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Sarabess fingered the pearls at her neck. She felt choked up at her lover’s words. “When did you get so ugly, Rifkin Forrest?”

“Ten minutes ago, when I saw what you were about this morning. Today of all days. Why didn’t you make the decision a week ago, a month ago, yesterday? Today is the anniversary of Emily’s death. In seven months Trinity will be thirty and will come into the trust,” Rif said, his voice sounding ominous.

Sarabess didn’t think Rif’s voice could get any colder, but it did. She actually shivered in the humid June air.

“You went in that room, you looked at the pictures, you relived the thirteen years that Trinity gave your daughter. You probably cried, and then you decided maybe this was a good time to find your other daughter. The thought probably crossed your mind that you might have grandchildren somewhere. That’s the part I want to believe.

“The other part, having to do with the trust fund that will revert to you if Trinity dies or isn’t found in time to take possession of her trust, is not something I want to think about today. I’m sorry, but I have to leave. I have a tee time in thirty minutes.”

Sarabess was speechless. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes, I’m leaving. I don’t want any part of upsetting that young woman’s life for your own selfish desires.”

Sarabess started to cry. “Please, Rif, don’t leave. I . . . I’m not doing this for me. You may be right—it may too late—but I won’t know if I don’t try. I just want to find her. I won’t invade her life if it looks like I . . . if . . . she isn’t interested. I thought that Jake,” she said, referring to Rif’s son and law partner, “might do the search. He used to play with Trinity when they were little children. Emily used to watch them from the sunroom. She was so envious.”

A linen handkerchief found its way to her eyes. It all sounded good to her ears. It should—she’d rehearsed this little speech for hours in front of the mirror.

Rifkin sighed wearily. “It always comes back to Emily, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it always comes back to Emily. You can’t expect me to turn thirty years off and on like you’d turn off a light switch. I made a mistake. I want to try and make it right.”
That sounds good, too
, Sarabess thought smugly.

“Jesus, Sarabess, you didn’t just make a mistake, you made the Queen Mother of all mistakes. Now you want the child you threw away back. I’m sorry, it just doesn’t work that way. On top of that, it’s too late.”

“Stop saying that. I didn’t throw Trinity away. I . . . What I did was pay the Hendersons to take care of her. I couldn’t do it. I was fighting for Emily’s life. Trinity had a roof over her head, good food, adequate medical care. If she was neglected, as you say, it was only by me and my husband. I will concede the point that the child needed a mother, and that’s where I failed her. If she . . . If I had brought her here to the big house, she would have been raised by servants. At least with the Hendersons she had a normal life. She wanted for nothing, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

Sarabess had said these words so often, they sounded truthful to her ears. She struggled to cry. She whipped the handkerchief past her eyelashes as she watched Rifkin carefully. She needed him.

“Too bad you couldn’t pay the Hendersons to love her. When are you going to factor in Trinity’s trust fund?”

“The fund has nothing to do with this. The Hendersons did love Trinity in their own way. They are plain, hardworking people. They’re not demonstrative. That doesn’t mean they didn’t love Trinity. They raised her for fifteen years. There was feeling there. Even as sick as he was, and living with
that woman,
Harold told me they were heartbroken when Trinity ran away. Harold would never have lied about something like that.”

Rifkin watched the little brown bird as she dived into the fern with a piece of string in her beak. Preparing her nest for her young.
That’s how it’s supposed to be
, he thought.
Even the birds know about motherhood.
“Were you brokenhearted, Sarabess? Did Trinity’s running away affect you in any way?”

He was just saying words, words he’d said hundreds of times. It was a game, pure and simple.

Sarabess drew a deep breath as she fingered her pearls. “No. It barely registered. I was still mourning Emily. Nothing registered. Nothing.”
Such a lie
, she thought.

“I have to leave now, or I’ll miss my tee time.”

“Well, a tee time is certainly important. Even I understand that. Run along, Rifkin. Enjoy your golf game,” Sarabess said, in an icy voice.

Rifkin refused to be baited. He waved as he descended the steps. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Sarabess wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she bit down on her bottom lip instead. Her eyes filled again. Everything Rif had said was true. Tomorrow she would think about everything he’d just said. Everything she’d been thinking about for the past fifteen years. Tomorrow. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

Today was Emily’s day. Today she had to go to the cemetery to talk to Emily.

