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+{"text":" \n**PRAISE FOR THE SCUMBLE RIVER SERIES**\n\n**_Murder of a Creped Suzette_**\n\n\"Tongue-in-cheek humor, complex motives, and unique murders. The latest cleverly crafted tale is another entertaining mystery.\"\n\n\u2014 _Romantic Times_\n\n\"Another great book by this master of the small-town mystery.\"\n\n\u2014 _CrimeSpree Magazine_\n\n**_Murder of a Bookstore Babe_**\n\n\"In the latest installment in her cozy Scumble River series, Swanson serves up another irresistible slice of romance-spiced mystery.\"\n\n\u2014 _Chicago Tribune_\n\n\"As always, Skye Denison and Scumble River provide a reliable, enjoyable mystery. Reading about Scumble River is as comfortable as being in your own hometown. Skye's quirky assortment of relatives never fails to disappoint.\"\n\n\u2014The Mystery Reader\n\n**_Murder of a Wedding Belle_**\n\n\"The latest carefully crafted installment in Swanson's Scumble River series features a charming heroine, who is equally skilled at juggling detection and romance.\"\n\n\u2014 _Chicago Tribune_\n\n\"This book was very hard to put down. I enjoyed it tremendously and highly recommend it.\"\n\n\u2014Gumshoe\n\n\"As always...Swanson combines humor and romance within an intriguing homicide investigation, while the support cast feels like friends.\"\n\n\u2014 _Midwest Book Review_\n\n\"Another winner....This series always brings a smile and this one is loads of fun.\"\n\n\u2014 _CrimeSpree Magazine_\n\n**_Murder of a Royal Pain_**\n\n\"The series remains fresh and dramatic; a great combination, which translates to an enjoyable and intriguing reading experience.\"\n\n\u2014Once Upon a Romance\n\n\"A trip to Scumble River is like visiting with old friends...another entry into a fine series that is sure to be on most must-read lists.\"\n\n\u2014The Mystery Reader\n\n\"Swanson has given me many a smile and many hours of wonderful, fun reading. This is another in a long line of really great books.\"\n\n\u2014 _CrimeSpree Magazine_\n\n\"Just plain fun to read. Readers of cozy mysteries who haven't read Denise Swanson's books are in for a real treat when they do.\"\n\n\u2014Cozy Library\n\n**_Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry_**\n\n\"[A] cleverly crafted plot...with a generous dash of romance.\"\n\n\u2014 _Chicago Tribune_\n\n\"Top-notch storytelling with truly unique and wonderful characters.\"\n\n\u2014 _CrimeSpree Magazine_\n\n**_Murder of a Botoxed Blonde_**\n\n\"Endearing...quirky...a delight.\"\n\n\u2014 _Chicago Tribune_\n\n\"Tight plotting and plenty of surprises keep this series on my must-read list.\"\n\n\u2014 _CrimeSpree Magazine_\n\n**_Murder of a Real Bad Boy_**\n\n\"Swanson is a born storyteller.\"\n\n\u2014 _CrimeSpree Magazine_\n\n\"Another knee-slapping adventure in Scumble River.\"\n\n\u2014 _The Amplifier_ (KY)\n\n**_Murder of a Smart Cookie_**\n\n\"Smartly spins on a solid plot and likable characters.\"\n\n\u2014 _South Florida Sun-Sentinel_\n\n\"[Swanson] has a lot of surprises in store for the reader.\"\n\n\u2014 _Midwest Book Review_\n\n**_Murder of a Pink Elephant_**\n\n\"The must-read book of the summer.\"\n\n\u2014 _Butler County Post_ (KY)\n\n\"Current readers will appreciate the trip into Scumble River, while new readers will want to go back.\"\n\n\u2014 _The_ Best Reviews\n\n**_Murder of a Barbie and Ken_**\n\n\"Swanson continues her lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life.\"\n\n\u2014 _The Hartford Courant_\n\n\"Another sidesplitting visit to Scumble River...with some of the quirkiest and most eccentric characters we ever have met.\"\n\n\u2014 _Butler County Post_ (KY)\n\n**_Murder of a Snake in the Grass_**\n\n\"An endearing and realistic character...a fast-paced, enjoyable read.\"\n\n\u2014 _The Herald News_ (MA)\n\n\"This book is delightful.\"\n\n\u2014Mysterious Woman\n\n**_Murder of a Sleeping Beauty_**\n\n\"A smooth, pleasant, and ultimately satisfying book.\"\n\n\u2014 _Chicago Tribune_\n\n\"Another delightful and intriguing escapade.\"\n\n\u2014Mystery News\n\n**_Murder of a Sweet Old Lady_**\n\n\"More fun than the Whirl-A-Gig at the County Fair and tastier than a corn dog.\"\n\n\u2014 _Charlotte Austin Review_\n\n\"A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.\"\n\n\u2014 _Midwest Book Review_\n\n**_Murder of a Small-Town Honey_**\n\n\"Bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns. The quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy.\"\n\n\u2014Agatha Award\u2013winning author Earlene Fowler\n\n\"A charming, insightful debut.\"\n\n\u2014Carolyn Hart\n**Also by Denise Swanson**\n\n**SCUMBLE RIVER MYSTERIES**\n\n\"Not a Monster of a Chance,\" short story in  \n _And the Dying Is Easy_\n\n\"Dead Blondes Tell No Tales,\" e-book novella in  \n _Drop-Dead Blonde_\n\n_Murder of a Creped Suzette_\n\n_Murder of a Bookstore Babe_\n\n_Murder of a Wedding Belle_\n\n_Murder of a Royal Pain_\n\n_Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry_\n\n_Murder of a Botoxed Blonde_\n\n_Murder of a Real Bad Boy_\n\n_Murder of a Smart Cookie_\n\n_Murder of a Pink Elephant_\n\n_Murder of a Barbie and Ken_\n\n_Murder of a Snake in the Grass_\n\n_Murder of a Sleeping Beauty_\n\n_Murder of a Sweet Old Lady_\n\n_Murder of a Small-Town Honey_\n\n**DEVEREAUX'S DIME STORE MYSTERIES**\n\n_Little Shop of Homicide_\n\n# Murder of the  \nCat's Meow\n\n_A Scumble River Mystery_\n\nDenise Swanson\n\nAN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY\nOBSIDIAN\n\nPublished by New American Library, a division of\n\nPenguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,\n\nNew York, New York 10014, USA\n\nPenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,\n\nOntario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)\n\nPenguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\n\nPenguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2,\n\nIreland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)\n\nPenguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,\n\nAustralia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)\n\nPenguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,\n\nNew Delhi - 110 017, India\n\nPenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,\n\nNew Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)\n\nPenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,\n\nRosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa\n\nPenguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:\n\n80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\n\nFirst published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,\n\na division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\n\nFirst Printing, September 2012\n\n10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Denise Swanson Stybr, 2012\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.\n\nISBN: 978-1-101-59955-6\n\nOBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\nPUBLISHER'S NOTE\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\n\nThe publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.\n\nIf you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as \"unsold and destroyed\" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this \"stripped book.\"\n\nALWAYS LEARNING\n\nPEARSON\n_To my fellow cat lovers:  \nI promise you no kitties are harmed in this story._\n\n# Author's Note\n\nIn July of 2000, when the first book in my Scumble River series, _Murder of a Small-Town Honey_ , was published, it was written in \"real time.\" It was the year 2000 in Skye's life as well as mine, but after several books in a series, time becomes a problem. It takes me from seven months to a year to write a book, and then it is usually another year from the time I turn that book in to my editor until the reader sees it on a bookstore shelf. This can make the timeline confusing. Different authors handle this matter in different ways. After a great deal of deliberation, I decided that Skye and her friends and family would age more slowly than those of us who don't live in Scumble River. So to catch everyone up, the following is when the books take place:\n\n_Murder of a Small-Town Honey\u2014_ August 2000\n\n_Murder of a Sweet Old Lady_ \u2014March 2001\n\n_Murder of a Sleeping Beauty_ \u2014April 2002\n\n_Murder of a Snake in the Grass_ \u2014August 2002\n\n_Murder of a Barbie and Ken_ \u2014November 2002\n\n_Murder of a Pink Elephant_ \u2014February 2003\n\n_Murder of a Smart Cookie_ \u2014June 2003\n\n_Murder of a Real Bad Boy_ \u2014September 2003\n\n_Murder of a Botoxed Blonde_ \u2014November 2003\n\n_Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry_ \u2014April 2004\n\n_Murder of a Royal Pain\u2014_ October 2004\n\n_Murder of a Wedding Belle_ \u2014June 2005\n\n_Murder of a Bookstore Babe_ \u2014September 2005\n\n_Murder of a Creped Suzette_ \u2014October 2005\n\n_Murder of the Cat's Meow_ \u2014March 2006\n\nAnd this is when the Scumble River short story and novella take place:\n\n\"Not a Monster of a Chance\" in _And the Dying Is Easy_ \u2014June 2001\n\n\"Dead Blondes Tell No Tales\" in _Drop-Dead Blonde_ \u2014March 2003\nScumble River is not a real town. The characters and events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.\n\n# Table of Contents\n\nChapter 1: Raining Cats and Dogs\n\nChapter 2: Quick As a Cat\n\nChapter 3: Who'll Bell the Cat?\n\nChapter 4: Cheshire Cat Smile\n\nChapter 5: Curiosity Killed the Cat\n\nChapter 6: When a Black Cat Crosses Your Path\n\nChapter 7: Let the Cat Out of the Bag\n\nChapter 8: Crazier Than John Smith's Cat\n\nChapter 9: Look What the Cat Dragged In\n\nChapter 10: Morals of an Alley Cat and Scruples of a Snake\n\nChapter 11: The Catbird Seat\n\nChapter 12: The Cat Will Meow\n\nChapter 13: A Cat Has Nine Lives\n\nChapter 14: Busier Than a One-eyed Cat Watching Two Mouse Holes\n\nChapter 15: There's More Than One Way to Pet a Cat\n\nChapter 16: Nervous as a Cat\n\nChapter 17: While the Cat's Away\n\nChapter 18: Playing Cat and Mouse\n\nChapter 19: Scaredy-cat\n\nChapter 20: All Cats Are Gray in the Dark\n\nChapter 21: Catcall\n\nChapter 22: Not Enough Room to Swing a Cat\n\nChapter 23: Has the Cat Got Your Tongue?\n\nChapter 24: Cat-o'-nine-tails\n\nEpilogue: The Cat Who Swallowed the Canary\n\nNickeled and Dimed to Death\n\n# **CHAPTER 1**\n\n# Raining Cats and Dogs\n\nSchool psychologist Skye Denison stamped her bunny-slippered foot on the black-and-white-tiled floor of her newly remodeled kitchen and shouted, \"If you keep doing that, I won't be able to convince Wally we should live here once we're married.\"\n\nSilence greeted her threat. Not surprising, since she was the only person in the house. At least the only living person. Which was the problem.\n\nAlthough Skye's fianc\u00e9, police chief Wally Boyd, claimed he didn't believe in ghosts, it was kind of hard to ignore the fact that nearly every time he and Skye started to get intimate, something in her house blew up, burst into flames, or broke into a thousand pieces.\n\nSkye's gaze flitted from the granite counters to the stainless-steel fridge and came to rest on the cherrywood cupboards. She'd been renovating the house since she'd inherited it from Alma Griggs more than two and a half years ago. There was still a lot to do, and the process, so far, had been both frustrating and costly. But there was no way she was selling the place and moving into Wally's bungalow.\n\n\"Do you hear me, Mrs. Griggs?\"\n\nThere was no response.\n\n\"Fine.\" Skye blew out an annoyed breath and grabbed the broom. As she swept up the shards of what _had_ been her Grandma Leofanti's Jade-Ite cookie jar, she muttered under her breath, \"You're leaving me no choice.\"\n\nSkye had tolerated the situation for as long as she could. While she and Wally were engaged, it was all well and good for them to confine their lovemaking to nights spent at Wally's place. But once they were married, he needed to be able to move into her house without fear of some disaster forcing them out of bed just when things were getting interesting.\n\nLike this morning, when Wally had stopped by to tell her that his annulment was in the final stages and Father Burns had assured him that it would be completed by the end of April. Skye had been on Wally's lap, celebrating the good news with a lingering kiss, when the cookie jar flew off the counter and smashed at their feet. It was a miracle neither of them had been injured by flying glass or Oreo shrapnel.\n\nWally had blamed Skye's cat for the incident, but she knew Bingo wasn't the culprit. The chubby feline had tried and failed on several occasions to leap onto the counter. It was too high, and he was too portly. Besides, there was no food sitting out, and without the enticement of something edible to motivate him, Bingo rarely moved farther than the next pool of sunlight.\n\nSkye stepped out onto her back porch. \"I'm giving you one more chance,\" she said, shivering in the cold March wind and rain, as she threw the sharp fragments of the dearly departed cookie jar into the trash can. \"If so much as a door slams shut the next time Wally and I start to make love here, I'm getting rid of you.\" It was time to put an end to Mrs. Griggs's reign of terror\u2014one way or another.\n\nMarching back into the kitchen, Skye grabbed a thin blue folder from where she had hidden it at the bottom of her junk drawer, sat down at the table, and stared nervously at the file. Just as she inserted a finger beneath the tab, the telephone rang, and she jumped back. Could Mrs. Griggs be phoning to apologize?\n\nSkye giggled at her own silliness. It was one thing to believe the spirit of the house's previous owner was present, but quite another to think the woman could call from the great beyond.\n\nHalfway to her feet, Skye sank back in the chair. It was probably the same annoying telemarketer that had been pestering her for the past week. A company claiming that it could lower her credit card rates had been calling her three or four times a day, and she'd finally resolved to let her answering machine act as a buffer.\n\nSkye knew that at ten a.m. on a nonworkday morning her best friend, school librarian Trixie Frayne, would still be fast asleep. Despite being married to a farmer, Trixie was not an early riser, so the call wouldn't be from her.\n\nAnd it wouldn't be Wally, since he was on his way to Springfield to begin the last part of the Illinois police chief certification program. The first stage had required only documentation of his extensive law enforcement experience, including leadership abilities, education, and training. But for this final phase, he had to complete written tests that would take all afternoon and several hours the next day. He had told Skye that although the accreditation wasn't required, he felt it was important for him to have it in order to be a good role model for the officers under his command.\n\nWhen the phone stopped ringing, then immediately started up again, Skye frowned. Maybe it wasn't the telemarketer. She doubted a computerized system would continue to redial again and again.\n\nIt couldn't be her brother, Vince. Saturday morning was the busiest time at his hair salon. The usual suspect would be her mother, but she and Skye's father had left last night for a weekend stay at Ho-Chunk Casino near the Wisconsin Dells.\n\nWho did that leave? Skye's godfather, Charlie Patukas, would just hop in his Cadillac and drive over if he wanted to talk to her that urgently. Which meant...\n\n_Shoot!_ It had to be either Frannie or Justin, or both. During their high school years, Frannie Ryan and Justin Boward had been coeditors of the school newspaper, which Skye and Trixie sponsored. Although they were no longer her students, Skye had remained close to them, and since they were attending Joliet Junior College and lived at home, they still frequently asked her for help.\n\nSkye groaned in surrender, pushed the file aside, and rose from her chair. Figuring out how to get rid of Mrs. Griggs's ghost would have to wait a little longer. Peering at the phone where it hung on her kitchen wall, Skye focused on the caller ID\u2014something she should have done several minutes ago.\n\nThe words BUNNY LANES appeared on the little screen. That was odd. Granted, Frannie worked there as a waitress in the grill, but the town bowling alley didn't open until the children's and teen leagues started at eleven.\n\n_Crap!_ Could her persistent caller be Bunny Reid\u2014former Las Vegas dancer, current bowling alley manager, and mother of Skye's previous boyfriend? There was only one way to find out.\n\nSnatching up the handset, Skye pushed the ON button and said, \"Hello?\"\n\n\"Ms. D, thank God you're home.\" Frannie's desperate voice was shrill in Skye's ear. \"There's an emergency at the alley. Can you come right away?\"\n\n\"Emergency? Are you okay? What happened?\" Skye gritted her teeth in aggravation when Frannie hung up without answering her questions.\n\nNo one responded to Skye's repeated attempts to call back, and after a couple of frustrating minutes, she gave up. As she slipped on tennis shoes and grabbed her jacket, purse, and keys from the coat stand, she told herself that at least she was dressed in nice jeans and a sweater, had French-braided her hair and put on a little makeup. Usually, in a crisis she was caught with a naked face, wearing a baggy sweatshirt, and with her chestnut curls in a bushy ponytail.\n\nHappy that for once she looked presentable, Skye ran out of the house and jumped into her 1957 Bel Air convertible, a tank of a car that her father and godfather had rehabbed for her several years ago.\n\nShe stamped on the accelerator, and the Chevy flew down the blacktop, its windshield wipers at full speed to keep up with the pouring rain. Six minutes later, Skye squealed into the bowling alley's parking lot and skidded to a halt on the wet asphalt.\n\nWhat in the world? Why was the lot filled with cars and trucks, and...Skye squinted through the deluge, trying to understand what she was seeing. Was that a row of RVs lined up like cows at the watering trough? Had Bunny opened a campsite? More to the point, did her son, Simon, know about it?\n\nThree years ago, Bunny had reappeared in Simon's life after a twenty-year absence. And although he had already been the owner of Reid's Funeral Home and the coroner, he had bought the town bowling alley in order to provide his mother with the job and permanent address she needed to avoid going to jail for misusing prescription drugs. Simon had never admitted that he'd purchased the business solely to help Bunny, but Skye knew that had been his true motivation.\n\nAlthough Simon and Skye were no longer a couple, she and Bunny were still friends. And Skye hated to see the flamboyant redhead damage the relationship she had finally forged with her son by getting involved in something he wouldn't approve of.\n\nWith that in mind, Skye flung herself out of the Bel Air, sprinted to the bowling alley's entrance, and shoved open the glass doors. As she stepped over the threshold, a wave of noise swept over her like a tsunami, nearly pushing her back out.\n\nSkye paused in the entryway. Because of the way the place was designed, she couldn't see beyond the coatracks and the rows of cube-shaped lockers where the bowlers kept their equipment. Tilting her head, she tried to figure out what was going on.\n\nThe din she heard wasn't music; it was a cacophony of mostly indistinguishable voices, but every once in a while numbers were announced over a loudspeaker. What was happening in the rest of the alley? Could Bunny be holding an auction? But what could she be selling?\n\nDeciding the best course of action would be to find Frannie, Skye took a left, heading toward the grill, which was the young woman's most likely location. Skye had planned to cut through the bar, but the door was locked. Peeking through the round, portholelike window, she saw that the bartender was absent and the room was empty of customers. The cocktail tables were lined up in rows, rather than placed in their usual scattered arrangement, and a digital countdown board had been set up on the stage next to a gigantic gong.\n\nSkye gnawed on her lower lip. Was Bunny planning on some sort of game night?\n\nEven though Skye wasn't very good at judging the direction that sounds were coming from, she thought the racket must be in the lounge area back by the alleys. While she was trying to decide whether to continue on to the grill or go toward the noise, she heard an angry male voice bellow Bunny's name. A few beats went by, and that same voice thundered an indistinguishable sentence. A nanosecond later, a woman screamed.\n\n_Okay_. That definitely had not come from the alleys. Skye dashed down the narrow hallway into the grill, but it was empty. Where was the yelling coming from? Wait. The shouting had sounded echoey. The argument had to be taking place in the basement.\n\nSeveral large rooms used for parties and banquets ran under the length of the bowling alley. Despite her bad memories of having been locked down there with Simon when their mothers had tried to reunite them, Skye raced through the open door and down the stairs.\n\nAt the bottom she stopped and stared. An extraordinarily large man wearing a gray suit jacket over a faded Metallica T-shirt and dark sweatpants with a white stripe down the leg was cuddling a fluffy white angora cat in one enormous arm while dangling a stunningly beautiful woman by her throat with the other hand.\n\nIt appeared that Skye had found Frannie's emergency.\n\n# **CHAPTER 2**\n\n# Quick As a Cat\n\nBunny was jumping around the man and woman like a rabbit trying to infiltrate a chicken-wire-enclosed garden. In between hops she screeched, \"Elijah Jacobsen, you put Alexis down right this minute!\"\n\nThe big guy ignored her, staring into his victim's sapphire blue eyes.\n\n\"She didn't mean it when she said Princess was seriously flawed,\" Bunny added, her red curls bouncing in time with her shouts. \"Tell him you're sorry, Alexis.\"\n\nBunny's efforts to intervene went unheeded by the suspended woman, whose voice wheezed alarmingly as she unwisely said, \"But I'm not sorry.\" Although Elijah tightened his hold, she gasped, \"I meant every word.\"\n\nThe big man bellowed like an alpenhorn in a cough drop commercial and shook Alexis until her long, straight black hair swung from side to side, as if keeping time with some unheard melody.\n\nSkye hesitated just long enough for Bunny to dart forward and grab an object that resembled a foot-long mini rake from a nearby table. As Bunny drew back like a little kid about to smash open a pi\u00f1ata, Skye saw that the weapon would hit Alexis, not Elijah. Intent on deflecting Bunny's attack, Skye flung herself forward.\n\nUnfortunately, Skye's trajectory was as bad as Bunny's aim, and instead of knocking the redhead aside, Skye caught the brunt of Bunny's swing across the face. She sank to the floor, as flattened as a papier-m\u00e2ch\u00e9 pony.\n\nFor a moment there was complete silence. The people bunched in the doorways and clustered in the basement hallway who had been excitedly commenting on the fight stood with their mouths open, seeming to wait for the next scene in a play.\n\nFinally, Elijah dropped Alexis, shook his head, and, as if coming out of a deep sleep, blinked his pale gray eyes. He looked down at Skye and asked, \"What happened to you?\"\n\nWhile Skye tried to figure out the answer\u2014the blow seemed to have knocked the short-term memory out of her\u2014the crowd started to chatter and Bunny wailed, \"I'm so sorry. Are you all right? Skye, say you're all right. If you're not all right, Sonny Boy's going to kill me.\"\n\n\"Get a wet rag, some bandages, and a cold compress,\" Elijah ordered Bunny, pushing her out of his way.\n\nThe redhead leaped backward as if she were spring-loaded, then scurried off.\n\nElijah knelt by Skye's side and asked, \"Do you need an ambulance?\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye felt blood dripping from her cheek, and the room was spinning. She was afraid she would vomit if she tried to say more.\n\n\"Let me get a good look.\" Elijah put a hand on her shoulder and pressed her back down when she tried to sit up. \"Before my troubles, I used to be a doctor.\"\n\nSkye fought to hold back tears of pain as he ran the fingers of one hand over her cheeks and nose. Was this the same guy who had nearly choked the brunette? He was still holding the cat, but otherwise seemed like an entirely different person\u2014a calm and competent individual versus the raving maniac who had dangled Alexis like a ripe plum.\n\n\"I don't think anything is broken,\" Elijah reassured Skye. \"Your nose seems intact and the scratches on your cheek are superficial.\"\n\nA subdued Bunny returned with the first-aid items Elijah had asked for. Wordlessly, he took the wet cloth and gently wiped Skye's cheek. He murmured soothingly to her as he cleaned the blood from her face and applied several butterfly bandages to her wounds.\n\nBunny hovered near his shoulder, wringing her hands and begging him to say that Skye was okay.\n\nAt last Elijah handed Skye a cold compress and instructed: \"Hold this across your nose and cheeks. It should lessen the bruising and swelling, but your pretty green eye is going to have quite a shiner.\"\n\n_Terrific!_ Skye's first thought was that she wouldn't be scheduling her engagement picture anytime soon. Her second was that she would have to avoid her mother until she healed. May Denison was not a huge fan of Bunny to begin with, and if she saw Skye's injuries, she'd probably skin the redhead alive and use her hide to wash windows.\n\n\"Ms. D, I'm so sorry.\" Frannie paced up and down in front of Skye's chair. \"I should have met you at the door, but I had to pee so bad.\"\n\nFrannie was tall and solidly built. Skye had spent several years trying to raise the young woman's self-esteem and help her to navigate high school, a world dominated by size 4 girls. Much of that work had been undone during Frannie's first semester at Loyola University. After a couple of months of feeling like an outcast and missing home, Frannie had returned to Scumble River. She was now completing her sophomore year at a local community college, and she'd applied to the University of Illinois journalism program.\n\n\"It's not your fault,\" Skye told Frannie for the third or fourth time. \"No one forced me to get between Bunny and the object of her wrath. But why didn't you answer when I called you back?\"\n\n\"I was helping to find Princess.\"\n\n\"Elijah's cat?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Frannie confirmed. \"She escaped while Ms. Hightower had her out of her cage to judge her.\"\n\n\"And Ms. Hightower is?\"\n\n\"The woman Mr. Jacobsen was trying to kill,\" Frannie clarified.\n\n\"The missing cat was the emergency, not the assault I walked in on?\" Having seen Elijah Jacobsen manhandling Alexis, Skye understood how Frannie could have been panicked at his earlier agitation, but she wanted to make sure she understood the situation.\n\n\"Right.\" Frannie twisted a lock of glossy brown hair around her finger. When she went away to college, she had cut her nearly waist-long waves and flat-ironed the curl out of what was left. Now, almost two years later, she still didn't seem accustomed to the shorter length.\n\n\"Well,\" Skye said, \"it looks as if everything is okay now, at least for the moment. Alexis refused to let us call the police and Elijah appears to have regained his composure.\"\n\nSkye was sitting in Bunny's office. Through the open door, she had a clear view of the lounge and bowling alleys. Rows and rows of cages containing every kind of feline imaginable lined the lanes, and throngs of people wearing all styles of clothing from jeans to cocktail dresses milled around, many carrying cats in their arms.\n\n\"What is all this?\" She gestured to the scene before her.\n\n\"A cat show,\" Frannie explained.\n\n\"And why is the bowling alley hosting a cat show?\"\n\n\"It all started last September.\" Frannie's brown eyes sparkled. As a journalism student, she liked nothing more than to tell a good story. \"Miss Bunny wanted to earn some extra money.\"\n\n\"For what?\" Skye shuddered inwardly. An entrepreneurial Bunny was never a good thing. \"Not more Botox treatments?\" Bunny had gotten in trouble nine months ago when she'd accepted a kickback in her quest to pay for reclaiming her youthful appearance.\n\n\"That, too.\" Frannie finally stopped pacing. \"Miss Bunny said that old age is like cheap underwear\u2014it creeps up on you\u2014so she makes sure she always wears Victoria's Secret V-strings.\" Frannie leaned against the edge of the desk facing Skye. \"But mostly she wanted to take a singles cruise so she could hook a rich boyfriend.\"\n\n\"How did you get involved?\" Skye refused to think about Bunny dressed in a string bikini on the high seas hunting millionaires.\n\n\"Well...\" Frannie studied her white tennis shoes. \"Miss Bunny, Justin, and I were all sitting around one night after the bowling alley closed and Miss Bunny was going on and on about how hard it was to meet men because she lived in a small town and was a little bit older and all.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"I might have mentioned Internet dating.\" Frannie refused to meet Skye's gaze.\n\n\"Oh, my Lord,\" Skye moaned. Bunny loose in the virtual world was a recipe for catastrophe. \"But how did you get from Bunny's lack of dates to this?\" Skye pointed to the cages and people.\n\n\"Justin possibly brought up the idea that we could start an online matchmaking site of our own, and Miss Bunny could have her pick of the guys who signed up, _and_ we could make money, too.\"\n\n\"Crap!\" Skye still didn't see how an online dating service had morphed into a cat show, but she knew the answer wouldn't make her happy. \"So Justin, as the resident computer genius, helped Bunny create a matchmaking service,\" Skye guessed.\n\n\"Right.\" Frannie grinned. \"We decided it should specialize in people who lived in small Illinois towns and were over forty.\"\n\n\"Okay...\" Skye frowned. Their idea actually sounded like a good one\u2014sort of.\n\n\"Bunny decided to name the site CupidsCatsMeow.com because _The Cat's Meow_ was her most successful Las Vegas show.\" Frannie paused, as if Skye should be able to figure out the rest, but when she remained silent, the young woman continued. \"Most of the people who signed up thought it was a service for single cat lovers looking to meet other single cat lovers. So we thought\u2014what the heck.\"\n\n\"What the heck?\" Skye cringed. That's why putting Bunny together with the young people was so dangerous; instead of careful consideration, all three of them leaped into the situation without considering the consequences. Not that Skye could criticize the trio, considering her own flying tackle half an hour ago.\n\n\"Uh-huh.\" Frannie nodded, beaming. \"Why not have a combination cat show and speed-dating weekend right here in Scumble River? We had the bowling alley to hold the events\u2014\"\n\n\"And I researched cat shows,\" Justin Boward said, strolling into the office and taking over the story. \"From what I read, cat shows can be held anywhere from high school gyms to five-star hotels.\"\n\nAt nineteen, Justin seemed to have had reached his full height of six-two. His weight was finally catching up with his height, though he would probably always have a slender build. He kept his nutmeg brown hair cut military short, but his new glasses no longer hid his long-lashed brown eyes. He hadn't been an attractive teenager, but he was turning into a nice-looking young man.\n\n\"And we could charge sixty bucks per cat for the show and seventy-five dollars for the speed dating,\" Frannie added. \"We'd also make money from the cage rental, vendor table fee, and food and drinks.\"\n\n\"Does Simon know about this?\" Skye was pretty darn sure he didn't.\n\n\"No.\" Frannie's expression was angelic. \"Miss Bunny didn't want to bother him. He's spending the weekend with a friend in St. Louis.\"\n\nThe hairs on the back of Skye's neck stood at full attention. Was her reaction caused by the thought of what Simon would do to Bunny when he found out, or by the idea of a bunch of strangers invading Scumble River? From hard-learned experience, Skye knew for a fact that bringing in a crowd of out-of-towners nearly always resulted in murder.\n\n# **CHAPTER 3**\n\n# Who'll Bell the Cat?\n\nBecause the event had proven to need more manpower than they had expected, Bunny, Justin, and Frannie had begged Skye to stick around and help out. Although all the trio could offer was minimum wage and free meals in return, Skye had agreed to stay. She loved cats and didn't have any plans for the weekend. Besides, Trixie had given her a necklace engraved with the words LIFE BEGINS AT THE END OF YOUR COMFORT ZONE, and Skye was trying to take that advice to heart.\n\nHer first assignment fell under Justin's purview. He was in charge of judging. On his computer, he kept track of all the scores and tabulated them for the final round. Skye's task was to find the contestants who didn't show up in the correct judging areas and to help catch any feline escape artists.\n\nJustin had explained that because this was a small, unofficial show, all cats were being judged as pets. They would be evaluated on their beauty, character, demeanor, and grooming, rather than according to breed standards. There would be three rounds with three judges, so cats could collect up to four ribbons each\u2014one for each round and one for the Best of the Best. And no one judge's opinion could influence that top prize.\n\nSkye had asked if there was a danger of hard feelings developing among competitors that might hamper the contestants from making a love connection during the later speed-dating activity, but Bunny hadn't seemed worried.\n\nAs Skye approached the rows of cages lining the bowling lanes\u2014which Frannie had informed her was known as the benching area\u2014she hoped that Bunny had protected the wooden floors. She sighed in relief when she saw that plywood boards had been laid over the tarp-covered floors. At least Simon wouldn't have costly damages to add to his list of grievances against his mother's latest harebrained scheme.\n\nHer mind at rest, Skye made her way down the aisles, admiring the imaginatively decorated pens and their cute kitty occupants. Stopping in front of a cage swathed in lilac satin, she peered through the bars. Inside, on a black velvet pedestal, lounged a pair of long, slender cats with short, sleek fur. As she studied the felines' trilateral heads and extra-large ears, their tails whipped back and forth and they narrowed their striking blue eyes.\n\nA small sign edged in crystal beads read:\n\nFAWNCAT  \nSORIENTAL SHORTHAIRS  \nFAWN IRVING  \nLAUREL, ILLINOIS\n\nEntranced by the interesting-looking creatures, Skye jumped when a disembodied voice announced, \"That's Fawncats Ice Pearl and Fawncats Ice Opal, but their call names are Miss Pearl and Miss Opal.\"\n\n\"They're amazing.\" For the second time that day Skye found herself talking to thin air. \"I love their little pixyish faces.\"\n\n\"We call that wedge-shaped.\" A tall, thin woman in her late fifties emerged from behind the cage, catching the edge of the table with her hip and knocking over the oversize champagne glass full of tiny opalescent balls that had been perched on top of the crate. \"Their heads should form perfect triangles,\" she explained while righting the glass and rounding up the escaped faux bubbles.\n\nHer own face had high cheekbones and a pointy chin. Those features, along with her buzz-cut white-blond hair, made Skye wonder whether the woman had chosen the breed because of its resemblance to herself.\n\n\"Interesting,\" Skye murmured, then asked, \"Are you Fawn Irving?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I'm Skye Denison. I'm here to escort you to the judging area for number seven.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Fawn opened the pen door and swooped up one of the cats. \"I heard people were getting lost, and Miss Pearl here gets spooked easily.\"\n\nSkye led the way to the basement door. Halfway down the steps, Fawn tripped and slammed into Skye. Luckily, for both women, Skye had a firm grip on the banister, and her substantially greater weight halted the lean breeder's momentum.\n\nWhen they were all on solid ground, Skye escorted Fawn into one of the three rooms being used for judging. Skye stopped just inside the door, but Fawn placed Pearl in the only vacant cage of the nine set up along the rear wall.\n\nA woman whom Skye immediately identified as Elijah Jacobsen's earlier victim, Alexis, stood with her back to the assembled cats, facing a long table. Attached to the front was a poster that read:\n\nSCUMBLE RIVER CAT SHOW  \nJUDGE ALEXIS HIGHTOWER  \nRING #1 ROUND #1\n\nGlancing over her shoulder, Alexis curled her lips and said, \"I see the late Fawn Irving has decided to join us after all.\"\n\nTwo red circles formed on the gawky blonde's pale cheeks. \"Sorry,\" she muttered. \"I didn't hear my number being called.\"\n\nAlexis raised a perfectly plucked sable eyebrow. \"Perhaps if you had fewer holes in your head, your hearing would be better.\"\n\nFawn recoiled, her hands flying to the multiple pierced earrings she wore. \"I, that's really...\" She stopped, swallowed, and straightened her spine. \"Would it hurt you to be supportive once in a while?\"\n\n\"I'd like to help you, Fawn,\" Alexis mocked, \"because I know you need it, but I've mislaid my magic wand.\"\n\n\"Maybe one of your flying monkeys stole it.\" Fawn was breathing heavily and her fingernails dug into the tabletop, but she didn't back down.\n\nAlexis gazed at a bruise on Fawn's forearm, then _tsk_ ed. \"Bump into something again\u2014or did your husband come back?\" Fawn gasped and Alexis smiled, shaking her head. \"Your klutziness never ceases to amaze me.\"\n\n\"Why are you always so mean, Alexis?\" The fragile woman finally lost the inner battle for strength that she'd been fighting, and whimpered, \"What have I ever done to you?\"\n\n\"Nothing. Nothing at all.\" Alexis bared her teeth in a self-satisfied smile. \"How could you? You're such a colossal nobody, you and your second-rate cats aren't even a blip on my radar.\" With that, she plucked a cat from its cage and began the judging.\n\nAs Fawn slunk to a chair in the back without retaliating, Skye relaxed. She'd lingered, thinking that the gorgeous judge might provoke another physical altercation\u2014this time by Fawn\u2014but now that everything seemed calm, Skye left the room and returned upstairs.\n\nAs she continued to guide contestants to the correct areas, she thought about the most recent scene she'd witnessed in the basement. Why had Alexis insulted Fawn? There hadn't been any discernible reason for her verbal attack on the older woman. Was Alexis just plain mean? Didn't she care that her cruel words might make a bad impression that could damage her chances at the speeding-dating event? Maybe she thought the male participants would be blinded by her beauty and her bad behavior during the cat show wouldn't be an issue.\n\nAfter Alexis's extreme nastiness, the rest of Skye's escort duties went smoothly. Princess had been the only feline fugitive. And although Skye saw Elijah several times that morning, he appeared calm and in control of himself, mostly texting or fiddling with his rosary beads.\n\nDuring the past few months, Skye had been trying to mind her own business no matter what went on around her, but Alexis's treatment of Fawn continued to gnaw at her. So during the noon break, she looked for Bunny, determined to make her aware of the beautiful judge's bullying behavior.\n\nWhen Skye couldn't find Bunny, she decided to ask Frannie if she knew where the elusive redhead had gone. Earlier, Frannie had explained that she was in charge of the food and nonalcoholic drink portion of the events, so Skye headed toward the grill.\n\nThe young entrepreneur was behind the counter selling cold sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies, and sodas, and when Skye reached the front of the line, she asked, \"Do you know where Bunny is? I haven't seen her in a while.\"\n\n\"She's in the bar working with the deejay for tonight.\" Frannie handed Skye a key, adding, \"Here, you'll need this. The door's locked.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" While Skye made her food selections, she noted that Frannie seemed to be in her element, managing the crowd with finesse and chatting easily with the customers as she took their money and made change. \"Looks like you're doing a brisk business.\"\n\n\"Yep.\" Frannie leaned forward and whispered, \"We deliberately only gave them forty-five minutes for lunch so they'd have to eat here if they didn't want to risk being late for the next round.\"\n\nSkye started to speak, but held her tongue. Frannie was no longer her student, and as Skye slipped into the bar, then relocked the door behind her, she reassured herself that actions that seemed unscrupulous to her were just good business practices in the retail world.\n\nBunny was standing with a bearded guy wearing jeans, mirrored sunglasses, and a black T-shirt. Waving, Skye took a seat. As she removed her lunch from the brown bag Frannie had placed it in, she studied the man and woman in front of her as they moved around the stage talking and gesturing.\n\nThe DJ's appearance was unremarkable except for his dark brown hair, which was parted on the side and puffed out in the shape of a football helmet. Skye wondered how much hair spray he needed to hold his elaborate coiffure in place. She mentally scratched her head. Did he really think that was an attractive style?\n\nBunny held up a finger indicating that she'd be done in a minute, then turned back to the DJ. But that minute turned into fifteen, and Skye had finished eating her turkey wrap and chips by the time the redhead pulled out a chair and joined her.\n\n\"Phew.\" Bunny adjusted her black and purple spaghetti-strap top, pulling up the front while simultaneously tucking her boobs more firmly into the padded cups. \"I hope he knows eighties music like he claims to, or tonight will be a catastrophe.\"\n\n\"Why are you worried?\" Skye tore open her packet of cookies. \"Isn't he a professional?\"\n\n\"He's from Chicago.\" Bunny pronounced the name of the city with reverence. Small-town living would never have been the redhead's first choice if she hadn't run out of options. \"Of course he's a pro, but the eighties was an extremely complex musical era.\"\n\n\"Sure it was.\" Skye crossed her fingers as she agreed. \"But shouldn't you have soft music for speed dating? Something low and sexy to put the participants in the mood, and so they won't have to shout at each other to be heard?\"\n\n\"Duh.\" Bunny snatched a ginger snap from Skye's pile. \"DJ Wonka is for afterward. We're having a bowler disco party from ten till midnight. The servers are going to wear the cutest bowler hats.\"\n\n\"Where are you having the party?\" Skye moved the remaining two cookies out of Bunny's reach. \"The alleys are full of cages and feline paraphernalia.