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A sigh found its way up from John’s heart. Sometimes, when he couldn’t stop fear from lighting on the windowsill of his soul, he imagined what might happen if Maddie had been sick. Really sick. If the fevers and constant bouts of illness had led to something devastating and deadly. What would Brooke and Peter have thought of God then? If September 11 had affected them all so profoundly, what about the death of a child? One of their own.

John rubbed his fingertips into his brow and fear took flight.

If he’d learned one thing over the years as a parent and a doctor, it was this: Worry did no good. In his early days—back when he wasn’t sure how he would get through med school, and even a decade ago when he wasn’t sure whether Elizabeth would survive her bout with cancer—he’d armed himself with truths from Scripture.

Truths that had a way of clearing the windowsill.

He closed his eyes and let the words run like a soothing stream of water over the parched areas of his heart.
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, with prayer and petition, give your thanks to God, and the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

How many times had those words brought peace at such a moment?

But this night was different. He wasn’t worried, just full. Full of thoughts about whatever the future might hold for all of them. Or maybe that was worry dressed in curiosity’s clothes. His eyes shifted to Luke’s picture.

Ah, Luke, my boy. Where are you now?
Tears poked pins at John’s eyes, and he knew, deep within, that this was the reason he couldn’t sleep. It was bigger than worry and curiosity combined. It was a desperate fear, a terrible longing for his little boy. Not the type of fear that merely lighted on the windowsill of his soul, but one that consumed it.

A sound interrupted his thoughts. He turned toward the doorway and saw her standing there in her navy satin robe, watching him. “Elizabeth…”

“I felt your absence.” She came closer and took the spot on the sofa nearest him. Her gaze left him and found the photos on the mantel. “This is
my
job, John.”

He studied their son’s picture. “I know.”

“It’s Luke, isn’t it?”

“Of course.” He leaned forward, shifting so he could see his wife. “Remember how he was as a child?”

“The light of your life.” Elizabeth looked at him, and the sadness in her small smile nearly broke his heart. “You two were inseparable. Every day he did something to amaze you.”

John looked at his son’s photo. That was exactly right. Luke was the most easygoing child, so much so that discipline was rarely required. A memory tapped lightly on the door of John’s heart, and he willingly opened it.…

Luke was with them in the church parking lot, and for some reason Elizabeth had gone ahead toward the main building. The Baxter kids were taught to never cross a parking lot without an adult. Breaking the rule would mean punishment.

“Stay with us,” Elizabeth always told them. “Drivers are looking for adults, not little people.”

But that morning, without looking, Luke set off at a flat run after Elizabeth. He made it halfway to her when he ran right in front an oncoming Jeep. John’s scream was lost in the screeching of brakes. Somehow the Jeep stopped in time—just inches from Luke. By the time John and Elizabeth reached him, their son’s face was pale, his eyes wide.

They thanked the driver of the Jeep and held tight to Luke. John had been about to scold him when they realized he was crying. No, not just crying. Sobbing. Gulping, heartfelt sobs that shook his shoulders and back.

Elizabeth mouthed something to John about Luke’s being afraid. Obviously that was the source of his tears. So John stroked his son’s back. “Are you crying because you’re scared?”

The boy pulled back and rubbed his eyes with his chubby fists. “N-n-nooo.” Luke’s tears came harder then. “I’m n-n-not afraid.”

“Then what is it, Son? Did you get hurt?”

“Daddy—” Luke’s response still rang clear in John’s memory—“I’m sorry I didn’t obey you.” He flung his arms around John’s neck and grabbed hold of Elizabeth’s dress slacks. “I’m sorry, Mommy and Daddy.”

John pulled himself from the past and stared at Elizabeth. “Remember the parking-lot incident, back when Luke was five years old?”

A soft laugh played in Elizabeth’s tone. “More worried about disobeying than dying.”

Other memories came then, tiptoeing up the steps of his mind and slipping in before he could stop them. The way Luke had imitated everything John did. Once when Luke watched John pull weeds from Elizabeth’s garden, Luke went out the next morning and pulled up every single baby carrot plant.

“I got your weeds, Mama,” he sang out when he came back in the house that morning. He pointed to his shirt, stretched out and folded up, overflowing with baby carrot plants. “Just like Daddy.”

As he got older, Luke adored his sisters, and when one of them got in trouble for picking on him, he would brush off the offense. “It’s okay,” he’d tell John. “Don’t be mad at her; she didn’t mean it.”

In his early teens, if John wore his Indiana University shirt to a picnic, Luke wore his also. For most of high school Luke even toyed with the idea of med school so that one day he could work at St. Anne’s alongside John. In the end, Cs in math and science kept him from that.

From early adolescence, Luke had brought every troublesome thought, every curiosity, every goal and plan and dream to his father. He also explained the reason he didn’t do drugs or drink as even some of his church friends did. He feared it would damage that special something he shared with John.