Tomorrow was another day. Rif would come around; he always did.

Two

Crestwood, South Carolina, population 27,855, was a pretty little town with sidewalks, tree-lined streets, cozy shops with colorful awnings, homey window displays, white benches underneath the ancient trees that shaded the streets like giant umbrellas, and old-fashioned lampposts. There was a town square with a bandstand where the town fathers stood at attention to view the seven yearly parades.

On the Fourth of July, the picnic kicked off at the bandstand, covered with flags and banners. The children of Crestwood decorated the entire square for Halloween in the hopes of winning the grand prize, which was a double-decker ice-cream cone from Elmo Mitchell’s drugstore every Saturday afternoon for a full year. Santa Claus and his elves came to town in a horse-drawn sleigh on wheels the day after Thanksgiving. It was said in the
Crestwood Record
that every resident in town turned out for the event.

Just about every citizen of Crestwood said their town was the prettiest in the whole state. As far as anyone knew, no one had ever disputed the claim.

The main street in Crestwood really was named Main Street. Parson’s Bakery had the best croissants and peanut butter cookies. Elmo Mitchell served the creamiest ice cream, which came from the Windsor Dairy. John Little of Little’s Hardware had every garden tool and gadget known to man. John even kept a barrel of peanuts sitting by the white bench outside his store for those who wanted a handful to munch on as they did their daily shopping. Eva’s Tea Shop sported double tubs of bright pink petunias at each side of the pristine white Dutch door. It was hard to pass Eva’s and not stop for a frosty glass of sweet tea and a cucumber sandwich on fluffy white bread made by Eva herself at the crack of dawn.

Visitors to Crestwood, and there were many, said that the nicest thing about the little town was how everyone knew everyone else and that they felt a real sense of place when visiting. When the visitors left the sleepy little town, most, if not all, agreed that Crestwood was more small-town America than the fictional Mayberry of television fame.

Jacob Forrest, “Jake” to everyone in town, walked down the tree-lined street to the end of the block, turned right on Richardson Avenue and continued on to the offices of Forrest & Forrest & Granger. There was no Granger these days, just the elder Forrest and Jake.

Jake hadn’t always practiced law with his father here in Crestwood. Fresh out of law school, he hadn’t wanted to return to Crestwood, where, according to him, they rolled up the sidewalks at eight o’clock in the evening. He wanted some nightlife, some razzle-dazzle inside and outside the courtroom. So, he’d headed for Atlanta, Georgia, and had done a three-year stint working as an assistant district attorney before the nightlife and the razzle-dazzle lost their allure. After leaving the DA’s office, he joined a small criminal defense law firm in Albany, Georgia, where he spent five years before deciding to return to Crestwood.

With little or no crime in Crestwood, both senior and junior Forrests mostly dealt in real estate closings, deed filings, speeding tickets, wills, and the like, which left time for fishing and golf in the summer and skiing in the mountains in the winter.

Jake walked up a flower-lined walkway to a one-story building constructed of old Charleston brick. Every morning Jocelyn, the receptionist, polished the brass plaque at the entrance. The high shine allowed Jake to see his reflection. He grinned the way he always grinned. He grinned now as he opened the door and walked into the cool reception area. He waved to Jocelyn, and said, “It’s getting hot out there.”

“It’s only June, Jake, it’s going to get hotter. Your father has called four times. He said to call him. He should be on the ninth hole by now.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” Jake called over his shoulder. Like he really cared what his father wanted.

“Now, Jake, you know better than to ask me that. But if it will make you feel better, no, he didn’t say what he wanted. Your twelve thirty is due any second now. Stacy,” she said, referring to Jake’s secretary, “went to Eva’s. She said everything you need is on your desk. Call her if you need anything.” The plump, grandmotherly receptionist winked at Jake.

Jake tossed his briefcase on one of the client chairs as he shrugged out of his lightweight suit jacket. He jerked at his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Seventy-seven-year-old Clara Ashwood, his twelve thirty appointment, didn’t stand on formality. He looked down at his appointment book. Clara wanted to change her will. Again. She’d changed her will the week after Christmas, then again in April. He wondered what happened this time. At Christmas she hadn’t liked the presents her children had given her. In April, two of her six children hadn’t shown up for Easter dinner, so she’d changed it again. As far as he could tell, Clara was on schedule. Clara was his favorite client.