\"\n\n\"Round three ends at four, then the finalists are announced, and all cats and equipment must be removed by five.\" Bunny got up, went behind the bar, snagged a bottle of water from the cooler, and reseated herself. \"Then the guys I hired to put down the tarps and plywood will remove them and the cages, and, voil\u00e0, we'll be ready for the bowler disco party.\"\n\n\"So you've got it under control.\" Skye was impressed with the redhead's planning. Preparedness was usually not her strong suit. \"That sounds like fun.\" Then she frowned. \"But how about tomorrow? Won't you have to put everything back for the final judging?\"\n\n\"Nah.\" Bunny shook her head, making her magenta chandelier earrings swing. \"There will only be nine cats in the Best of the Best round, and there's plenty of room for those cages in the lounge area where we now have the two vendors and the photographer.\"\n\n\"So this afternoon is rounds two and three, then dinner, and this evening is speed dating and the party?\" Skye held up a finger for each activity.\n\n\"Right.\" Bunny's attention shifted to another topic and she tilted her head, examining Skye. \"Elijah was wrong.\" She pursed her glossy mauve lips. \"I don't think you're going to have a black eye after all, and I bet you could take off the bandages. You heal really fast.\"\n\n\"Thank goodness for small favors.\" Skye touched her cheek, wincing at how swollen it felt. \"Hitting someone is never the solution to a problem. Even if they hit you first.\" She bit back a chuckle. She sounded like she was doing a social skills class at the elementary school, which was probably about the level Bunny would understand.\n\n\"And you, my darling, should never get between me and a man.\" The redhead giggled hysterically. \"Especially one that I'm mad at.\"\n\n\"On that note, let's change the subject.\" Skye drained her can of Diet Coke and asked, \"What's up with Alexis Hightower?\"\n\n\"Well, she's working for free.\" Bunny attempted to flatten a crease in her black lace leggings and grimaced when she realized the wrinkle was in her thigh rather than in the fabric. \"She waived her judging fee in return for food, drinks, and complimentary participation in the speed-dating portion of the weekend.\"\n\n\"Ever hear that you get what you pay for?\" Skye crumpled a piece of wax paper. \"You should have seen how nasty she was to that poor Fawn Irving.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Bunny frowned, then quickly used her pinky to smooth the line between her brows. \"I know she really pressed Elijah's buttons, too, but she's always been okay with me. In fact, she gave me a lot of help organizing the cat show. We were on the phone every day for weeks. She told me all the stuff I needed to know about how to do things so the event would be fun even if it wasn't official.\"\n\nSkye carefully considered her next words. \"I don't want to jump to conclusions, but from what I've seen\u2014her being verbally abusive to Elijah and Fawn, but nice to you\u2014Alexis appears to bully people she considers less powerful than herself.\"\n\n\"That's something I won't tolerate.\" Bunny's brown eyes were suddenly serious. \"Fawn's had a hard time lately. She told me she just got out of the hospital a week ago.\"\n\n\"I've just met Alexis today, and have only seen her in two situations, so it's hard to say if I just caught her at a bad time\"\u2014Skye bit her lip\u2014\"but it worries me that she appears to target the most vulnerable people.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 4**\n\n# Cheshire Cat Smile\n\nSkye delivered the last stray contestant to the judging room a few minutes after three thirty. Her assignment completed, she grabbed her purse from Bunny's office and headed toward the lounge to browse the vendor booths. She also wanted to check out the feline photographer, to see if she could arrange for him to do a portrait of Bingo the next day.\n\nThe first stand held cat toys, feline furniture, and kitty accessories of every conceivable\u2014and a few inconceivable\u2014kind. Who knew there were clothes for cats, let alone wigs? Didn't cats already have enough hair?\n\nSkye closed her eyes, trying to envision Bingo in a tuxedo and a blond toupee, but the only image that came to mind was the bloody mess that her hand would become if she attempted to turn her cat into a dress-up doll.\n\nMoving on, Skye studied a brightly colored package with the words KITTY-CASSO emblazoned on the top. She was struggling to imagine how the kit was used when she noticed a little old lady wearing a name tag that read, SANDY\u2014EIGHTY YEARS OLD AND LOVING LIFE, approaching her.\n\nThe octogenarian smiled widely at Skye and asked, \"Can I help you, dear?\"\n\n\"Uh.\" Skye didn't want to insult the woman, so she said carefully, \"Am I reading this right? This is a painting set for cats?\"\n\n\"That's correct, dear.\" Sandy plucked the box from Skye's hand and said in a TV pitchman's singsong voice, \"It's no mess and contains nontoxic paint. This wonderful product stimulates your pet's creativity, provides exercise, and is the hit of all my pet parties.\"\n\n\"Wow.\" A vision of the tiny woman in a finger-painting session with a group of cats wearing paper hats popped into Skye's head. \"I'm not sure Bingo would enjoy it. He considers himself too macho to be an artist.\"\n\n\"How about our Jester Ribbon Wand?\" Sandy held up a yellow and red striped baton with a blue and green donut on the end. Five objects hung from streamers attached to the ring. \"This combines sound, scent, and movement to entice even the manliest cats.\"\n\n\"Well...\" Skye looked around, hoping to see something that Bingo would deign to play with and her mother wouldn't mistake for a baby toy. All she needed was for May to think she was pregnant. Which reminded her, she needed to talk to Wally about children. Now that his annulment was nearly finalized, she had to find out his opinion of fatherhood.\n\nFocusing back on the present, Skye pointed to a long stick with a feather attached to the end. But before she could ask Sandy about it, an identical little old lady joined them. This one's badge read, SONIA\u2014I'M THE NICE TWIN. She was dressed in the same powder blue knit slacks and sweater set as her sister. Even the golden cathead pin above her right breast was an exact match.\n\nSkye glanced down and noticed that although the women wore similar shoes\u2014pale blue Mary Janes\u2014Sandy's had a two-inch heel, and Sonia's were flat.\n\nSonia took Skye's elbow and said, \"Forget these foolish bits and pieces. Your kitty will be happier if you give him a paper bag and a ball of yarn.\" She grinned. \"You know the fifth cat law, don't you?\"\n\nSkye shook her head.\n\n\"A cat's attention level will rise and fall in reverse proportion to the amount of effort a human expends in trying to interest him.\"\n\nSkye giggled. The older woman's assessment of Bingo's personality was dead-on.\n\nSonia guided Skye to a display of carpet-covered towers. \"What you really need for your darling is a Kitty Kondo. I custom-build all of them myself, so you can mix and match the design and color scheme.\"\n\nSandy had followed them and was tugging on Skye's hand. \"Toys are better for your cat's health. I only stock the best brands.\"\n\n\"But you can make your own playthings.\" Sonia challenged her sister. \"Whereas my creations are one of a kind, constructed especially for your best friend.\"\n\nSkye was beginning to feel like the last can of Fancy Feast on the pet store shelf when Alexis strolled up, waved her hand at both sides of the booth's contents, and scoffed, \"It's all crap for pathetic people who fail to realize that we own the animals, they don't own us. I've been breeding cats for years. All they need is a good diet, proper grooming, and a clean living area.\"\n\nThe twins gasped, then said in unison, \"What about love?\"\n\n\"That's so what old ladies would think.\" Alexis snorted.\n\nThe sisters glared at her as if she were something they'd scraped off the bottom of a litter box.\n\n\"I'm sure everyone here would agree that cats need affection,\" Skye said in support of the elderly women.\n\n\"Of course they would. Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.\" Alexis snickered. \"This crowd overindulges their pets.\"\n\n\"Caring deeply is not overindulging,\" Skye said, gazing steadily at Alexis.\n\n\"Their _animals_ receive healthier food and more attention than most _children_ in this country.\" The nasty woman dared Skye to disagree.\n\n\"We all have a right to our beliefs.\" Skye kept her expression impassive, then said in an even tone, \"But it really is rude to verbalize that opinion in a place where most people will be hurt by what you say.\"\n\n\"Only losers allow themselves to be hurt by others,\" Alexis retorted, then walked away, adding over her shoulder, \"And clearly you're a loser.\"\n\nSkye shrugged off Alexis's insults. In her years as a school psychologist, she'd grown a thick skin. However, she did feel bad for the twin vendors, who seemed crushed by the younger woman's boorishness. Figuring a sale would cheer them up, Skye ordered a cat tree that resembled a child's jungle gym. Beaming, Sonia assured her the tower would be ready in two days.\n\nThen turning her attention to Sandy, Skye bought an object called Neko Flies. The woman assured her that the toy was designed to mimic the movements of the creatures cats loved to chase. Skye didn't mention that the only object Bingo was apt to pursue was a chicken nugget.\n\nHaving done her good deed for the day, and spent more money than she'd earned by working the cat show, Skye tucked the toy into her purse and moved on to the next booth, where she was instantly entranced by the jewelry. Unable to choose among all the wonderful pieces, she fingered necklaces made of tiger's eye, sleek silver pendants, and cute charm bracelets, debating the merits of each one.\n\nJust as she slid a gold cat-shaped ring onto her finger, an elegant woman with a cascade of brown curls down her back stepped forward and said, \"That's one of my best pieces, but it can't compete with your lovely engagement ring. Tiffany's, two carats, correct?\"\n\n\"Right. Thank you.\" Skye inspected the olive-skinned beauty. \"Do you make all the jewelry yourself?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She held out a slender hand. \"I'm Lola Martinez, and you are?\"\n\n\"Skye Denison.\"\n\n\"I liked how you handled Alexis.\" Lola's brown eyes were full of loathing. \"She's always bitching about something, and if anyone says anything about it, she claims it's not complaining, it's motivational speaking.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Skye wasn't surprised that Alexis considered her every word important and failed to understand that what she said affected others. The opinionated judge's total lack of empathy had been apparent in every encounter Skye had had with her.\n\n\"Alexis is such a witch.\" Lola's mouth tightened. \"And no one ever stands up to her.\"\n\n\"I'm a school psychologist, so I'm used to handling mean girls.\"\n\n\"Then you should do just fine with Alexis. Her maturity level is about the same as a thirteen-year-old's, and that's probably being unfair to the teenager.\" Lola took a deep breath, shook her head, and changed the subject by holding up a pair of black-enameled cat-shaped earrings. \"These would look good on you.\"\n\nSkye agreed, but once she completed her purchase, Lola hesitated before giving her the gold-foil box. Skye held her palm out, waiting, and finally the jewelry maker handed her the package.\n\nSkye turned to go, but Lola's voice stopped her. \"Just FYI, keep your fianc\u00e9 away from Alexis. Now that you've challenged her, she'll make it her purpose in life to steal him away from you.\"\n\n\"Thanks for the warning.\" Skye tucked the jewelry box into her purse. \"I'll keep that in mind if they ever meet.\"\n\nAs she walked away, she dismissed Lola's concern. Wally would see through Alexis before the predatory woman could unsheathe her claws or fluff her fur. Besides, he'd never betray Skye. They'd gone through too much to be together for either of them to risk losing each other now. Not when they were so close to finally getting married.\n\nWhile Skye made her way to the photographer's cubicle, she noted that most competitors had packed up and left. The participants who lived within a reasonable driving distance would go home, drop off their animals, clean up, and come back for dinner at six thirty.\n\nThe ones who lived farther away had brought their RVs or were staying at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court, the local motel owned by Skye's godfather, Charlie Patukas. He normally didn't allow pets, but Bunny had somehow charmed him into making an exception for this weekend.\n\nAlthough a few people still lingered in the vendor area, the photographer was already putting away his equipment when Skye entered his space. He was a nice-looking man in his early forties, but he reminded Skye of the Munchkin cat she had seen earlier. Sitting or lying down, the breed appeared average, but once the animal stood up, its extremely short legs were evident.\n\n\"I see you're finished for the day,\" Skye said, gesturing to the gear that was already packed up in various containers. \"But if you have a minute, could you answer a couple of questions for me?\"\n\n\"Sure.\" He smiled pleasantly at her as she hovered at the entrance. \"I'm Kyle O'Brien.\"\n\n\"Skye Denison.\" She shook his hand. \"I'm working the event, not here as a contestant, but I'd love to have a picture taken of my cat. Would it be possible for me to bring him in before the show officially starts tomorrow?\"\n\n\"Of course.\" Kyle slipped a camera into its case. \"The Best of the Best judging is at ten. I could meet you at eight and do three or four setups.\"\n\n\"That would be great. I don't want anything overly elaborate. Just a nice photo for my wall.\" Skye hesitated, then said, \"Bingo isn't a trained show cat, so he might be hard to manage.\"\n\n\"No problem.\" Kyle grinned. \"They call me the cat whisperer.\"\n\n\"This is so bogus,\" Justin complained as he returned to the grill for another tray of plates. \"Frannie was in charge of the food. My area was accounting and judging, and I didn't ask her to help me with any of that.\"\n\n\"The two servers Frannie hired never showed up,\" Skye explained. \"So she drafted us.\"\n\nBut empathy had never been Justin's strong suit, and he muttered something about America having an all-volunteer army, then headed back to the bar to serve the remaining eight diners. One of whom was Bunny, who had elected to eat with her guests.\n\nJustin's attitude made Skye sigh as she took a seat at the counter. Her feet were killing her. As soon as she finished eating and helped Frannie clean up, she was heading home. Her cell phone charge had run out without her noticing, and Wally was probably wondering where the heck she was.\n\nJustin returned, still grumbling, and Frannie led him away for a little girlfriend-to-boyfriend chat. Skye watched the couple as she ate her dinner. The spaghetti was surprisingly tasty and the salad had a nice light dressing, but she thought the garlic bread was probably a mistake\u2014considering that the next event was speed dating.\n\nAfter Skye finished eating and Frannie returned from her talk, the two women started to wash the dirty dishes that Justin had begun bringing into the kitchen from the bar.\n\nAs they worked Skye commented, \"There seemed to be a lot of unique people at the cat show.\"\n\n\"I guess unique is one way of putting it.\" Frannie giggled. \"I'd go with weird.\"\n\n\"Especially Elijah Jacobsen.\" Skye shook her head. \"He seems to be the oddest of all.\"\n\n\"At least he has an excuse.\" Frannie's expression turned sober. \"He was in a terrible auto accident twenty years ago and suffered a really bad head injury.\"\n\n\"How awful.\"\n\n\"It resulted in his fianc\u00e9e's death and ended his career as a surgeon.\"\n\n\"That's awful.\" Skye's voice caught. \"A traumatic brain injury can cause so much damage to cognitive functioning.\"\n\n\"Yeah. It really messed him up.\" Frannie handed Skye the last wet plate. \"He said he has a lot of trouble with memory and concentration, and it's hard for him to make decisions.\"\n\n\"The poor man. It sounds as if he really has a lot to deal with.\" Skye wiped the dish dry and slid it onto the towering stack on the shelf, then folded the towel and said, \"That's it, and I'm heading home.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Ms. D.\" Frannie sounded tired and her shoulders slumped. \"You sure you don't want to stick around for the bowler disco party?\"\n\n\"I'm positive.\" Skye felt her head start to throb at the idea of the loud music and flashing lights. \"The servers Bunny has lined up for that event are coming, right?\" Both Justin and Frannie were too young to serve alcohol, and there was no way Skye was moonlighting as a cocktail waitress. She didn't have the figure or the tolerance for drunks that the job required.\n\n\"Yep.\" Frannie pushed a strand of hair off her cheek. \"The weekend lounge workers are covering both the speed dating and the party.\"\n\n\"Are you staying?\" Skye asked, wondering what Xavier thought about his daughter's business venture. He had been a single parent for a long time, and she guessed that he would have a hard time accepting the young woman's growing independence.\n\n\"Nah.\" Frannie shook her head. \"I hate disco and Justin's off pouting somewhere.\" She frowned. \"It wouldn't be any fun without him.\"\n\n\"Why's he in such a bad mood tonight?\" Skye asked, giving in to her curiosity\u2014her noninterference policy was driving her crazy. \"He seemed just fine this afternoon.\"\n\n\"Ms. Hightower yelled at him,\" Frannie explained. \"She wanted to see the scores so far, but the judges aren't allowed to know how the cats did in the other rounds.\" Frannie pursed her lips, indicating her disapproval of Alexis's attempt to break the rules. \"When Justin said no, she tried to flirt with him, and when that didn't work, she called him incompetent.\"\n\n\"Ouch!\" Skye winced. Justin prided himself on his intelligence and his computer ability. Alexis's words would have really wounded his ego.\n\n\"Yep. Major ouch.\"\n\n\"Hey.\" The discussion about Alexis reminded Skye of a question she'd been meaning to ask all day. \"What kind of qualifications does someone need to be a cat show judge? Is there a class you have to take?\"\n\n\"We looked it up online and found out that to become a legitimate judge a person needs to have been a successful breeder whose cats have won ribbons at several shows,\" Frannie explained.\n\n\"Is that all?\"\n\n\"No.\" Frannie scrunched her face in deep thought. \"If I remember right, they also have to be on committees, work as entry clerks, and serve as show managers. Then they have to be trainees, pass tests, and apprentice with certified teachers.\"\n\n\"That sounds like a lot of effort.\" Skye bit her lip. \"Since Alexis doesn't seem as enamored of cats as everyone else here, I wonder why she went to so much trouble.\"\n\n\"Maybe it's the only place she can be the boss. I remember her saying she supports herself working temp jobs.\"\n\n\"Ah, that might explain it.\"\n\n\"Yeah. She said her last one was as some city official's assistant, and he was a real control freak. He had a special phone she wasn't allowed to touch, but he didn't tell her that it was off limits until she'd already answered it. He expected her to read his mind about her duties and was always yelling at her.\"\n\n\"Sounds like one of my bosses.\"\n\nFrannie giggled, then dried her hands and walked toward the bar door. \"You want to take a peek at the speed daters?\"\n\n\"Just for a minute.\" Skye had only a vague idea of how the event worked.\n\nWhen she joined Frannie in peering through the frosted-glass window, the young woman said, \"See the men at all the little round tables?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Skye noted that there were twenty guys ranging in age from forty to seventy seated facing the stage. One of them was Elijah, who had added a black velvet fedora to his outfit. Beneath its brim, gray-blond dreadlocks poked out in all directions.\n\nKyle O'Brien sat one table over from the ex-doctor. The photographer was dressed in nicely pressed khakis and a designer Kelly green polo shirt. Since he was long-waisted, his unusually short stature wasn't noticeable when he was seated.\n\n\"See the women standing by the other door?\" Frannie pointed to the left.\n\n\"Uh-huh.\" Skye recognized Fawn, Alexis, and Lola among the group.\n\n\"At eight o'clock, the women will join the guys.\" Frannie indicated the huge timer on the stage. \"After ten minutes the deejay sounds the gong and the women get up and move to the next table.\"\n\n\"Geesh!\" Skye was astounded. \"Ten minutes to decide if you like someone?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Frannie nodded. \"At the end of the event, each person ranks the men or women they've met from one to fifteen, with one being the guy or gal they would most like to have a real date with.\"\n\n\"Putting couples together using that method sounds complicated.\"\n\n\"Justin designed some computer program to match up the couples,\" Frannie explained. \"Which reminds me, he better remember he has to be in the bar at nine thirty to run the thing.\"\n\n\"Do the matchees attend the bowler disco party together?\"\n\n\"Yep.\" Frannie nodded. \"The only other people allowed in are the vendors and the judges.\" Frannie winked. \"Miss Bunny even hired a bouncer for the front door to keep out the local riffraff and any gate-crashers. She wanted the party to be exclusive.\"\n\nSkye rolled her eyes. Simon would have a fit when he found out his mother was excluding the regulars. Scumble Riverites didn't forget slights like that, and there would be hell to pay for Bunny's snubbing them.\n\n# **CHAPTER 5**\n\n# Curiosity Killed the Cat\n\nAlthough Skye was tired, she found herself lingering until the conclusion of the speed-dating event. She was curious to see who would end up with whom. Frannie had to stick around as well. Justin was her ride home, and the computer wizard couldn't work his magic and come up with the final couples until the very end.\n\nEveryone watched intently as Justin keyed the numbers from the rating sheets into his laptop. Bunny stood by his side keeping up a constant patter to entertain the audience while he worked. She had changed from her fairly modest daytime attire into a short black dress with a bodice made of buckles, straps, and grommets that looked a little like a sexy version of a straitjacket, minus the overlong restraining sleeves.\n\nA few minutes later, the small printer attached to the computer spit out a single sheet of paper. Justin looked up from the monitor and announced in a dramatic voice, \"The results are in.\"\n\nBunny snatched the page from the tray, squinted, then hissed at Justin, \"I told you to make the font bigger.\"\n\n\"For crying out loud, it's Arial sixteen,\" Justin protested. \"If you can't see that, you need to go to the eye doctor.\"\n\nBunny's scarlet fingernails pressed into Justin's shoulder, but she addressed the spectators. \"Everyone ready to find out their dream dates?\"\n\nSkye surveyed the crowd as they roared their consent to Bunny's question. Most of their faces, including Kyle's and Fawn's, held a mixture of anticipation, trepidation, and hopefulness, but a few of the participants' expressions were harder to gauge. Both Alexis and Lola were impassive, and Elijah stared at his cell phone with his brows drawn together and his eyes unfocused.\n\nBunny strutted over to the stage like the dancer she had once been, then ran up the three steps. Considering that the fifty-seven-year-old was wearing thigh-high black boots with four-inch spike heels, her swift ascent was nothing short of astounding. As were the red ribbons crisscrossing up the boots' calves that fluttered saucily in the breeze.\n\nDJ Wonka banged the gong, and once Bunny was sure she had everyone's attention, she pulled a pair of rhinestone-encrusted glasses from her cleavage and started calling out names. As she slowly read from her list, pausing dramatically after each pair, there were screeches of excitement, groans of disappointment, and meaningful glances between the men and women.\n\nOf the participants Skye could identify, Kyle was partnered with a cute little blonde, Lola got a dashing man who needed only a sword and eye patch to be a dead ringer for Hollywood's version of a pirate, and Fawn and Elijah were put together\u2014which actually made sense in a weird sort of way. The most astonishing combination was Alexis and a short, mousy guy wearing a cheap navy suit, thick glasses, and a really bad hairpiece. How had that happened?\n\nSkye was surprised that Bunny hadn't participated in the activity, since the whole shebang had started as a way for her to find a date. But as Skye turned to leave, she noticed the redhead slide into a chair next to a vaguely familiar, handsome man in his sixties. He kissed her cheek and tipped his head to whisper in her ear. Bunny giggled; then they both stood and slipped quietly out of the bar.\n\nEvidently the wily redhead had saved the best guy for herself. It reminded Skye of her mother's practice of setting aside the piece of chocolate she wanted before offering the box to everyone else. But at least Bunny hadn't poked holes in the other men to see what they were made of before making her selection, which is what May did with the candy.\n\nThere was a message from Wally on Skye's answering machine when she got home. Although it was close to ten thirty, she immediately called him back, and it was clear from his voice that he had been asleep.\n\n\"I'm so sorry I woke you up,\" Skye said. \"We can talk in the morning.\"\n\n\"No, I just went to bed a few minutes ago.\" Wally cleared his throat. \"I'm fine. Where have you been and why didn't you answer your cell?\"\n\n\"I forgot to charge the battery,\" Skye explained, then went on to describe her day, ending with, \"See, I can be spontaneous.\"\n\n\"I never said you couldn't.\" Wally's smooth baritone held a hint of amusement, but sobered when he asked, \"How badly did Bunny injure you?\"\n\n\"I have three scratches on my cheek\"\u2014Skye fingered the bandages as she spoke\u2014\"but at least I didn't get the shiner Elijah predicted.\"\n\n\"Elijah being the big guy who started out as a raving lunatic and then claimed to be a physician?\" Wally's tone was incredulous.\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"I think you should go to a real doctor.\" Wally's voice was implacable.\n\n\"Why? I'm fine. Unless...\"\u2014Skye teased him, drawing out the word\u2014\"you're afraid you might be marrying a scarred woman?\"\n\n\"You know it's not your outer beauty I care about.\" Wally's voice was sincere. \"I just want to make sure your cuts don't get infected.\"\n\n\"That's sweet of you.\" Skye understood Wally's concern, but he needed to understand that she had been taking care of herself for a long time without his help. \"I'm perfectly okay. The scrapes are already healing.\"\n\n\"I still think you should check with a doctor who graduated from a medical school located somewhere other than in his imagination,\" Wally persisted. \"This guy sounds messed up to me.\"\n\n\"His name is Elijah, and he cleaned the scratches and told me to apply Neosporin twice a day for the next seventy-two hours,\" Skye assured Wally. \"He said as long as I'd had a recent tetanus shot, I'm good, but if the edges of the wound turn red, I need to have it looked at.\"\n\n\"Someone should report him for practicing medicine without a license,\" Wally muttered. \"Maybe I'll look into that when I get back.\"\n\n_Shoot!_ Skye sat straight up in bed and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was quarter to seven. She had forgotten today was Sunday. How was she going to get Bingo's picture taken, work the cat show, and still attend church?\n\nClosing her eyes, she tried to remember the new worship schedule. Out of the blue, Father Burns had altered it a couple of months ago, and she was still getting used to the change. Services were now at six, nine, and twelve. The first one was nearly over, and there was no way she could make the second, but noon was a possibility.\n\nThe cat show officially ended at two p.m., after the final round of judging and the awards brunch, so she would have to leave at quarter to twelve, then come back and help with the meal and the cleanup. Bunny wouldn't be happy, and Skye hated to break her promise to work the entire event, but she wasn't missing Mass.\n\nSpeaking of missing, where was Bingo? He wasn't in his usual spot\u2014perched on the pillow next to her head. She scanned the room, a little worried that he had read her mind and was hiding because he didn't want to be photographed. But a few seconds later she spotted him sitting in the doorway looking down the hall, his tail flicking impatiently back and forth. Undoubtedly, since it was past his breakfast time, he was waiting for her to get her butt up and feed him.\n\nShe swung her legs to the floor and stood. \"We're in a hurry this morning.\" Stepping around him on her way to the shower, she added, \"You'll have to wait for your food until I'm dressed.\"\n\nAfter putting on black jeans, a gray sweater set, and black loafers\u2014a compromise between appropriate work and church attire\u2014Skye ran down the stairs with Bingo following so closely he nearly tripped her in his eagerness to get to the kitchen and his food bowl.\n\nSkye popped open a can of Fancy Feast and scooped a third of it into his dish. While Bingo ate, Skye had a quick cup of tea and an English muffin hot from the toaster. She usually tried to eat a healthier breakfast, but she was in a hurry. At least that was her excuse as she smeared the muffin with butter and marmalade.\n\nAs Bingo occupied himself in his litter box, she darted into the sunroom, snatched his Pet Taxi, and hid it behind the table. As soon as the cat strolled back into the kitchen to see if perhaps more gushie food had appeared in his bowl while he was gone, Skye scooped him up and stuffed him into the canvas carrier.\n\nHe meowed sharply, then huddled on the bottom, chirping furiously.\n\nSkye talked softly to him as she carried him to the car. \"I'm sorry, Bingo.\" She settled him on the passenger seat. \"I know you hate to leave the house and I promise you're not going to the vet.\" Sliding in behind the wheel, she cajoled, \"I want a professional photo of you to show everyone what a pretty boy you are.\"\n\nHe hissed and turned so that his rear end was facing her. She patted him through the stiff fabric, then headed into town. Bingo was still muttering when they arrived at the bowling alley, and Skye wondered if this was a wasted trip. Could Kyle get the cat's cooperation long enough to take a decent photograph?\n\nWhen Skye approached the entrance, she noticed that the interior was dark. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was a couple of minutes to eight. \"Crap!\" she said to the cat's hindquarters. \"I forgot that the show's hours are nine to two today.\"\n\nBingo was silent.\n\n\"When I made the appointment for your picture, it didn't even cross my mind that the building might not be open at eight.\" Skye tipped her head. \"Do you think Kyle forgot about that, too?\"\n\nBingo's tail twitched.\n\n\"I can't see past the entryway, so maybe the lights are on in the other parts of the bowling alley.\" Skye continued to address the cat's rear end. \"Kyle's probably in his booth waiting for us.\"\n\nBingo licked a paw.\n\n\"I hate being late for an appointment.\" Frustrated, she slapped the door, and to her surprise, it swung open. \"See, Bingo.\" She pumped her fist in the air. \"I told you Kyle didn't forget about us.\"\n\nSkye edged carefully past the benches and lockers. Although the lights were on in the vendor area, no one was around. She poked her head into the photography cubicle, but it, too, was empty.\n\nBingo was getting heavy. Skye didn't want to leave him alone, so she cradled his crate in her arms and asked, \"What should we do, boy?\"\n\nHe had finally turned around and was staring at her with luminous green eyes.\n\n\"If Kyle was here, his equipment would be set up, or at least his cases would be in his space. And where's Bunny? If the alley's open, she should be here.\" Skye cocked her head, listening. \"Maybe she ran upstairs to her apartment for something.\"\n\nBingo yawned.\n\n\"We'll wait ten minutes for Kyle.\" Skye looked around the vendor space for a seat. \"If he doesn't show up by then, I'll take you home.\"\n\nJust as Skye located a folding chair, Bingo let out a howl and a horrible odor filled the air. She looked down and saw something brown oozing from the mesh at the back of the cat carrier. Bingo had expressed his opinion about the whole situation.\n\n\"Bad kitty!\" Skye scolded. \"Bad, bad kitty.\" Holding the crate as far from her as possible, she tried to figure out what to do.\n\nBefore Skye could formulate a plan, Bunny materialized in front of her, squealing and holding her nose. \"What is that god-awful stench?\" The redhead's clingy black tank top boasted a rhinestone black widow spider with a faux ruby hourglass shape on its back.\n\n\"Bingo had an accident.\" Skye felt her face flame at her pet's faux pas.\n\n\"So I see.\" Bunny stepped daintily over a slime trail of poo.\n\n\"Uh!\" Skye tried not to inhale. \"Is there somewhere I can clean him up?\"\n\n\"There's a sink and a pile of rags in the basement utility closet.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Skye tried to take a step.\n\n\"Wait.\" Bunny grabbed Skye's arm. \"I'll get something you can use to stop the seepage.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\nBunny tottered away, her black patent leather ankle boots tapping merrily as she dashed into the bar. A second later she returned with a stack of paper napkins and thrust them at Skye.\n\nUsing the wad as a kind of diaper for the carrier, Skye made her way to the basement door, descended the stairs, then stopped and looked around. Okay, where was the utility closet? Two rooms to her right and a large one to her left were bisected by a narrow hallway. The closet had to be at the back.\n\nSkye walked down the short, faintly lit passage. Squinting, she was relieved when she spotted a door at the end marked PRIVATE. Thankful that the brown waterfall had ceased to trickle from the rear of the Pet Taxi, she balanced the carrier in one arm and turned the knob.\n\nThe basement's lack of windows made it seem like midnight even on the sunniest days, and Skye had been glad that the area around the stairs was lit by low-wattage fixtures that always remained on. But it had grown dimmer and dimmer as she made her way down the corridor, and in the closet there was no illumination.\n\nShe felt along the walls on either side of the doorway for the light switch, but couldn't find any. _Hmm._ It had to be here somewhere. Maybe there was a string hanging from a bulb in the center of the room.\n\nShe shuffled toward where she thought the cord might be and waved her hand around the space in front of her. Finally, her fingers closed around a chain. She gave it a hard tug and the closet lit up.\n\nAs she turned, her foot nudged something soft. She looked down and jumped backward. Alexis Hightower was lying spread-eagled on the tile floor. A thin braided wire was wound tightly around her neck. The metal cord was connected to a glittery wand, which stuck up next to her ear like a video game joystick. A toy mouse attached to the wire was stuffed into her mouth.\n\n# **CHAPTER 6**\n\n# When a Black Cat Crosses Your Path\n\nSkye swallowed the scream that was threatening to burst from her throat. There was no doubt that Alexis was dead. The only question in Skye's mind was whether the murderer was still in the building.\n\nAfter making sure that the hall was empty, she took a firm grip on Bingo's carrier and sprinted for the stairs. Once she reached the main floor, she rounded up Bunny and enlightened her about the situation as she propelled the three of them into the redhead's office and locked the door.\n\nAs Skye grabbed the phone and dialed 911, she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that it was Sunday. At least she wouldn't have to deal with her mother, who was a police dispatcher. Thank goodness May worked the Monday-through-Friday second shift.\n\nWhen Skye finished explaining the murder to the weekend dispatcher, she, along with Bunny and a vocally unhappy Bingo, sat in the office and watched the second hand on the wall clock inch around its oversize round face. The women didn't speak, and neither could translate the black cat's yowls. Although \"Get me the hell out of this stinky carrier\" would have been Skye's first guess.\n\nFinally, Bunny jumped up, yanked open a file cabinet drawer and took out a bottle of Jos\u00e9 Cuervo and a shot glass. She unscrewed the cap, poured, and pounded down the tequila. She repeated the process, then offered the glass to Skye. \"For most things,\" she said, \"there's MasterCard, but for a situation like this, there's nothing like booze.\"\n\nAlthough tempted, Skye refused the shooter, and another very long five minutes ticked by before they heard sirens, running feet, and authoritative voices shouting \"Clear\" over and over again.\n\nSkye knew that they should remain in their present location until an officer informed them it was safe to come out. Bunny, on the other hand, wanted to see what was happening, and Skye was still clutching the redhead's arm, trying to stop her from leaving, when there was a knock on the door.\n\n\"The area has been cleared.\" Skye recognized the voice as belonging to Sergeant Roy Quirk, Wally's second in command. \"There's no one here.\"\n\nIn order to release the lock, Skye had to let go of Bunny. She hid a grin when the redhead threw herself into the sergeant's arms as soon as he stepped into the room. Quirk was in his mid-thirties, young enough to be Bunny's son, but he was male, which qualified him for the redhead's full flirtation routine.\n\nQuirk's face turned brick red as he peeled Bunny off his chest. He sat her down and asked, \"Everyone okay in here?\"\n\n\"No.\" Bunny popped out of her chair and pointed to Bingo. \"The stink is closing up my sinuses. Can Skye wash him up in one of the bathrooms?\"\n\n\"Nothing in the alley can be touched until after the techs from Laurel process the scene.\" There was an unbending resolve in Quirk's voice.\n\n\"But that's a good forty-five miles from here. It'll take them forever,\" Bunny complained.\n\n\"Yep.\" Quirk folded his arms across his muscular chest. With his beefy build and shaved head, all he needed was a bunch of gold chains, a Mohawk, and a really good tan to be a stunt double for Mr. T. \"If forever is an hour.\"\n\n\"Sorry.\" Skye apologized for Bingo's dishabille. \"Can I take him home? I could be back in fifteen or twenty minutes at the most.\"\n\n\"Well...\" Quirk's tone was suddenly uncertain. \"I really do need to get your information right away.\"\n\n\"Sure. I understand.\" Skye felt sorry for the sergeant. Not only was she his boss's fianc\u00e9e, she was also the police department's psychological consultant. For an ex-military man like Quirk, it was disturbing when he couldn't figure out who outranked whom.\n\n\"Well, _I_ don't understand.\" Bunny wrinkled her nose and fanned her hand in front of her face. \"I'll never get the smell of cat poop out of these clothes if you don't let me out of here right this minute.\"\n\n\"Sit down, ma'am.\" Quirk ignored the older woman's grumbles. \"There would have been a much worse odor if Skye hadn't found the victim.\"\n\nIt took a second before Bunny's expression darkened in comprehension. Swallowing back whatever protest she had been about to utter, she paled and sank into the chair behind the desk. For once, she didn't have a smart-alecky retort or an innuendo-laden comment.\n\nWith Bunny subdued, Quirk perched on the desktop and indicated that Skye should take the visitor's seat. He flipped open his notebook, clicked his pen, and asked, \"Ready?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nSkye started to describe her actions, but when she got to the part about entering the bowling alley, Quirk interrupted to ask Bunny, \"What time did you open the front entrance this morning?\"\n\n\"I didn't. I only finished dressing a few minutes before I ran into Skye.\" She batted her false lashes at the sergeant. \"I never leave my apartment without my war paint and full battle dress.\"\n\n\"So you forgot to lock the door last night?\" Quirk's face was disapproving. \"You know that's a very dangerous thing to overlook. Scumble River may be a small town, but as Ms. Denison can attest, having found more than her share of murder victims, it's certainly not crime free.\"\n\n\"State the obvious much?\" Bunny arched a brow. \"And I didn't forget.\" She fluffed her curls. \"The bowler disco party ended at midnight and the cleaning crew worked until two. Once they were finished, I paid them, escorted them out, and locked up behind them.\"\n\nQuirk turned to Skye. \"But the door was open when you got here?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And the photographer\u2014\" Quirk consulted his notes. \"Kyle O'Brien wasn't here.\"\n\n\"Correct.\"\n\nQuirk wrote something down, then asked Bunny, \"Who has keys to the bowling alley?\"\n\n\"Sonny Boy.\"\n\n\"And that is?\"\n\n\"Her son, Simon Reid, the owner,\" Skye translated, then added, \"I believe he's spending the weekend in Saint Louis. Right, Bunny?\"\n\n\"Yep.\" The redhead nodded. \"He's not due back until late this afternoon.\"\n\n\"I know.\" Quirk's mouth tightened. \"Since Reid's the coroner, I had to call the medical examiner to come, and he was none too happy to have his Sunday disturbed.\"\n\nBecause there were so few murders in Stanley County\u2014usually only two or three a year\u2014the ME was a part-timer. Since there was no rush for accident victims' autopsies, he wasn't used to having his weekend interrupted.\n\n\"Oh.\" Bunny grimaced. \"Right. I forgot about Sonny Boy being the coroner.\"\n\n\"Anyone else have a key?\" Quirk asked. \"The bartender, one of the waitresses, the cleaning crew, maybe a gentleman friend or two?\"\n\n\"Nope.\" Bunny patted her considerable cleavage. \"And I keep mine right here.\"\n\n\"So only two keys and unless Reid lost his\u2014\"\n\n\"Sonny Boy never ever loses anything,\" Bunny declared.\n\n\"Then we'll assume both keys are accounted for.\" Quirk pursed his lips in thought. \"Do you need one to unlock the door from the inside?\"\n\n\"No. The dead bolt has a thumb turn.\" Bunny's heavily made-up eyes widened in alarm. \"Are you saying the murderer was here after everyone was gone last night? When I was alone?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Quirk shrugged. \"Depends on what the ME determines as the time of death.