“We’re not like other sons and fathers,” Luke told him one day. “You’re my best friend, Dad.”

John turned to his wife, and the memories lifted. “When Ashley got back from Paris—” he paused—“that’s when he started changing.”

“Yes.” She gave a slow nod, and her eyes held a shadow of pain. “His standard was so high.”

“Why didn’t we see where it would go? How damaging it was to expect perfection of people?”

“I thought it was a stage.” Elizabeth shrugged with one shoulder. “Residual from a lifetime of making mostly good choices.”

This was ground they’d covered a hundred times since Luke left home, but the signposts were only clear now in light of how the events in his life had played out. Luke’s faith before September 11 reminded John of a pond that had formed in their backyard once after heavy rains. The creek behind their house overflowed, and at a glance it looked as if a formidable lake had appeared where land had been a day before. But an hour after the rains stopped, the lake disappeared.

“What happened to all that water?” the children asked him that day.

“It looked deep because it was so big,” John answered. “But it wasn’t deep at all, maybe only an inch.”

The shallow pond vanished the moment the rain stopped, the same way Luke’s faith collapsed right alongside the Twin Towers. What looked like an ocean of conviction and belief was nothing more than the shallow pond of self-righteousness.

“John.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded tired, worn out. “It’s after one.”

“I know.” He looked at Luke’s picture again. For a long moment he was silent, refusing to free the thing that wouldn’t take wing, the thing that hunted his soul like a lion and made sleep all but impossible. The fear he had never voiced.

“What if—” his tone was more desperate than sad, and he turned to Elizabeth once more—“what if he never comes back?”

A
SHLEY FELT LIKE
one of the patients here at Sunset Hills.

The information about Luke’s son made her distracted and distant, and each night she went to bed knowing that tomorrow had to be the day. That finally Reagan would make the call or fly out with Tommy in her arms. If she called, then the moment Luke knew the truth, he’d fly to New York, maybe even tell his family what he was doing.

Ashley was at work that June afternoon, a week after returning from New York. Twice she’d tried to call Luke, just to feel him out, to see if Reagan had called him. But both times he’d been gone, so she’d left a message.

If the knowledge of Luke’s son wasn’t enough to distract her, she’d received word from Margaret Wellington that one of her paintings had sold already. They were sending her a check in the mail and wanted her to hurry with the next three. She and Cole had gone to dinner with her parents to celebrate, and that night she’d spent an hour on the phone with Landon.

Ashley calculated that if she sold three pieces in two months, she could consider quitting her job at Sunset Hills. If she wanted to. But as long as Irvel was living, she definitely didn’t want to. Irvel and Edith and Helen and Bert—they did too many wonderful things for her heart.

She stirred the chicken soup and tested it with her finger. Residents at Sunset Hills ate their soup warm, not hot. Less danger of burns that way. She took the pot and a tray of buttered toast to the table and went to find the residents. Bert was eating with them now, and though he still spent most of the afternoon in his room polishing his saddle, he enjoyed company for lunch. He was more talkative these days, but more confused also.

It took Ashley a few minutes to get them all seated. Irvel at the head of the table, as always, with Helen on one side and Edith on the other. Bert sat at the other end. Before Ashley could say the prayer, Irvel pointed at Bert. “You’re a very nice old man.” She used her finger to draw invisible circles in the air for emphasis. “But I’m glad you’re at that end.”

Helen shot Irvel a look. “What’s wrong with him?” She raised one eyebrow in Bert’s direction. “Is he a spy?”

“I got a saddle.” Bert gave the women a shy smile. When none of them responded, he looked at Ashley. “I got me a nice saddle.”

“Yes, Bert. Very nice.”

“Very nice.” Edith gave a series of slow nods and stared at the table in front of her. “Saddles. Very nice.”

“Spies use saddles.” Helen had seen her daughter, Sue, the day before, so she wasn’t angry or confrontational, but she definitely was nervous. She eyed Irvel. “Don’t spies use saddles, Agnes?”

Irvel took a slow look over her shoulder, as though Helen might be talking to someone standing behind her. Then she looked at Helen and patted the woman’s hand the way a mother might pat the hand of a confused child. “Dear—” she paused for effect—“I’m not Agnes.” She pointed at Bert. “And he’s not Hank.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Hank gets jealous of gentlemen callers.”

Ashley doled out the soup and let her mind drift. Little had changed at Sunset Hills, and the flow of conversation was comfortable. Ashley’s Past-Present method of dealing with the patients—letting them live in the time frame where they were most comfortable—had helped them. Irvel’s doctor had figured out a different batch of daily medication, so she was up and doing better. For now, anyway.

Ashley was about to serve herself when a knock sounded from the other room. Her eyes found Irvel’s. “I’ll be right back.”