Jake looked at his watch. He had five minutes before she was due. Did he have time to call his father? His father was always succinct, especially if he was on the golf course. He pressed in the numbers, waited, then his father’s voice came on.

“Jocelyn said you called,” Jake said by way of greeting.

Instead of responding to his son’s statement, Rifkin asked a question. “Can you have dinner with me this evening? I have something I need to discuss with you. It’s important, Jacob.”

Jacob. When his father called him Jacob, Jake knew that whatever he wanted to talk about was serious—to him. “Hey, you’re the boss. Your name is first on the plaque,” he said, bitterness ringing in his voice. “Backbay at six thirty. I have to eat and run, so don’t try throwing any guilt trips in my direction.”

“It sounds fine, Jake. I’ll see you at six thirty.”

Jake’s hand was shaking when he broke the connection. He took deep breaths to stop his internal shaking. He was on his last one when he heard her cane before he saw her. He got up and walked over to the door. For some reason he felt like he always had to escort Clara Ashwood to her chair. “Miss Clara, how are you on this fine June day?”

“Don’t ask me that, Jake. I wouldn’t be here unless something was wrong. Here,” she said, reaching into the huge straw bag she was never without, “I brought you some brownies. I made them early this morning.” The brownies were his payment.

“Well, I appreciate it, Miss Clara. Would you like some sweet tea?”

“I would. I told Jocelyn to fetch it when I came in. Such a darling lady. You’re lucky to have her. She’s always so pleasant. I wish I could be pleasant all the time the way she is. I get so damn cranky sometimes. I made up my mind this morning that I want to change my will and leave everything to the SPCA.”

Jake blinked.
Everything
wasn’t all that much. “Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll get right on it. You can stop in tomorrow and sign the new will. Are you sure, Miss Clara?”

“Damn straight I’m sure. I’m not even going to bore you with the details. I stopped by the cemetery to visit with Arnold, and who do you think I saw? Sarabess Windsor, that’s who. She was sitting there on that green grass with a huge bouquet of summer flowers, and she was all gussied up in fine linen and those pearls of hers. She was wailing up a storm. That mausoleum is so ostentatious.” She sniffed. “I wanted to go over and tell her to give it up already. Fifteen years is too long to be railing on like that.

“I’d give up my porch rocker—and you know how I like my porch rocker—to know where little Trinity is,” she said, changing the subject. “Every time I think about Sarabess Windsor I think about Trinity Henderson. She arrived
a little too conveniently
after Sarabess’s return from New York.” Clara sniffed, then said, “Emily now, she was a mean-spirited little girl. I know, I know, she was ill, and Sarabess didn’t help matters any the way she coddled her.”

This was all said in one long breath. Clara was Crestwood’s town crier, but Ardeth Gamble was snapping at her heels for the honor.

Jocelyn tapped on the door and came in with Clara’s sweet tea. After thanking Jocelyn, Clara took a sip and put the tea glass on the little table next to her chair. After Jocelyn had left, Clara said, “Do you know, Jake, Sarabess hasn’t invited any of us to the Hill in years? I find that peculiar. I think she’s
tetched
in the head these days. Not that I care. I did get a little sick and tired hearing about Princess Emily for two hours every week. I couldn’t concentrate on my cards.

“Now, where was I? Yes, yes, the SPCA. Call me when the changes are ready, and I’ll come by and sign it. That’s my business for the day. You need to tell Jocelyn the tea is a tad too weak. Not that I care, but someone else might. Too many ice cubes water it down. You need to make a tray of ice cubes out of the tea so that doesn’t happen. You might want to pass that on to her. Good-bye, Jake. It was nice seeing you again. No need to walk me out. I can still do that myself.”

Jake knew the drill. He smiled and waved. He waited until he could no longer hear the sounds of Clara’s tapping cane before he propped his feet on the desk. A frown built itself between his eyebrows. Trinity Henderson. Now that was a name from the past. A name that made his heart pound in his chest. He didn’t want to think about Trinity Henderson because then he’d have to look at his own conscience.