\"\n\n\"But,\" Skye said, \"isn't it more likely that someone killed Alexis during the party and left with the other guests?\" She frowned. \"Otherwise the murderer would have had to persuade her to hide from Bunny at closing. And why would she agree to do that?\"\n\n\"Motivation is your area of expertise. I prefer to deal with the facts,\" Quirk said, stone-faced.\n\n\"Are we done?\" Bunny whined, her brush with cold, harsh reality forgotten.\n\n\"No, we are not.\" Quirk turned his attention to the redhead. \"Enlighten me as to what this cat show, speed-dating thing is all about.\"\n\nBunny's explanation was surprisingly concise and businesslike, and when she finished, Quirk had only a couple of follow-up questions. Then he got to his feet, walked to the door, and said to Skye, \"Why don't you go get cleaned up and drop off the cat?\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"There's no rush, but when you get back, work with Mrs. Reid and the two kids helping her run this shindig to come up with a list of the people from yesterday's event who might have persuaded the vic to stay behind, and\/or who may have had a reason to want her dead.\" Quirk paused, then said to Bunny, \"And I need the names, addresses, and phone numbers of all the attendees.\"\n\nQuirk didn't have to tell Skye twice that she could leave. She practically ran out of Bunny's office, hopped in her car, and sped home. Once in the house, her first order of business was to give the ticked-off feline a bath. When he was clean\u2014and angrier than before\u2014she bribed him with cat treats to forgive her for all the indignities he'd been put though that morning.\n\nWhile Bingo was calming down, Skye threw the ruined Pet Taxi into the outside trash can, then put her clothes directly into the washing machine. By the time the laundry was ready to go in the dryer, she was showered and redressed, Bingo was asleep, and she had half an hour to make noon Mass.\n\nSkye lingered a few minutes after the service, but there was no buzz about the murder. Because gossip had interfered with several investigations in the past, Wally had issued a directive to use cell phones rather than the police radio to notify the officers when a serious crime was suspected.\n\nHappy that his orders had apparently been followed even though he wasn't in town, Skye left church and drove to the bowling alley. When she arrived at a little after one, the county techs had been and gone.\n\nAnthony, a part-time officer who worked the shifts no one else wanted, stood outside the glass doors. He tipped his hat and moved the yellow crime scene tape so Skye could enter.\n\n\"Anyone else still here?\" she asked.\n\n\"Just me and Zelda.\" Anthony jerked his thumb toward the interior.\n\nZelda Martinez was both the youngest and the most recent hire on the Scumble River police force, and thus she was usually assigned all the boring duties. She was also the only female.\n\n\"Anything new on the case?\" Skye asked Anthony before stepping over the threshold.\n\n\"Nah.\" He straightened his police hat. \"We took names, addresses, and phone numbers as the folks arrived, then told them they couldn't come inside.\"\n\n\"Any problem with that?\" Skye wondered how the contestants had taken the abrupt end of their weekend. \"Did any of them get mad?\"\n\n\"A couple started to demand their money back, but Miss Bunny held a speeded-up version of the final round in the parking lot. Good thing it warmed up some today and stopped raining.\" Anthony grinned. \"There sure were some odd-looking cats. One didn't have any fur at all.\"\n\n\"What did Bunny do about the awards ceremony?\" Skye asked, sure the clever redhead had come up with something. \"It was supposed to have been a brunch.\"\n\n\"Miss Bunny called some guys and they brought tables and set them up in her garage. Sarge let her take out the food that had been stored in the grill, and she and Frannie cooked it in her apartment kitchen. The servers brought the meal down Bunny's outside staircase to the garage.\"\n\nSkye wondered how they had navigated the rickety wooden steps.\n\nAs she walked inside, she said over her shoulder, \"I'm glad it all worked out.\"\n\nShe found Bunny, Frannie, and Justin seated in the lounge. Justin was entering data into his laptop and Frannie was counting money. Bunny had her feet up, a cold compress over her eyes, and she clutched a half-empty martini glass to her chest.\n\nAfter turning down Bunny's offer of a drink, Skye sat and pulled a yellow legal pad and pen from her tote bag. \"You all ready to discuss who Alexis might have stayed behind with and\/or who wanted her dead?\"\n\n\"I don't think anyone could have talked Alexis into having a tryst in the basement,\" Bunny said, smirking. \"She would have insisted on the Drake in Chicago, or at least the Hilton in Oak Brook. The only time she was hot for a man's company was when he owned it.\"\n\nFrannie snickered, nodding her agreement.\n\n\"Definitely.\" Justin sneered. \"That's why she liked the guy she got in speed dating. She ranked all the men by income, and he owns most of the businesses in Brooklyn.\"\n\n\"What's his name?\" Skye asked, unable to recall meeting him during the show. \"Maybe he persuaded Alexis it would be worth her while to take a walk on the wild side with him in the basement.\"\n\n\"Ivan Quigley,\" Bunny answered. \"But he stormed out of here before the party really got started.\"\n\n\"Did Alexis go with him?\" Skye asked. Maybe the beautiful judge had been killed elsewhere and then planted in the basement.\n\n\"Nope.\" Bunny drained her martini glass. \"And Alexis was ticked off because her date deserted her. She started hitting on other men.\"\n\n\"Anyone hit back?\" Skye knew an angry woman was often an easy target.\n\n\"Uh-uh.\" Bunny shook her head. \"Everyone was already paired up.\"\n\n\"Were the women whose dates she was flirting with upset?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"Not exactly angry, since the guys didn't respond, just...\" Bunny thought for a minute. \"Just mildly annoyed.\"\n\n\"Is that how you felt?\"\n\n\"I wasn't with anyone, so her behavior didn't bother me one way or the other.\"\n\n\"You weren't?\" Skye tilted her head. \"How about the man you left the bar with after the speed-dating event?\"\n\n\"He wasn't my date.\" Bunny stared at Skye without blinking. \"Just some guy asking me to show him where the bathrooms were at.\"\n\n\"But...\" Skye trailed off. She didn't believe the older woman's explanation, but she'd wait until she and Bunny were alone to finesse the truth out of her.\n\nThe four of them talked a little more about whom Alexis had upset during the cat show, and as Skye wrote down the last name, she said to Bunny, \"By the way, I've been meaning to ask you\u2014don't you usually have bowling leagues here on both Saturday and Sunday?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"Did you cancel them?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"Weren't the bowlers annoyed?\"\n\n\"A few were.\" Bunny shrugged. \"It wasn't a big deal. I told them we'd make it up at the end of the season.\"\n\n\"Won't Simon be mad when he hears?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" A male voice behind her made Skye whip her head around. \"He will, and he is.\"\n\n\"Sonny Boy!\" Bunny let out a shriek. \"Uh, I wasn't expecting you until later tonight.\" She jumped to her feet and backed away from him. \"How was your weekend with your new friend?\"\n\nSkye blinked. Was Simon's new friend a woman? Her stomach clenched, but she made herself relax. Simon having a girlfriend would be a good thing, right? She wanted him to find someone to love, didn't she?\n\n\"You must be tired from the long drive.\" Bunny turned toward the bar. \"Let me get you a glass of wine.\"\n\n\"Mother.\" Simon's tone was firm. \"It's only three in the afternoon. I don't want a drink. I want to know what the hell is going on around here.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 7**\n\n# Let the Cat Out of the Bag\n\nNot wanting to be present while Bunny attempted to explain the weekend events to her son, Skye jumped to her feet. She glanced at Frannie and Justin, noted their fascinated expressions, and grabbed each of them by the hand. As she hustled the reluctant pair toward the bowling alley door, she enticed them with promises of coffee drinks and yummy pastries at Tales and Treats.\n\nThe combination bookstore and caf\u00e9 had opened last fall to mixed reviews. While many Scumble Riverites were happy to see a new business in town, an equal number resented the change that the shop represented. After protest marches, petitions, and a tragic murder, now, six months later, the controversy had finally died down. And when Skye walked into the store a few minutes later, it was bustling with customers carrying stacks of paperbacks.\n\nRis\u00e9 Vaughn, one of the co-owners, stood at the front counter talking to a customer and gesturing to the cage that held the store's pet chinchillas. Skye waved as she made her way through the main room, which contained the register, gift items associated with reading and writing, and a massive glass-front oak cupboard holding rare and first editions.\n\nRadiating from the central hub was the caf\u00e9 and four areas decorated according the genre displayed\u2014mystery, romance, science fiction\/fantasy\/horror, and literature. Skye was tempted to make a quick stop in the mystery section. She'd heard about a new series set in a small-town dime store, and wanted to grab a copy of the first book before the store sold out. But after a moment's hesitation, she decided she'd better grab a table instead. Because of the wonderful baked goods, the caf\u00e9 was often standing room only.\n\nHowever, when Skye entered the coffee bar, she saw only a few people lingering over their cups, idly turning the pages of magazines or working on their laptops. She'd forgotten it was Sunday. Tales and Treats would be closing in less than half an hour and the pastry selection looked nearly as barren as a plate of goodies in the teachers' lounge five minutes after the lunch bell rang.\n\nAfter selecting a seat in the rear corner where their conversation wouldn't be overheard, Skye gazed at the one remaining red velvet cupcake in the display case. She was thinking about nabbing it before someone else bought it when Frannie and Justin burst through the door, their voices raised in an argument.\n\nFrannie stalked over to Skye, pulled out a chair, and plopped down, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Justin slouched into the remaining seat, crossed his arms, and stared over his girlfriend's head at the empty wall behind her.\n\nSkye looked back and forth between them. She decided to let them stew for a while. So, instead of asking what was wrong, she said, \"What do you two want to drink and eat? There's not much left.\"\n\n\"Iced chai tea latte,\" Frannie answered. \"And if there's a cinnamon chip scone, I'll have that, please.\"\n\n\"Double shot espresso and the red velvet cupcake.\" Justin didn't waste any words.\n\n\"Okay.\" Skye hid her disappointment. She'd have to settle for the shortbread cookies and a caffe mocha. \"I'll be right back.\"\n\nSkye chatted with Orlando Erwin, Ris\u00e9's husband and Tale and Treats' other co-owner, as he prepared their orders. He was the resident baker as well as the rare book scout for the store, and he told her all about a first-edition Sherlock Holmes title he had recently found at a storage facility auction he'd attended in Moline.\n\nFrannie and Justin were still pointedly ignoring each other when Skye set the loaded tray on the table. Since there was no way to overlook their pique, she admitted defeat and asked, \"What's up with you two?\"\n\n\"He's being a jerk.\" Frannie grabbed her glass and took a gulp.\n\n\"And she's being ridiculous.\" Justin shook his head mockingly. \"Just think, if it weren't for girlfriends, guys could go through their whole lives without ever knowing their faults.\"\n\n\"Glad to be of service, because in that case you'd be even lamer than you already are.\" Frannie narrowed her eyes. \"Now, admit that I'm right and you shouldn't have done it.\"\n\n\"I could do that.\" Justin smirked. \"But then we'd both be wrong.\"\n\n\"What did you do?\" Skye interrupted\u2014in part to stop the couple's bickering, but mostly because the suspense was killing her.\n\n\"I finessed the numbers a little.\" Justin cradled the tiny espresso cup in his big hands and gazed into the dark liquid. \"It's no big deal.\"\n\n\"What numbers?\" Before taking her first sip, Skye blew across the top of her mug. She'd burned her tongue once too often by not being cautious. Orlando was famous for his scorching-hot coffee drinks.\n\n\"The speed-dating results.\" Frannie popped a piece of scone into her mouth.\n\n\"Why?\" Skye eyed the three cookies in front of her before making a selection. She liked to save the one with the most sprinkles for last.\n\nJustin took a huge bite of his cupcake, then mumbled around the mouthful, \"'Cause Ms. Hightower wanted to end up with Mr. Quigley.\"\n\n\"But I thought you were upset about your earlier run-in with Alexis, when she wanted to see the cats' scores before she was supposed to.\" Skye wrinkled her brow. \"Why would you do her a favor after that?\"\n\n\"He didn't. She bribed him.\" Frannie glared. \"Ms. Hightower paid Justin fifty bucks to make sure she got the guy she wanted.\"\n\n\"Ah, I see. Greed overcame your wounded ego.\" Skye savored a nibble of her cookie, then asked, \"So which woman was supposed to end up with Ivan Quigley?\"\n\n\"Ms. Irving.\" Justin stuffed the rest of his cupcake in his mouth.\n\n\"Well.\" Skye gave herself time to formulate the right response by taking a swallow of her caffe mocha and blotting her lips with a napkin. \"What Justin did was unethical.\" She raised a brow at him. \"You do realize it was wrong to take a bribe and manipulate the outcome. People paid you to be honest. They trusted you.\"\n\n\"Hey, it is what it is.\" Justin shrugged, apparently unimpressed with Skye's admonishment.\n\n\"Maybe,\" Skye countered. \"But _it_ becomes what your choices make it.\"\n\n\"No harm, no foul.\" Justin twitched his shoulders again. \"It all worked out fine. I made some money, Ms. Hightower got what she wanted, and Mr. Quigley got a much hotter chick. A happy ending for us all.\"\n\n\"Except that's not true.\" Frannie swatted her boyfriend's arm. \"As I explained to you in the car, someone ended up getting hurt.\"\n\n\"Alexis?\" Skye squeaked. She sure hoped that Justin's actions hadn't set off a sequence of events that resulted in the woman's murder.\n\n\"Not her.\" Frannie shook her head. \"Ms. Irving and Mr. Quigley.\"\n\n\"Because they might have actually made a love match?\" Skye asked, and when Frannie nodded, she continued, \"I understand what you mean. However, it's extremely doubtful that a ten-minute speed date could actually predict a romantic connection or end up in a true relationship.\"\n\n\"But I overheard Ms. Irving talking to Mr. Quigley last night at the bowler disco party,\" Frannie protested. \"And she was real upset. She was crying and asking him why he hadn't put her as his first choice after promising her he would. She nearly fainted.\"\n\n\"What did he say?\" Skye glanced at Justin, but his expression was unreadable.\n\nFrannie answered, \"Mr. Quigley said he had put her name down in his number-one position, and he wanted to know why Miss Irving hadn't put him as her first choice.\" Frannie shredded her paper napkin. \"It was so sad. Neither believed the other and they both walked away mad.\"\n\n\"Did you know then that Justin had altered the results?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"No.\" Frannie bit her lip. \"I was telling him about Mr. Quigley and Ms. Irving on the way here and that's when he told me.\"\n\n\"I'm not psychic.\" Justin refused to meet either Skye's or Frannie's gaze. \"How was I supposed to know that something like that would happen? I never meant for anyone to get all jacked up.\"\n\n\"It's not your intentions that people judge you by.\" Skye barely kept the disappointment out of her voice. \"You may have a heart of gold, but so does a hard-boiled egg. And look how often an egg gets cracked.\"\n\nJustin stared at Skye as if she was speaking Elvish, and she swallowed a sigh. She knew it was no use chastising him. Justin was an immature nineteen-year-old, still more a boy than a man. He would learn over time that every action had a consequence. She just hoped he would also acquire the ability to empathize. It was a skill she'd been working on with him since he was in eighth grade. Apparently the training hadn't been a success.\n\nAlthough Skye managed to keep the conversation going while they all finished their snacks, she noticed that Frannie and Justin rarely spoke to each other. And when they did, their remarks were cutting.\n\nAt five to four, just before the caf\u00e9 closed, Frannie turned to Skye and said, \"Can you give me a ride home?\" She glowered at her boyfriend. \"I refuse to be in the same car as Justin until he admits he was wrong to change the speed-dating outcome.\"\n\n\"Whatever.\" Justin jumped to his feet and slammed out of the store, muttering uncomplimentary remarks about spoiled daddy's girls and Frannie not understanding what it was like to be poor.\n\nAfter a quick stop to buy the mystery book Skye wanted, she and Frannie left the shop. As they got into the Bel Air, Skye said, \"Don't forget to buckle up.\"\n\n\"We're only five minutes from my house.\" Frannie dug through her purse. \"Just go.\"\n\n\"Come on,\" Skye coaxed. \"Put it on. The seat belt makes it more difficult for the Martians to suck you out of the car,\" she teased.\n\nFrannie heaved a put-upon sigh, then complied with Skye's request, but she was silent on the way to her house, and leaped out of the Chevy as soon as it stopped. Shouting her thanks for the ride, she ran in the front door.\n\nSkye was backing out of Frannie's driveway when her cell phone rang, so she pulled over to the curb to answer it. So few people had her cell number, any call was usually an important one.\n\n\"Hey, sugar.\" Wally's warm voice greeted her. \"I hear you all had some excitement while I was gone. Are you and Bingo okay?\"\n\n\"We're fine.\" Skye knew that Quirk had been trying to reach Wally, but cell phones weren't allowed in the testing room. \"Although Mr. Cat was extremely upset with me over the indignities he had to suffer. At least until I gave him a few treats.\"\n\n\"Bingo has his priorities straight. His stomach always wins over his pride.\" Wally chuckled, then turned serious. \"Quirk tells me you and the three masterminds behind the weekend extravaganza were going to come up with the names of individuals who attended the bowler disco party and suspects. Are you finished with that?\"\n\n\"Sort of. We couldn't think of anyone who might have persuaded Alexis to meet them in the basement or stay behind after the party.\" Skye touched the pages sticking out of her tote bag. \"But I do have the list of people with motives right here. Do you want me to bring it to the PD?\" She assumed that was either where he already was or where he was headed.\n\n\"That would be best. I just crossed into the city limits\u2014\" Wally's voice cut out; cell phone reception in Scumble River was unreliable at best. Finally, she heard him say, \"\u2014in five minutes.\"\n\nFrannie lived only a couple of streets over from the police station, so Skye arrived before Wally did. The redbrick building housing the PD, the city hall, and the library took up the entire corner of Maryland and Kinsman. Usually on a late Sunday afternoon the parking lot would be nearly empty, but because of the murder, several vehicles were huddled together. Skye parked her Bel Air between a rusted-out pickup truck and a bright blue Prius, then went inside.\n\nThrough the bulletproof glass, she could see Zelda Martinez sitting at the dispatcher's desk drumming her fingers on her thigh and frowning. When she spotted Skye, her expression brightened and she jumped to her feet. Holding her index finger to her lips, Zelda motioned Skye to the locked entry separating the waiting area from the rest of the station.\n\nShe disappeared for a second, then opened the door for Skye, and as Skye stepped over the threshold Zelda said, \"Can I speak to you in private?\"\n\n\"Of course.\" Skye wondered what the young woman wanted. \"Where?\"\n\nZelda gestured for Skye to follow her down the narrow hallway that went past the interrogation\/coffee room. As always, the female officer's dark brown hair was drawn tightly back and fastened in a bun at the nape of her neck, and her face was bare of makeup. However, her usually perfectly manicured nails were bitten to the quick, and Skye could see tiny specks of the bright red polish on Zelda's teeth. Clearly, she was extremely upset.\n\nWhen they reached the door of the women's bathroom, Zelda looked over her shoulder and whispered, \"In here.\" Once they were inside, she leaned against the wall and bit at her thumbnail before finally saying, \"I think I might be in trouble. I lied to Sarge.\"\n\n\"About what?\" Skye tried not to imagine Quirk's reaction to one of his rookies being dishonest with him. Even though he hadn't been entirely candid about his own involvement in a case a couple of years ago, he didn't tolerate deceit.\n\n\"He asked me if I was related to one of the people at the cat show\u2014Lola Martinez\u2014and I said no.\" Zelda worried a button on her uniform shirt. \"But she's my second cousin. Her grandfather is my uncle. We're not close and I haven't talked to her in ages.\"\n\n\"So, why didn't you tell Quirk that?\" Skye asked, glancing discreetly at her watch. Wally would be wondering where she was.\n\n\"I didn't want him to take me off the case.\" Zelda's dark eyes glowed with fervid sincerity. \"Several of the more senior officers are on vacation, so this is my chance to do something on a murder investigation other than crowd control and background checks.\" A crease formed between her brows. \"If I can't work the investigation, Zuchowski will get a leg up on me. He already lords it over me because he started a week before I did.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Skye couldn't remember ever seeing the other rookie, although she'd heard Wally mention him from time to time. He'd been hired last summer when she'd been preoccupied planning her cousin's wedding, and he had flown under her radar since then.\n\nSkye waited for Zelda to continue, and when she didn't, Skye finally asked, \"I assume you're telling me this because you'd like me to intervene in some way?\" She knew she sounded overly formal, but being engaged to the chief put her in an awkward position. \"What are you hoping I can do?\"\n\n\"I hate to ask.\" The young woman frowned. \"But I don't know who else to turn to.\"\n\nZelda's expression reminded Skye of a puppy who had made a puddle in the middle of the living room carpet\u2014remorseful, but with no idea how to solve the problem.\n\n\"I could speak with Quirk,\" Skye offered, then cautioned, \"But I think he'd respect you more if you went to him yourself and told him exactly what you just told me. Maybe explain he caught you off guard.\"\n\n\"But he'll be mad.\"\n\n\"Probably.\" Skye nodded. \"At least at first. But I think he'll understand your motives.\" She resolved that if the sergeant gave Zelda too hard a time, she'd remind him of his own indiscretion. \"Do you want me to come with you when you tell him?\"\n\n\"No.\" Zelda took a deep breath. \"I see now that I need to do this on my own.\"\n\nThe women parted, Zelda in search of Quirk and Skye seeking Wally. She found him upstairs in his office. The decor never changed, although Skye did notice he had a new photograph of the two of them on his desktop. The previous picture had been a formal portrait of Skye taken when she was the maid of honor at her cousin's over-the-top wedding. She was glad he had replaced it, since in that photo she was wearing a Pepto-Bismol pink dress that did nothing for either her complexion or her figure.\n\nAfter a quick hug, Wally cupped her chin and examined the injury to her cheek. Frowning, he shook his head and threatened, \"I should arrest Bunny Reid for assaulting you with a deadly grooming tool.\"\n\n\"It wasn't her fault,\" Skye explained. \"I should have known better than to leap into the situation without considering the consequences.\"\n\n\"Well...\" Wally's tone was grudging. \"They do look as if they're healing pretty quickly.\"\n\n\"See.\" Skye smiled. \"I told you I didn't have to see a doctor.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Wally made a noncommittal noise before gently kissing Skye's wounded cheek and returning to the chair behind his desk.\n\nAs he settled into his seat, Skye took a moment to appreciate her good fortune in being engaged to someone as wonderful and handsome as Wally. He had turned forty-three a couple of weeks ago, but the silver in his black hair and the slight lines around his mouth did nothing to mar his rugged good looks.\n\nSilently, she thanked God that they had finally ended up together. She'd had a crush on him since she was a teenager and he was a twenty-two-year-old rookie on the Scumble River police force, but up until a couple of years ago, something had always kept them apart.\n\nWally interrupted her reverie. \"I've got Quirk's report here.\" He flipped open the manila file in front of him and scanned the contents. \"There's not much to go on. According to his notes you found the body, called nine-one-one, and when the police arrived, the only people present in the bowling alley were you and Bunny.\"\n\n\"That about sums it up.\" Skye tried to think if she had anything to add. \"The front door was unlocked, although Bunny swears she locked it.\"\n\n\"I see that.\" Wally lifted a brow. \"But how reliable is Bunny?\"\n\n\"On this matter, I would say ninety-nine percent. She's a surprisingly good businesswoman.\"\n\n\"According to the crime scene techs, there were no fingerprints on the weapon.\" Wally made a wry face. \"They'll get back to us with anything else, although since it's a public place, I'm not holding out much hope.\"\n\n\"And I probably messed up any prints on the utility closet door.\" Skye shook her head regretfully. \"If only I hadn't been juggling a smelly cat, I might have been more observant and not disturbed the scene.\"\n\n\"Or the body might not have been discovered until it started to decompose,\" Wally said in an attempt to reassure her. \"If the weapon was wiped clean, you can bet that the knob and everything else was, too.\"\n\n\"That's true.\" Skye brightened, then said, \"Oh, before I forget, here's the list of people with motives for killing Alexis. And there's one more possibility. Ivan Quigley, the guy she was matched with during the speed-dating event.\" Skye explained what she had learned from Frannie and Justin at the caf\u00e9.\n\n\"Let me take a look at the others.\" Wally flipped through the paper-clipped pages. \"Geez! The vic was sure disliked by a lot of people.\" He added, \"This confirms Quirk's impression from what everyone was saying at the brunch. No one had a kind word for Alexis.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" Skye crossed her legs. \"I was sort of wondering why Quirk allowed Bunny to continue with the awards ceremony.\" She swung her foot. \"Now, I'm guessing he had his officers mingle to overhear the gossip.\"\n\n\"That, and to see if anyone who was supposed to be there didn't show up.\"\n\n\"Right.\" Skye let her loafer dangle from her toe. \"Anyone AWOL?\"\n\n\"Elijah Jacobsen.\"\n\n\"Shoot. Considering his altercation with Alexis yesterday, his absence doesn't look good.\" Skye was strangely fond of Elijah, but she had been afraid the odd man might turn out to be the killer. \"Maybe his cat didn't make it into the final round and that's why he didn't bother to come to the brunch.\"\n\nA knock on the door distracted Wally before he could respond to Skye's suggestion, and he shouted, \"Come in.\"\n\nQuirk flung the door open and announced, \"I sent a couple of officers to the address Bunny gave me for Jacobsen. The ex-doc has flown the coop.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 8**\n\n# Crazier Than John Smith's Cat\n\n\"How do you know Jacobsen's gone?\" Wally stood up and strode over to the sergeant. \"Is it possible he's just not home?\"\n\n\"His sister lives with him,\" Quirk reported. \"She said he wasn't there when she got up this morning, but he left her a message.\"\n\n_Shoot!_ Skye held her breath. Elijah's disappearance made him a prime suspect. Could there be any other explanation, except the obvious one, for his abrupt departure? She stared at Quirk, waiting for him to reveal the contents of the note.\n\nFinally, after handing a piece of paper sealed in an evidence bag to Wally, the sergeant summarized what it said. \"He tells his sister to take care of Princess and the other cats. God told him that in order to cleanse his soul, he should go into the wilderness for forty days. If he survives, he'll be back then.\"\n\n\"Son of a\u2014\" Wally glanced at Skye and cut himself off, then turned to Quirk. \"Put an all-points bulletin out on Jacobsen, get a warrant to search his house, and bring his sister in for questioning.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" Quirk touched his forehead in a half salute. \"I'm on it.\" He spun on his heel and hurried out of the office.\n\nOnce the sergeant was gone, Skye asked, \"Does Elijah live in Scumble River?\"\n\n\"No. He lives within the Brooklyn city limits.\" Wally handed Skye the evidence-bagged note, then sat back down behind his desk. \"Why?\"\n\n\"I was wondering about jurisdictional issues,\" Skye explained as she examined the letter.\n\n\"As long as the judge who issues a warrant presides over the county in which it's executed, we can conduct the search.\" Wally laced his fingers behind his neck. \"As a matter of courtesy we'll notify the local authorities and we usually request that a county deputy accompany our officers.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Skye nodded, then said, \"Although Elijah's message sounds damning, I can't see Alexis ever being willing to go somewhere alone with him. Or meet him in the basement and hide out with him until the bowling alley closed.\"\n\nWally rubbed a hand across his eyes. \"But you and the others couldn't come up with _anyone_ she _would_ agree to meet in the basement.\" He pursed his lips. \"And the medical examiner said that the body wasn't moved. She was killed where you found her. Using liver temp, the ME puts the time of death between eleven thirty and twelve thirty last night.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Skye tucked an escaped curl back behind her headband. \"People won't be able to remember if a particular person was present when everyone was getting their coats on and leaving. That means a lot of our suspects won't have verifiable alibis.\"\n\n\"True,\" Wally agreed. \"But right now I'm more interested in Jacobsen. From what I've read, he sounds Looney Tunes. What's your impression of the guy?\"\n\n\"He's a damaged soul who seems to have found a refuge in his cats. Bunny said he told her that he applied to her dating site to find a woman who was like him.\" Skye shifted in her seat.\n\n\"Like him in what way?\" Wally dragged a legal pad toward him.\n\n\"My guess is he meant someone who finds it hard to cope with everyday life.\" Skye struggled to express her thoughts. \"Someone who loves cats for their serenity.\"\n\n\"That makes sense.\" Wally nodded. \"Nothing like petting a cat to lower your blood pressure and calm you down.\"\n\n\"Exactly.\" Skye leaned forward. \"So when Alexis both dissed his favorite cat and let Princess escape, it was as if she was attacking his best friend.\" Skye considered all she had witnessed and overheard. \"Then, to top it off, Alexis taunted Elijah about his past. She really seemed to enjoy making people squirm.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Wally clicked his pen and made a note, then asked, \"After the initial altercation in which he assaulted Alexis, did you witness any other incidents between them?\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye reran yesterday's events in her mind. \"I never saw them together again, and the few times I ran into Elijah he seemed fine.\" She closed her eyes, trying to remember. There had been something unusual she'd noticed about the ex-doc's behavior, but what was it? _Shoot!_ Nope, she couldn't dredge it up to the surface.\n\nWally interrupted her concentration. \"Can you think of anything more about him? Anything that might explain his weird behavior?\"\n\n\"While Frannie and I were doing the dishes after the dinner last night, she said that Elijah told her that twenty years ago, he was an extremely successful surgeon, but he was in an auto accident that resulted in his fianc\u00e9e's death and in which he suffered a traumatic head injury. It ended his career.\"\n\n\"Why's that?\" Wally looked up; he'd been taking down all Skye said. \"Did it mess up his fine-motor skills or vision or what?\"\n\n\"I didn't notice any of those concerns.\" Skye shook her head. \"But significant brain trauma can impair cognitive functioning.\"\n\n\"In what way?\"\n\n\"Memory, reasoning, problem solving, speed of mental processing, concentration, organizational ability, decision making, judgment.\" She shrugged. \"Pretty much every skill needed to be a good doctor can be compromised.\"\n\n\"Could a head injury cause behavioral issues?\" Wally gazed intently at Skye.\n\n\"Definitely.\" She nodded vigorously. \"It's very common to see difficulties in socializing, and with self-control, mood swings, irritability, dangerous actions, and physical outbursts.\"\n\nWally narrowed his eyes. \"Like attacking someone and killing them?\"\n\n\"In the heat of the moment, yes,\" Skye agreed. \"But I can't see how someone with Elijah's disabilities could have planned a murder that involved luring someone to a place that person wouldn't normally go, then having the forethought to bring a weapon\u2014since it certainly wasn't in the utility closet to begin with. And how did he get away without anyone noticing him?\"\n\n\"It could have been just one of those perfect storm kinds of situations,\" Wally argued. \"The vic could have forgotten something in the basement\u2014you did say the room she'd been judging in was down there.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"Maybe Jacobsen was still ticked at her from that morning, so he followed her to demand an apology,\" Wally continued. \"She said something to set him off, and he just happened to have the wire cat toy in his pocket.\"\n\n\"Shoot!\" Skye bit her lip. \"That's a plausible scenario, but having that cat toy in his pocket would have been really awkward since the handle was so long. And something just doesn't feel right to me about Elijah being the murderer.\"\n\n\"Because you liked the guy and felt sorry for him?\" Wally suggested.\n\n\"Maybe,\" Skye admitted. \"But how about all the other people who disliked Alexis?\"\n\n\"None of them ran away to cleanse their souls,\" Wally pointed out.\n\n\"How do you know?\" Skye asked. \"Just because they showed up for the final judging and awards ceremony doesn't mean they're still around.\" Her voice rose excitedly as an idea popped into her head. \"They might have thought that the body wouldn't have been found yet and reasoned that it would look funny if they didn't attend the brunch.\"\n\n\"That's true.\" Wally stood. \"And I never intended to stop the investigation, but like it or not, Jacobsen is our prime suspect.\"\n\n\"I understand.\" Skye watched Wally step from behind his desk. \"What's next?\"\n\n\"Three of my full-timer officers aren't around\u2014one's on vacation, one's sick, and one had a death in the family\u2014so that leaves Quirk, Martinez, Zuchowski and the two part-timers.\" Wally pulled the other visitor's chair closer to Skye and took her hand. \"Quirk called all of them in, and, as we speak, they're phoning the list of participants that Bunny provided to see who has an alibi.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Skye smiled in relief. \"If Elijah killed Alexis, I want him brought to justice. However, I don't want the fact that he's peculiar to convince you it's him before he's had a fair trial.\" She leaned forward and kissed Wally. \"But I know you'd never do that.\"\n\n\"Thanks, darlin'.\" Wally scooped her into his lap and stole another kiss.\n\n\"Anytime.\"\n\n\"Now, I need to give my officers your list of possible suspects, so they can make locating those individuals their priority.\" Wally nudged Skye to her feet, then stood up. \"Any of them who don't have alibis that check out, we'll interview in person.\"\n\nSkye started toward the door, paused, and said, \"I know Quirk is aware of the vendors.\" She explained about Zelda's cousin. \"But did Bunny include their names on the list she gave him?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\" Wally put a hand on the small of her back and guided her out of the office. \"I'll have him check that out.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Skye started down the stairs. \"Because it just occurred to me that Kyle O'Brien, the photographer who was supposed to meet me this morning to take pictures of Bingo, never did show up.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Wally led the way toward the cubicles the officers were using. \"I'll be interested in hearing his excuse.\"\n\n\"Me, too.\" Skye trailed him down the narrow hallway. \"And the three other vendors all had a beef with Alexis\u2014they're among the names we gave you. But to be fair, two of them are tiny eighty-year-old twins who I doubt would have the strength to strangle someone as tall and strong as Alexis.\"\n\n\"You'd be surprised what someone intent on murder is capable of doing,\" Wally commented, then turned his attention to briefing the officers manning the phones regarding the top persons of interest on their calling list. Once he was finished, Wally turned to Skye and said, \"You might as well go home. Who knows how long I'll be here, but there's nothing more you can do tonight.\"\n\n\"If you're sure...\" Skye trailed off. She hated to leave if she could help, but she was bone-tired and tomorrow was a school day.\n\n\"I'm positive.\" He took her hand and tugged her toward the exit. \"Can you come in after work tomorrow and help with the witness interviews?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\" Skye allowed herself to be led outside and walked to her car. \"I don't have any after-hours meetings scheduled, so I should be able to make it here no later than four.\"\n\n\"That'll be perfect.\" Wally opened the Bel Air's door. \"Right now, I'll go find Frannie, Justin, and Bunny.\" Once Skye was seated, he leaned in and kissed her good-bye. \"I need to talk to the three musketeers in order to get a better picture of the weekend's activities.\"\n\n\"Good luck with that.\" Skye waved, slammed the door, and drove off. She didn't envy Wally's trying to make sense of all that had gone on during the cat show\/speed dating\/bowler disco party.\n\nAfter placing a reassuring call to her mother\u2014she knew May would have heard about the murder the minute she got back from her gambling weekend\u2014Skye spent the evening worrying about Elijah and fussing over Bingo. The cat still stared at her suspiciously every time she approached him. She half expected Wally to call or drop over, but when he hadn't done either by ten o'clock, she gave up and went to bed.\n\nMonday morning should have been the first day of spring break, which the Scumble River School District usually took during the last week of March. However, this year a February flu epidemic had shut down the district for ten days. So, in order to avoid extending attendance into the middle of June when the weather might be too hot\u2014two of the three buildings were not air-conditioned\u2014the board had canceled the vacation, and classes were in session.\n\nSkye feared the students' attitudes would be ugly, and the faculty's dispositions might be worse. What could she do to lighten everyone's mood?\n\nAs she parked and walked into the high school, Skye was pleased that the weather had improved and the temperatures were even warmer than yesterday. She wondered if she could persuade Homer Knapik, the principal, to allow her to do something special for everyone during the lunch period.\n\nMaybe she could decorate the cafeteria with some of the props left over from the school's performance of _South Pacific_ , have the lunch ladies make nonalcoholic pi\u00f1a coladas for everyone, and hold a hula contest.\n\nUnfortunately, as soon as Skye walked in the door, she saw Homer in his attack position by the teachers' mailboxes, and an alarm went off in her head. Clearly, palm trees and leis were not in her future. Maybe erupting volcanoes, but not a luau.\n\nClasses started at seven fifty, and teachers were required to be in the building half an hour earlier, but Homer hardly ever arrived before eight. The fact that he was not only present but also out of his office did not bode well for anyone, especially Skye.\n\nBefore she could figure out a way to sneak past the hovering principal, he saw her and yelled across the lobby, \"Get your butt over here.\" He turned, not bothering to see if Skye heard him. \"You won't believe what our little darlings did over the weekend.\"\n\nSkye followed him down the narrow hall that led from the front counter to his office. Part of her was relieved that the principal's fury wasn't caused by her discovery of yet another murder victim. He hated her involvement in criminal investigations, and loved to remind her that she seemed to be a magnet for dead bodies.\n\nShe hid a smile as she entered Homer's lair. Good thing he didn't know about Mrs. Griggs's ghost\u2014a truly dead body that actually did seem to be drawn to Skye\u2014or he'd really be upset. She had barely cleared the threshold when Homer slammed the door. Ignoring her, he marched over to the coffee machine on the credenza beneath the window and poured himself a cup. The big leather swivel chair behind his desk groaned in protest when he flopped into its seat.\n\nSkye studied the principal as he cradled his mug in one large hand, blowing on the dark liquid before taking a cautious sip. He looked like a manatee wearing a fur coat. Hair protruded from his ears, nose, and above his loosened tie. She grimaced when he idly stroked the tuft of fur sticking out between the gaping buttons of his shirt. For as long as she'd known him, Homer had needed a wax job in the worst way.\n\nAfter taking several gulps of coffee, he acknowledged Skye and grunted, \"Are you waiting for a royal invitation? Have a seat, for crying out loud, before I get a crick in my neck.\"\n\nSkye complied, then dug out a pen and legal pad from her tote. She sat at attention, waiting for further instructions. Homer hated to be rushed, and he didn't encourage initiative in his employees.