the tray."

"All right," she agreed. "Let me get some more ice, first. Amelia seems comfortable with your father," she added as she rummagedin the freezer.

"I'm not surprised," he said.

She stopped in the act of pouring fresh ice cubes into a glass. "No," she said finally, studying him. "I don't suppose you are." She put down the ice container. "I owe you an apology, Evan," shesaid softly. "I hurt you. I mistrusted you. And I'm sorry forit."

"I know that, Mom," he said quietly.

"I want to tell you now that I'm proud of you. Of the manyou've grown into, of the things you've accomplished."

He blinked, as if not sure he'd heard correctly. "You reallymean that."

"It's taken me a long time to realize it," she admitted. "Itried so hard to fit you into one of my little preconceivedslots."

"I won't fit," he said gravely, his eyes twinkling. "I'm toobig."

"Too stubborn is more likely," she answered briskly, and heldout her arms.

When Evan was a boy, she had to be careful of his hugs. Hispreternatural strength, coupled with unrestrained youth, threatenedto crack ribs on more than one occasion. Now, his sheer sizethreatened to swallow her up, but he'd learned to temper hisstrength. His embrace was warm, solid and forgiving, cleansing herof all the old impatience and exasperation.

"I love you, Evan," she whispered, holding him tight.

"I know, Mom," he answered softly. "I love you, too."

After thirty-five years in the D.A.'s office, adjusting toretirement wasn't easy. Catherine enjoyed the effort, though, andthe unaccustomed leisure. She occupied her days with friends,shopping, and a little pro bono legal work. But her evenings werefor Vincent. Tonight, he had brought dinner for two from the tunnelkitchen - ham and scalloped potatoes - and had set up a small tablein the upstairs study. Even after they'd finished eating, theylingered, making small talk and enjoying one another's company.

"I had lunch with Vicky today," Catherine said.

"How is she?" Vincent inquired. "As I never see her,myself."

"Your daughter, as you well know, is studying for the bar," sheinformed him. "And besides, she was here Saturday."

"I still don't see her often enough," he answered, and smiled. "Is she ready for the examination?"

Catherine smiled, remembering her own bar exam forty-one yearsearlier. "You're never ready for a bar exam," she informed him. "But I think she'll pass. And in three weeks, she starts rehearsalson that play."

"Yes. She promised to get me a copy of it. I wonder..." Hestopped abruptly. He had gone suddenly rigid. His face was ashenand a fine sheen of perspiration gleamed on cheek and forehead.

She caught his hand. "Vincent?"

He shook himself with effort and looked at her. "Something'swrong."

"What? Vicky?"

He closed his eyes, searching. "No. Victoria is well. It'ssomething else. As if I'd lost something. Something I didn't know Ihad."

He held her hand hard, as if clinging to a lifeline. Shereached across the little table to touch his face, trying to comforthim.

The phone rang.

Catherine's instinct was to let it ring.

"Answer it," Vincent said, his voice low. "Please."

With an anxious look back, Catherine did as he asked.

Vicky was on the other end, sounding half hysterical. "IsDaddy all right?"

Catherine clutched at the phone. "You feel it."

"Feel what?"

"I don't know. But your father feels it, too."

"Then it's not him."

"It's not him," Catherine confirmed. "But he doesn't know whatit is."

"I don't know, either. But it scares me." She paused, andCatherine could hear Carey speaking in the background. "Can we comeover?" Vicky asked, after a moment.

Catherine hadn't taken her eyes from Vincent; he looked worsenow than he had, evidence of strain clear on his face, and in the wayhe held himself rigid in his chair. Having someone else here soundedimmensely attractive. "Please come," she said.

"We'll be there in twenty minutes," Vicky answered. "And Mom? Maybe you'd better call the boys."

An hour later, the unusual sensation described by Vicky andVincent had faded, but its absence left another kind of void. Together they huddled on the couch in the study, where the family hadgathered. Though she could sense nothing herself, Catherine wasshaken by their obvious distress. The others - Jacob and Charles andCarey, Elizabeth and Amanda - were no less disturbed.

"Other families don't do this," Carey commented, strain evidentin his voice. "Do they?"

Elizabeth shivered. "Other families don't have people likeVincent in them. People like Vicky, either, for that matter."

"Their loss," Charles said, attempting humor he clearly didn'tfeel.