“If it’s Hank, ask him to join us.” She winked at Edith. “Hank loves a good bowl of chili.”

Helen dropped her spoon. “No one told me we were having chili. My mother’s the one who makes chi—”

The voices faded as Ashley rounded the corner and headed for the front door. She opened it and found her father, wearing dress slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. She smiled and opened the door wide. “Hi.”

“I had an hour between patients.” He stepped in and hugged her. “Thought I’d drop in and see the Sunset Hills gang.”

“They’re in the other room.” Ashley nodded toward the dining room. “Everyone’s in fine form.”

More than once her father had marveled at the improvements the residents had made under Ashley’s care. He’d dropped in two other times to see for himself the easy way each of them handled daily routines now that they weren’t being forced to live within the confines of reality.

“Come on.” Ashley grinned and led the way. When they reached the table, Ashley stood near Bert and put her arm around her father’s waist. “This is my father, everyone. Dr. Baxter.”

“Dear,” Irvel leaned across the table, bringing herself a few inches closer to Ashley. “I don’t think anyone’s sick.”

“Everyone’s fine.” Her father took the chair between Edith and Bert and rested his forearms on the table. “I’m here for a visit.”

“Doctor visits are very expensive.” Irvel gave a slight shake of her head and raised her eyebrows at the others. “Maybe if we pitch our money together.”

Helen lowered her brow and looked from Ashley to her father and back again. “He’s safe.” She gestured toward Ashley. “That girl checked him, right?”

“Right.” Ashley gave her father a quick grin. “He’s been checked.”

Burt had finished half his soup, and now he took his napkin and began making slow, deliberate circles on the table near his bowl. It was Ashley’s signal that he’d had enough interaction. He was ready to get back to work, rubbing oil into the saddle she’d positioned in his room last winter.

Over the next thirty minutes, Ashley helped Bert to his room and the three women to their recliners in the living room. When they were all settled, she and her father slipped out front and headed for the porch swing, something Lu, the owner of Sunset Hills, had purchased that spring.

“For when you need a sanity break,” she’d explained to Ashley. “And because it makes the house look more like a home.”

Ashley and her father sat in the swing and set it gently in motion. “Beautiful day.” Her father stared past the roses in bloom along the walkway, through the full trees to the blue sky beyond.

“They say July is supposed to be a scorcher.”

Her father nodded. “Makes me glad Kari and Ryan are waiting until the end of September to get married.” He tilted his head back some. “Fall looks better on Bloomington than most any other place in the country.”

Silence fell between them, and Ashley marveled at how comfortable she felt. God had changed her, no doubt. He’d given her Sunset Hills and convinced her to share her past with Landon. Now she had no skeletons in her closet and no intention of wasting another minute of life. She and Cole were closer than ever, and even her parents seemed to have forgotten that she was the family outcast.

A bluebird landed on the grass a few feet away. It looked at them and hopped three times before taking to the sky again. Ashley breathed in the smell of jasmine and damp grass. “Even with the humidity, I love summer.”

“Me, too.” Her father used his feet to give the swing another push. Then he turned slightly and looked at her. His voice was casual, his expression relaxed. “Can I ask you something, Ashley?”

“Sure.” She angled her body so she could see him better.

“How come you didn’t say much about your time in New York?”

“New York?” Ashley tried not to let the alarm show on her face. Had he somehow found out about Luke? If so, why had he waited until now to ask her about it? She swallowed and gripped the heavy chain that held the swing. “I thought I did.”

Her father sucked his cheek in a little. His eyes lit up the way they did when he was teasing her. “ ‘Fine…good…fantastic.’ ” He paused. “My daughters usually have more to say than that.”

Ashley’s shoulder muscles eased some. Good. He was looking for conversation, not a confession. “I guess I was in a hurry to get Cole home.” She uttered a laugh, but it sounded tinny, anxious. “We’re reading the Junie B. Jones books, you know. Takes about a half hour each night.”

“I sort of thought you’d tell me about the phone call.”

Again Ashley’s heartbeat doubled. She met her father’s eyes and tried not to sound interested. “What phone call?”

“You know…” A breeze drifted through the trees and brushed through the spaces between them. “The one from Paris.”

Ashley let go of one fearful possibility—that her father somehow knew about Luke’s little boy—and jerked her mind in a completely different direction. This wasn’t about Luke; it was about the strange call she’d gotten before leaving New York.

She twisted her face up. “You mean the wrong number? The person called once when I was on my way to the airport. I heard every other word, so I figured it was a mistake.”

Her father stared at her. His feet went still and gradually the swing slowed down. “It wasn’t a mistake, Ashley.” He leaned over his legs. “I would’ve said something sooner, but I assumed she got through to you.”

“Who?” Ashley’s throat felt tight.