\n\n\"Care to take a guess what a dozen or so of our senior girls decided to do for fun?\" Homer tapped a folder on his desk. \"You know, those dumbasses you keep insisting are America's future.\"\n\nSkye was silent. She refused to answer him when he belittled the students. And even though Homer was one of the rare individuals who responded neither to positive nor to negative reinforcement, she hadn't given up trying to get him to be more respectful.\n\nHer lack of response seemed to irritate him and he barked, \"Are you deaf?\"\n\nShe raised an eyebrow, but still didn't speak. Minutes ticked by and she bit her tongue, resisting the urge to fill the empty air.\n\n\"Fine.\" Homer's face had turned a mottled red and he blew out a raspberry. \"I suppose I'll have to tell you, since you obviously have no idea what your precious students are up to. What's the matter? Aren't they talking to you anymore? Have you lost your coolness?\"\n\nSkye squirmed. Homer had homed in on her weakness like Winnie the Pooh on a honeycomb. For some reason she hadn't been able to get as close to this year's group of kids. Even the ones on the school newspaper didn't confide in her as they had in the past.\n\n\"While you were busy playing Nancy Drew\u2014\" Homer pointed a hairy finger at her, and when she flinched, he nodded. \"Yes, I heard you discovered yet another stiff, but I'm not even going there.\"\n\n\"Thank goodness,\" Skye muttered under her breath, then asked aloud, \"So, what happened?\" She supposed someone had gotten drunk and stupid.\n\n\"Bitsy Kessler had a slumber party, or whatever in the hell they call them nowadays.\" Homer pushed the file he'd been toying with across his desktop to Skye, then leaned back and stared at her.\n\n\"And?\" she asked, flipping the folder open and seeing a single sheet of paper containing a list of names, most of which she recognized as belonging to the popular crowd or to girls who were on the fringes.\n\n\" _And_ sometime during the night,\" Homer's two oversize front teeth gnawed on his bottom lip, \"they decide to play a game.\"\n\n\"Strip Poker? Truth or Dare?\" Skye had a sinking feel that none of the pastimes she could name had been the one the girls had chosen.\n\n\"I wish.\" Homer shook his head from side to side like a mournful bull.\n\n\"Just tell me, for heaven's sake,\" Skye pleaded, unable to stand the suspense.\n\n\"Some tomfool thing called Pass Out. I thought it was a drinking game, but Mrs. Kessler explained to me, in detail, that it isn't.\"\n\n\"That's a self-strangulation game!\" Skye's voice rose in alarm. \"I remember reading about it in one of the psych journals. Kids have died from playing it.\"\n\nHomer folded his hands across his paunch. \"Who thinks up this crazy shit?\"\n\nSkye didn't have an answer, but she had a question of her own. \"Are the girls all right?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Homer glowered. \"Mrs. Kessler caught them before it went too far.\"\n\n\"Thank God.\" Skye sank back against her chair, her heart still racing. \"That poor woman. Bitsy is her oldest child.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Homer twitched his shoulders. \"A lot of times the first pancake turns out the worst.\"\n\n\"Seriously?\" Skye rolled her eyes. Where did Homer come up with sayings like that?\n\n\"What I want to know,\" Homer said, gazing at the ceiling as if seeking an answer from the cracked plaster, \"is why in blue blazes would anyone want to strangle themselves? Are they suicidal?\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Skye paused to gather her thoughts.\n\n\"Come on,\" Homer prodded. \"You're the expert. Are they trying to off themselves or what?\"\n\n\"According to what I've read, depriving yourself of oxygen induces a kind of euphoric sensation.\" Skye might have been flattered that Homer thought of her as an authority, but she knew that his definition of an expert was the person who was the least ignorant about the subject. \"This game is nothing new, but cell phones and online videos are spreading it.\"\n\n\"Parents need to keep those kids off the Internet.\" Homer's tone was exasperated. \"Don't those girls realize they could die?\"\n\n\"That's part of the thrill.\" Skye took a deep breath, then clarified. \"For one thing, adolescents don't have a firm grasp of their own mortality. Then there's the whole peer pressure factor.\"\n\nHomer grunted, clearly not understanding.\n\n\"And topping it all off, today's teenagers have seen so much outrageous behavior from actors and singers and athletes, they think they need to push the envelope themselves in order to be 'with it.'\"\n\n\"I've been getting calls since yesterday morning wanting to know what the school is going to do about this matter.\" Homer lumbered to his feet. \"Once again, the parents expect us to do their job.\"\n\n\"That's not fair,\" Skye objected. \"Parenting is difficult.\"\n\n\"Parenting is easy.\" Homer shook his head. \"It's the freaking kids that make it hard.\"\n\nSkye rolled her eyes. Homer's lack of compassion was astounding, but she tried to explain. \"Frequently moms and dads have no idea how to handle an issue like this.\" She added, \"I'm glad they're letting us know it's a problem and asking for our help.\"\n\n\"Since you're so thrilled to be included, you can contact all the parents on this list, tell them you'll be taking charge of this matter, and present the results of your intervention to the school board.\"\n\n_Great!_ Skye knew she was the logical person to deal with the situation, and in fact she wanted to, but she was also the logical person to handle hundreds of other issues. Where would she find the time for everything?\n\n# **CHAPTER 9**\n\n# Look What the Cat Dragged In\n\nSkye eighty-sixed her plans to begin Zach Van Stee's reevaluation and instead spent the rest of the morning on the phone contacting parents. Their reactions were mixed. Most were happy to have Skye talk to their daughters about the dangers of games such as Pass Out, but a couple of them took quite a bit of persuasion. And Ashley Yates's folks refused even to consider the matter.\n\nTroy Yates Sr. was president of the First National Bank and thus accustomed to being the one in charge. Furthermore, he was still angry with the school, and with Skye in particular, for an unflattering article about Ashley that had run in the school newspaper a few semesters ago. All that, along with the fact that Ashley was a fifth-year senior, having failed several courses when she was a junior, and there was no changing Mr. Yates's mind.\n\nIt was nearly noon by the time Skye finished the last call, and she was due at the grade school at twelve thirty. With the clock ticking, she hurriedly filled out the counseling permission slips for the eleven girls whose parents _had_ agreed to let her see their daughters, rushed out of her office and down the hall.\n\nSince Skye didn't have time to hand out the documents herself, she was asking Opal Hill, the school secretary, to make sure the girls received the consent forms before they went home that afternoon when Trixie approached the front counter.\n\n\"Where have you been?\" Trixie asked Skye. She had recently decided to write a mystery novel in hopes of becoming the twenty-first-century Agatha Christie, so her next question made sense to Skye: \"And why didn't you call me after you found that body yesterday? It sounds like a great plot for my book.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry.\" Skye crossed her fingers. \"After I got done at the police station, I was just too exhausted to talk about it all again.\" In truth, she hadn't even thought to phone Trixie. She'd been too worried about Elijah, and too upset about the whole situation to discuss it\u2014even with her BFF.\n\n\"Come, tell me now.\" Trixie grabbed Skye's hand and tried to tug her down the hall. Which, considering that Trixie was five inches shorter and quite a bit lighter, wasn't very effective.\n\n\"I can't.\" Skye refused to budge, freeing her hand and heading toward the front door. \"I'm due at the elementary school in fifteen minutes.\"\n\n\"Can't you be a tiny bit late?\" Trixie called after her. \"I made chocolate cupcakes over the weekend, and I brought you one,\" she coaxed. \"It has lots of your favorite buttercream vanilla icing on top.\"\n\n\"Well...\" Skye hesitated. She was starving, and had forgotten to pack a lunch. \"Maybe a couple of minutes. I really should fill you in on an issue that concerns your cheerleaders.\"\n\n\"Is there a problem?\" Trixie immediately sobered. As cheerleading coach, she usually knew any mischief her girls were up to. \"I haven't heard anything.\" She ran her hands through her short faun-colored hair, making it stick up like peaks of meringue. \"Are they okay?\"\n\nSkye filled her in as they walked toward the library, then added, \"So I'm talking to all the girls tomorrow, with the exception of Ashley, whose parents refused to give their consent. Maybe you can get her to bring up the subject, and since you're not a psychologist you don't need permission, which means it wouldn't be a problem if you two had a chat.\"\n\n\"Sure.\" The two women entered the library's storeroom and climbed on stools pulled up to the worktable. \"She's my student aide second hour.\"\n\nTrixie pulled a square Tupperware container toward her, pried off the lid, and offered it to Skye. \"So, tell me everything about the murder.\"\n\nSkye summarized the weekend's events around bites of cupcake, ending with, \"Then I went into the basement's utility closet to clean Bingo up, and there was Alexis lying dead on the floor.\"\n\n\"From what you've said\"\u2014Trixie swallowed the last crumb of her cupcake, and reached for another\u2014\"she was nearly universally disliked.\"\n\n\"So it seems.\" Skye licked icing off her fingers, grabbed her tote, and stood up.\n\n\"Do you think the murderer is that peculiar ex-doctor?\" Trixie asked.\n\n\"I hope not.\" Skye edged toward the door, checking her watch. If she hurried, there was a chance that Caroline Greer, the grade school principal, wouldn't notice that she was late. \"At least five others had good reasons that I know about to dislike Alexis.\"\n\n\"The guy from speed dating, the jewelry maker, the twins, and the cat breeder,\" Trixie ticked off, following Skye through the library.\n\n\"Uh-huh.\" Skye hurried down the hall toward the lobby. \"And there's a good chance there are others I'm not aware of.\"\n\n\"True.\" Trixie trotted after Skye. \"She sure sounds like a mean girl who never changed, so it could even be someone from her past.\"\n\n\"Probably not.\" Skye pushed through the front door. \"Bunny had bouncers at the entrance so no one but cat show and speed-dating participants could attend the bowler disco party.\"\n\n\"This is almost like a locked-room mystery,\" Trixie called after Skye. \"They're the best kind.\"\n\nSkye had been able to sneak into the elementary school without running into the principal. And Caroline didn't mention her tardiness when they met for the special education intake conference later that afternoon, so it appeared Skye was in the clear.\n\nClasses ended at three thirty, but the staff was required to stay an additional twenty minutes. Typically Skye was among the last to leave, but today she beat everyone out the door\u2014even the teacher who was retiring in two months and was usually the first to pull out of the parking lot.\n\nAs Skye stepped across the PD's threshold into the lobby, she noticed a young woman sitting on the bench, and stopped in midstride. \"Spike Yamaguchi! When did you get into town?\"\n\n\"About an hour ago.\" Spike stood and smoothed her trouser-cut jeans.\n\nSpike was Simon's half sister\u2014a sibling he hadn't known existed until she was sixteen and contacted him after her adoptive parents were killed in a car crash. Simon had been shocked to discover that Bunny, who had left him and his father in order to pursue her dream of becoming a dancer, had had a secret baby.\n\nSpike gave Skye a hug. \"Sorry I didn't e-mail you that I was coming.\"\n\n\"That's okay,\" Skye assured her. \"It's great to see you.\"\n\nTheir friendship had had a shaky start. When they first met, Skye was convinced that Spike and Simon were having an affair. It hadn't helped matters that that mistaken belief had exposed other problems in Skye and Simon's relationship, which had in turn ended it. Still, despite everything, once Spike's true relationship with Simon was fully explained, Skye and Spike had become good friends.\n\n\"Are you here to visit your mom?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"Yes and no. Remember I told you about the gig at the TV station in Chicago?\" Spike was an investigative reporter for a newspaper in California, but she had been actively pursuing a television career.\n\n\"Of course.\" Skye had respected Spike's request to keep the possibility of her relocation to Illinois from Bunny and Simon. \"I've had my fingers crossed for you.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" Spike's delicate features, a blend of Asian and European, relaxed into a smile. \"Anyway, I found out Thursday afternoon that I got the job! But the catch was they wanted me on the air by the weekend. So I threw a few things in a suitcase and flew into O'Hare the next day. Grandfather will follow once I get settled.\"\n\n\"Wow!\" Skye shook her head in awe. \"You really travel fast and light.\"\n\n\"Yep.\" Spike sat back down, then continued, \"On Saturday when I was going through my predecessors' desk, I found a tip about government corruption in an Illinois small town. He'd scribbled a note that said no one was interested in a downstate scandal and shoved it in a drawer.\" Spike made a face. \"I disagreed, and when I showed it to my new boss, she concurred. Which is why I'm here.\"\n\n\"What town are you investigating?\" Skye asked as she sat next to Spike on the bench.\n\nSpike didn't answer right away, and Skye held her breath. If it was Scumble River, her family was in for a hard time. Skye's uncle was the mayor, which pretty much put her whole family smack-dab in the middle of every new controversy in town.\n\n\"Not here, but that's all I can say.\" Spike's voice had sharpened. \"I can't risk being scooped. This could be a big story for me.\"\n\n\"No problem. As long as it isn't my hometown, I'm happy.\" Skye gave her a thumbs-up. \"Are you at the PD to ask questions for your story?\"\n\n\"No.\" Spike shook her head and her straight black hair swung back and forth. \"I'm waiting for Bunny to get done. The chief is interviewing her about Saturday's murder.\"\n\nSkye frowned. \"I thought he was going to talk to her last night.\"\n\n\"I gather he couldn't find her.\" Spike raised a feathery brow.\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\n\"Bunny pulled into her garage just as I got out of my rental car this afternoon,\" Spike explained. \"Apparently, since the bowling alley was closed yesterday and she didn't have to work, she didn't spend the night at home. From what I overheard when the chief arrived a few minutes later, Bunny had her cell phone turned off as well.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" Skye tilted her head, thinking. Was Bunny with the man Skye had seen her join after the speed-dating event? She had forgotten to mention him to Wally. \"When did you and she get to the station?\"\n\n\"About forty-five minutes ago.\" Spike crossed her legs, swinging her foot impatiently.\n\nSkye looked at her watch. It was three fifty-seven, and Wally was expecting her at four. She'd better let him know she had arrived.\n\n\"Can you check on how much longer Bunny will be?\" Spike asked.\n\n\"Sure, I can do that.\" Skye stood, patted Spike on the shoulder, then walked toward the inner door. \"Let me go see what's happening.\"\n\nUsing her key to enter the restricted area of the PD, Skye stepped into the narrow hallway. To her immediate right was the dispatcher's office, and she stuck her head around the open doorway. She had thought it odd that her mother hadn't greeted her at the counter when she walked into the lobby, but now she saw why. May held two phones to her ears, and she was talking on both.\n\nSkye waved to her mother, who raised her eyebrows questioningly and pointed to her daughter's cheek.\n\nMouthing the words \"cleaning accident,\" Skye crossed her fingers. Housework was the one activity her mother would think justified sustaining an injury.\n\nMay raised her chin in acknowledgment, then refocused on her dual conversations. The scowl on her face made Skye wonder if May was dealing with the press. Skye didn't think the murder of a cat show judge would bring out the media, but if it was a slow news day, anything was possible.\n\nWhen Skye reached the coffee\/interrogation room, she knocked on the partially open door and Wally motioned her inside. Bunny, engaged in a battle to the death with the soda machine, ignored her.\n\nSilently, Skye took a seat next to Wally at the table, and they both stared wordlessly at the redhead, who was feverishly pushing buttons and cursing. Each time a can didn't appear in the dispenser, Bunny stabbed the buttons harder and swore louder.\n\nToday she was wearing a black and gold satin halter dress with a smocked bodice and a mid-thigh-length handkerchief hem. Suddenly Bunny stamped her gold four-inch-high stilettos, and Skye flinched as she heard something snap. She hoped it was the heel and not the redhead's ankle.\n\nFinally, Bunny wrestled a can of Jolt from the recalcitrant machine and joined Skye and Wally. She slumped into a chair and immediately popped the top, breaking one of her fuchsia-tipped nails. She swore, bit off the remainder of the nail, then shrugged and took a long gulp of the highly caffeinated soda. After a couple more hits of caffeine, she leaned back and closed her eyes.\n\nWally waited a beat, then said, \"Are you ready to continue now?\"\n\n\"I've told you everything I know,\" Bunny whined. \"I have a splitting headache and I feel like barfing. Why won't you leave me alone?\"\n\n\"Bunny, this attitude of yours is going to get you into trouble,\" Wally warned.\n\n\"I don't have a bad attitude.\" Bunny fluffed her hair. \"I just have a personality you can't handle.\"\n\n\"At your age you should know better than to talk back to the police.\"\n\n\"Hey, buddy! Watch it.\" Bunny glared. \"I'm not a day over fabulous.\"\n\n\"Right.\" Wally gritted his teeth. \"I have only a couple more questions. Concentrate,\" he ordered. \"Is there any way into the bowling alley besides the front doors?\"\n\n\"Let's see.\" Bunny rummaged through the contents of her purse until she found a nail file. \"There's the door in the back where the deliveries come in and the window exit from the basement.\" She paused, then nodded. \"And the outside door to my apartment.\"\n\n\"So someone could have gotten in any one of those ways?\" Wally asked.\n\n\"No.\" Bunny shook her head, then winced in pain. \"Those first two are wired, so if they're opened when the alarm is set, a buzzer goes off. I keep the inside door to my apartment locked at all times, and since I already told you the outer door to my apartment is wired, that entrance is doubly protected.\"\n\n\"How about the alley's front entrance?\" Wally looked up from his notebook.\n\n\"It's on a different security system that's right next to the door.\"\n\n\"And during the party, that first system was activated?\" Wally asked. \"You're sure?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Bunny finished repairing her manicure and put away the file. \"I have a checklist that I follow before I open the bowling alley, and making sure the alarm is set on the other entrances is item number one.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Wally rubbed the back of his neck. \"Tell me one more time\u2014who, besides the paying customers, was present at the bowler disco party?\"\n\n\"The three judges, the four vendors, the deejay, the bouncer, the bartender, and three waitresses.\" Bunny sighed and rubbed her temples.\n\n\"That's all?\" Wally persisted. \"You're not forgetting anyone.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's all.\" Bunny rested her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. \"Unless the bouncer let in someone that I didn't notice.\"\n\n\"We interviewed him and he says no one other than the people on the list you gave him got in.\" Wally drummed his fingers on the table. \"Did you set the front entrance alarm once the cleaning crew left?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Bunny snapped, then hesitated. \"Shit! Sonny Boy insisted that I change the code when we fired a waitress last week, and I couldn't remember it.\" She slumped. \"I was too tired to run all the way upstairs to get it. And no, it's not my age, it's the damn mileage.\"\n\n\"So someone inside could have used that door to leave, which is why it was unlocked even though you thought you locked it.\" Wally flipped his notebook shut.\n\n\"I guess.\" Bunny rolled the cold soda can across her forehead. \"Can I go now?\"\n\n\"I have a question,\" Skye said, noting how bloodshot Bunny's eyes were.\n\n\"What?\" The redhead's voice was a mixture of querulousness and caution.\n\n\"How about the guy that you slipped out of the bar with after the speed-dating event?\" Considering how Bunny normally dressed it was hard to tell, but the wrinkles in her outfit suggested that she might still be wearing the same clothes from last night's date. Especially since Spike had said she and her mother arrived at Bunny's apartment at the same time that afternoon. Which meant the headache was probably really a hangover. \"Was he at the party?\"\n\n\"What guy?\" Bunny squealed, jerking upright. \"I told you the man you saw just wanted me to show him the bathroom.\"\n\n\"I don't believe you.\" Skye met the redhead's gaze straight on. \"I saw him kiss you.\"\n\n\"You're mistaken.\" Bunny looked away. \"He was just one of the men from the cat show who didn't participate in the speed dating.\"\n\n\"Then why didn't he know where the bathroom was?\" Skye asked. \"Didn't he need it during the day?\"\n\n\"Do I look like I monitor people's toilet habits?\" Bunny demanded.\n\n\"Fine.\" Skye gritted her teeth. \"Then who were you with last night?\"\n\n\"That's none of your business. Since you've chosen not to be my daughter-in-law, I suggest you butt out.\" Bunny rose from her chair and stormed out of the room.\n\n\"Well, that sure wasn't like the Bunny we've all come to know and love,\" Wally commented.\n\n\"No, it wasn't.\" Skye bit her lip. \"Bunny usually tries to flirt her way out of trouble.\"\n\n\"Instead she got mad.\"\n\n\"I can't put my finger on exactly why, but she seemed more frightened than angry to me.\" Skye wrinkled her brow. \"I've never seen Bunny scared before.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 10**\n\n# Morals of an Alley Cat and Scruples of a Snake\n\nAfter advising May that he was leaving, and instructing her to call him on his cell with anything concerning the murder, Wally hustled Skye out of the police station and into his squad car.\n\n\"Where are we going?\" Skye asked as she fastened her seat belt.\n\n\"To visit Lola Martinez.\" Wally pressed a button clipped to the sun visor and the PD's metal garage door rolled up. \"Considering she's Officer Martinez's cousin, I thought it best that you and I question her.\"\n\n\"That makes sense.\" Skye turned to face Wally. \"How did Quirk react to Zelda admitting she had lied to him about being related to Lola?\"\n\n\"Let's just say it's a good thing the Scumble River Police Department doesn't have KP duty, or Martinez would be peeling a lot of potatoes.\"\n\nSkye grinned. \"I hope he doesn't give her too hard a time.\"\n\n\"Nah.\" Wally eased the robin's-egg blue Caprice out of the building and made a left onto Kinsman Street. \"I talked to him, and we agree it was a rookie mistake. But it was a good thing she fessed up when she did, or she could have really messed up the investigation.\"\n\n\"Which would have been a lot harder for either of you to forgive.\"\n\n\"Exactly.\" Wally lowered the volume on the police radio to a less earsplitting level. \"As long as I'm aware of her relationship with one of the suspects, I can make sure she isn't involved in any aspect of the case where she could be accused of bias.\"\n\n\"Good. By the way, any news on Elijah?\" Skye tried to keep her voice casual. \"Has anyone come forward with any info about his location?\"\n\n\"Unfortunately not.\" Wally stopped at the light on the corner of Maryland and Basin streets. It was the only traffic signal in town and it always seemed to be red. \"There's been nothing from the APB and no one has reported seeing his car anywhere.\"\n\n\"Did you find out anything when you interviewed his sister?\"\n\n\"Her description of the problems caused by Jacobsen's head injury jibed with what you told me.\" Wally tapped his fingers against his thigh. \"And she says she has no idea where he might be.\"\n\n\"How about the search of Elijah's house?\" Skye had wondered what they would look for. Since the murder weapon was a cat toy, it wasn't as if there would be a gun or knife they could match to the wound. Maybe they were hoping for a map with a wilderness location circled in red or a journal with his written confession.\n\n\"Except for the feline paraphernalia and his music collection, the guy lives like a monk.\" Wally twitched his shoulders. \"His room contained a single bed, a chest of drawers, an elaborate stereo system, and about a million records, tapes, and CDs.\"\n\n\"I guess Elijah thought what Albert Schweitzer said was true. Music and cats are the only two real means of refuge from the miseries of life,\" Skye commented absently, then paused. Something was niggling at the back of her mind. She concentrated until she dredged it up. \"What about his cell?\" She remembered seeing Elijah preoccupied with the phone during the cat show.\n\n\"He must have taken it.\" The light turned green and Wally stepped on the gas. \"I've asked the county crime techs to try to track the phone's signal.\"\n\n\"Can they do that?\"\n\n\"Only if he turns it on.\" Wally frowned. \"So far, he's been too smart to use it.\"\n\n\"Maybe the battery's dead.\" Skye twisted a curl around her finger. \"Elijah doesn't seem to have the ability to think far enough ahead to figure out that the police might use his phone signal to find him.\"\n\nWally shot her a worried glance. \"I know you like him, or feel sorry for him or something, but he's probably guilty, so try not to be too disillusioned when we find him and he admits he did it.\"\n\n\"I'm not denying there's a lot of circumstantial evidence stacked up against him.\" Skye gnawed at her thumbnail. \"It's just that my gut says he didn't do it, and my instincts are usually pretty good.\"\n\n\"As long as they don't blind you to the facts, that's fine.\"\n\nThey rode in silence until Skye asked, \"Did Frannie and Justin have anything to add to what I told you?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"That's what I figured. I was pretty sure I'd gotten the whole story from them,\" Skye said, then asked, \"Were they still fighting?\"\n\n\"Considering they refused to be in the same room together, I'd have to say yes.\" Wally looked at her. \"Why, are you planning an intervention?\"\n\n\"No. It's a shame, because they seem like a good pair, but I'm not getting involved.\" Skye pursed her lips. \"They need to work this one out on their own.\" She was silent, lost in her thoughts, until another question occurred to her. \"Where does Lola live?\"\n\n\"Just outside Clay Center's city limits. And the photographer lives a few minutes from her, so we'll see him once we finish with her.\"\n\n\"I take it neither Lola nor Kyle has an alibi,\" Skye deduced.\n\n\"No, they don't.\" Wally slowed the cruiser as he approached a rough railroad crossing. \"They both claim that they parted from their speed dates right after the bowler disco party and went home alone.\"\n\n\"Since the party ended at midnight, and the ME said that Alexis was killed between eleven thirty and twelve thirty, that leaves both Kyle and Lola a half an hour to have killed Alexis.\" Skye gazed down at I-55 as they drove across the overpass, and shook her head at the snarled traffic. Even this far south of Chicago, a steady stream of vehicles clogged the highway. \"What was Kyle's excuse for missing his appointment with me?\"\n\n\"His alarm didn't go off.\" Wally turned left onto County Line Road. \"But since he was sleeping alone, there's no way to prove it.\"\n\n\"Who else doesn't have an alibi?\" Skye watched the fields go by on either side of the squad car. At this time of year, before the ground was plowed and planted, the dark weed-covered land always depressed her.\n\n\"Sandy and Sonia Sechrest say they were together, but sisters often lie for each other.\" Wally pulled into a long driveway that led to an old farmhouse. \"Faith Irving claims she was at her house, but since she was by herself there's no way to prove it.\"\n\n\"How about Ivan Quigley?\"\n\n\"He has a live-in housekeeper,\" Wally answered, then added, \"At first she said she didn't know what time Quigley got home, but later she conveniently remembered that it was around eleven.\"\n\n\"Hmm. So his alibi might not stand up,\" she mused, rubbing her temples. \"How about the others, the ones not on my list?\"\n\n\"It looks as if we might have gotten a break with them.\" Wally parked, got out of the car, and came around to Skye's side to open her door. \"During the roller disco, the pairs stuck together, and they all alibi each other up until midnight. The longest anyone was alone was a five-minute bathroom break. Then after Bunny shut down that party, a group of thirty-six of them went over to the Brown Bag to continue the festivities. They closed the place at two a.m.\"\n\n\"But with such a big crowd, couldn't someone have slipped away?\"\n\n\"Several shutterbugs took pictures all night long.\" Wally rested his hand on the small of her back. \"I've got Anthony checking the photos and time stamps to see if we can confirm that none of them snuck out a back exit between twelve and twelve thirty.\"\n\n\"Which is the remaining half hour in the timeline the ME gave for the murder?\" Skye clarified for herself.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Let's see.\" As she and Wally walked over to the steps leading to the front door, Skye visualized the bowling alley bar setup. \"Forty people took part in the speed dating.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"The Sechrest twins didn't participate, but Alexis, Lola, Kyle, and the other two judges did, which leaves thirty-five cat show competitors who were also speed daters.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"Kyle and Lola didn't go to the after party. Did their dates?\"\n\n\"Yes. As it happens, Kyle's and Lola's dates got together and went as a couple.\"\n\n\"Of course Alexis didn't go. And Ivan Quigley left early and said he went straight home, as did Fawn Irving. Did Elijah go to the Brown Bag?\"\n\nWally shook his head.\n\n\"And I assume the bartender, deejay, bouncer, and servers didn't go, either, which leaves thirty-four.\" She paused to check her math, then asked, \"Who were the other two that went to the bar?\"\n\n\"A couple of the breeders made a love connection during the show, so opted out of the speed-dating event,\" Wally explained as he rang the doorbell. \"But they did attend the party and go to the Brown Bag with the rest of the group.\" He punched the bell again.\n\nA second later, the door was flung open and Lola Martinez yelled, \"I told you to leave me alone!\" She blinked as her gaze settled on Skye and Wally. \"Oops! Sorry. I thought you were my ex.\"\n\n\"Ex-husband?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"No.\" Lola shook her head. \"Ex-boyfriend. Ever since that slut he left me for dumped him, he's been trying to get me back. He's been calling me all afternoon.\"\n\n\"May we come in, Ms. Martinez?\" Wally interjected. \"I'm Chief Boyd from the Scumble River Police. I believe you talked to Sergeant Quirk earlier, and you already know Skye, who's the department's psychological consultant. We have a few questions to ask you about this past weekend.\" When Lola hesitated, he added, \"It's important and I promise we won't take up too much of your time.\"\n\n\"Sure.\" She smoothed the stained blue chambray shirt she was wearing. \"I was working on a new design. Just let me turn off my soldering iron.\" She moved over to a drafting table.\n\nSkye and Wally stepped into a large area that clearly was meant to be the house's living room, but most of the space was taken up with jewelry-making equipment. Shelves holding pieces in various stages of completion lined three of the four walls and a massive painting of Lola stretched out semi-nude on a bed hung on the fourth.\n\nLola motioned them to the sofa facing the portrait, then dragged the leather swivel chair from behind her desk over to where they sat.\n\nSinking into the seat, she looked at Skye and asked, \"Is this the man who bought you that gorgeous engagement ring?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is.\" Skye twisted the diamond on her finger. \"Wally's my fianc\u00e9.\"\n\n\"You didn't mention he was the chief of police or that he was so handsome.\"\n\n\"Uh.\" Skye felt the color creep up her cheeks. \"It didn't come up.\"\n\n\"It's a good thing Alexis never met him.\" Lola's tone was teasing. \"She would have sunk her claws in faster than a cat at a scratching post.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she would have tried.\" Skye glanced at Wally, who seemed disconcerted by the jewelry maker's bluntness. \"But she never would have succeeded.\"\n\n\"That's what I thought, too.\" The light in Lola's dark eyes dimmed.\n\n\"Was Alexis the woman who came between you and your boyfriend?\" Wally asked.\n\n\"Yes.\" Lola turned her attention to him. \"I thought she and I were friends.\"\n\n\"But?\" Wally prompted.\n\n\"But a woman like her doesn't have any real friends.\" Lola sighed.\n\n\"A woman like her?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"Alexis constantly had to be reassured that she was smart and wonderful and beautiful. An extra pound, a gray hair, or a zit would send her into a deep depression,\" Lola explained. \"And she was overemotional\u2014everything was a crisis, not to mention her mood swings.\" Lola scowled. \"But what should have warned me off was how seductive she was around men, especially at totally inappropriate times. I saw her come on to a grieving widower at his wife's funeral.\" Lola shook her head. \"How could I have been so na\u00efve?\"\n\n\"So why did she pretend to be your friend?\" Wally asked.\n\n\"Alexis liked pretty things, and she thought everyone should just hand over whatever she decided she wanted. She...\" Lola paused as an enormous cat with a pushed-in face strolled into the room.\n\nThe feline ignored Skye and Wally, sauntering over to Lola and rubbing against her blue jeans\u2013clad leg. The jewelry maker stroked the cat's white fur. It purred loudly and jumped into her lap, where it curled up and started to knead her thigh.\n\nOnce the animal was settled, Lola continued. \"Alexis wanted a piece of jewelry I'd had made. A very expensive necklace. I offered it to her at cost, but she insisted that I give it to her as a gift. She said she'd act as a model for my jewelry and send customers my way.\" Lola shook her head. \"But I couldn't afford to do that.\"\n\n\"What happened?\" Skye was pretty sure she knew, considering Lola's warning to her after she'd faced off with Alexis on Saturday afternoon.\n\n\"I overheard her telling people that my jewelry was overpriced because the gold was an overlay and the stones weren't genuine.\" Lola's mouth thinned. \"I confronted her and we had a huge shouting match. Next thing I knew, I caught Kyle in bed with her.\"\n\n\"Your ex is Kyle O'Brien?\" Wally asked, flipping open his notebook. \"The photographer?\"\n\nLola nodded. \"I call him the Rat.\" She pointed to the cat. \"Jabba the Fluff was a gift from him. He's a Persian, which is an extremely loyal breed. Too bad Kyle wasn't.\"\n\nSkye pointed at the portrait. \"Is Kyle the artist?\" It was clear that the painter had loved his subject. And now that Skye studied the canvas, she notice a white cat curled at the foot of the bed.\n\n\"Yes.\" Lola's voice broke and she cleared her throat before adding, \"In our happier days, I was his favorite subject. He really is very talented. I think he's an even better painter than a photographer.\" She made a droll face. \"But you know what they say, right? Behind every successful man is a woman. And behind the fall of every successful man is usually the other woman.\"\n\n\"So Lola stole Kyle from you, then dropped him?\" Skye asked, wanting to make sure she completely understood the situation.\n\n\"Yep.\" Lola's tone dripped with satisfaction. \"Kyle makes a nice living as a photographer, but nowhere near the amount of money Alexis required to keep her in the style to which she wanted to become accustomed.\"\n\n\"Was O'Brien upset when Alexis broke up with him?\" Wally asked. He leaned forward, his pen poised. \"Did he threaten her or make a scene?\"\n\n\"Not that I heard about.\" Lola stroked Jabba. \"He told me he was relieved.\"\n\n\"Relieved?\" Skye asked. \"That's an odd reaction. Did he say why?\"\n\n\"He said it had felt as if Alexis had cast a spell over him, and once she dumped him, he could finally see what she was really like.\" Lola shrugged. \"Needless to say, I didn't believe him and told him to take a hike.\"\n\n\"Is that why you both participated in the speed-dating event last night?\" Skye asked. \"Do you think Kyle was hoping you two would be paired up, and, if you were, that you'd give him another chance?\"\n\n\"I can only answer for myself.\" Lola took a wire brush from an end table and started to comb the purring feline in her lap. \"I was hoping to meet Mr. Right, but instead I met Mr. Right For Somebody Else.\" She sighed. \"It seems I have lousy taste in men.\"\n\n\"The guy you were matched with didn't work out?\" Wally asked, raising a brow.\n\n\"That's an understatement.\" Lola sighed again. \"Turns out the guy was really into blondes and hit on Kyle's date all night.\"\n\nWally and Skye spent another half hour with Lola. No matter how they phrased their questions, Lola's answers remained the same, and finally she glanced pointedly at her watch.\n\nSkye shot Wally an inquiring look.\n\nHe nodded slightly, then stood up. \"Thank you for your cooperation.\"\n\n\"No problem.\" Lola led the way to the door. \"I hope I was helpful.\"\n\nWally and Skye followed her. Skye said good-bye, then stepped onto the outside landing.\n\nBefore Wally joined Skye, he said to Lola, \"If you think of anything else, call me. Oh, and if you plan to leave the area, let me know.\"\n\n\"Will do, Chief.\" Lola saluted. Before she closed the door, she said, \"I didn't kill Alexis. Someone with a bigger grudge than mine did that.\"\n\nOnce Wally and Skye were back in the squad car, Wally turned to her and asked, \"What's your take on Lola's description of Alexis?\"\n\n\"It jibes with everything other people have said about her.\" Skye settled into the cruiser's seat. \"But hearing it all together like that makes me wonder if Alexis had a hysterical personality disorder.\" Skye ticked the symptoms off on her fingers. \"Constantly seeks praise, overly concerned with physical attractiveness, overemotional, rapid mood swings, and inappropriately sexually seductive.\"\n\n\"In other words, a woman who in a relatively short amount of time would alienate everyone she came in contact with?\" Wally asked.\n\n\"Exactly. And her disorder would explain why she worked as a temp. There is no way a woman like that could keep a job for very long.\"\n\n\"How about a position where she worked alone?\" Wally asked, starting up the Caprice's engine. \"Would she be okay in that type of situation?\"\n\n\"I doubt it.\" Skye fastened her seat belt. \"It's not only the personal interaction that would be a problem. Someone like that would lie, cheat, and steal without any remorse because she would feel entitled to whatever she wanted.\"\n\n\"Interesting.\" Wally put the car in gear. \"Did you believe Lola's account of what happened between her, Alexis, and Kyle?\"\n\n\"It's hard to say.\" Skye leaned her head against the seat back and thought about the past hour. \"Did everything take place as she said? Perhaps. Is she still holding a grudge against Kyle and Alexis? Yes. Did she kill the woman who stole her man? Possibly.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Wally concentrated on backing out of the long, narrow lane. \"If Lola offered Alexis a free piece of jewelry, Alexis would probably agree to meet her in the basement. Greed and power seem to be two of the major forces that motivated her.\"\n\n\"And Lola is strong enough to overpower Alexis if she caught Alexis by surprise.\" Skye dug in her tote for her lipstick. \"You couldn't see her upper arms today, but Lola had a strapless dress on Saturday night and her biceps are impressive. No saggy flesh on her.\"\n\n\"That gives her motive, means, and opportunity.\" Wally turned the car toward town. \"Now it's time to hear O'Brien's version of the story.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 11**\n\n# The Catbird Seat\n\nO'Brien Photography was located on Clay Center's main street. The studio shared a building with a financial advisor's office and a Mexican restaurant called Los Tres Caballeros. It was a little past six when Wally pulled the cruiser into a spot in front of the three businesses, and only the restaurant still had an OPEN sign on its door.\n\n\"Shoot!\" Wally hit the steering wheel. \"We could have come here first if I'd thought to ask Chief Leery about O'Brien's hours.\" At Skye's questioning look, he explained, \"I phoned Clay Center's chief this afternoon to let him know we'd be questioning suspects in his jurisdiction.\"\n\n\"I wondered about that.\" Skye stared at the photography studio's darkened window, where large pictures of cats, children, and brides were prominently displayed. \"Why did you particularly want to talk to Kyle at his studio?\"\n\n\"I like catching people on the job. They're usually embarrassed to be questioned by the police in front of their customers or coworkers, and that throws them off balance. It's a lot harder to think of a lie when you don't feel in control.\"\n\n\"I can see how that would be an advantage.\" Skye looked at the nearly deserted sidewalks. \"Most people are just finishing up dinner, so Kyle's probably at home. Are we going to try him there?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\" Wally threw the cruiser into reverse. \"Having the cops show up on your doorstep is almost as disquieting as having them invade your workplace.\"\n\n\"I should think so.\"\n\n\"Let's go see if we can rile him up enough to get the truth out of him.\" Wally checked his notebook. \"He only lives a few roads over.