"That goes without saying," Elizabeth observed, and they lapsedinto silence again, a pall of waiting hanging over them.

Catherine sat alone in one of the wingback chairs, her handsknotted in her lap. The disturbance in Vincent's eyes frightenedher.

The telephone's ring sounded clamorous in the unnatural hush. Jacob was closest and moved to answer it; every eye followed him.

He spoke for a moment, identifying himself, and then his voicedropped and he turned his back. Vicky gave a small cry and Vincentcame to his feet in one swift, agitated movement. Alarmed by whatshe saw in his face, Catherine caught his arm and he stopped besideher. His hand was clenched in a fist that trembled.

Across the room, Jacob cradled the phone with unnatural care,as if it, or he, might break with a too-sudden movement.

"That was John Geer," he said. "President of GNA."

"The wire service?" Charles asked. "What did he want?"

"He said... Evan and Amelia... on assignment..." He paused,drawing in a breath with an audible gasp. "A chartered plane fromBuenos Aires to Ecuador. To cover the riots in Quito."

Amanda had reached him by this time, and reflexively he put hisarm around her, bringing her close to his chest. He seemed barelyable to meet his family's eyes over her head.

"The plane went down in the mountains. There are nosurvivors."

*****

Catherine placed the final item in the last box. It was oddhow a lifetime - even one as short as Evan's - could be packed awayin a few cardboard cartons.

"Catherine?"

She looked up and attempted a wan smile for Vincent's benefit. He crossed the threshold and paused.

"Parents shouldn't have to bury their children," she told himsoftly, and tried not to think of the bodies of Evan and Amelia,still on a mountainside in Peru.

Perhaps in the spring, officials at GNA had said, bodies of thevictims might be recovered, but not now. The plane had gone down ina remote region of the Andes. The crash had triggered a massiveavalanche, sweeping wreckage down a steep and jagged stone face,burying most of the debris beneath tons of snow.

Vincent still stood near the door. "Are you finished?" heasked.

"Except for that last box." She pointed. "I can't bringmyself to close it. And yet I know it has to be closed."

"Shall I close it for you?" he offered.

She nodded and watched as he knelt beside the open carton, hishands steady as he folded the flaps over and tucked the last one in. She wondered how he could be so calm when she felt the closing of thefinal carton as a knife, severing something vital. When he lookedup, she saw the tears shining in his eyes, the grief etched upon theweary lines of his face, and knew it was no easier for him.

She moved toward him, and he rose to meet her, gathering herin. Her head dropped to his chest and he cradled her close, rockingher tenderly. She relaxed in his arms, letting him comfort her,knowing her presence comforted him, too. For a long time they stood,holding one another among the boxes packed with all the tangibleevidence of their son's life.

"Catherine," he said presently. "We have to go."

"I know." But she didn't move.

"Remember," Vincent said, after another little while, "whatCarey said at the service?"

He meant the memorial service held Below. He couldn't go tothe one Above for Evan's friends there. Their remaining children andspouses had been there, though. Joe Maxwell had come. JennyAronson, who had known Evan from the day of his birth, had come, andso had Nancy Tucker, who had showed him how to use a camera.

Even Elliot Burch, who had only met Evan a handful of times,had been there, as a support for her, Catherine knew. It was Elliotwho deflected the news media's more intrusive questions, Elliot who,when Catherine began to weep, had drawn her into a deserted side roomand held her while she composed herself.

"What did Carey say?" she asked now, forcibly distancingherself from the injustice that could never be righted.

"It was a quote, I think, though I didn't recognize it. It ischance that makes brothers, but hearts that make friends."

"Yes." She did remember. 'He was my cousin first,' Carey hadgone on to say. 'Later, when I married his sister, he became mybrother. But in between, he reached out... to a lonely, grievingboy. And in doing so, he became the best friend I've ever had.'

"Evan had a good life," Vincent said softly. "He experiencedmore in his brief years than many people do in a lifetime."

"Yes. And he was happy, wasn't he, Vincent?"

"I think he was, especially this last year."

"Since Amelia."

"Since Amelia," he agreed.

"Do you suppose," she asked softly, "that they're togethernow?"

"I don't know," he answered, just as softly. "I hope so."

He turned her then, and, with inexorable pressure, guided herfrom the room. "Someone else will get the boxes," he said, andquietly closed the door.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

Stuffs out his pretty garments with his form:

Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

- Shakespeare: King John III.iv

The end