“The woman from Paris.” He searched her face. “That’s partly why I wanted to come by—to see what she said. Why it was so critical that she find you that morning.”

“What—” Ashley ran her tongue along her lower lip—“what did she want?”

Her father gave a sideways shake of his head. “At first I sort of figured maybe she’d seen your Web site.” He smiled at her. “It’s beautiful, Ashley. Your work is wonderful.”

She felt the corners of her mouth climb up her cheeks. “Thank you, Daddy.” For the briefest instant, Ashley allowed herself to bask in the sunlight of her father’s praise. Then she did the only thing she could think to do: put the Paris phone call on hold. She stood and held up a finger. “I have to check on them.” She tiptoed through the open door and glanced around. The women were still sleeping, and no sounds came from Bert’s room. She waited another few seconds, then rejoined her father.

“So,” she caught his eyes again, “you think Paris might be interested in my work? After I’ve been gone for so long?”

“That’s what I thought at first.” He hesitated. “I asked the woman if I could take a message, and she said no. She said it was critical that she talk to you personally. After that, I wasn’t sure what she wanted.” He reached out and patted her knee. “That’s why I’m here. I thought you could fill in the details.”

“I know nothing.” Ashley sat a little straighter and gave the swing a small push with her feet. Why in the world would someone from Paris call? And what critical thing could the woman—whoever she was—possibly have to talk about?

Ashley realized her father was watching her, catching every emotion as it filtered across her face. She laughed softly. “If it’s that critical, I’m sure she’ll call back.”

“Yes, I suppose.” He paused, searching her eyes. “It just seemed strange. I…I didn’t want it to be about Cole.”

There it was, out in the open.

The dots Ashley had refused to consider, let alone connect—that somehow someone from Paris knew about Cole. With the frightening possibilities suddenly as clear as a summer morning, she could do nothing but let the questions come.

Had Jean-Claude Pierre changed his mind? The artist had sneered at her the last time they spoke, suggesting she get an abortion, telling her he wanted nothing to do with
her
child. Cole couldn’t have been the only illegitimate child he’d fathered, not when he looked at sex as merely an artistic form of exercise.

So what had he done now, hired an attorney? Had the woman called in an effort to find her and track down Jean-Claude’s son? Ashley wasn’t sure, but she didn’t think he’d be entitled to visitation rights after being out of the boy’s life for so long. Of course, he had plenty of money if he wanted a legal battle. So was that it? Had he changed his mind, and now he wanted a son?

The idea terrified Ashley like nothing ever had.

“Maybe—” her father’s voice brought her back from the edge of a cliff, a canyon of fear that knew no bottom—“it’s about some bookkeeping detail, something you could help them with. That could be it, couldn’t it?”

Hope gave her a burst of air and helped her catch her breath.

“Yes.” The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. “Yes, that could be it.”

Why hadn’t she thought of that before? In fact, that’s exactly what it had to be. She’d been privy to dozens of office books, especially where the English-speaking customers were concerned.

Her father stood and stretched. “That makes sense.” He held his hand out and helped Ashley to her feet. “They probably have a new bookkeeper, someone who wants to know how you handled things, something like that.”

“Probably.” Ashley gave her father’s hand a squeeze. She put the call from Paris out of her mind.

“How are things with Landon?”

Ashley’s heart melted. “Good.” She dropped her chin and felt her eyes sparkle as they hadn’t yet that day. “Very good, really.”

“I miss seeing him around.” Her father’s smile was kind, and he gave Ashley a hug.

“Me, too.” She stepped toward the front door of the house.

“You’re talking more these days?” He didn’t know the details that she’d shared with her mother, but obviously he knew more than he usually let on.

“Yes.” Ashley’s cheeks grew hot. “Much more.”

Time was when conversation about her and Landon would frustrate her, make her feel as though everyone in her family was trying to plan her life. But now, mention of Landon and the relationship they were building warmed her heart.

“Well—” he headed down the sidewalk toward his car—“tell him we said hi.”

“I will.”

Her father stopped and turned then, halfway down the walk. “Does he ever see Reagan?”

Ashley’s heart flew to her throat, and she put her fingers near her neck so she might find her voice. “Um…I’m not sure.” She shrugged, hating the lie. “Manhattan’s a big place.”

“Yes.” Her father nodded, his eyes wistful. “Well, ask him sometime.” He gave her a lopsided grin, one that didn’t disguise the sadness in his expression. “I still think things would be different for Luke if he and Reagan would…” His voice drifted. “Just ask him sometime, okay?”

“Okay.”

Her father waved again and went to his car. He was a tall man—tall and proud, with the gait of a thirty-five-year-old. At least that was how he used to look. All his life he’d been the strong one, especially when things didn’t turn out the way they’d planned. When she came home from Paris pregnant with Cole…when Kari’s husband left her…and when Tim was murdered by that crazy college kid.