\"\n\nThe photographer's home was a modest bungalow on a tree-lined street in a typical small-town neighborhood. A blue MINI Cooper was parked by the curb in front, and a white panel van with O'BRIEN PHOTOGRAPHY stenciled on both sides was sitting in the driveway.\n\nAs Wally and Skye walked past the van, she shivered and turned her head.\n\n\"Are you cold?\" Wally put an arm around her, tucking her against his side to shelter her from the wind that had kicked up since they'd left Lola's place. \"Do you want me to get your jacket from the cruiser?\"\n\n\"No. I'm fine.\" Skye leaned against Wally for a second. Then, feeling a little foolish, she explained, \"It's just that Kyle's van freaks me out a little. It seems as if every news bulletin of an abducted child or snatched woman always reports that the bad guy is driving a white panel van. I guess because it doesn't have side windows it's the perfect transportation for criminals.\"\n\n\"I suppose it is.\" Wally hugged her. \"But it's also perfect for florists, plumbers, and anyone who has to haul a lot of equipment. Like a photographer who needs to cart around lighting paraphernalia and props and large framed portraits.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" Skye kissed Wally's cheek. \"I'm just being silly.\"\n\n\"Never.\" Wally's expression was somber. \"Believe me, I trust your instincts.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sweetie.\" Skye enjoyed one last cuddle, then headed toward the tiny porch. \"One of the things I love about you is that you take me seriously and never patronize me or my ideas.\"\n\n\"Your hunches have been right too many times for me to ever dismiss one.\" Wally rang the bell. \"It would be stupid of me to underestimate you.\"\n\nWhen no came to the door, Wally pressed the button again. After waiting a couple of minutes, he knocked. Still no response from inside.\n\n\"Looks like he's not home.\" Skye turned to Wally. \"What do you want to do?\"\n\n\"I'll come back tomorrow.\" Wally turned away and started back to the squad car. \"I guess I'll catch him at his studio after all.\"\n\nSkye followed, but skidded to a stop. \"Hey, did you hear that?\"\n\n\"What?\" Wally retraced his steps and cocked his head toward the house.\n\n\"I could have sworn I heard a thump.\" Skye moved over to the front window. \"I think I see a shadow moving in the wall mirror.\"\n\nWally joined her and cupped his face to the glass. He whispered, \"I see it, too.\" Then in a loud voice he said, \"I don't see anything. Obviously, O'Brien's not home. We might as well leave.\"\n\nWally took Skye's arm and guided her toward the Caprice. Once they were inside, he started the motor, revved it a couple of times, then drove away.\n\n\"What's the plan?\" Skye knew there was no way Wally was giving up.\n\n\"I'm going to turn down the next street and circle back, which will give us a view of the house.\" Wally winked. \"With any luck my shouting and the engine noise convinced O'Brien that we left, and while we wait to see what happens, I'll call in the license number on that MINI Cooper. I have a feeling it isn't his.\"\n\nA few seconds after Wally made his request, May's voice crackled from the radio. \"The plate is registered to Alexis Hightower.\"\n\n\"Ten-nine,\" Wally demanded.\n\n\"Repeat, plate is registered to Alexis Hightower.\" May paused. \"Do you copy?\"\n\n\"Ten-sixty-nine. Boyd out.\"\n\n\"What is Kyle doing with Alexis's car?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"Good question.\" Wally reached for his cell. \"Let's see if its presence is enough to get a warrant to search O'Brien's house.\"\n\nAfter assigning Quirk the responsibility of tracking down a judge, no easy task in a small county with as few of them as Stanley, Wally said to Skye, \"I'm going to run you back to the PD. This could take several hours.\"\n\nSkye quirked her right brow. \"I take it I'm not invited to the search party?\"\n\n\"Too dangerous.\" Wally punched a number into his cell. \"Leery, it's Wally Boyd.\"\n\nSkye couldn't hear the other side of the conversation so she stared at the O'Brien house while Wally explained the situation to the Clay Center chief. She saw no signs of movement.\n\nShe tuned back in to what Wally was saying when she heard, \"So if you could send an officer to sit on the place until my sergeant gets here, I'd be much obliged.\" Wally listened, then laughed. \"You drive a hard bargain, but I'm sure something can be arranged.\" Still chuckling, Wally flipped his cell phone shut.\n\nWhen he didn't immediately fill her in, Skye asked, \"What did Chief Leery want in exchange for his help?\"\n\n\"To come to our wedding.\" Wally's voice held a hint of amusement.\n\n\"Why?\" Skye didn't see what was so funny about someone wanting an invitation.\n\n\"Leery's wife is a Clay Center dispatcher, and it seems your mother has been talking to her about how wonderful our wedding is going to be. Now Mrs. Leery wants to attend.\"\n\n\"Mom was talking about _our_ wedding?\" Skye wasn't sure she had heard correctly.\n\nMay had always disapproved of Wally for her daughter on the grounds that he was too old, too divorced, and too not Catholic. She had also steadfastly refused to accept that Skye and Simon would never reunite, wed, and produce a houseful of grandkids.\n\n\"Yes.\" Wally nodded, smiling broadly. \"Isn't that mighty interesting?\"\n\n\"Hmm. I guess Mom is finally accepting the fact that I'm marrying you.\" Skye felt a profound sense of relief. \"What did you do to win her over?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\" Wally shrugged, but there was a gleam in his eye.\n\n\"Spill it.\"\n\n\"Okay. One day, while things were slow at the station, I saw her making a baby afghan and I commented that I'd never seen her knitting before.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Skye shook her head. \"It's a relatively recent interest for Mom, but she's approaching it the same way she does everything else.\"\n\n\"Like a competitive sport?\" Wally suggested.\n\n\"Exactly.\"\n\n\"Anyway, we chatted a little about her new hobby; then since she seemed to be in a mellow mood, I may have mentioned that now that the annulment is in the final stages, and we can start planning the wedding, I was considering turning Catholic.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"Well, I almost told her that there had been an error on my birth certificate and I was really thirty-nine instead of forty-three, but instead I said that my granddad fathered a child when he was in his seventies.\"\n\n\"That was a mistake.\" Skye _tsk_ ed. \"Not only will Mom be feeding you pomegranates and pumpkin seeds, she'll be picking out baby names.\"\n\n\"Actually, she swears by oysters.\" Wally waved at the Clay Center officer who had pulled his cruiser next to their car. \"And she likes 'Marie' for a girl and 'Ernest' for a boy.\"\n\n\"Speaking of children...\" Skye bit her lip. She'd been putting off having this conversation, but it was time. \"How do you feel about fatherhood?\"\n\n\"As long as you're their mother, I'd love to have a couple of kids.\" Wally took her hand. \"But if you'd rather not, I'm okay with that, too.\"\n\n\"Then let's keep our options open.\" Skye leaned over and kissed him.\n\nBy the time Wally dropped Skye off at the PD to pick up her car, it was after seven. Having missed lunch and dinner, she was famished, and too tired to cook. The Feed Bag, Scumble River's only sit-down restaurant, was closed, which left McDonald's or the deli counter at Walter's Supermarket. The drive-through window tipped the odds in favor of Mickey D's, and after picking up supper, Skye drove home.\n\nClutching the white paper sack of fragrant fried goodies, she stepped across her threshold and nearly fell over Bingo. The black cat sat squarely in the middle of the small braided rug in front of the door and glared at her out of slitted green eyes. His body language conveyed quivering outrage at having been left to starve.\n\nAfter taking care of Bingo's need for food and a clean litter box, Skye took her dinner into the sunroom and curled up on the white wicker love seat. As she ate, she read through her ghost-buster file.\n\nHer plan was to give Mrs. Griggs another chance to prove she could behave herself when Wally and Skye got affectionate. However, if the apparition interfered with their love life one more time, Skye fully intended to banish the former owner's spirit\u2014even if that meant calling Father Burns in to perform an official exorcism.\n\nSeveral hours later, Skye woke herself with a scream. She felt as if she was being smothered and had to fight her way to consciousness. She'd been having a nightmare in which human-size cats pursued her around the bowling alley carrying fishing poles from which stuffed mice dangled. Standing on the sidelines watching the chase were other humanoid felines, who were texting on their cell phones.\n\nIt took her a few seconds, but Skye finally realized that the cause of her breathing problem was Bingo. The feline was curled up on her chest with his tail over her mouth and nose. After removing him, she looked at her watch. It was nearly three in the morning.\n\nStretching, she got to her feet and rubbed the crick in her neck\u2014the love seat was way too short to sleep on. As she passed through the kitchen on her way to bed, she checked her answering machine. The little red zero glowed steadily, which meant Wally hadn't phoned.\n\nShe dug her cell out of her tote bag, but there were no messages on it, either. She knew that the search of Kyle O'Brien's home would have taken several hours, and if the police had found the photographer hiding inside, the interrogation would also be a lengthy process. Still, she had hoped for an update on the situation.\n\nAs she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, Skye wondered what had been found at Kyle's residence. More important, how would he explain Alexis's car being parked in front of his house?\n\nTuesday morning Skye was scheduled to attend the junior high's Pupil Personnel Services meetings at eleven thirty. Homer had thrown a hissy fit when Skye had informed him she wouldn't be able to talk to the girls who had been caught playing the Pass Out game until that afternoon.\n\nAll the principals that Skye worked for felt that their problems should take priority, and they jealously fought for her time. Since the girls weren't in any imminent danger, and their parents were fully aware of the situation, Skye couldn't justify missing her regular hours at the junior high.\n\nShe spent the time before the PPS meeting evaluating a sixth grader who had moved to Scumble River the week before. His mother had presented Skye with paperwork indicating that a case study was in progress. Although the boy had left his old school before the psychologist could complete the required testing and observation, the clock was still ticking toward the sixty-day deadline for the case study's completion.\n\nFinishing up with five minutes to spare, Skye sent the student back to his class, gathered up her appointment book and legal pad, and hurried to the PPS meeting. It was being held in the art room, which was free during the first thirty-minute lunch period but was used as a study hall for B lunch.\n\nThe purpose of PPS meetings was to discuss kids who were experiencing learning or behavioral problems. The committee was composed of the principal, the special ed teacher, the speech therapist, the school psychologist, and the nurse. In addition, any regular ed teacher with a student on the agenda was required to attend.\n\nAs the others trailed in, Skye studied the names of the three kids on today's list. They'd have ten minutes per child. Unless, of course, there was an emergency add-on.\n\nAs was her habit, Neva Llewellyn, the junior high principal, arrived precisely on time. Skye often wondered if the woman waited just out of sight until the second hand clicked on the twelve.\n\nNeva took her seat, looked around, and asked, \"Is everyone here?\"\n\nSkye struggled to maintain an attentive expression and to keep a giggle from escaping. Did the principal really think a missing team member would speak up? Neva ran a tight ship, but even she couldn't force her employees to respond when they weren't physically present.\n\n\"Good.\" Neva was a tall, lean woman in her forties who wore expensive suits and expected everyone to be as perfectly groomed and as good at their jobs as she was. \"Let's get to our first student.\"\n\nBefore she could begin, a banshee-like whooping came from the hallway.\n\nAs the group turned toward the strident sound, a small red ball with a burning green wick sailed through the art room's open transom.\n\nEveryone stared as if mesmerized until Skye jumped to her feet and yelled, \"Holy crap!\"\n\nFrom behind the door came a noise that might have been laughter, or a cat hacking up a hairball. A split second later a bright flash and a resounding boom echoed through the room.\n\n# **CHAPTER 12**\n\n# The Cat Will Meow\n\nSkye stood in the middle of the art room and looked around. The others still sat, stunned. Luckily, the cherry bomb had landed near the door, which was in the back, and the women had been sitting at two long tables near the front, so no one appeared to be hurt. And with the exception of a small scattering of red paper and the lingering smell of the flash powder, there was no visible damage to the classroom.\n\nAfter making sure that everyone was all right, Skye pulled Neva aside and told the principal that she had a good idea of the identity of the cherry bomber. She also revealed her strategy to apprehend him. Once Neva agreed to Skye's plan, albeit a bit reluctantly, and said she'd call the student's parents, Skye rushed from the room in pursuit of her quarry.\n\nThat distinctive asthmatic hyena laugh could belong to only one boy, so after briefly considering her options, Skye headed left. The art room was just a few feet from the cafeteria\/gymnasium, and students on their way to lunch passed right in front of its door.\n\nShe entered the room at a trot, but once inside she slowed to scan the cavernous space. Rows of picnic-style tables were set up on the gym's floor, and nearly two hundred seventh and eighth graders were talking in strident adolescent voices. The sound was nearly as deafening as her brother's band when they had played acid rock under the name Pink Elephant.\n\nSkye and her target spotted each other at precisely the same moment. He swiveled his head in search of an exit. There were only three choices\u2014through the kitchen where the lunch ladies would grab him; over the stage and into the PE teacher's office, which was a dead end; or through the main entrance, where Skye stood waiting.\n\nShrugging, he remained seated, glaring at Skye as she walked toward him and ordered him to his feet. He waited several heartbeats before complying. Although Skye's expression didn't show it, she had been worried that he would refuse and the situation would escalate.\n\nEven though the boy walked docilely down the hall beside her, Skye didn't relax until they reached her office. The windowless room was painted road-stripe yellow and was only slightly larger than a refrigerator box or a port-a-potty. Crisp white curtains hung over a travel poster scene of the Rocky Mountains did little to lessen the claustrophobic feel of the space. Having originally been used to store cleaning supplies, the place gave off a faint, lingering smell of ammonia no matter what air freshener Skye tried.\n\nStill, she was grateful for the private office. It was a blessing many school psychologists would give up their laptops and next raise to possess, especially in a situation such as this one. Dealing with a recalcitrant teenager was always better without an audience.\n\nOnce Skye had settled in the seat behind her desk and the boy was sitting across from her, she demanded, \"Junior Doozier, what in the world were you thinking of?\"\n\n\"About what?\" He folded his arms, tipped his metal chair onto its two back legs, and stared at the brown marks on the white ceiling tiles.\n\nSkye considered asking what he saw in those blots. Would his responses tell her anything about his personality? Or did he just see stains?\n\nIt took longer than with most kids\u2014usually students couldn't stand the silence and hurried to fill it\u2014but finally Junior said, \"It weren't only a cherry bomb, Miz Denison.\" He wrinkled his heavily freckled nose. \"Nothing but flash powder inside a paper cup. No reason at all for you to get so worked up.\"\n\n\"You could have blown off a finger.\" Skye narrowed her eyes. \"Not to mention injured me or one of the others in the room.\"\n\n\"I didn't know you was going to be there.\" Junior's milk white complexion became paler. \"Honest. I'd never hurt you. Pa would kill me.\"\n\nJunior's father, Earl Doozier, was the king of the infamous Red Ragger clan, which made Junior the crown prince. The Red Raggers were difficult to explain to anyone who hadn't grown up in, or at least lived many, many years in, Scumble River. Their version of reality rarely matched other people's. And their sense of right and wrong never did.\n\nLike feral cats, the Red Raggers were untamed predators who stalked anyone more vulnerable than themselves. And they survived despite local law enforcement's attempts to either domesticate or eradicate them.\n\nFor some reason Earl considered Skye a part of his family. Perhaps he thought of her as his liaison between the kingdom of Doozierland and the rest of the world. She certainly hoped it wasn't anything more personal than that. The last thing Skye needed was Earl's wife getting jealous and plotting her demise.\n\n\"Fireworks are dangerous.\" She lectured Junior, knowing she was wasting her breath but unable to stop herself. \"What if you'd blinded yourself?\"\n\n\"Look, Miz Denison.\" Junior ran grubby fingers through his unevenly cut red hair. \"From the time you light the fuse, youse have about three, four seconds afore the cherry bomb goes off. Evens a girl can throw it by then.\"\n\n\"Let's put the safety issue aside.\" Skye blew out a frustrated breath. \"Why did you throw an explosive into the art room?\"\n\n\"She disrespected me.\" Junior's large ears vibrated with indignation.\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Miz Wormwood.\"\n\n\"The art teacher?\" Skye wondered what the woman had done. She was new this year, straight out of college and still learning how to control her class. \"She wasn't even there.\"\n\n\"Well, how was I suppose to know that?\" Junior huffed. \"It's her golldurn room, ain't it?\" He crossed his arms. \"I heard someone that sounded like her talkin' and figured, hey, here's my chance.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Skye hadn't realized that Neva and the art teacher had similar-sounding voices, but now that she thought about it, both _were_ originally from Boston. \"So what did Ms. Wormwood do to you, anyway?\"\n\n\"You wouldn't understand.\" Junior frowned. \"You'll take her side.\"\n\n\"Look, we have maybe ten more minutes before your folks get here.\" Skye decided to lay it on the line. Counseling techniques didn't seem to work with the Doozier family. \"And our school district has a strict policy about weapons. You could be expelled.\"\n\n\"It weren't no weapon.\" Junior bristled. \"An AK-47 is a weapon.\"\n\n\"Junior!\"\n\n\"Fine.\" He slumped back in his chair. \"Our assignment was to draw a comic strip. And I'm good at drawin' so's I did it. And it was on time and everything.\"\n\nSkye nodded. Turning in homework when it was due was a major accomplishment for Junior.\n\n\"But she says, 'This is unacceptable, young man.'\" His voice sound eerily like the teacher's.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"My comic hero was a dude called Moonshine Man.\" Junior grinned. \"He can outrun any police car, handle hot copper tubing with his bare hands, and is stronger than a liquored-up redneck.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" Skye was beginning to understand. \"So what happened?\"\n\n\"She scrunched it up right in front of everyone and told me not to try to be smart.\"\n\n_Oh, oh._ Skye was willing to bet her engagement ring that Junior had not taken that comment the way the art teacher had meant it.\n\n\"I knows I ain't the smartest one in the class, but she don't have no call to say I'm stupid.\" Junior blinked his muddy brown eyes.\n\nSkye nodded again, more sympathetically. Junior had a severe learning disability, which made reading extremely difficult for him, but his IQ was above average. Skye knew this for a fact since she had tested him twice in the past six years.\n\n\"That was a good drawin'.\" Junior sat forward, his expression earnest. \"So I says to her, 'I ain't the dumbass. You is.'\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"And she sent me to the principal's office.\" Junior slumped back in his chair, clearly defeated by a system he didn't understand. \"But Miz Llewellyn weren't there, so's Mrs. Nelson told me to come back after lunch.\"\n\n\"And on your way to the cafeteria you thought you heard Ms. Wormwood, who had insulted you, so you retaliated by throwing a cherry bomb,\" Skye recapped, wanting to make sure she was clear on the sequence of events. \"Do you always carry one around in your pocket?\"\n\n\"Yep.\" Junior nodded. \"Ya never know when a fella might need a little distraction.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Skye stood up and motioned Junior out of his seat. \"Let's go see if your folks have arrived, and what we can do about this mess.\"\n\nAs she and Junior walked toward the principal's office, Skye tried to formulate an argument that would dissuade Neva from kicking the boy out of school. She had a bad feeling that if Junior was expelled, they'd have a hard time getting him to come back.\n\nNeva surprised Skye. The principal was sympathetic to Junior's plight, and promised to speak to the art teacher about how she had handled the situation. And because of the extenuating circumstance, Neva suspended Junior for only three days rather than expelling him for the rest of the year or longer.\n\nOnce Earl and his wife had taken their son home, promising the boy wouldn't sit in front of the TV or play video games all day, Skye headed to the high school. She was running more than an hour late, but still hoped to see the Pass Out game girls before the end of the day.\n\nWhile she crossed the expanse of grass separating the schools, Skye mentally thanked Neva for not making her bring up Junior's disability in order to save him from expulsion. She definitely didn't want to have to go through the Manifestation Determination process.\n\nThe procedure to determine if a student's behavior was or was not due to the student's handicapping condition involved a long, drawn-out, often excruciating course of meetings, paperwork, and more meetings, requiring time that everyone involved could put to better use.\n\nSkye sprinted into the high school. Seventh period started in ten minutes, so she grabbed the stack of papers from her mailbox and dashed to her office. As she raced down the hallway, she shuffled through the pages, counting the consent forms.\n\n_Shoot!_ Only eight of the girls' documents were present. Now she'd have to call the other parents and ask why their daughters' permission slips were missing. Which meant she'd have to put off talking to the girls until tomorrow. Homer would not be happy.\n\nWhat with the crisis at the junior high and having to track down the moms and dads of the last three Pass Out game girls, Skye didn't have a chance to call Wally. By the time she got off work, she was dying to know what had happened with the Kyle O'Brien situation.\n\nAs she slid into her car, she was already digging through her tote bag for her phone. While she waited for it to power up\u2014cell phones had to be switched off while in the school building\u2014she fastened her seat belt, started the Bel Air, and turned on the heat. The temperature had dropped again and her new spring trench coat, while cute, wasn't lined.\n\nWally didn't answer his private line and his cell went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, Skye dialed the PD's nonemergency number.\n\nAfter several rings, Thea Jones, the daytime dispatcher, answered, \"Scumble River police, fire, and emergency. How can I help you?\"\n\nSkye identified herself, then spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries with Thea before asking, \"Is the chief around?\"\n\n\"No.\" The dispatcher paused, and Skye heard her say to someone else, \"Hold your horses. I'll be with you in a minute.\" Thea turned her attention back to Skye. \"Sorry, hon. People just don't have any manners nowadays. They see you're busy and think it's still okay to butt in.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want to keep you.\" Skye didn't want to get involved in whatever squabbling was going on at the police station. \"I just wondered if you knew why Wally isn't answering his cell.\"\n\n\"He's probably in a dead zone.\" Thea dropped her voice. \"About half an hour ago, we got a tip regarding Elijah Jacobsen's whereabouts. The chief and Quirk and Martinez lit out of here quicker than a squirrel crossing a road in front of a semi.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Skye's chest tightened. She hoped that Elijah would come in peacefully and no one would get hurt. \"Thanks for your help.\"\n\nNow what? Surely, she had better things to do with her time than hanging around the PD waiting for Wally and the others to return. She'd already left him two messages, so she knew he would call when he had a chance. She certainly didn't want to seem like a pathetic loser who had no life or interests outside of her fianc\u00e9.\n\nShe could go visit someone. But who? Just before the final bell had rung, Trixie had stopped by Skye's office for a quick chat and had mentioned that she and her husband, Owen, were going out to dinner and then to a movie in Joliet. So Skye's best friend was out.\n\nToo bad her mom would be reporting for her four o'clock shift in a few minutes. Now that it seemed as if May was okay with the idea of Wally and Skye getting married, Skye really needed to talk to her about the wedding plans before May rented Buckingham Palace for the reception and hired the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to play at the church.\n\nThere was her brother, Vince. They used to hang out together a lot, and even though his new bride was Skye's friend and sorority sister, dropping in on the newlyweds unannounced seemed tacky.\n\nOh, well. Skye shrugged and put the Bel Air in reverse. Bingo would be glad to see her, if only because he'd get an early supper.\n\nFive minutes later Skye pulled into her driveway and skidded to a stop behind a shiny red antique pickup that was blocking the way to her garage. As she got out of her car, Sonia and Sandy Sechrest climbed down from the truck's cab and headed toward her.\n\nToday the twins were dressed in identical jeans, blue plaid blouses, and denim jackets. Skye could tell them apart only by their cowboy boots. As she had previously noticed, Sandy's had a higher heel than her sister's.\n\n\"See, I told you if we waited a little bit, she'd come home,\" Sonia scolded her sister. \"But you're always so impatient.\"\n\n\"And I told you we should have called first,\" Sandy admonished. \"But you always think everyone will be at your beck and call.\"\n\n\"Ladies.\" Skye raised her voice. \"Ladies.\" Clearly, the twins had spent a lifetime quarreling with each other, so she talked over them. \"What a cool classic truck. Who restored it for you?\"\n\n\"No one.\" Sonia's expression was puzzled. \"Horatio's never been in a wreck.\"\n\n\"We're very careful drivers,\" Sandy added, patting the pickup's side as if it were a pony. \"We've kept Horatio in tiptop condition ever since Papa gave him to us on our sixteenth birthday.\"\n\n\"Wow.\" Skye was momentarily speechless at the idea of a vehicle that still looked brand-new after sixty-four years of use. Finally, she realized the twins were staring at her, and she asked quickly, \"What brings you out to my neck of the woods today?\"\n\n\"We're delivering the cat condo you ordered,\" Sonia announced, pointing to the back of the pickup. \"Don't you remember me telling you it would be ready today?\" She added in a concerned tone, \"I hope we haven't ruined the surprise for Bingo.\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye shook her head. \"I told him about it.\" She noticed Sandy's mouth form a pout. \"When I gave him the toy on Saturday, I mentioned that he had another present coming on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"Good. Let's get the condo in the house.\" Sonia lowered the truck's tailgate. \"I can't wait to meet Bingo and show him his new kingdom.\"\n\n\"Here.\" Skye hurried over. \"Let me get that.\" She lifted the four-foot-high cat tree from the pickup's bed, wrestled the multilevel shag-carpeted object into her arms, and wheezed, \"Follow me.\"\n\nOnce they were inside, and the sisters had been properly introduced to Bingo, Skye seated them and offered them something to drink. Sandy asked for wine and Sonia wanted a beer. Skye was glad she hadn't offered them tea. Clearly, they weren't anything like stereotypical old ladies.\n\nAfter pouring the sisters' preferred refreshments into glasses, Skye put them along with her own Caffeine Free Diet Coke on a tray and carried it into the front parlor. She expected the conversation to focus on the murder, but instead Sonia explained in detail how she had constructed the condo, the best way to take care of the structure, and how to lure Bingo onto the tree if he was reluctant. It seemed a sprinkling of catnip on each level usually did the trick.\n\nWhen Sonia paused to take a breath, Sandy leaped in and talked about next season's cat toys. Skye kept her expression interested while she listened to Sandy describe her entire summer catalog.\n\nFinally the sisters wound down, and Skye stood. \"Would you like another drink?\"\n\nThe twins shook their heads.\n\n\"I don't want to keep you ladies.\" Skye stepped toward the parlor's archway. \"If you have other deliveries, I completely understand.\"\n\n\"Uh, well...\" Sandy hesitated. \"You work with the police. Right?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Skye sat back down, realizing the sisters were about to tell her the real reason for their visit. \"I'm the psychological consultant.\"\n\n\"The thing is\u2014,\" Sandy started.\n\n\"Oh, for crying out loud,\" Sonia broke in. \"Just tell her, for heaven's sake.\"\n\n\"You tell her.\" Sandy frowned at her sister. \"You're the one who thinks we should.\"\n\n\"And you're the one who told me.\" Sonia crossed her arms. \"So it would be hearsay if I told her. And that kind of testimony isn't legal.\"\n\n\"You watch too much _Law and Order_.\" Sandy crossed her arms, too.\n\n\"I do not.\" Sonia's lower lip started to quiver. \"You watch as much as I do.\"\n\n\"Ladies.\" Skye was getting a headache. This was worse than playground duty. \"Sandy, you start and Sonia can fill in anything you forget.\"\n\n\"Do the police know about Fawn Irving?\" Sandy fiddled with the buttons on her blouse.\n\n\"What about her?\" Skye asked, leaning forward in her chair.\n\n\"You know she and Alexis didn't get along?\" Sandy waited for Skye's nod, then added, \"Not that many people did get along with that witch.\"\n\n\"Right.\" Skye allowed the elderly women to tell their story at their own pace.\n\n\"Do the police know that Fawn was in the hospital?\" Sandy asked.\n\n\"I'm not sure.\" Frannie had mentioned the woman's recent hospitalization, but Skye couldn't remember if she had told Wally or not. Probably not, as it hadn't seemed relevant. \"Is that fact important?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Sandy stared at her twin, who made an encouraging sound. \"The thing is, she wasn't in the hospital for a physical problem.\"\n\n\"The problem was a psychiatric one?\" Skye asked, wishing she had a notepad and pen but not wanting to interrupt.\n\n\"Yes.\" Sandy nodded. \"I volunteer at the Laurel Hospital, and I was there when they brought her in. She had tried to hurt herself.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Skye felt awful for the fragile woman. This new revelation made Alexis's bullying seem even worse than Skye had originally thought.\n\n\"Once she was stable, they transferred her to St. Joe's in Joliet,\" Sandy explained, \"but I heard people saying that her suicide attempt was because of her husband's disappearance.\"\n\n\"How awful.\"\n\n\"The really awful part is that everyone thinks Fawn might have killed him.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 13**\n\n# A Cat Has Nine Lives\n\nPlacing a rolled-up towel behind her neck, Skye lay back in the bathtub. Lit votive candles on the vanity were the only illumination in the darkened room, and Nat King Cole was singing \"Unforgettable\" on the CD player.\n\nA few minutes later, just as she started to doze off, the overhead light was suddenly switched on. Skye's eyes popped open and she sat up, squealing and splashing water and bubbles everywhere.\n\nStill breathless, she gasped, \"Wally, you scared me to death!\"\n\n\"Sorry, darlin'. It's not even seven fifteen; I didn't think you'd be sleeping.\" He flipped the light back off, knelt beside her, and gave her a slow, drugging kiss. \"I yelled that I was here when I walked in, but you must not have heard me over the music.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Skye moaned as his lips seared a path down her neck to her shoulders. \"My!\" Shivers of delight followed his caresses and she felt transported away from Scumble River and all its problems.\n\nWally's hands slipped below the bubbles and Skye felt a delicious warmth radiate throughout her body. She ached for another of his kisses. Tangling her fingers in his dark hair, she brought his mouth back to hers, angling her neck until they fit together perfectly.\n\nRaising his lips a fraction of an inch from hers, his voice was a rasping whisper as he asked, \"Are you getting out or am I coming in?\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" She arched her back and stretched. \"I did order the extra-large tub when I had the bathroom remodeled, so there's plenty of room.\"\n\nSkye's pulse quickened as she watched Wally kick off his shoes and shed his uniform. His powerful, well-built body moved with an easy grace as he deftly removed each piece of clothing. She purred, admiring the glowing bronze skin that covered every visible inch. How did he maintain a year-round tan? She knew for a fact that he didn't sunbathe or make use of a tanning bed.\n\nHe stepped into the water and eased down beside her. Gathering her into his arms, he tucked her close to his side. His body exuded an enticing heat that made her want to cuddle closer to his flame.\n\nEven after two and a half years of dating him and ten months of being engaged to him, Skye still found Wally's vitality captivating. There was some intangible bond between them that had lasted since they had first met when she was sixteen and he was twenty-two. He projected a strength and power that she found impossible to resist.\n\nWally's heart pounded against her ear as he trailed a finger down her side, tracing an imaginary pattern on her hip. Skye crooned encouragement while stroking the length of his back.\n\nHis hands and lips explored the soft curves of her body. She felt bound in a honeyed web of growing desire and gasped in pleasure at the sensation of her breasts being crushed against his chest.\n\nSkin to skin, just as they were about to become one, a cacophonous ringing erupted from the bedroom phone. It jarred Skye from the moment, and she stiffened at the intrusion.\n\nWally kissed her until she relaxed again, then said huskily, \"Ignore it.\"\n\nBefore Skye could respond, \"Hail to the Chief\" began to play at an incredibly loud volume. Now it was Wally's turn to freeze.\n\nBoth of them lay suspended, trying to disregard their phones when suddenly the doorbell started to buzz. And continued and continued, as if someone was leaning against the button. Between the ringing, the music, and the drone of the doorbell, the racket was intolerable.\n\nSwearing, Wally heaved himself to his feet, then gave Skye a hand out of the tub. While he was searching his pants pocket for his cell, she threw on her robe and ran downstairs. Sliding on the throw rug at the bottom of the steps, she barely managed to right herself as she skidded toward the door.\n\nOut of breath, she pushed aside the front window curtains, and peered out. Instantly, the doorbell became silent, as did the music from the cell and the ringing of the telephone. What the heck was going on? There was no one on the porch, and she couldn't see any vehicle other than Wally's squad car in the driveway.\n\nTo get a better view, she opened the door a few inches and poked her head through the gap, but there was no one anywhere around her house. She ran to the kitchen window and looked out. The backyard was empty as well. She retraced her steps and checked the front once more. Not even a bird was flying overhead. Clearly, no corporeal being had been pressing the doorbell.\n\nTrudging back to the master bath, Skye narrowed her eyes and muttered under her breath, \"Mrs. Griggs, this had better not be your doing or so help me\u2014\" She broke off as she met Wally on the landing, and asked, \"Was there an emergency at the station? Who was calling?\"\n\n\"No one.\" Wally's expression was puzzled. \"There wasn't a voice mail or even a number from a missed call.\" He looked toward Skye's bedroom. \"And it sounds as if your phone stopped, too.\"\n\n\"Isn't that odd?\" Once she and Wally had gotten engaged, Skye decided that since she wanted them to live in her house after they were married, it was best if she didn't mention to Wally the possibility that Mrs. Griggs was haunting them. \"No one was at the door, either.\"\n\n\"Maybe I should check with the PD.\" Wally fingered his cell phone.\n\n\"Might as well.\" Skye sighed. \"The mood is completely shattered.\"\n\n\"I'm sure we could recapture it.\" Wally raised a brow and reached for her.\n\n\"Sorry.\" She evaded him, not wanting to stir up the resident ghost again. \"I don't think I can.\" Seeing him slump, she felt bad. None of this was his fault. \"Let me get dressed and I'll rustle up something for supper. I bet you haven't eaten.\"\n\n\"You must be psychic.\" Wally smiled. \"I came over here as soon I got back from the manhunt.\"\n\n\"What\u2014\" Skye stopped herself. \"Wait. You make your call to the PD, I'll throw on some clothes, and you can tell me everything while we eat.\"\n\nTwenty minutes later, clad in black leggings, a zebra-striped tunic, and her bunny slippers, Skye set a platter of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast on the kitchen table and took her seat.\n\nWally had put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt from the stash of clothes he kept at Skye's place, then joined her in the kitchen. While she was cooking, he'd poured her a glass of white merlot and opened a bottle of Sam Adams for himself. Then when the food was nearly done, he'd set out the dishes and silverware.\n\nSkye ate in silence until Wally finished his first helping and reached for seconds. Then she asked, \"So, did you find Elijah?\"\n\n\"Just his car.\" Wally took a swig of beer. \"It was parked inside the rec club, which is why no one spotted it earlier. The groundskeeper found it this afternoon when he went in to do his weekly rounds.\"\n\nThe Scumble River Recreational Club had been established on the property of an abandoned coal mine that was worked from the 1900s until the 1950s. It consisted of a beach, several lakes, a large picnic area, and woods for hunting. March was usually too cold to swim or picnic and most hunting took place in the fall, so the club was generally not used at this time of year.\n\n\"Was there anything inside Elijah's car?\" Skye asked before eating her last bite of toast.\n\n\"Nothing I could see.\" Wally pushed his plate away. \"On the surface, the vehicle's interior looked clean enough to do surgery, but the county crime techs had it towed to their garage and are going over it.\"\n\n\"How did he get inside the gate?\" Skye asked. \"Was he a member?\"\n\n\"Yep. We found a key lying in the dirt near the entrance, and since all keys are numbered, we were able to trace it back to him.\"\n\n\"Did you search the grounds?\" Skye asked. If they did, she wondered how they had done it so fast. The club covered nearly five hundred acres.\n\n\"Uh-huh.\" Wally got up and started to clear the table. \"Both the state police and the county sheriff's department sent officers and dogs to help. Unless Jacobsen drowned himself in one of the lakes\u2014and there was no evidence of that\u2014he's still in the wind.\"\n\n\"In the wind?\"\n\n\"On the run. Hiding from the police.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Skye followed him to the sink and turned on the water. \"It's too bad he wasn't at the rec club. It could certainly be the wilderness he mentioned in his note.\"\n\n\"Maybe that's what he wanted us to think.\" Wally took the dishcloth from where it lay draped over the faucet and wiped down the tabletop. \"He's probably across the border in Mexico by now.\"\n\n\"I doubt it.\" Skye shook her head. \"If he had retained that kind of organization and planning ability, he'd still be a surgeon.\"\n\nOnce the kitchen was cleaned up and the dishes were done and put away, Skye and Wally moved into the sunroom. Because it was more comfortable than the formal parlor, it was their usual choice. As they settled in on the wicker love seat, Bingo, who was curled on the floral cushion of the matching chair, opened one eye, twitched his tail, and went back to sleep.\n\nWally reached for the TV remote, but Skye plucked it from his fingers. \"Oh, no, you don't. First, tell me what happened at Kyle's.\"\n\n\"But I want to catch the ten o'clock news,\" Wally protested.\n\n\"Then talk fast.\" Skye clutched the black plastic oblong to her chest.\n\n\"Sometimes you're a spoiled brat.\" Wally pretended to try to wrestle the remote from her, but allowed her to keep possession of the device and stole a kiss instead. \"Good thing I'm a patient man.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Right.\" Skye stuck out her tongue. \"Now tell me everything.\"\n\n\"As you and I thought, O'Brien was hiding in the house.\" Wally laced his hands behind his head and put his bare feet up on the coffee table. \"So, while Quirk searched the place, I interviewed the photographer. He claimed he didn't hear us at the door because he was in his art studio in the back, engrossed in painting.\"\n\n\"Did you believe him?\"\n\n\"It could be true.\" Wally shrugged. \"There was a fresh canvas.\"\n\n\"Did Quirk find anything incriminating?\" Skye put her slippered feet next to Wally's bare toes. \"How did Kyle explain Alexis's car?\"\n\n\"Nothing that implicated O'Brien in the murder was found in his residence.\" Wally twitched a shoulder. \"And he claimed he had no idea that the car out front was Alexis's because she drove an old Chevrolet Impala when they were dating. He said he figured the MINI Cooper belonged to one of his neighbors' kids home from college for spring break.\"\n\n\"Was what he said about Alexis driving a Chevy true?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"Unfortunately.\" Wally's face revealed his frustration. \"According to the DMV, the vic only owned the MINI Cooper for a few weeks.\"\n\n\"Shoot!\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Wally shifted, plainly exasperated. \"And the only prints in the car were Alexis's. The steering wheel and door handle had been wiped clean. Which means whoever dumped the car in front of O'Brien's had to know about their past relationship and was trying to make him look guilty.\"\n\n\"Again, not something you'd expect from a man with Elijah's disabilities.\"\n\n\"So you keep saying.\" Wally's voice was impatient. \"Did you ever think maybe he got better, and has been fooling people for years?\"\n\n\"Recovery to that extent would be highly unlikely.\" Skye bit her lip. \"And why would he pretend to be disabled if he wasn't?\"\n\nWally shrugged and clicked on the TV. As they watched the news, Skye noticed his eyelids drooping more and more. At the end of the local weather forecast, she switched off the television, tugged Wally to his feet, and led him upstairs. She had barely pulled back the covers when he sank into the mattress, and he was fast asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.\n\nSkye changed into her nightshirt, brushed her teeth, and moisturized her face before joining him. Her last thought before drifting off was that at least Mrs. Griggs allowed them to share a bed.\n\nThe next morning when they were sitting down to breakfast it occurred to Skye that she hadn't told Wally about the twins' visit the day before. What else had she forgotten to share with him?\n\nShe scrunched up her forehead, trying to remember what she had and hadn't communicated. _Shoot!_ Had she mentioned Spike's story?\n\nBefore she could gather her thoughts, Wally asked, \"Are you okay?\"\n\n\"I'm fine.\" Skye smiled at the concern in Wally's voice. He really was the sweetest guy. \"But I just realized that I haven't mentioned a couple of things.\"\n\n\"Like?\"\n\n\"First, I don't think I ever told you what Bunny's daughter, Spike, is doing in Illinois.\"\n\n\"Then I take it she wasn't in Scumble River just to visit her mother?\"\n\n\"In Scumble River, yes, but she's in the area investigating a story.\" Skye took a sip of tea, relishing the smooth Earl Grey, then explained Spike's new job and the local government corruption lead she was following. Skye ended with, \"So thank God it isn't Uncle Dante who's embezzling.\" She paused and twisted her lips to one side. \"At least as far as we know.\"\n\n\"You said a couple of things,\" Wally reminded her. \"Is there something else?\"\n\nSkye played with her spoon. \"The Sechrest sisters visited me yesterday afternoon.\"\n\n\"What did they want?\" Wally's tone was curious. \"They're both so tiny and elderly, after their initial interview I pretty much crossed them off my suspect list. Was that a mistake?\"\n\n\"Probably not. I doubt they killed Alexis over an insult, even one about a cat.\" She ate a spoonful of Special K, then said, \"But they did have an interesting bit of information about Fawn Irving.\"\n\n\"Oh?\" Wally poured Cap'n Crunch into a bowl and added milk.\n\nSkye hid her grin. He had recently confided his love for the sugary corn and oat squares and she now kept a supply for him, but she still found it funny that a macho guy like Wally ate a kid's cereal.\n\n\"Did you know that not too long ago Fawn's husband disappeared?\"\n\n\"No.\" He put down his spoon and frowned. \"When did that happen?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure. But shortly afterward, Fawn attempted suicide.\" Skye's expression grew sad. She hated hearing that anyone had been so despondent that they felt their only option was to end their life. \"I don't have the exact dates, but Fawn was on the psychiatric floor of Saint Joe's up until a little while before the cat show.\"\n\n\"She certainly didn't volunteer that information.\" Wally poured a cup of coffee for himself, then sat down. \"And neither did anyone else.\"\n\n\"I'm not surprised.\" Skye drank her cranberry juice. \"Probably very few people are familiar with the whole story. Bunny and Frannie were aware that Fawn had been recently hospitalized, but I don't think they knew why.\" Skye explained how Sandy had come to hear about it, adding, \"There really is no privacy anymore. Even though the medical personnel respect confidentiality, the volunteers can't be held to the same standards.\"\n\n\"I won't be able to see the records of her stay, but I will reinterview her.\" Wally cradled his mug, his expression thoughtful. \"Actually, considering the circumstances of her hospitalization, I think the department's psych consultant should be present, too.\"\n\n\"Before we talk to her, you might want to check with the Laurel Police Department,\" Skye cautioned. \"According to the rumor mill, a lot of folks seem to think Fawn might have killed her husband.\"\n\n\"Son of a B!\" Wally nearly spewed the gulp of coffee he had just taken. \"Every time I think we've eliminated a suspect we add two more. If we could just find Jacobsen, maybe we could wrap this case up.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Raising an eyebrow, Skye took a delicate sip of her tea. \"But I wouldn't count on it.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 14**\n\n# Busier Than a One-eyed Cat Watching Two Mouse Holes\n\nSkye wasn't scheduled to be at the high school at all on Wednesdays or Thursdays\u2014a fact that Homer tended to conveniently overlook. When things were running smoothly, he resented giving up any space or budget for her needs. But the minute a tricky situation reared its ugly head, he felt that she should devote all her time and energy to his school.\n\nUnfortunately, as a school psychologist assigned to multiple schools, Skye was often put in the awkward position of reminding all the principals that she wasn't their full-time employee. And as she stepped over the threshold of the elementary school's office Wednesday morning, she sensed that today would be one of those days when she was needed everywhere at once, with everyone thinking his or her crisis was the most pressing.\n\nCaroline Greer was standing between Mrs. Canetti and Mrs. Hinich, the mothers of two of Skye's social-skills group counselees. The principal was trying to keep the two women apart, while they were engrossed in a heated discussion involving loud voices, mean faces, and wild gesticulations.\n\nAs soon as Caroline spotted Skye, she abandoned her arbitration attempts and hurried over to her. The office was crowded with teachers signing in, chatting with each other, and watching Mrs. Canetti and Mrs. Hinich argue, but the principal pulled Skye to a semi-secluded area.\n\nOnce out of earshot, Caroline said in a low voice, \"Help me get these parents into my office.\" She glanced worriedly back at the two antagonists. \"I don't want to do this in public.\"\n\n\"What's up?\" Skye kept a wary eye on the women, who continued their bickering.\n\n\"We have a major problem,\" Caroline said over her shoulder as she darted over to Mrs. Canetti, who was jabbing her finger in Mrs. Hinich's chest. The principal gripped the woman's arm just above the elbow, and motioned with her chin for Skye to take charge of the other mother.\n\nSkye moved into place and waited for instructions.\n\n\"Ladies, let's sit down in private, have some coffee, and talk this over,\" Caroline suggested, tugging on Mrs. Canetti's arm until the much larger woman gave in and began to move. \"I'm sure we can come to an agreement that will be in the best interest of both children.\"\n\nShooing Mrs. Hinich toward the principal's office, Skye passed Fern Otte, the school secretary, who handed her a sheaf of small pink pieces of paper. Fern was a small-boned woman who dressed in shades of brown and flapped her arms as if she was about to fly away. That, along with her tendency to sound as if she were cheeping when she spoke, had earned her the nickname Tweets. Not that anyone was cruel enough to call the fragile woman that to her face, but sometimes it was hard not to slip up.\n\nWhile Caroline poured coffee for everyone, Skye glanced through the while-you-were-out memos. Most of them were from Homer, each succeeding one more agitated than the last. In short, he commanded her to drop everything and report to the high school immediately to deal with the Pass Out game girls.\n\nFrom Homer's increasingly more detailed messages, Skye gathered that the gossip mill had been busy grinding out bigger and more exaggerated accounts of what had happened Saturday night at the infamous slumber party. Now parents whose kids had not even been involved were calling the high school principal in a state of panic, demanding information about what he and the district were going to do about the situation. And Homer, being Homer, in turn ordered Skye to handle the whole mess ASAP.\n\nNeva had left the remaining message. She had called Earl Doozier to come pick up the classroom material for the instruction Junior would be missing due to his suspension. However, Earl had claimed his car wasn't working. Since Neva didn't want him and his brood trooping into her school anyway, she had promised that Skye would deliver the homework\u2014Skye being the only one from the school that Earl allowed on his property.\n\nSkye glanced up from her perusal of the pink slips and saw Caroline fussing with white foam cups, sugar, and creamer. If Fern reminded Skye of a wren, Caroline made her think of a partridge. The elementary principal was short, round, and had a monobosom. She had poufy white hair, black-framed glasses, and a reddish nose.\n\nOnce everyone had been supplied with coffee, Caroline settled behind her desk and said, \"Let's start with a clear picture of what occurred yesterday.\" She clasped her hands. \"Mrs. Canetti, for Ms. Denison's benefit will you please explain what happened?\"\n\nThe muscular blonde frowned, but began. \"Alvin Hinich bit my Duncan during afternoon recess.\" Her short platinum hair bristled as she continued. \"Now Duncan is convinced he has rabies.\"\n\nDuncan Canetti was germophobic. Duncan\u2014or, as the kids called him, Mr. Clean\u2014liked everything to be perfectly orderly and hygienic. So much so that he had persuaded his mother to allow him to have his head shaved in order to avoid ever having a hair out of place. He carried a can of Lysol with him wherever he went.\n\nSkye knew that Duncan couldn't stand being touched, so she could certainly see how having someone's mouth and saliva on his bare arm would upset the boy. Something like that could easily push him over the edge.\n\n\"Alvin didn't even break the skin,\" Mrs. Hinich pointed out, her tone exasperated. \"How in the world can Mr. Clean think he has rabies if there isn't a puncture?\" She huffed and sat back in her seat.\n\n\" _Duncan_ \"\u2014Mrs. Canetti emphasized her son's name\u2014 \"thought he was foaming at the mouth when he brushed his teeth this morning.\" She glared at the other woman. \"He freaked out and has already taken three showers since then. He's rubbing his arm raw.\"\n\n\"And Alvin is traumatized by how his teacher treated him after the incident.\" Mrs. Hinich fingered her dark brown braid. \"He'd been getting so much better lately.\" Her voice broke and she slumped. \"Now he only growls and barks at me when I try to talk to him.\"\n\nSkye knew that Alvin insisted he was a beagle named Spot. However, Skye had been making some headway with both boys. Now, hearing how Alvin and Duncan had regressed, she almost sobbed in frustration. It looked as if all the progress they had made was gone. She made a mental note to check on Clifford, the third member of the social-skills group she'd been conducting for the past six months.\n\n\"You need to stop indulging that child,\" Mrs. Canetti said with a sniff. \"If my son acted like some kind of hound, I'd serve him dog food and make him sleep on the floor until he snapped out of it.\"\n\n\"Sure you would. Because you have such great parenting skills.\" Mrs. Hinich scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. \"Is that why you allowed your son to go bald?\" She shook her head. \"And for heaven's sake, just take away that damn Lysol can. The reason Alvin bit him was because Duncan sprayed it in his eyes.\"\n\n\"Ladies!\" Caroline leaned forward and addressed the two mothers. \"I can understand your concerns, but both of you know that your children have difficult issues and special needs. Which is why I'm sure you can sympathize with each other's challenges.\"\n\nThe women refused to meet Caroline's gaze. Neither one seemed willing or able to empathize with the other's tribulations.\n\nWhile the principal's statement had been diplomatic, it hadn't gotten them anywhere, so Skye decided to try a more direct approach. \"Mrs. Canetti, I assume that if Duncan got over his rabies paranoia that would satisfy you. You'd drop the matter.\"\n\n\"Yes.\" The blonde nodded. \"If he comes out of the bathroom and stops scrubbing himself bloody, I'm willing to overlook the assault.\"\n\n\"And Mrs. Hinich, I assume that if Alvin stops growling and starts talking, that would satisfy you.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Skye took a deep breath. What she was about to suggest was most certainly not recommended in the school psychology best practices manual. However, since no other immediate solution came to mind\u2014therapy certainly did not produce rapid results\u2014she said, \"Mrs. Canetti, stop at the drugstore and pick up a tube of antibiotic ointment\u2014a brand Duncan has never seen before. Then ask the pharmacist to paste a label on the box reading RABIES VACCINE.\"\n\n\"Will he do that?\" Mrs. Canetti asked. \"Isn't that illegal or something?\"\n\n\"I think if you explain the problem, the pharmacist will be willing to help you out.\" Skye shrugged. \"If he isn't able to, then you can create a label on your computer, print it out, and stick it on the package yourself.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Mrs. Canetti sound uncertain, but she took a breath and nodded.\n\n\"Once you have the carton fixed up, show your son the medicine, then apply it to his arm and tell him he'll be cured in half an hour.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\nSkye cut off Mrs. Canetti's protest and turned her attention to the other mother. \"Mrs. Hinich, you need to rent a DVD of _Cats and Dogs_.\"\n\n\"What\u2014?\"\n\nSkye interrupted her. \"Watch the movie with Alvin and point out that the star is a beagle who talks. Emphasize throughout the film that the dog doesn't just growl.\" She bit her lip. She hated reinforcing the boy's fantasy, but she would deal with the fallout from that shortcut later, during group. \"Make sure you stress that the dog communicates using words.\"\n\n\"Well...\" The brunette paused, then twitched her shoulders. \"It's worth a try.\" She shook her head. \"If he's not talking by the time his father gets home, my husband will smack him with a rolled-up newspaper.\"\n\nSkye did a double take and barely stopped herself from commenting. That one sentence explained so much about Alvin's behavior. Why had his mother never mentioned it before? Did she honestly not realize that her husband's conduct might be influencing her son's actions?\n\nRealizing she'd been lost in thought, Skye recovered and asked, \"How about you, Mrs. Canetti? Are you willing to take my suggestion?\"\n\n\"Sure.\" The blonde picked up her purse from the floor and stood. \"A tube of antibiotic ointment is a heck of a lot cheaper than a visit to the doctor, which is about my only other option.\"\n\nOnce the women had departed, Skye explained to Caroline about Homer's problem and requested permission to leave the elementary school as soon as she checked on Clifford. Caroline agreed. Pausing at the secretary's desk on her way out, Skye asked Fern if she could use the phone.\n\nHaving decided that Neva's issue was the least urgent, Skye called her and wheedled permission to make the Doozier delivery tomorrow. Normally, she would have offered to take the homework to Junior after work, but she figured that Wally might want her to accompany him to interview Fawn that afternoon.\n\nNeva granted Skye's request to spend the afternoon at the high school. However, she wasn't pleased that Skye would miss her regular stint at the junior high, and told Skye to inform Homer that she expected reciprocal consideration the next time she needed Skye's presence on a day the psychologist was supposed to be at his school.\n\nSkye considered it best to speak to the Pass Out game girls as a group, so when she arrived at the high school and found out she was still lacking one consent form, she pacified Homer about the delayed intervention by proposing that she write a letter that he could send to all parents that afternoon via their students.\n\nShe promised Homer that in the note she would clarify what had happened during the slumber party, offer recommendations as to what to look for if they were worried their kids might be participating in the game, and include a list of ways to discuss the dangerous pastime with their teenagers. She also swore she would conclude the document with a paragraph assuring the parents that the school was aware of the situation and was dealing with the students involved.\n\nIt took Skye the rest of the day to do the research and write the letter\u2014then rewrite it again and again until Homer approved. Just before quitting time, she finally reached the mother of the one girl who still had not turned in her counseling consent form. The woman promised to drop off the permission slip herself the next morning since her daughter kept \"forgetting\" to bring it to school.\n\nFeeling as if she'd been on a supersonic bullet train all day, Skye was so relieved to drive out of the high school parking lot that she forgot that Wally had asked her to call him when she got off work. Ordinarily she would just stop by the station, but he'd explained that it was best for her to phone, since he wasn't sure where he'd be or what they'd need to do regarding the investigation.\n\nPulling over to the side of the road, Skye turned on her cell. As soon as the device powered up, she saw that there was a voice mail from Wally.\n\nAfter pressing multiple buttons, she finally persuaded her phone to play Wally's message. \"Sugar, I have to go to Laurel to talk to the chief there about Fawn Irving. I'll be in touch as soon as I get back, which should be before six.\"\n\nSkye smiled to herself. That meant she finally had time to visit her parents. She hadn't had a chance to see them since Wally had told her about May's change of heart regarding their marriage, and she wanted to talk to her mom before May planned the whole wedding without her.\n\nNormally Skye's mother worked afternoons at the PD, which meant May was usually just starting her shift when Skye was leaving school. However, she knew her mom had taken Wednesday off this week to attend a special meeting of her knitting group that night.\n\nSince Skye didn't knit, she had no idea why a special meeting would be needed\u2014maybe a new way to purl had been discovered\u2014and she didn't care. As long as it meant May would be home, it was all good.\n\nSkye's parents lived a few miles east of town, off a two-lane blacktop. In the spring, summer, and fall it was a pleasant drive, but during the winter, the trip could be a terrifying experience. After a snowstorm, cars slid into the ditch like pucks across an air hockey table.\n\nSkye had a December birthday, and the first time she drove down that road after getting her license, she managed to flip her cousin's old Volkswagen. When she and her cousin had crawled out of the passenger-side window, the Beetle had looked like an upside-down turtle. It was a miracle that neither of them was injured.\n\nThe sound of her tires crunching the white pea gravel on her parents' well-tended driveway interrupted Skye's journey down memory lane. Her father's old blue pickup was missing from its normal place in front of the garage, which meant Jed was probably still working somewhere on the farm.\n\nConsidering the cold, rainy weather they'd had this March, he wouldn't be in the field planting yet, so he was probably in the machine shed getting the tractors ready for the season. Either that or doing one of the hundred other chores that comprised a farmer's life.\n\nSkye gazed over the acre of property that was her parents' pride and joy. During the spring and summer, Jed kept the lawn in better shape than a lot of golf course putting greens, but today the only signs of life were a row of bright yellow daffodils under the picture window and the purple crocuses around the miniature windmill.\n\nAs Skye got out of the Bel Air and walked toward the back patio, she noticed that her mother's concrete goose was dressed in a diaper and bib, with a blue ruffled cap on its head, a pacifier held in one wing and a baby bottle in the other. _Shoot!_ The fowl's attire reflected May's desires, and Skye had been hoping for an Easter Bunny costume. She would have settled for a wedding gown.\n\nTrust her mother to skip the wedding and zero in on the grandchild she so desperately wanted. Skye frowned, then mentally slapped herself. The whole world did not revolve around her. The bird's costume was probably intended as a hint for her newly married brother and his wife.\n\nStill, Skye girded herself for battle as she opened the back door of the redbrick house. It was always difficult to predict her mother's frame of mind, and Skye liked to be prepared for the worst.\n\nEntering the large kitchen, which was bisected by a counter edged with two stools, Skye noticed that, as always, the taupe floor tiles were pristine, the dark brown granite countertop was spotless, and the white sink and chrome faucet sparkled as if they were brand-new. Dirt and grime didn't stand a chance against May's elbow grease. And dust bunnies quaked in terror of her vacuum.\n\nPots were bubbling on the stove, but Skye spotted her mother standing by the opposite wall talking on the phone. May gestured that she'd be only a minute, and Skye opened the refrigerator. She made a moue of distaste. Her mom's preference for Pepsi products over Coke never ceased to amaze her. Still, she was thirsty, so she grabbed a bottle of soda from the shelf, poured some into a tumbler, added ice, and took a seat at the round glass table in the dinette.\n\nMay hung up the receiver and said, \"That was your brother.\" She opened the oven and slid a cookie sheet of dinner rolls onto the wire rack. \"Vince is such a good boy. He calls me every afternoon before I go to work to see how Dad and I are and to tell me what he wants for lunch the next day.\"\n\n\"How are he and Loretta doing?\" Skye had long ago accepted that Vince could do no wrong in her mother's eyes, but the fact that May didn't bring Skye her lunch still hurt a little. \"I haven't seen them since Dad's birthday.\"\n\n\"They're fine.\" May closed the oven door and set the timer. \"They've decided to build since they couldn't find a house they like.\"\n\n\"That's nice.\" Skye had wondered if that would happen. It was a sacrifice for Loretta to move from Chicago to Scumble River, and she knew Vince would do whatever it took to make her happy there. \"Have they found the property they want yet?\"\n\n\"Dad's giving them an acre of that farmland he bought a couple years ago.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Skye got up and leaned against the counter. \"That will save them a bundle.\"\n\n\"When you're ready to build, you can have an acre out there, too.\" May added salt to the contents of one of the simmering pots. \"Wally told me his annulment should be finished in a month or so, and I know he doesn't want to live in that old place of yours. Something is always blowing up, catching on fire, or flooding in that house.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 15**\n\n# There's More Than One Way to Pet a Cat\n\nSkye felt stunned by her mother's declaration, but knew May well enough to make her clarify her assertion. \"Did Wally actually say he didn't want to move in to my place, or are you assuming he doesn't want to live there because you don't like old houses?\"\n\nSkye had been hoping that Wally was unaware of, or at least not bothered by, Mrs. Griggs's antics, but she might have been deceiving herself. He'd always seemed more amused than upset when each new catastrophe occurred. Could he have fooled her into thinking he wasn't perturbed by the ghost's tricks?\n\n\"I don't assume.\" May drew herself up until her five-foot-two frame seemed to tower over her much taller daughter. \"He said, and I quote, 'Skye's poured so much money and energy into that house, I'd like to build her a new one that has everything she's ever wanted.'\"\n\n\"That's really sweet of him.\" Skye ran Wally's words through her mind, then smiled. May's understanding of what Wally had said wasn't the only way to interpret his statement. Since he didn't believe that the previous owner was haunting them, maybe he thought the house was in worse shape than it really was.\n\n\"He's a practical guy,\" May commented, her lips pressed into a thin line. \"He's learned the hard way that an unhappy wife is a recipe for disaster, and he won't make that mistake again.\"\n\n\"That's one way of looking at it,\" Skye admitted. \"However, I think what he meant is that he wants me to be happy\u2014and I love my house.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" May wiped an imaginary spot off the countertop next to the stove. \"But you should still let him build you your dream house.\"\n\n\"Why?\" Skye took a swig of soda. \"We can finish fixing up my place for half of what new construction would cost. I already did the roof and shingles, as well as the plumbing and electrical work. And I just finished remodeling the kitchen and master bath. Those projects were the most expensive renovations.\"\n\n\"Wally can afford to give you the best.\" May took the makings for a tossed salad from the fridge and started peeling carrots, ignoring Skye's arguments.\n\n\"How do you\u2014\" Skye stopped herself just in time and changed what she had been about to say to, \"How do you get the carrot shreds so thin?\"\n\nWhile May explained her culinary technique, questions raced through Skye's mind. Had her mother found out that Wally was the son of a Texas oil multimillionaire\u2014which would explain her sudden second thoughts regarding his suitability as Skye's groom?\n\nOr did she mean that as the chief of police he made a good salary? Having grown up poor, then lived the life of a farm wife for the past forty years, May would consider Wally's income a lot of money.\n\nAs far as Skye knew, she was the only one in town that Wally had told about his father's wealth. However, his ex-wife had known, and she'd visited Scumble River a few months ago. Could Darleen have told May? The two women weren't exactly buddies, but...\n\nNo. If her mother had had any inkling of Wally's family's wealth, she would have blurted it out long ago. May wasn't the subtle type.\n\nHaving decided that there had to be another explanation for her mother's sudden about-face regarding Wally, Skye brought the conversation around to the real purpose of her visit. \"So, Mom, since you and Dad are now offering us land to build a house, I guess you've changed your mind about my fianc\u00e9.\"\n\n\"Well.\" May looked over Skye's shoulder, refusing to meet her daughter's eyes.\n\nIt was a well-known fact that May hated admitting that she might have made a mistake. Actually, now they she thought about it, Skye couldn't remember hearing her mother say the words \"I was wrong\"\u2014ever.\n\n\"Yes?\" Skye was not about to let this opportunity pass. May had put both her and Wally through too much hell the past two and a half years for Skye to allow her mother to pretend it had never happened. \"So, what made you decide it was okay for me to marry Wally?\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake,\" May huffed, \"I don't know why you have to make such a big deal out of everything.\" She sneaked a peek at her daughter. \"It's not as if I disowned you when you got engaged to him.\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye raised a brow. \"You only pretended it was a phase I was going through, and kept throwing Simon in my face any chance you got.\"\n\n\"I just wanted to make sure you picked the right guy.\" May arranged the lettuce, carrots, and cherry tomatoes in three salad bowls, concentrating on the task as if she were about to enter her creations in an art show. \"Simon seemed more your type. You always liked boys who could discuss books and stuff with you.\"\n\n\"Wally's intelligent,\" Skye objected. Granted, his taste in reading was questionable since he was into techno thrillers, which bored her to tears. But she'd been luring him over to the light side, and he was now reading humorous mysteries as well. \"He's a college graduate, and no one runs a police department for long if they're stupid.\"\n\n\"I'm not saying Wally isn't smart,\" May protested. \"What I meant is that he seems more macho and small town, and you always went for the smooth, cultured guys. The kind who liked to go into the city.\"\n\n\"True.\" Skye frowned. Her mother was right about the type of man she'd been attracted to in the past, although Wally had always been the exception. \"I guess my tastes have matured.\" When had her preferences changed? Probably about the time she had decided she liked living in Scumble River and was no longer counting the days until she could move away again. \"I don't think many people know what they really want in their teens and twenties.\"\n\n\"Humph.\" May sniffed, clearly unconvinced.\n\n\"Wally's a lot more sophisticated than you might think.\" Skye swallowed a grin. What would her mother think if she knew that Wally had regularly summered in Europe the first twenty years of his life? And he hadn't traveled via cattle class on some commercial airliner, but on one of the many private jets owned by his father's company.\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"Anyway, Wally's intelligence and refinement are not the question.\" Skye refocused the conversation. There wasn't enough vodka in Russia to distract her from the real issue. \"The question is why did you change your mind about the suitability of him as my husband?\"\n\n\"Fine.\" May quit fussing with dinner. \"Since it obviously makes you feel good to torment your mother, I'll make you happy and explain.\"\n\nSkye's only response was to narrow her eyes and cross her arms.\n\n\"It turns out\"\u2014May ran her fingers through her short salt-and-pepper hair, a sure sign she was agitated since she hated it when her waves weren't perfectly arranged\u2014\"that I sort of lost sight for a little while that Wally is a really good man.\"\n\n\"Yes, he is.\" A warm glow washed over Skye at hearing May finally admit it. Until that moment, Skye hadn't realized how hurt she'd been by her mother's disapproval.\n\n\"And seeing how he treats you like a princess, and obviously loves you to death...\" May struggled for words. \"So...\"\n\n\"So?\" Skye smirked. Finally she had her mother on the spot rather than the other way around. \"The fact that he went along with the annulment process, has offered to turn Catholic, and has stated that late-in-life fertility runs in his family had nothing to do with it?\"\n\n\"That's right.\" May turned back to her cooking. \"Now let's talk about something more interesting, like planning your wedding.\"\n\nSkye and her mother were discussing the wedding date when Jed pushed through the swinging doors that led from the utility room into the kitchen. He took off his blue-and-white polka-dotted cap, revealing a steel gray crew cut, faded brown eyes, and a tanned, leathery face, and asked, \"When's supper, Ma?\"\n\n\"Ten minutes.\" May examined her husband's dirty jeans and sweaty flannel shirt. \"Hurry and get washed up before everything gets cold. Clean clothes are on the bed and I put a new bar of Lava in the shower.\"\n\nSkye stared at her father's hands. The scars, ragged nails, and embedded oil were a badge of honor for a life spent fixing machinery and making a living for his family. She knew that Lava was the only thing her mother had found that cleaned the engine grease from Jed's skin. He didn't seem to mind that the pumice-based soap felt like a Brillo pad against his flesh. But then, he was used to hardship, and often stated that he wouldn't have it any other way.\n\nDipping his head in acknowledgment of May's instructions, Jed backed out of the kitchen. He was a man of few words, which was just as well, since his wife had enough to say for both of them.\n\nSkye heard the door of the bathroom off the utility room click shut, then went over to the cupboard, took out a stack of dishes, and started to set the table. It went without saying that Skye would stay for dinner. If you were in May's house when mealtime rolled around, she fed you. And no one left her kitchen hungry.\n\nNot that Skye minded. Her mother was a fabulous cook and had a plaque from a culinary contest to prove it. She also had a trophy, but Skye's name was engraved on it instead of hers. How her daughter instead of May had won top honors was a topic neither woman was inclined to discuss.\n\nWhen Skye grabbed the butter dish from the fridge, her mother said, \"Put that by your dad's plate. You and I need to use this new Smart Balance spread I found. It only has forty-five calories.\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye shook her head. \"In the case of butter or margarine, I always pick butter. I trust cows\u2014chemists who make fake food, not so much.\"\n\nMay opened her mouth to argue, but a burst of music made her pause. As soon as Skye recognized the tune \"When You're in Love\" from _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_ , she rushed into the utility room. It had taken her over an hour and much reading and rereading of the instruction book, but she had finally managed to program that song into her cell as Wally's ringtone.\n\nSkye grabbed her purse from where she had dropped it on top of the clothes dryer and dug through it until she found her phone near the bottom next to a Tic Tac, a broken pencil, and a grocery receipt from two weeks ago. Wanting to catch the call before it went to voice mail, she quickly flipped it open.\n\nWally's voice greeted her. \"Hi, darlin'. I'm back in town.\"\n\n\"Hi, sweetie. Can you hold on a minute?\" Skye walked into the kitchen, covered the cell's microphone with her hand, and asked her mother, \"It's Wally. Is it all right if I invite him to supper?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" May answered, then asked, \"How fast can he get here? Your dad's not going to want to wait more than five or ten minutes.\"\n\n\"It shouldn't take him long.\" Skye uncovered the phone and said, \"Sorry for making you wait. I'm at my parents' and we're about to sit down to dinner. Want to join us?\"\n\n\"If you're sure it's okay with your mother.\" Wally's voice was cautious.\n\n\"Don't worry. I checked before asking you,\" Skye assured him.\n\n\"I'm on my way.\"\n\nSkye propped open the utility room's swinging doors so she could keep an eye on the driveway while she finished setting the table. As soon as she saw Wally's squad car pull in, she hurried outdoors and met him as he strode onto the patio.\n\nAfter a quick hug and kiss, she asked, \"Did the Laurel chief have anything interesting to say about Fawn Irving?\"\n\n\"Let's talk about that later.\" Wally glanced uneasily at the door. \"I don't want to get on your parents' bad sides by holding up dinner.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Skye understood his concern. She was a little anxious herself.\n\nAs they stepped into the kitchen, May looked up from the counter where she was pouring water into four glasses. Skye held her breath. This would be the true test. Had her mother really accepted Wally as her future son-in-law, or would she remain aloof toward him? A long heartbeat went by, then May put down the pitcher, turned to Wally, and opened her arms.\n\nWally leaned down\u2014he was a foot taller than May\u2014and enveloped her in a hug. Skye saw her mother whisper something in Wally's ear, kiss his cheek, and pat his back, then move away.\n\nSkye let out a huge sigh of relief. Before she could ask Wally what her mother had said, Jed strolled through the kitchen wearing nothing but his undershorts.\n\nAs Skye's dad disappeared down the hall, Wally put his arm around her, cocked his head in the direction Jed had taken, and murmured, \"Was that for me? Is your dad marking his territory?\"\n\n\"Nope. We're just between him and his clothes.\" Skye raised her hands palms up and rolled her eyes. \"I bought him a robe for his birthday, but Dad's not one to stand on ceremony. He figures Mom and I have seen him in his Jockeys before, and if you're going to be part of the family, you might as well get used to the sight, too.\"\n\nOnce Jed was dressed, he returned to the kitchen and took his seat at the head of the table. Skye subtly steered Wally to the place across from hers; all they needed was for him to take May's chair by mistake. As soon as Wally was settled, Skye brought her dad a can of Budweiser. Since Wally was in uniform, she knew he wouldn't want a beer.\n\nMay put a platter of crispy fried veal cutlets in the center of the table. Bowls of homegrown sweet corn that May had frozen last August, creamy mashed potatoes, silky gravy, and a basket of hot dinner rolls were then arranged around the main course. Individual tossed salads were already set to the right of everyone's plate, and a bottle of Thousand Island dressing, Jed's favorite, and French, May's choice, were next to the salt and pepper.\n\nOnce they had helped themselves, May said to Wally, \"I think you and Skye should get married at the end of September. Skye mentioned June, but six months is the minimum we'll need to plan the wedding.\"\n\n\"Uh.\" Wally took a quick bite of veal, indicated that he couldn't talk with his mouth full, then shot a questioning glance at Skye.\n\n\"Mom, as I explained, the wedding needs to be this summer. Otherwise we'll have to wait until a year from June.\" Skye blew out an impatient breath. \"You know I'm not allowed to take extra days off during the school year.\"\n\n\"We are not waiting another fifteen months. And that's nonnegotiable.\" Wally's voice was firm.\n\nSkye, Wally, and May continued to argue about dates\u2014Skye adamant that she could not take off work during the school year, Wally unwilling to delay their marriage until next summer, and May determined to put on the big wedding she'd always dreamed of for her daughter.\n\nWhile the others continued to debate the issue, Jed ate in silence. Finally, between mouthfuls, he grunted, \"Christmas vacation.\"\n\n\"That's a great compromise!\" Wally beamed at his future father-in-law. \"We can get married the Saturday after Christmas.\" He took out his wallet and slipped a pocket calendar from one of the slots. \"That would be December thirtieth.\" He turned to Skye. \"I remember you saying that you have a full sixteen days off for winter break this year, so you'd have the week before the wedding to get ready and we'd have the week after for our honeymoon.\"\n\n\"But Skye already hates having a birthday so close to Christmas,\" May protested. \"Now she'll have an anniversary then, too.\" She was not fond of settling for anything less than getting her own way.\n\n\"True.\" Skye considered her options, then smiled. \"However, if we get married on December thirtieth, we can celebrate our anniversary by going somewhere warm and tropical every winter.\" She turned to her father. \"You're a genius, Dad.\"\n\n\"Yep.\" Jed nodded and spooned another mound of potatoes onto his plate.\n\nOnce Father Burns had been called and confirmed that the church was available on the date they'd agreed upon, the four of them discussed Jed and May's recent weekend getaway. A half hour later, as her mother cleared the table, Skye started to put the scraped and rinsed plates into the dishwasher.\n\nMay noticed what she was doing and screeched, \"Wait! Those aren't clean enough.\"\n\nSkye had thought it odd that, considering her mother's fanaticism about spotlessness, May had agreed to the dishwasher when Vince and Loretta had had it installed for her a couple of weeks ago.\n\n\"You know, Mom,\" she said, raising a brow, \"I think there may be a support group for women like you.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"You know, people who feel the need to wash their plates before putting them into the dishwasher to be washed.\"\n\nMay _tsk_ ed, clearly not amused by her daughter's foolishness.\n\nOnce the kitchen was returned to its usual spotless state, May walked Skye and Wally to the door.\n\nAs they reached the threshold May said, \"Did I tell you that I got your dad to play mini golf?\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye stopped dead. \"How in the world did you get him to do that?\" Jed's idea of a great vacation was sitting in either a bar or a casino, not taking part in what he would consider a silly game.\n\n\"Well, we went with Maggie and her husband,\" May explained. \"And they had a certificate for four free rounds of miniature golf.\"\n\n\"Dad loves a freebie,\" Skye told Wally, then turned to her mom. \"So it was you who bought the gift certificate for Maggie in the first place?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\nWally and Skye were still chuckling when they got outside and headed to their cars.\n\n\"I need to stop at the station for a second, and then I'll meet you at your house,\" Wally said, getting into the Caprice. \"If it's okay with you, I was thinking we'd go talk to Fawn Irving about her husband's disappearance.\"\n\n\"Sure. See you in a few minutes.\" Skye waved as she slid into her Bel Air and backed out of the driveway. She was giggling again, thinking about her mother's maneuverings and her father playing mini golf, when a wisp of memory flitted across her mind. She straightened her spine and turned off the radio, trying to lure the elusive thought back, but it was gone.\n\nFrustrated, Skye hit the steering wheel. What was it about miniature golf that had triggered an idea about Alexis's murder?\n\n# **CHAPTER 16**\n\n# Nervous as a Cat\n\nA few minutes later, when Skye arrived home, she was still thinking about mini golf and murder, but Bingo's demands for supper, fresh water, and a clean litter box pushed the notion to the back of her mind. When the cat was taken care of and Wally still hadn't arrived, Skye made a quick call to her Grandma Denison to tell her that a date had finally been set for the wedding.\n\nBy the time she finished talking to her grandmother and went back outside, Wally was pulling up to the front walkway. He stopped the squad car, leaned across, and opened the passenger door.\n\nAs Skye slid into the seat, she demanded, \"So tell me what you found out about Fawn and her husband.\"\n\n\"As we thought, the Laurel police are well aware of those two.\" Wally put the Caprice in gear. \"They had suspected for quite a while that Fawn's husband was abusing her, but they could never get any evidence. Although Fawn was frequently seen around town with cuts and bruises, she always claimed that she was just clumsy.\"\n\n\"Which is fairly typical for a battered woman,\" Skye commented, buckling her seat belt. \"As I understand it, they're either too ashamed or too terrified to admit that they're being assaulted.\"\n\nWally turned out of the driveway and onto the blacktop. \"The problem is that even though the police are able to press charges when the victim won't, they have to have more than just a gut feeling in order to get a case to stick.\" He wrinkled his forehead in disgust. \"And no one ever saw Irving raise a hand to his wife.\"\n\n\"Isn't that how it always is?\" Skye said. She was having trouble concentrating on the conversation because her dad playing mini golf had popped back into her brain. \"It's the same way when I file a report with Children and Family Services. There's not much DCFS can do if the child denies the abuse. And, naturally, there are never any witnesses willing to come forward.\"\n\n\"Of course.\" Wally took Skye's hand. \"Very few people are willing to put themselves at risk to try to help someone else.\" He kissed her palm, then turned his attention back to the deserted country road. \"The fact that you always do is one of the things I love the most.\" He grinned. \"Well, that and everything else.\"\n\n\"Ah.\" Skye traced a finger down Wally's cheek. \"You are so sweet.\"\n\n\"Guys do not want to be thought of as sweet.\" Wally made a face.\n\n\"Why?\" Skye frowned, remembering that Simon had also objected to that description. She'd never understood why he hated it. \"It's a compliment,\" she assured Wally. \"Women love sweet men.\"\n\n\"No, they don't.\" Wally shook his head. \"They say they do, but if they're telling the truth, why do they always go for the guys they think are hot instead of the ones who treat them well?\"\n\n\"Unlike men?\" Skye cocked an eyebrow. \"I believe the expression 'trophy wife' was in existence long before the term 'toy boy' was coined.\"\n\n\"All that proves is that both genders want someone sexy rather than nice.\" Wally eased up on the accelerator as he expertly guided the squad car through a series of sharp curves. \"Which is why _sweet_ is not how I want you to think of me.\"\n\n\"Well, you're definitely hot.\" Skye licked her lips suggestively, then winked. \"Believe me, you have no worries on that front.\" She leaned back, sighing contentedly. \"And in only nine months you're finally going to be my husband.\"\n\n\"Or we could fly to Vegas the day after school gets out for the summer. Then we'd only have to wait ten weeks rather than nine months.\"\n\n\"My mother would kill us both.\" Skye cringed. \"After Vince and Loretta eloped, Mom made me swear on a stack of her favorite cookbooks that I'd have a big wedding.\" Skye crossed her arms. \"And I made her promise that she wouldn't turn it into a three-ring circus, like my cousin Riley's over-the-top platinum spectacle.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" Wally shuddered. \"That extravaganza was plain ridiculous.\"\n\n\"And that was _before_ the body turned up.\" Skye shook off that awful memory, and getting back to the matter at hand, asked, \"What did the Laurel chief say about Mr. Irving's disappearance?\"\n\n\"Well, here's the deal.\" Wally's ears turned red, which told Skye he didn't approve of his fellow chief's actions. \"Since Irving was a pain in the as\u2014uh\u2014butt, no one is too concerned that he's not around anymore.\" Wally twitched his shoulders. \"Fawn reported him missing, the police filled out all the paperwork and put him in the system, but no one is actively looking for him.\"\n\n\"How about his employer?\" Skye asked, then lost her train of thought when an image of a demented killer running around a miniature golf course distracted her.\n\n\"Irving didn't have a job.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" What was her subconscious trying to tell her about the murder? Since she had no idea, she tried to concentrate on the topic they were currently discussing. \"What were the circumstances of his unemployment?\"\n\n\"Irving had worked on an IDOT road crew.\" Wally tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he turned down a rutted gravel road. \"Supposedly, he hurt his back when he slipped on some ice last winter. But the Laurel police say he was just bone-idle.\" Wally pressed his lips together in disapproval, then added, \"Either way, Irving's been on disability for the past year or so.\"\n\n\"How about his parents or siblings?\" Skye found it hard to believe a man could vanish and no one cared. Even one who seemed as thoroughly disliked as Mr. Irving. \"Did he and Fawn have any children?\"\n\n\"No kids.\" Wally guided the squad car around a series of potholes. \"And when the police talked to Irving's parents and sister they essentially said, 'Good riddance to bad rubbish.'\"\n\n\"Ouch.\" Skye shook her head. \"Who was this guy, Attila the Hun?\"\n\n\"Yep.\" Wally grimaced. \"Or maybe his meaner younger brother.\"\n\n\"Again, ouch.\" Skye wondered about the man's backstory. In her experience as a psychologist, she had found that few people were born evil. Generally, something in their history pushed them in that direction. Still, that was no excuse if Mr. Irving had been abusing his wife.\n\nFor the next few miles the only sound in the squad car was the crackle of the police radio. Eventually, after several minutes of deep breathing, Skye was able to push her obsessive thoughts about miniature golf to the back of her mind. Maybe if she ignored it, the answer would materialize\u2014sort of like when you stopped watching the toaster and the Pop-Tarts finally came up.\n\nEntirely focused for the first time since Wally had picked her up, Skye said, \"You know what I keep forgetting to ask you?\" Wally shook his head, and she continued, \"Has Alexis's body been released? Has the funeral been scheduled? Does her family live in the area?\"\n\n\"No, no, and we haven't found her next of kin yet.\" Wally turned down a dirt road, this one even more rutted than the last. \"Both of the vic's parents are dead and she was an only child.\"\n\n\"So who _is_ her next of kin?\" Skye asked. \"Did her folks have siblings? Doesn't she have uncles, aunts, cousins?\" Skye's extended family was so enormous, it was hard for her to imagine anyone not having a lot of relatives\u2014even if they didn't live close by.\n\n\"Each parent had one sibling, but the mother's sister died several years ago, and Alexis didn't keep in touch with her father's brother, so we're having some trouble tracking him down.\"\n\n\"I guess that means there's not much of a chance that a family member killed her?\" Skye asked, still hoping for a better suspect than Elijah.\n\n\"Probably not.\" Wally swung the Caprice into a long tree-lined lane. \"According to the vic's neighbor and self-proclaimed best friend, Alexis has had no contact with any relatives for as long as the BFF knew her. And the last address we found for the uncle was New Zealand. He's some kind of merchant seaman.\"\n\n\"How about Alexis's bestie?\" Skye asked. \"Maybe she killed her.\"\n\n\"The neighbor has an ironclad alibi.\" Wally chuckled. \"She spent the night in jail on an indecent exposure charge. Turns out she got a little drunk at some party and mooned the mayor of Clay Center.\"\n\n\"Shoot.\" Skye tilted her head. \"If she has to have an alibi, the least she could have done was flash Scumble River's head honcho.\" She snickered. \"I'd pay good money to see Uncle Dante's face if that happened.\"\n\nWally chuckled as he stopped the squad car on a gravel-covered rectangle to the side of the farmhouse. The area was illuminated by a halogen pole lamp\u2014the kind that came on at dusk and turned off at sunrise\u2014and it was clear to Skye that it had been a long time since any of the buildings had seen a paintbrush. Apparently, Mr. Irving hadn't spent his time off work keeping up his property.\n\nWally got out of the cruiser and walked around to open Skye's door. As she was exiting the Caprice, Fawn Irving emerged from the barn. She was carrying a carton of canning jars and didn't notice her visitors until she was nearly on top of them. Then her hands flew up and the box crashed to the ground.\n\nRecoiling at the clattering of breaking glass, Skye yelped, then took a breath and said, \"Fawn, I'm so sorry we startled you.\"\n\n\"It's my fault.\" Fawn's cheeks turned scarlet, and she hid her face by squatting down and inspecting the contents of the smashed carton. \"My husband, Lee Harvey, always said I was clumsier than a goat on stilts.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he didn't mean it.\" Skye shot Wally a look. He hadn't mentioned that Mr. Irving shared a first name with a famous assassin. What in the world had his parents been thinking?\n\n\"Oh, I'm sure he did mean it,\" Fawn said, \"since Lee Harvey said it nearly every day for the past thirty-some years.\" Fawn picked up the box and straightened. Facing them, she said, \"Now, I bet you aren't here to discuss my klutziness, so...\" She trailed off, her brief show of spunkiness evaporating like an August raindrop on a tin roof.\n\n\"Do you remember me? I'm Skye Denison from the cat show?\" Skye waited for the other woman to nod, then touched Wally's forearm and said, \"This is Chief Boyd, from the Scumble River Police Department. I believe you talked to Sergeant Quirk earlier.\"\n\nFawn nodded again, but remained silent. Her blue eyes were wide and her shoulders were tense. She stood flinching, as if expecting a blow.\n\n\"We need to ask you a few more questions.\" Wally took the carton from Fawn and said, \"Would it be okay if we talked inside? It's too cold to stand around out here.\"\n\nFawn bit her lip, and it was clear from her posture that she wanted to refuse, but suddenly she sagged and led them to the back door and into the kitchen. She flipped on the light and pointed to a couple of wooden chairs pulled up to an old walnut table.\n\nGrabbing the kettle from the stove, she asked, \"Would you like a cup of tea?\"\n\n\"No, thank you.\" Wally took a seat and fished his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. \"I've been drinking coffee all day, so I'm already sloshing.\"\n\n\"I'd love a cup.\" Skye smiled. \"It's always nice to meet another tea drinker. What's your favorite kind? I like Earl Grey.\"\n\n\"Lipton.\" Fawn's tone was dry. \"Lee Harvey didn't hold with spending money on anything fancy.\" She opened a cupboard and took down two thick white mugs. \"He said there was no difference between the expensive stuff and what you could buy at Aldi for half the cost.\"\n\nAldi was a discount grocery chain that offered a nice selection of mostly generic and low-end products. The prices were good, but the store's system of metal gates and turnstiles, as well as the charge for shopping bags and the cash-and-debit-card-only policy kept some people away. Still, the supermarket was a boon to families on a budget.\n\n\"Aldi is great,\" Skye agreed. \"I like a lot of their products, but I do indulge myself when it comes to tea and chocolate.\"\n\nFawn didn't comment, instead asking, \"Do you take sugar or lemon?\"\n\n\"Sweet'N Low if you have it, otherwise sugar is fine.\" Skye paused, thinking of Fawn's display at the cat show, which had indicated she bred Oriental Shorthairs. Finally Skye said, \"Pardon me for asking, but if your husband didn't like you to spend money on fancy stuff, what did he think of your cat-breeding business?\"\n\n\"He wasn't happy when I first started, and he never let me enter a show.\" Fawn rubbed her left wrist with her right hand as if remembering an injury. \"But once I sold my first litter, he tolerated my babies.\" She nodded to herself, a thoughtful expression on her face. \"I made sure to keep them out of his way, just like I kept out of his way, and everything was fine.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Skye bit her lip, hating that this fragile woman might have felt so hopeless she'd had to resort to violence to survive. \"Well, you certainly don't have to worry about neighbors complaining since your house is the only one on this stretch of the road.\"\n\n\"Lee Harvey liked being out here on our own, but I sure wish that housing development they keep talking about would go in,\" Fawn said, looking off into space. Then she abruptly changed the subject, asking, \"Would you like to see my cattery?\"\n\nSkye glanced at Wally, and when he gave a slight nod and pointed to himself, then down, indicating Skye should go with Fawn and he would stay where he was, she said, \"I'd love to. How many cats do you have?\"\n\n\"Eight.\" Fawn turned the kettle down to simmer, then motioned Skye to follow her. \"You met Miss Pearl and Miss Opal at the show.\" Fawn led the way down a series of hallways to the back of the house. \"In addition, I have a stud and another queen. I just sold the last kitten from Miss Topaz's litter yesterday.\"\n\nFawn ushered Skye into a large room with multiple windows. From the well-used appearance of the furniture and the old computer in the corner, it was clear that this was where Fawn spent most of her time. When she began dispersing treats, the cats that had been lounging on kitty condos, chairs, and the back of the sofa came running. She introduced Skye to each one, and indicated which liked to be petted and which didn't tolerate strangers.\n\nSkye wondered who had taken care of the animals while Fawn was in the hospital, but she didn't ask, since she wasn't sure how Wally wanted to handle their knowledge of her hospitalization. Instead, for the next fifteen minutes she petted and admired the beautiful cats.\n\nFinally Skye looked at her watch. From Wally's gestures, she had deduced that he wanted to look around the house without the owner's knowledge. Had he had time? She couldn't keep Fawn here much longer.\n\nThe cat breeder noticed Skye checking the time and said, \"I suppose we'd better get back to the kitchen. Chief Boyd will be getting bored.\"\n\nSkye agreed, and with a final stroke for each of the felines that had allowed themselves to be petted, she left the cattery.\n\nOnce she and Fawn were in the hallway, Skye said loudly, \"Thank you so much for allowing me to see your cats. They are really gorgeous.\" She walked slowly, hoping Wally had heard her warning.\n\nApparently he had, because he was sitting where they had left him. Skye noticed that he was slightly out of breath, and as soon as Fawn turned her back to finish making the tea, Skye raised her eyebrows.\n\nWally nodded, then asked, \"Did you enjoy seeing all the cats?\"\n\n\"Definitely.\" Skye smiled. \"Bingo would be so jealous if he saw all their toys.\"\n\nFawn placed a sugar bowl, a teaspoon, and a steaming mug in front of Skye, then fetched her own cup. She joined Skye and Wally at the table, and the three sat in silence while the two women spooned sugar into their tea and stirred.\n\nAfter a long moment, Fawn blew on her tea and took a sip. She swallowed; then, as if making up her mind about something, she said, \"I didn't kill Lee Harvey and I didn't kill Alexis Hightower either, Chief.\"\n\n\"Oh?\"\n\nFawn looked Wally in the eye, her gaze unwavering. \"Both of them were awful excuses for human beings. And it's certainly better to have loved and lost than to put up with that horrible man for the rest of my life. But I decided a long time ago that who lives and who dies is up to the Lord, not me.\"\n\nSkye was surprised to hear Fawn admit that her husband hadn't been a good man. According to the local gossip and the Laurel police, the woman had never acknowledged Lee Harvey was anything but wonderful.\n\n\"That's a good way of thinking,\" Wally said without inflection. \"Unfortunately, at least in the case of Ms. Hightower, I need more than just your word that you aren't the murderer.\"\n\n\"I checked my e-mail when I got home from the disco bowler party and sent a reply around midnight,\" Fawn said. \"I forgot about that when Sergeant Quirk asked me about an alibi, but you can check that sort of thing, right?\"\n\n\"Yes, I believe we can. I'll have the county crime techs look into it.\" Wally made a note. \"Who did you e-mail that night?\"\n\n\"A man who was interested in buying a kitten.\" Fawn ran her finger along the rim of her mug. \"I let him know that I only had one left, and asked him for some information if he was interested.\"\n\n\"Information?\" Wally asked.\n\n\"About his home, how many people lived there, and why he wanted to buy a purebred instead of just adopting a shelter cat,\" Fawn answered. \"I always make sure that my babies are going to good homes before I agree to sell them.\" Her smile was fierce. \"That used to drive Lee Harvey crazy.\" She rubbed her wrist again. \"But I protected them.\"\n\nWally asked a few more questions, then said, \"Thank you for your time.\" He got to his feet and waited for Skye to stand. Then as they walked toward the door, he said to Fawn, \"Until we can verify your alibi, please don't leave town without letting me know.\"\n\n\"Don't you worry, Chief.\" Fawn crossed her arms. \"I'm not going anywhere. This farm has been in my family for a hundred years, and if I didn't let Lee Harvey run me off, nothing will make me leave.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 17**\n\n# While the Cat's Away\n\nOnce Skye and Wally had gotten into the squad car, she asked, \"Did you find anything suspicious or useful when you were looking around the house?\"\n\n\"Nothing obvious.\" Wally rubbed the back of his neck. \"In fact, the only thing that was the least bit out of the ordinary was that there are still men's clothes in the closet and drawers in the master bedroom. So if he left voluntarily, he didn't take his belongings.\"\n\n\"On the other hand, if Fawn killed her husband, she'd know he wasn't coming back and would have gotten rid of his stuff.\" Skye bit her lip. \"I think she's afraid that if he does come back and his possessions are gone, he'll be angry.\"\n\n\"That's one way to look at it.\" Wally stretched. \"Or she's putting on a good show in case his body turns up and the police search her house.\"\n\n\"I guess that could be true.\" Skye shrugged, then said, \"Regarding Alexis's murder, the ME puts the time of death between eleven thirty and twelve thirty, right?\"\n\nWally nodded.\n\n\"So if Fawn really sent an e-mail at midnight there's no way she could have killed Alexis.\" Skye paused, calculating distances and road conditions on Saturday night. \"At the very least, it would take Fawn forty-five minutes to drive from Scumble River to her house, probably closer to an hour if she went the speed limit.\"\n\n\"I agree.\" Wally pulled his cell off his belt. \"Fawn will be in the clear\u2014at least for our case\u2014if the county crime techs are able to confirm she sent the e-mail at the time she said and from her home computer.\"\n\n\"I saw her PC. It's about a hundred years old and money seems tight, so I doubt she has a laptop.\"\n\n\"We'll see.\" Wally punched a series of numbers into his phone. \"I'm going to call the techs right now and ask if they have the ability to determine when, and from where, an e-mail was sent.\"\n\nWhile Wally talked on the phone, Skye freshened up her lipstick. Vince had informed her at her last hair appointment that she was getting too old to go around with bare lips. At the time, she had resented his comment, but later, looking in the mirror, she had to agree that she looked better with some color on her mouth.\n\n\"Good news.\" Wally closed his phone and turned to her. \"The tech says their computer guy can confirm the e-mail info.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Skye smiled. She liked Fawn and wanted to clear her of suspicion\u2014at least for Alexis's murder. Having been married to a man like Lee Harvey, the poor woman must have suffered enough punishment for two lifetimes. \"So that leaves Kyle O'Brien, Lola Martinez, and Ivan Quigley as suspects.\"\n\n\"Don't forget Jacobsen,\" Wally cautioned as he headed the Caprice back to Scumble River. \"Although I know you would like us to overlook him.\"\n\n\"Did you interview Ivan yourself?\" Skye asked, ignoring Wally's comment about Elijah. \"I know you said his housekeeper alibied him, but you also said she changed her statement, which seems pretty fishy to me.\"\n\n\"He's on my list, but not anywhere near the top of the page.\" Wally concentrated on the road. It was a little after nine p.m. and since it was a moonless night, the countryside was completely dark. \"Quigley's motive is one of the weakest of the bunch. Interfering with his chance to have Fawn for his speed date is pretty minor when he can just pick up a phone and ask her out some other time.\"\n\n\"True.\" Skye nodded. \"But it did happen within a couple of hours of Alexis being killed, and as far as we know, she didn't have an altercation with anyone else between then and her death.\"\n\n\"I see your point. We can talk to Quigley together tomorrow.\" Wally's agreement was good-natured. \"But he'll probably call his lawyer and clam up, so it might be a wasted trip. He has a lot of influence in this area and he didn't get as rich as he is by being stupid.\"\n\n\"Well.\" Skye blew out a frustrated breath. \"It's worth a try.\"\n\n\"Sure.\" Wally braked for a deer crossing the road, then waited as two more followed. \"Sometimes guys like that are so used to being deferred to, they're arrogant enough to blurt out something incriminating.\"\n\n\"Who else do we have to interview?\" Skye watched the graceful animals disappear into the woods, hoping they wouldn't become one of her cousins' hunting trophies or fill one of their freezers.\n\n\"No one I can think of,\" Wally admitted. \"We've interviewed everyone from the cat show, a few of them twice. Alexis had no family to speak of and her only friend seems to be the neighbor who is taking care of her cats. The woman with the airtight alibi.\"\n\n\"How about the servers, bartender, deejay, and bouncer?\" Skye asked, remembering that Wally hadn't mentioned the staff. \"Do they have alibis?\"\n\n\"We spoke to all of them on the phone and they claim to have gone home after work.\" Wally's expression was discouraged. \"A couple of them live alone, but no one reported seeing any interaction between the vic and the workers. Heck, the only one Alexis seems to have spoken to was a waitress who brought her a couple of drinks.\"\n\n\"Darn. I suppose that makes the staff unlikely suspects.\" Skye chewed on her thumbnail. \"Unless\u2014was she mean to that waitress?\"\n\n\"Nope.\" Wally glanced at Skye, who was frowning, and assured her, \"Martinez and Zuchowski are checking around to see if there are any connections between the employees and Alexis. But Bunny's recordkeeping leaves a lot to be desired. She hires a lot of employees off the books, and her only means of contacting them is their phone numbers, which are often pay-as-you-go cells. Which means it's hard to tell if the staff has ever crossed paths with the vic before.\"\n\n\"I figured you were on top of it.\" Skye smiled and patted his knee. \"I'm so thankful that you don't get all defensive when I make suggestions. A lot of men would have a problem with that.\"\n\n\"Why?\" Wally drew his brows together. \"I know I'm a good police officer, but no one can think of everything.\" He put his hand on top of hers and squeezed. \"My main concern has always been catching the bad guys. If I was worried about getting my ego bruised, I would never have hired you as the department's psych consultant.\"\n\n\"I know you don't want to be called sweet, so how about awesome?\" Skye teased. \"Or maybe incredible and amazingly wonderful.\"\n\n\"Awesome works for me.\" Wally grinned. \"And hot and sexy are always good.\"\n\nFor the rest of the drive they discussed wedding plans. They agreed to have the reception at the Country Mansion in Dwight\u2014the restaurant that had been the site of their first real date. Skye was fairly certain that the Mansion's banquet facility would be available on December thirtieth, since all the Christmas parties would be over and New Year's Eve wasn't until the next day. But if the restaurant was unavailable, there was always the country club, the American Legion, or even the Grand Union of the Mighty Bulls assembly hall.\n\nSkye already knew which three people she would ask to be her attendants, but Wally wasn't sure which friends he'd ask to stand up for him. She suggested his cousin. Although she had never met the man, she knew he worked for Wally's dad in Texas. But Wally seemed less than enthusiastic about that idea, saying they weren't all that close. They were discussing his other possible choices for groomsmen when they pulled into Skye's driveway.\n\nA second later, the police radio crackled into life, and the dispatcher's voice said, \"Ten-thirty-three at the First National Bank.\"\n\n\"An alarm is going off.\" Wally translated for Skye. \"Martinez is on duty alone tonight. I'd better go back her up. Sorry.\"\n\n\"No problem.\" Skye understood Wally's concern for the young rookie.\n\n\"It's probably nothing.\" Wally stopped the squad car in front of Skye's porch. \"Those alarms go off when a butterfly lands on them.\"\n\n\"Sure.\" Skye leaned over and kissed his cheek, then hopped out of the Caprice and said, \"Go ahead.\"\n\n\"Unless it's too late, I'll call you when I'm finished checking things out.\" Wally waved, put the cruiser in reverse, and took off toward town with his siren blaring and his lights flashing.\n\nSkye was almost relieved that Wally had had to leave. Although she missed him when they spent a night apart, she needed to deal with the Mrs. Griggs situation before he stayed over again. She was fairly sure another instance of coitus interruptus would push him over the edge, making him hate her house, and she'd end up living in new construction when they got married.\n\nIt was already quarter to ten when Skye let herself into the house. But no matter how tired she was, tonight she was going to read the ghost-busting file and figure out what she would need to do to get rid of the former owner's spirit once and for all. Mrs. Griggs's shenanigans with the phones ringing and the doorbell buzzing the previous evening had sealed her fate. It was time for the apparition to go toward the light\u2014or wherever ghosts went when they left this mortal plane.\n\nWith Bingo on her heels, Skye darted into the kitchen and grabbed the exorcism folder, paper, and a pen. The black cat protested loudly when she didn't dish out a second dinner, then hunkered down by his bowl and glared at her as she sat at the table.\n\nSkye chewed on the end of her Bic as she read the instructions for the \"cleansing.\" According to the clippings she had found on the Internet, the task required a willingness to open one's mind to mystical pathways and a certain level of spirituality.\n\nShe could handle that. She definitely had an open mind and she certainly believed that there was more than just what was visible to the eye. As long as the ritual didn't include killing chickens or making some sort of blood sacrifice with a pentagram, she was okay with it.\n\nShe was also reassured to read that an exorcism was intended to banish not just demons, but any spirit that was a source of negative energy and adversely affecting your life. The article claimed that the ceremony had its roots in Native American and druid cultures, and that an average person could safely perform the ritual without the help of a priest or minister.\n\nSo far, so good. Skye pulled the legal pad toward her and wrote:\n\nITEMS NEEDED:\n\nTHREE OR FOUR DRIED SAGE BRANCHES\n\nYARN OR STRING\n\nSMALL SHOVEL OR TROWEL\n\nONE POUND OF SMALL-GRANULE SEA SALT\n\nLIGHTER OR MATCHES\n\nShe had everything but the sage and the salt. The latter could probably be purchased at the grocery store, but where was she going to get sage branches? She was pretty sure they didn't grow on trees.\n\nThe grade school's Pupil Personnel Services meetings were always scheduled for Thursdays at seven thirty a.m. The first item on the agenda was yesterday's situation with Alvin and Duncan. Caroline reported that both students had responded well to Skye's suggestions. Their mothers had assured the principal that the boys would be back in the classroom that morning.\n\nOnce again, Skye had to cut her time at the elementary school short because she had promised Neva that she would deliver Junior Doozier's assignments that morning. However, when she arrived at the junior high, there was a message from Junior's father saying the family would be gone all day on an emergency and asking Skye to bring the homework on Friday instead.\n\nAs she got back into her car, she debated returning to the grade school, but decided that seeing the Scumble River High's Pass Out game girls was more urgent than finishing Perry Underwood's reevaluation. The boy had been in special education since he was three, and he was now completing fifth grade. This would be his fourth re-eval, and Skye seriously doubted there had been much change in his intellectual functioning or his processing skills. Perry's deficiencies had always been in the areas of fluid reasoning and working memory, and while children were taught compensatory learning methods, those abilities rarely improved.\n\nSo far, Skye's day was going incredibly well. She'd scored a win with the Alvin and Duncan issue, and had been able to delay her trip to Doozierland. Would she be three for three and make it through the lobby at the high school without Homer pouncing on her?\n\n_Yes!_ The principal was nowhere in sight when Skye entered the building. She held her breath as she stopped at the front counter to sign in and grab her mail. Quickly scooping up the contents of her box, she speed-walked down the hall and secured herself behind her office door.\n\nAdding to her sense of well-being, the last permission form from the parents of the Pass Out game girls was among the papers in her box. After getting what she needed from her tote bag and locking it in her desk drawer, Skye turned on her computer and clicked through until she found the student schedules.\n\nHer luck was holding. All eleven girls had eighth period study hall together. Skye wrote passes for them, dropped them off for Opal to distribute, and left Homer a note explaining her plans.\n\nThe bell rang as she walked back to her office, and she checked her watch. It was ten twenty-five, third hour had just ended, and Trixie's planning period was fourth. Deciding, for once, to take the fifteen-minute break she was entitled to according to her contract, Skye headed to the library. It was time to tell her best friend that she had finally set her wedding date, and to ask her to be her matron of honor.\n\nAfter a detour to the staff lounge to buy a couple of sodas, Skye found Trixie in the library's storeroom sitting on a stool pulled up to the worktable and typing away on her laptop. Several books were piled around her, including _Writing the Modern Mystery_ , _Deadly Doses_ , and _Self-Editing for Fiction Writers._\n\nTrixie didn't notice Skye until she cleared her throat. As if coming back from another world, Trixie looked up from the keyboard, and said, \"Why haven't I seen you since Monday?\" She clicked the SAVE button and demanded, \"What's been happening with the murder and with the girls involved in that Pass Out game?\"\n\n\"Sorry.\" Skye hugged her friend. \"During the day all three schools have had crises for me to deal with, and I've spent most of my evenings interviewing suspects with Wally. Not that we're getting anywhere.\"\n\n\"How about the girls?\" Trixie asked, shutting down her computer and twisting to face Skye. \"Ashley said it was the first time they had tried the game, and they couldn't quite figure out how to do it since they all panicked when one of them started to lose consciousness. She promised me they wouldn't try it again.\"\n\n\"I'm talking to the other girls this afternoon.\" Skye took a seat and handed Trixie a can of A&W Root Beer. \"Did you believe Ashley?\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Trixie popped the top of the soda and took a long swig. \"But I told her if I found out she or any of the cheerleaders were ever involved in something like that again, they were off the squad.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Skye opened her Diet Coke and sipped. \"Hopefully if the cheerleaders don't play, the others won't, either.\"\n\n\"So, nothing on the murder?\" Trixie got up and rummaged through a cupboard. \"I heard the best suspect has disappeared. What's up with that?\"\n\n\"First, I'm not convinced Elijah is the killer.\" Skye took the packet of peanut butter wafers Trixie handed her. \"And second, there are still at least two or three other good suspects that don't have an alibi, so I really hope everyone doesn't convict him before he even has a chance to explain himself.\"\n\n\"But since the ex-doc ran away, isn't that almost like a confession?\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye tore open the cellophane and selected a cracker. \"In fact, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if Elijah witnessed the murder and the real murderer lured him somewhere and killed him.\"\n\n\"That would be a great plot twist.\" Trixie licked peanut butter from her fingers, picked up her pen, and made a note on a piece of paper. \"I think the eighty-year-old twins did it. Alone they'd be too frail, but together they could pull it off and no one would ever suspect such sweet old ladies.\" Trixie tilted her head. \"Hey, that would be a great title, _The Sweet Old Lady Murderers_.\"\n\n\"I think there's already a book out by that name.\" Skye shook her head. \"Although my understanding is that you can't copyright a title. Still, you wouldn't want to use it and have people think they'd already read your book. Although if it's an old\u2014\"\n\n\"So...\" Trixie cut her off, clearly losing interest in titles and getting back to a topic she found more interesting. \"If you don't think the ex-doctor did it, who do you think is the killer?\"\n\n\"So far my money is on the photographer, but we're going to talk to the rich business guy tonight, so he may move up on my list.\"\n\n\"Cool.\" Trixie widened her brown eyes and pleaded, \"Any chance I can come along? It would be great research for my novel.\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye held up her hand at her friend's protests. \"Sorry, but if I can distract you from homicide for a second, I do have some other exciting news, and an important question to ask you.\"\n\n\"What?\" Trixie perked up.\n\n\"Wally's annulment will be finalized in the next month or two, and we've set the date for our wedding. It's December thirtieth.\" Skye grinned. \"And I'd like you to be my matron of honor.\"\n\n\"No!\" Trixie let out a howl of anguish.\n\nSkye watched, speechless, as tears rolled down her friend's face.\n\n# **CHAPTER 18**\n\n# Playing Cat and Mouse\n\nIt took Skye a couple of seconds to process Trixie's refusal and subsequent waterworks. As soon as she could move, Skye hopped off her stool, put her arms around her friend, and asked, \"What's wrong?\"\n\n\"I. Can't. Be. In. Your. Wedding.\" Trixie sobbed out the words.\n\n\"Why not?\" Skye tilted her head. \"If it's the cost, we can pick out an inexpensive dress, or you can even wear something you already own.\"\n\nSkye thought that maybe Trixie and her husband might be having a rough time financially. Although Trixie made an okay salary as school librarian, Owen was a farmer, and the crops hadn't been good the last couple of years. He had recently begun to breed exotic animals, but she wasn't sure if that endeavor was making a profit yet.\n\n\"It's not that.\" Trixie hiccuped. \"Actually, for once we're doing pretty well.\" She made a face. \"Who knew there was actually money to be made raising llamas and emus?\"\n\n\"Then what?\" Now Skye was really confused. \"I thought you liked Wally and wanted me to marry him. Did Simon get to you or something?\"\n\nWhen Skye had first broken up with Simon, he had tried various outlandish ways to win her back, but that had stopped six months ago, and she thought he had given up. Had he taken his efforts to a new level, a sneakier one?\n\n\"No.\" Trixie pulled a tissue from her pocket. \"How could you think I'd take Simon's side? Haven't I always said Wally was the man for you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Skye was stumped. \"So why can't you be my matron of honor?\"\n\nTrixie blew her nose. \"Last night Owen surprised me with tickets for a seven-day Caribbean cruise.\" She threw away the used Kleenex and stared dejectedly at Skye. \"We leave December twenty-fourth and don't get back until the day after your wedding.\"\n\n\"Shit!\" Skye put her hand to her mouth. She'd given up swearing for Lent. _Great!_ Now she'd have to go to confession before Mass.\n\n\"My feelings exactly.\" Trixie started crying again. \"I'm always after Owen to be more romantic. To take vacations. And winter break is the perfect time for a farmer to be away.\" She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. \"How can I tell him I don't want to go?\"\n\n\"You can't.\" Skye sighed. \"Unfortunately, I can't change my wedding, either. Negotiating that date was harder than getting the House and the Senate to agree on the national debt.\"\n\n\"How come?\" Trixie sniffed, searching her pocket for another tissue and coming up empty. \"Was Wally really that difficult?\"\n\n\"Not Wally.\" Skye handed Trixie the box of Puffs from the shelves behind them. \"Mom.\" Skye explained May's amazing change of heart, ending with, \"So, since my mother is finally on board with me marrying Wally, I don't want to derail her by insisting on a summer wedding when she claims there isn't enough planning time.\"\n\n\"How about next summer?\" Trixie suggested. \"That would give her over a year.\"\n\n\"Wally doesn't want to wait that long. And truthfully, neither do I.\"\n\n\"Which is totally understandable.\" Trixie exhaled noisily. \"Crap! Crap! Crap! I guess that means I'm going to miss your wedding.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute.\" Skye narrowed her eyes. \"What if I talk to Owen?\"\n\n\"What good would that do?\" Trixie asked, her expression hopeful.\n\nSkye counted on her fingers. \"December is nine months away.\"\n\n\"Right.\"\n\n\"So, maybe Owen can switch the cruise for one that leaves December thirty-first,\" Skye suggested. \"You'd have to rush a little, but I'm pretty sure I read that most ships leave in the late afternoon. So you'd have all day Sunday to get to the port.\"\n\n\"That might work.\" Trixie brightened. \"We leave from Fort Lauderdale, and that's only a two-and-a-half- or three-hour flight from here.\"\n\n\"Which means you could catch a morning plane out of O'Hare on Sunday.\" Skye grinned. \"You'll just have to behave yourself at the reception so you can get up early enough to make it to the airport.\"\n\n\"Darn!\" Trixie grinned back. \"Guess that means only one glass of champagne.\"\n\nPromising to follow Trixie home after school so she could speak with Owen right away, Skye gave her friend a final hug, grabbed her can of soda and the half-eaten packet of crackers, and headed toward the door. She had three hours until she saw the Pass Out game girls. If she worked straight through, she could score the tests from the psych evaluation she'd completed on a third grader who had somehow fooled everyone into believing he could read. Heck, she might even get a couple of reports written before the girls showed up for their session.\n\nAt two forty-five, feeling satisfied with having accomplished so much on her to-do list, Skye greeted the eleven girls with a smile as they trooped into her office. None looked happy to be there, but only a couple seemed out-and-out resentful.\n\nSkye knew the ringleader, Bitsy Kessler, from her cosponsorship of the school newspaper. Bitsy had been a freshman when the _Scoop_ was formed, and had been on its staff for the past four years.\n\nAlthough Bitsy came across as an airhead, and was by no means the sharpest eyeliner in the makeup case, she had shown a real talent for writing on-target satirical humor. Her contributions had been a consistent hit among both students and staff.\n\nKnowing that she would have such a big group at this counseling session, Skye had had the custodian bring in folding chairs. She was just thankful that her office at the high school could actually accommodate such a large number.\n\nOnce the girls were seated in a circle, Skye introduced herself and had them all identify themselves. Regrettably, she knew she probably wouldn't remember all of them, because so many looked alike. Although they claimed to want individuality, they usually adopted similar clothing styles, hair, and makeup. Too bad it would be considered unprofessional and less than therapeutic to ask them to wear name tags.\n\nAfter the preliminaries, Skye said, \"I'm sure you all know we're here to talk about the game you played Saturday night.\" The girls all nodded. \"Can anyone tell me why we're talking about that subject?\"\n\n\"Like, because our parents are freaked out,\" a bubbly redhead offered.\n\n\"True.\" Skye's voice was neutral. \"Any other reason you might find yourself in the psychologist's office because of that activity?\" She looked around.\n\n\"It's dangerous and someone could have gotten hurt,\" a bored-looking blonde recited in a monotone, her voice holding all the sincerity of a padded bra. \"Now that we cleared up that little matter, can we go back to study hall? Some of us have homework to do.\"\n\nSkye ignored the blonde's request. \"I'm glad you realize that it's an extremely risky game. Do you understand that one of you could have _died_?\"\n\nThe blonde continued to gaze sullenly at Skye, although when Skye emphasized the word _died_ , a flicker of comprehension caused the girl's pupils to dilate.\n\n\"No senior trip. No prom. No graduation. No college. No career.\" She checked out the girls' reactions, then stressed, _\"No life.\"_\n\nTheir expressions ranged from indifference to skepticism to surprise. One or two drew in a sharp breath and whispered to their neighbors.\n\n\"But that's the stuff I figured your folks would have already discussed with you.\" She leaned forward and made eye contact with each of the girls, one after another. \"What I'd like to hear about is your feelings. What were you after when you decided to play the game, and what's been your reaction to what has happened since your actions have become public?\"\n\n\"We weren't trying to kill ourselves, if that's what you mean,\" Bitsy protested. \"We were just bored. We didn't have a suicide pact or anything. 'Cause that's only for pathetic losers.\"\n\n\"Totally, dude.\" Murmurs of agreement sounded from the others.\n\nThe redhead said, \"Like, there's never anything to do around here.\" She pouted. \"And, like, none of our parents will let us drive into Joliet or Kankakee by ourselves, which is, like, so bogus.\"\n\nSkye held her tongue. The redhead really needed likeosuction to suck that word _like_ out of her vocabulary for good, but vocabulary was a matter for her English teacher to handle.\n\n\"Heidi read about it on the Internet.\" Bitsy gestured to a quiet brunette. \"So when we got sick of doing each other's hair and nails, she told us about it. We looked it up and it seemed fun.\"\n\nSkye recognized Heidi from the book discussion group she had led last September, and remembered that the teen had mentioned moving to Scumble River when her dad married a local woman. As Skye recalled, the girl hadn't been very happy with the home situation.\n\n\"And was it fun?\" Skye asked, trying to inject interest rather than censure into her tone.\n\n\"Not really.\" Bitsy seemed to have appointed herself spokesperson of the group. \"If my mom hadn't had a heart attack and gotten all uptight and called everyone's parents, none of this would have happened.\" Bitsy frowned. \"It was, you know, awkward.\"\n\n\"You feel your mother overreacted?\" Skye asked. \"And all the other parents as well? That you could have handled the situation on your own?\"\n\n\"Definitely.\" Bitsy nodded emphatically, her copper ringlets bouncing. \"We would have learned a lesson from our experience.\"\n\n\"I see.\" Skye raised a brow. \"Well, experience is an excellent teacher.\" She paused, then added, \"Too bad the homework she gives is so rough.\"\n\n\"Truthfully\"\u2014Bitsy sighed\u2014 \"we couldn't quite figure out how to do it.\"\n\n\"It's my fault.\" Heidi spoke up. \"The others were ready to forget about it when I found a video on the Web. It showed someone using a belt and hanging themselves from the top of their closet door.\"\n\n\"Is that what you used?\" Skye asked, wondering how anyone thought something like that would be fun.\n\n\"Uh-huh.\" The blonde still sounded like she would rather be doing calculus than talking to Skye. \"I'm the lightest, so I said I'd try it.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Bitsy poked the other girl in the shoulder. \"But you panicked when you started to lose consciousness. And when Ashley tried to help you, you kicked her in the stomach.\"\n\n\"Then Ashley screamed,\" Heidi said, \"and Mrs. Kessler came running in. Once she saw what was going on, she went ballistic and yelled for Mr. Kessler.\"\n\n\"And once Dad got involved\"\u2014Bitsy shook her head, a look of disgust on her face\u2014\"the whole thing became a freaking nightmare.\"\n\nBitsy's statement seemed to open the floodgates for the others, and all the girls began to chime in. Skye sat back, allowing the teenagers to talk, processing the events for themselves. She occasionally clarified or refereed, but mostly observed for the rest of the time.\n\nThere were three minutes left in the period when Bitsy whined, \"I still say none of this is our fault and we shouldn't be the ones in trouble.\"\n\nSkye hid her smile. \"Why is that?\" She'd been watching Bitsy, and it had taken her nearly forty-five minutes, but the girl had finally come up with an excuse. Skye couldn't wait to hear it.\n\n\"If that guy at the door to the bowling alley would have let us in to hear the music, we wouldn't have gotten so bored,\" Bitsy explained.\n\n\"The bowler disco party didn't start until ten, though, right?\" Skye asked. \"What time did you girls decide to play the game?\"\n\n\"Like, an hour or so after we went back to Bitsy's house,\" the redhead volunteered. \"But, like, I heard that the music sucked. Someone said it was like the guy had never, like, deejayed before. So, like, no loss.\"\n\n\"Totally,\" the blonde agreed. \"The _real_ problem was that Bitsy's mom and dad didn't keep their promise to take us to Bolingbrook to play miniature golf and stuff at Wilderness Falls.\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Bitsy shrugged. \"They had some lame excuse about it being too cold and rainy, but they just didn't want to have to do it.\"\n\nBefore Skye could respond, the final bell rang. As the teenagers filed out of her office, she made sure the girls knew that she was available for an individual counseling session if they felt the need. None of them appeared eager to take her up on her offer.\n\nOnce she was alone, Skye closed her door, pulled her chair back around behind her desk, and called Homer. While she was assuring the principal that she was satisfied that the girls appeared to understand the consequences of such an unsafe game, and that their actions had arisen from boredom, not self-destructive tendencies, she quickly typed up a short note to that same effect to be sent to the girls' parents.\n\nHanging up the phone, she clicked on the PRINT button. As she watched the printer spit out a dozen copies of her letter, it hit her. _That_ was why her dad's miniature-golfing adventure had been bugging her. She sagged back in her seat. Was it possible? Could she really have figured out where Elijah Jacobsen was hiding?\n\n# **CHAPTER 19**\n\n# Scaredy-cat\n\nAs Skye followed Trixie's Civic out of town and into the countryside, she assessed her conclusion regarding Elijah's whereabouts. Her first inclination had been to phone Wally with her idea, but she had hesitated. What if she was wrong? She hated to look stupid, or even worse, to waste everyone's time.\n\nShe needed to start at the beginning and carefully think through her conclusion to see if it was logical. Elijah's note had said he was going into the Wilderness\u2014with a capital _W_ \u2014for forty days. At the time, she didn't think the uppercase letter was important, but now she speculated that it might be extremely significant. Going into the wilderness was certainly a biblical reference, but going into the _Wilderness_ could mean something else, as well.\n\nA week or so ago, Skye had received a Valpak envelope in the mail. Even though the majority of the coupons were usually for businesses miles from Scumble River, she always flipped through them to see if any were local. Like her father, she loved a bargain.\n\nIn the packet, she remembered seeing a voucher for Wilderness Falls Family Fun Center. Had Elijah's household gotten the same coupons? And if so, had the name stuck in his mind?\n\nBefore Skye could decide if the notion was brilliant or ridiculous, she turned into the Fraynes' driveway. By the time Skye stopped the Bel Air, Trixie was already out of her Honda and waiting impatiently by the Chevy's door. The decision whether to tell Wally her idea or not would have to wait until after her talk with Owen.\n\nTrixie pulled Skye from the car's front seat. \"Owen doesn't usually come inside until five for supper.\" She nodded at the white two-story home to her left. \"You don't want to wait in the house, do you?\"\n\n\"Not really.\" Skye tucked the car keys in her tote. \"I'm in a little bit of a hurry. I have something to discuss with Wally, and\u2014\" She interrupted herself. \"Did I mention Wally got called away on an emergency last night?\"\n\nTrixie shook her head.\n\n\"The bank alarm went off,\" Skye explained. \"And when he phoned to let me know that the problem turned out to be a bird that had flown into the window, he said we'd go talk to Ivan Quigley tonight.\"\n\n\"That rich geezer from Brooklyn?\"\n\n\"Yeah, I guess so.\" Skye wrinkled her forehead. \"But he's not that old.\"\n\n\"Geezerhood is bestowed on any guy who is somewhere between not young and not dead.\" Trixie waved her hand in the direction of the garage, equipment shed, and barn. \"Anyway, Owen's probably somewhere around here. Let's find him so you can get going.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Skye hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. \"Which way?\"\n\n\"We'll start with the barn.\" Trixie linked arms with Skye and they started walking.\n\nBales of hay were stacked along one end of the barn and stalls lined either side. Although the odor of the llamas and emus lingered in the air, neither they nor their owner was present.\n\n\"If Owen isn't with his precious livestock, he's probably tinkering with his tractors.\" Trixie led the way to the machine shed.\n\nThe shed's only entrance was a towering door that opened by rolling it to the side. Together Trixie and Skye managed to shove the heavy panel open wide enough for them to squeeze through. The interior was a single cavernous room with corrugated-steel walls and a packed-dirt floor. Arranged in irregular rows were tractors, combines, threshers, and a variety of other equipment that Skye didn't recognize, even though she was a farmer's daughter.\n\nThey picked their way carefully down the center walkway, peering into the shadows cast by the enormous implements. Trixie called out Owen's name, and a few seconds later he slid out from under a hulking metal machine. It was almost as if the huge tractor was giving birth.\n\n\"Hey.\" He got to his feet and wiped his hands on the red bandana he took from his overall pocket. \"Is it suppertime already?\"\n\n\"Nope.\" Trixie stood on tippy toes and gingerly kissed her husband's grimy cheek. \"But Skye's in a hurry and she has a favor to ask you.\"\n\n\"Sure.\" He smiled, creating white creases in the dirt on his face. \"What can I do for you?\"\n\nSkye explained the conflict between her wedding and the Fraynes' cruise.\n\nWhen she finished, he said, \"I think we can fix that problem pretty easily.\"\n\n\"Wonderful.\" Skye felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her chest.\n\n\"I only took the first date because Trixie always wanted to be away for Christmas and not have to deal with both our families, but I know she wants to be in your wedding more than she wants to avoid the relatives during the holidays.\" Owen winked at his wife. \"The travel agent in town is real accommodating. In fact, she mentioned that she's got a big group going that second week, and we could get an even better rate if we went then.\"\n\n\"Thanks so much.\" Skye patted Owen's arm and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. \"I really appreciate you rescheduling your trip for me. My wedding wouldn't be the same without you guys there.\"\n\nIgnoring his filthy state, Trixie hugged and kissed her husband soundly.\n\nAs Trixie and Skye walked back to the driveway, they talked about the wedding plans. While vetoing her friend's idea of Christmas-themed decorations, Skye dug her cell out of her tote bag and tried to power it on.\n\n\"Heck.\" She frowned at the little silver rectangle. \"The battery's dead. I keep forgetting to put it in the charger overnight.\"\n\n\"Oh, well.\" Trixie smiled. \"At least you're somewhere you can use a landline.\" She beckoned to Skye. \"Come on inside and use our phone.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\" Skye followed her friend into the house, down the hall, and into the kitchen. As she dialed, she said, \"I hope Wally doesn't think that what I'm about to tell him is as dumb as it sounds.\"\n\nWally answered on the first ring, and listened without interrupting as Skye explained her theory about Elijah's location. After a moment he said, \"Don't you think that's sort of a stretch?\"\n\n\"I do,\" Skye admitted. \"Believe me, I know how silly it sounds, but I figured I'd better let you make the decision whether to look there or not.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" Wally answered slowly, clearly wanting to think about what Skye had told him before committing himself to a plan of action.\n\n\"It's just\"\u2014Skye twisted the phone cord around her finger\u2014\"I never want you to think that I'm keeping something from you again.\"\n\n\"That's good.\" Wally cleared his throat. \"Because secrets can ruin a marriage.\"\n\n\"I promise I've learned my lesson.\" Skye knew that the last time she had kept something from Wally it had almost destroyed their relationship.\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nAfter that single word Wally was silent for so long, Skye thought they'd been disconnected. She waited a little longer, but when he still didn't say anything, she asked, \"So, what do you think? Are we going to Bolingbrook?\"\n\n\"No, _we_ aren't.\" Wally's voice was firm. \"Zuchowski and I will go.\"\n\n\"But\u2014\"\n\n\"No buts.\" Wally cut off Skye's protest. \"If you're right, and Jacobsen is hiding at this Wilderness Falls, he could very well be dangerous when we corner him. I'm not risking your safety.\"\n\n\"But you could use me as the psych consultant to talk him down,\" Skye pointed out. \"He's a big guy and he might be too much for the two of you.\"\n\n\"No buts.\" Wally repeated himself. \"I'll ask the Bolingbrook police to help us,\" he assured her, then added quickly before disconnecting, \"I'll call you as soon as we get back.\"\n\n\"For crying out loud.\" Skye looked at the receiver in exasperation. \"He just came pretty darn close to hanging up on me.\"\n\n\"We could go to Wilderness Falls on our own.\" Trixie dangled her car keys enticingly. \"I bet I could beat the cops there.\"\n\n\"Never mind.\" Skye blew out a breath. She had no doubt that Trixie, aka Lead Foot Andretti, could get to Bolingbrook way ahead of the police. However, she also had no doubt that she wouldn't be getting married in December if Wally arrived and found them there. \"I have something better to do while Wally's busy.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I'm going to get rid of Mrs. Griggs's ghost.\" Trixie was the only one she had confided in about her problem with the spirit's refusal to allow Skye and Wally to make love in her house.\n\n\"Can I help?\"\n\n\"Do you happen to have a pound of sea salt handy?\" Skye asked, not really expecting an affirmative answer.\n\n\"Actually, I do.\" Trixie hurried into the pantry and returned with a round blue container. \"I like sea salt for cooking and it's cheaper if you buy it in bulk.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Skye decided she might as well ask Trixie about the other ingredient she needed. \"I don't suppose you know where I can get some sage branches?\"\n\n\"As a matter of fact, I probably do.\" Trixie's voice was smug.\n\n\"You're kidding.\" Skye gaped at her friend. \"You've heard of that?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\" Trixie's eyes sparkled. \"A friend of mine is a witch.\"\n\n\"Like Samantha?\" Skye wiggled her nose.\n\n\"Well, as it happens, her name _is_ Samantha.\" Trixie snickered. \"But she's Wiccan, not _Bewitched_. And believe me, she doesn't appreciate the comparison, so if you meet her don't bring it up.\"\n\n\"Sure. Right. Of course not.\" Skye was disappointed. She had been hoping to meet someone magical. \"Does she live close by?\"\n\n\"Her place is a couple of farms down.\" Trixie pointed out the window.\n\n\"Can you call her and see if she'll sell me a few branches?\"\n\n\"Sure.\" Trixie picked up the phone. After a brief conversation with her neighbor, she said to Skye, \"Sam said the sage is on her, and she'll drop off the branches on her way to her office in town. She's an attorney and has to meet with a client at six.\"\n\n\"Terrific.\"\n\n\"Why don't you stay for supper? Then we can go get rid of Mrs. Griggs together.\"\n\n\"Great.\" Skye sniffed. An enticing aroma was coming from a Crock-Pot on the counter behind Trixie. \"What are we having?\"\n\n\"Spareribs.\" Trixie pointed to the fridge. \"You can make the coleslaw while I change clothes, then all I have to do is pop the baked potatoes in the microwave, pour some sauce over the ribs, and stick them under the broiler for a couple more minutes.\"\n\nDuring dinner, Trixie and Skye discussed bridesmaids' dresses, the Pass Out game, and ghosts. Owen ignored all three topics of conversation, ate quickly, and disappeared into the living room.\n\nA few seconds later, when Skye heard loud voices as the TV came on and a commentator announced another political scandal in Chicago, she said to Trixie, \"How come the news always begins with the words _Good evening_ , but then they go on to tell you why it isn't?\"\n\nTrixie snickered as she and Skye started to clear the table. They had finished wiping down the stove and the counters and started to do the dishes, when the doorbell rang. Trixie excused herself and was gone several minutes before returning with a small bundle of sage branches in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.\n\n\"What's that?\" Skye asked, pointing to the yellow notebook page.\n\n\"Sam said this is the method she recommends for cleansing a house of an unwanted being.\" Trixie gave Skye the instruction sheet.\n\nSkye glanced down the page and frowned. \"Everything here looks the same as what I got off the Internet, except this says you should do the ritual between the full and new moons. The new moon was just a couple of nights ago, and I can't wait for it to come again.\"\n\nTrixie looked over Skye's shoulder and pointed out, \"It doesn't say you have to do it during that period, only that it's harder if you don't.\"\n\n\"True.\"\n\n\"So, we can do it tonight. Then if it doesn't work, we can try again in two weeks.\"\n\n\"Good idea.\" Skye turned back to the sink. \"Let's get these dishes done, then go kick some ghostly butt.\" She plunged her hands into the hot, soapy water. \"If nothing else, maybe Mrs. Griggs will be scared into behaving herself when Wally's around.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Trixie stopped dead as she walked toward Skye. \"I almost forgot. Sam mentioned that if you do the ritual wrong, instead of warding off negative spirits, you might end up inviting them over for a playdate.\"\n\n\"It says we need to wrap the sage branches with string, making loops about a half inch apart.\" Trixie squinted as she read the directions to Skye. The two women were sitting at Skye's kitchen table and Skye was attempting to assemble the smudge sticks.\n\n\"Now close your eyes and visualize positive energy flowing into the sage,\" Trixie continued, then giggled. \"What do you think positive energy looks like? Maybe a lightning bolt made of chocolate?\"\n\n\"Shh.\" Skye shushed her friend and concentrated for several minutes.\n\n\"Hey.\" Trixie poked Skye. \"Did you fall asleep? Come on, _CSI_ is on at eight.\"\n\n\"Fine.\" Skye was beginning to regret allowing her friend to participate, but truth be told, she was a little scared of doing the ritual by herself. _Crap!_ She probably should have checked with Father Burns before she started this. What if they conjured up a demon from hell? Refusing to think about it, Skye asked, \"What's next?\"\n\n\"Light that sucker on fire and smoke the meddling old ghost out of\u2014\" Trixie stopped short as her purse flew off the counter and hit her in the back of the head. \"Ouch! What the heck? How did that happen?\"\n\n\"See. You thought this was a game, but Mrs. Griggs is here and now she's clearly ticked off.\" Skye glanced fearfully around the room. \"Maybe I should have asked Father Burns for some holy water.\"\n\n\"We could always make our own.\" Trixie's mouth twitched. \"You know, just get a big pan of water, and boil the hell out of it.\"\n\n\"You are so not funny,\" Skye scolded, then shivered as she felt a chill go up her spine. \"Come on. We'd better do this quickly before Mrs. Griggs decides to throw knives instead of your handbag.\"\n\n\"It was probably Bingo.\" Trixie looked doubtful, but clearly refused to believe in ghosts. \"He must have jumped up on the counter, brushed against my purse, and it...\" She trailed off.\n\n\"Yeah.\" Skye sneered. \"That was Wally's excuse, too. But the trajectory is all wrong. Let's get this show on the road before she starts breaking dishes or something blows up in our faces.\"\n\n\"Right.\" Trixie sobered at Skye's words and said, \"You're supposed to start at the back of the house and walk the perimeter of each room until it fills with smoke.\" She stopped. \"I hope we have enough sage branches. This old place has a lot of rooms.\"\n\n\"Maybe they burn slow.\" Skye got up and stood next to the back door, a box of wooden matches in one hand and the sage in the other.\n\n\"Wave the smudge stick around all the windows and doorways,\" Trixie continued, then read from the directions. \"You're supposed to say 'I banish all negative energies, spirits, and ill will from this dwelling. Go now and do not come back.'\"\n\n\"Got it.\" Skye moved through the house doing as Trixie had instructed.\n\nTrixie followed Skye, and when a window rattled, she muttered, \"This place sure is drafty.\" When a door slammed shut in front of them, she shrugged. \"I didn't know it was so windy out tonight.\"\n\nAn hour later, when the two women came to the foyer, Trixie squinted at the sheet of paper she still held. \"Do the front door three times and say, 'By the powers of three times, only positive energy shall enter thee,' then immediately put the sage outside.\"\n\nSkye complied. Next she and Trixie sprinkled sea salt across all the doorways and windows, and left a small pile in the corners of all the rooms. During this trip through the house, a picture fell off the wall in the bedroom, and in the parlor the glass in the front of the \u00e9tag\u00e8re cracked as if punched by a fist.\n\nBoth women were a little breathless and a lot freaked out when they finished. Skye said, \"I sure hope that's all of it.\"\n\nTrixie dug the instructions out of her jeans' pocket and said, \"Not quite.\" She tilted her head toward the front porch, where they had put the used-up smudge sticks. \"Now we have to cover the sage branches with salt and bury them. Then we shower and have a snack.\" Trixie giggled. \"Eating. Finally something that doesn't require walking up and down the stairs a thousand times.\"\n\nTrixie took the bathroom on the main floor and Skye lent her a robe. Skye put their smoky clothes in the utility room, then headed to the master bath. She would shower as soon as she heard the water from Trixie's go off, then start the washer as soon as she was finished. Even with new plumbing and a new water heater, she wouldn't risk doing all three at the same time.\n\nOnce they were settled in the sunroom with a bowl of popcorn and two glasses of wine, Trixie said, \"Well, I hope that worked.\"\n\nThe lights flickered, and Skye pointed at the TV as it wobbled. \"Oh, oh!\" Before either woman could get up, the set fell to the floor and smashed into several large pieces.\n\nThey sat in appalled silence until Trixie said, \"I think you might need to call in a professional.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 20**\n\n# All Cats Are Gray in the Dark\n\nWhen Trixie left for home shortly before ten, Wally still hadn't called. Skye wasn't sure if that meant the police were still searching Wilderness Falls for Elijah or that he'd been caught, in which case Wally was busy interrogating the ex-doctor. And she wasn't sure which scenario she preferred.\n\nWhile she wanted Alexis's murderer arrested and behind bars, in her heart of hearts Skye didn't believe Elijah was the guilty party. Not, as Wally alleged, because she felt sorry for the poor damaged man, though she did, but because she was convinced it was impossible for someone with Elijah's brain injury to pull off an elaborately plotted murder.\n\nHe didn't have the ability to organize his thoughts, think quickly, and concentrate long enough to carry out his plan. Whoever had left Alexis's car in front of Kyle O'Brien's house had executed an intricate scheme to throw suspicion off him- or herself and implicate the victim's ex-boyfriend. If Elijah killed someone, it would be in a fit of rage, and he wouldn't be capable of covering up the crime afterward.\n\nShe frowned, unhappy with the events she had set in motion and equally unhappy that she couldn't stop thinking about Elijah. If he was going to take up space in her mind, he should at least be paying rent.\n\nSkye tried to distract herself from what was going on in Bolingbrook by taking the next step in planning her wedding. And that meant inviting her old friend, and new sister-in-law, Loretta, to be her bridesmaid.\n\nIf Skye waited much longer to ask her, Loretta might hear about the wedding plans from someone else, and she would be hurt that Skye hadn't been the one to tell her. Although May had promised to keep quiet until Skye had spoken to all her friends, Skye knew that her mother would burst if she had to keep the news to herself for long. So the window of opportunity to make the announcement herself was closing faster than a subway train door at rush hour.\n\nIt was late to call the typical Scumble Riverite, but Loretta was from the city, and Vince's years as a drummer in a rock band had made him a night owl. There was no way either of them would be in bed before midnight, at least not to sleep.\n\nLoretta answered on the first ring, her smooth contralto sounding mellow and contented\u2014quite a change from her usual stressed-out lawyer's voice.\n\n\"How's it going?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"Wonderful.\" Loretta chuckled. \"It's so nice to finally find that one special guy that you can aggravate for the rest of your life.\"\n\n\"You and Trixie should get together and do a comedy routine.\"\n\n\"Glad to hear you think I'm funny,\" Loretta countered. \"Now that that's settled, what's kept you up past ten o'clock, sis?\"\n\n\"We've set the date for the wedding,\" Skye blurted out. \"It's December thirtieth.\" She paused. \"And Mom is okay with me marrying Wally.\"\n\n\"Congratulations. On both setting the date and winning May over. How on God's green earth did you do that?\"\n\nSkye explained the process, then said, \"And I'd like you to be my bridesmaid.\"\n\nThere was a silence, and Skye held her breath. Was Loretta angry that she hadn't been asked to be the matron of honor? _Shoot!_ This better not be a repeat of what had happened with Trixie.\n\nFinally, Loretta said, \"Of course I'd love to, but...\" She trailed off and Skye heard a muffled conversation, then Loretta said to Skye, \"You've got to promise me you won't say a word to anyone.\"\n\n\"Except Wally.\" Skye had been burned by vowing confidentiality before.\n\nLoretta let out a loud sigh, then carried on another muffled conversation before agreeing. \"Wally, but no one else.\"\n\n\"I swear.\"\n\n\"We're trying to get pregnant, so I may be huge by your wedding day.\"\n\n\"Oh, my God!\" _Heck!_ Skye shook her head. She'd just taken the Lord's name in vain. There was another Lenten slip she'd have to confess. Pretty soon she'd need to start writing them down so she didn't forget any. \"I hate to tell you this, but Mom already suspects. Wally saw her knitting a baby afghan at work, and her concrete goose is wearing a diaper and carrying a bottle.\"\n\nThis time Loretta obviously didn't bother to cover the receiver because Skye heard the handset go _thunk_ and her friend yell, \"Vince Denison, did you tell your mother we're trying to have a baby?\"\n\n\"No.\" Vince's tone was defensive. \"Why do you think that?\"\n\n\"Because she's knitting baby blankets and her goose is dressed like an infant,\" Loretta shrieked. \"If you didn't tell her, why is she doing that?\"\n\n\"How should I know?\" Vince's voice cracked. \"I swear on my drum set, I didn't say a word to anyone.\" He tried to calm his hormonally crazed wife with humor. \"Maybe Mom has ESP, or she's been rifling through our trash can and saw all the pregnancy-test kits.\"\n\nAfter a few more minutes of bickering Skye interrupted. \"It's probably just wishful goose dressing. Doubtlessly Mom has been planning the birth of her grandchild since the moment she found out you and Vince got married.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Loretta sounded skeptical. \"But if she knows before my mom, someone's goose is going to be cooked, and it won't be mine.\"\n\n\"Anyway...\" Skye didn't know what else to say. Having met Loretta's mother, she sympathized with her friend's panic. Mrs. Steiner was even scarier than May. \"I still want you in my wedding even if you have to waddle down the aisle. It's not how you look, it's that you're the person I want with me on that day.\"\n\n\"Then of course I'll be your bridesmaid,\" Loretta assured her, then laughed. \"Unless I'm already pregnant and just don't know it yet. In that case, the baby may be born the day of your wedding.\"\n\n\"No.\" Skye shuddered at the thought of May crazed with both a wedding and a birth. \"I'm ordering you to hold it in until I get back from my honeymoon.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" Loretta mocked \"I'll get right to work on that.\"\n\nLoretta and Skye talked for another half hour before saying good-bye. Skye hung up and yawned, then looked at the clock. _Holy mackerel!_ It was going on eleven. Why hadn't Wally phoned? She had call-waiting, so she knew she hadn't missed him.\n\nSkye shivered. Maybe he was hurt. What if Elijah had attacked him? Wally wouldn't want to shoot an unarmed suspect, so he might have tried to take down the huge man on his own and been injured. As worse and worse scenarios piled up in Skye's mind, she heard the door opening.\n\nShe ran to the foyer, saw that it was Wally, and flung herself into his arms. \"Are you okay?\" she asked with a catch in her voice. \"What happened? It's been so long that I was getting nervous.\"\n\n\"I'm fine, darlin'.\" He hugged her close with one arm and stroked her hair with his free hand. After kissing her eyes, cheeks, and lips he said, \"Sorry to worry you. But you were right. Jacobsen was hiding in the miniature golf course, just like you thought.\"\n\n\"So you got him?\" Skye asked. \"And no one was hurt? Not any of the police officers or Elijah?\" When Wally nodded, she stepped out of his embrace and took his hand, tugging him fully inside the house.\n\n\"It took us a long time to search Wilderness Falls,\" Wally explained as she led him into the kitchen. \"What with the batting cages, the arcades, and the two golf courses there was a lot of ground to cover.\"\n\n\"But he was there?\" Skye asked, wanting to hear again that she'd done the right thing in sending Wally to the amusement area.\n\n\"Yep.\" Wally took off his utility belt and tie, then sank wearily onto a chair. \"And lucky for us, this time of year the place shuts down at dark so we didn't have to worry about civilians being in harm's way while we searched.\"\n\n\"Are you hungry?\" Skye wanted to hear all the details, but Wally looked so worn-out, she made herself wait to question him. \"I've got some leftover lasagna and garlic bread I could heat up.\"\n\n\"I'm starving.\" He rubbed the back of his neck. \"And I'd kill for a beer.\"\n\nSkye opened the fridge, grabbed a Sam Adams, and twisted off the top before handing the bottle to Wally. While he drank, she microwaved his dinner, then put the steaming plate of food in front of him.\n\nShe waited patiently until he had eaten, then got him another beer and said, \"Start at the beginning and tell me everything.\"\n\n\"Four Bolingbrook police officers were at Wilderness Falls when we arrived and they had already explained the situation to the manager, so we were able to start searching immediately.\" Wally got up and opened the freezer. \"The batting cages and arcades were easily eliminated, but the golf courses are full of places to hide.\"\n\n\"I bet.\" The picture on the coupon had shown a cave and a waterfall.\n\n\"The forty-foot mountain was the hardest.\" Wally came back to the table with a container of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Therapy.\n\n\"So where was he hiding?\" Skye demanded, dying to know where such a large guy could hide from six police officers for so long.\n\n\"Inside a bear.\" Wally handed Skye a spoon and dug in with his.\n\n\"What?\" Skye stopped in midbite. \"He gutted a bear and crawled inside?\" Did Illinois even have bears? She was fairly sure it didn't.\n\n\"Not exactly.\" Wally licked his spoon. \"Wilderness Falls hosts a lot of events, and someone had brought a bear costume for a party and left it there. Jacobsen borrowed the getup and has been wearing it around the mini golf course for the past several days.\"\n\n\"I'm surprised whoever owned the costume didn't come back to pick it up. Surely he or she missed it. And aren't those outfits expensive?\"\n\n\"It looked pretty cheap to me. Probably under a hundred bucks.\" Wally polished off the remaining ice cream in the carton. \"I'm guessing whoever left the thing only got it for the party and didn't care enough to go back for it. Or maybe they lived out of state.\"\n\n\"And no one noticed that there was a bear walking around that shouldn't be there?\"\n\n\"The employees thought he was a new mascot, and the shift supervisor thought corporate had hired him. They already have a moose.\" Wally shrugged. \"The kids loved him and he didn't cause any trouble, so...\"\n\n\"Then how did you figure out Elijah was in the bear costume?\"\n\n\"The manager was going over the list of employees, and I noticed that no one was scheduled to be a mascot,\" Wally explained.\n\n\"That was smart.\" Skye patted his arm. \"Where did Elijah sleep and how did he eat for the past four days or so?\" she asked slowly, still trying to picture the ex-doc dressed up like Smokey.\n\n\"He camped inside the arcade.\" Wally got up, stretched, and yawned. \"There were plenty of pizzas, hot dogs, and sodas around.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Skye cleaned off the table. \"How did he get to Bolingbrook if his car was found at the rec club?\"\n\n\"Jacobsen claims God told him to park the car at the club and make his way into the wilderness on foot.\" Wally made a face. \"Anyway, he said the only wilderness he could think of was the Wilderness Falls he'd seen advertised on a coupon, so that's where he headed.\"\n\n\"Just like I thought.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"But that has to be at least a forty- or forty-five-mile hike.\" Skye visualized the route between Scumble River and Bolingbrook.\n\n\"He said it took him two days.\" Wally started to wash the dishes. \"He slept in some barn along the way.\"\n\n\"Did he resist arrest when you nabbed him?\" Skye dried a plate and put it away.\n\n\"Not at all.\" Wally shook his head. \"Actually, he seemed relieved.\"\n\nOnce they were finished tidying up the kitchen, Skye and Wally climbed the stairs, both turning in to the master bath. When Wally stepped into the shower, Skye was tempted to join him, but his fatigue was evident. Not to mention that Mrs. Griggs's ghost was clearly still haunting the house.\n\nSighing, Skye brushed her teeth and applied moisturizer around her eyes, then put on her comfy nightshirt. This was clearly not the time for a sexy nightgown.\n\nWhen Wally finished drying off, he put on a clean pair of boxer briefs, brushed his teeth, and they both headed into the bedroom.\n\nAs Skye set the alarm for six a.m., she asked, \"Where is Elijah now?\"\n\n\"The county jail.\" Wally pulled down the covers and stretched out on the mattress. When his head hit the pillow, he let out a blissful sigh, then said, \"We took him straight there from Bolingbrook.\"\n\n\"So you're going to interrogate him tomorrow?\" Skye asked as she crawled into bed and snuggled against his side, listening to his heartbeat.\n\n\"There's no need,\" Wally mumbled, already half-asleep. \"He confessed.\"\n\n# **CHAPTER 21**\n\n# Catcall\n\nDespite setting the alarm the night before, Skye and Wally overslept. They didn't wake up until a few minutes before seven, when Bingo meowed in their ears demanding his breakfast. Skye took one look at the clock and made a leap out of bed that might have earned her a spot as a prima ballerina in the Bolshoi Ballet.\n\nIf Skye didn't sign in at the high school by seven twenty, Homer would read her the riot act. Even though he rarely got there before eight a.m. himself, when he did arrive, the principal scoured the time sheet for any employee who had been late. Once he found a victim, he tracked the unfortunate person down and loudly harangued his prey.\n\nA screaming principal would be an unpleasant way to start a Friday morning\u2014or any morning, for that matter.\n\nWally sat up and asked Skye, \"Do you want me to get you a cup of tea or coffee?\" Since his shift didn't start until eight, he had plenty of time to make the short drive into town. Besides, he was the boss, so there was no one to hassle him even if he showed up late.\n\n\"No.\" Skye rushed past him into the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, \"Besides, all the coffee beans in Kona and all the tea leaves in China won't make me a morning person.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" Wally said to her back. \"I'll feed Bingo and give him fresh water.\"\n\n\"Great.\" She added, \"Don't forget to clean his litter box. We don't want any unpleasant surprises in our shoes from Mr. Fastidious.\"\n\nWith no time for a shower, Skye twisted her hair into a loose bun on top of her head, threw on black slacks and a leopard print twinset, and applied a dusting of bronzer to her face. After a quick inspection, she also added a sweep of mascara, patted on some under-eye concealer, and applied bronze lipstick.\n\nTen minutes later, as she sprinted for the front door, Wally handed her a paper sack and yelled after her, \"Meet me at the PD when you finish work today.\"\n\n\"Thanks, sweetie.\" Skye's words became more and more indistinct as she ran down the porch steps. \"See you around four.\"\n\nHoping that the fact that she was sleeping with the police chief would save her from a speeding ticket, Skye pressed the Bel Air's accelerator to the floor and raced the Chevy down the road at twice the speed she usually drove. Four minutes later, tires squealing, she turned into the high school's faculty lot. It was already seven nineteen, and of course there were no spaces anywhere close to the building, so she was forced to park in the worst spot\u2014the one by the Dumpster at the very back of the lot. Grabbing her shoulder bag, she bolted out of the car and dashed for the school's front door.\n\nShe tore across the threshold and glanced at the massive clock hanging on the wall to her left. She was a minute late. There was no one at the counter, and as she approached, Skye could hear the Xerox machine whirring in the adjoining office. Opal must be busy making copies, which meant she hadn't seen Skye's entrance.\n\nPicking up the pen chained to the sign-in clipboard, Skye hesitated. Could she get away with writing seven twenty instead of seven twenty-one?\n\nShe looked around. There were no witnesses. She chewed her lip, trying to come up with a good rationalization for the deceit, but nothing came to her. Putting down the wrong time was cheating. If Homer yelled at her for being sixty seconds late, she would just remind him of all the occasions when she had stayed for meetings long after the official end of her day. Yeah. Right. That would work.\n\nAfter signing in with the correct time, Skye retrieved the papers from her mailbox and headed toward her office. She greeted several teachers on her way down the hall, then settled in behind her desk and flipped open her appointment book. There was only one entry\u2014a reminder about the Doozier homework transport. No PPS meetings, parent consultations, or multidisciplinary committees. _Wow!_ She might actually be able to work with some kids today. Easing back in her chair, Skye took the bag Wally had handed her out of her tote and opened it. Inside, he had packed her both a breakfast\u2014Diet Coke and a package of brown-sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts\u2014and a lunch\u2014a ham sandwich and a Raspberry Zinger. _Shoot!_ Another day when she wouldn't make her healthy-eating goal. And when had he found her stash of Hostess snack cakes?\n\nAfter opening her soda, she tore off the top of the pastry's foil pouch, and enjoyed her delayed breakfast. As she ate, she planned her schedule.\n\nLate morning, after finishing the academic assessment of a student going through a re-eval, Skye phoned the junior high to see if Junior's assignments were ready for her to pick up and deliver.\n\nUrsula Nelson, the school secretary, answered with a brusque, \"Yes.\" She was a gruff woman who didn't seem to like anyone, and who, when spoken to, always appeared annoyed at the interruption.\n\nAfter Skye made her inquiry, Ursula said with a snort, \"Mr. Doozier called a few minutes ago. Apparently he is too busy to deal with his son's missing work and feels the teacher can catch him up on Monday.\"\n\nBefore Skye could inquire about Earl's hectic calendar, Ursula hung up. As per her usual habit, the secretary did not say good-bye.\n\nAlthough Skye was happy not to have to interrupt her day with a trip to Doozierland, she was a bit concerned. The Dooziers were famous for being bone-lazy, so a busy Earl was almost certainly up to no good. He was probably knee-deep in another get-rich-quick scheme, like the petting zoo from which the lion he had rented escaped, or the paintball adventure that had resulted in Skye's resembling an Oompa-Loompa.\n\nStill, not having to make the trip saved her at least a couple of hours, which meant she could complete another portion of the psychological evaluation, and then perhaps even get a start on scoring the tests.\n\nWhen Skye took a breather at noon, she realized that Homer hadn't come looking for her regarding her late arrival and she had wasted all that angst for nothing. Either Homer had bigger faculty to fry, or he was taking the day off. She'd noticed that lately he was rarely at school on Fridays. Did she dare to hope he was using up his sick days and this was a sign that he might be retiring soon?\n\nDeciding to have lunch with Trixie, Skye took her brown bag to the library workroom. Ever since Trixie had made up her mind to write a book, she almost always spent her breaks there. As they ate, Skye told her friend about Elijah's arrest and confession; then for the next twenty minutes the women discussed the case and Skye's wedding.\n\nAs Skye got up to go back to work, she mused, \"I wonder why Mrs. Griggs will let Wally and me sleep together in the same bed, but not make love? She seems fine if we cuddle, but not much more.\"\n\nTrixie ate the last bit of her Suzy Q, then said, \"Maybe she doesn't believe in premarital sex, and once you're legally wed she'll be okay.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't that be nice?\" Skye threw away their trash. \"Hmm. If your theory is true, maybe it wasn't Mrs. Griggs who turned off my alarm this morning. I suppose Bingo could have stepped on the OFF button.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't put it past him. He's a smart cat.\" Trixie wiped the worktable down with a napkin, then said, \"On a completely different subject, how do you feel about Elijah pleading guilty?\"\n\n\"I just don't understand how he did it.\" Skye wrinkled her brow. \"With his brain injury, I would have sworn he was incapable of pulling off that kind of crime.\" She paused. \"Guess I was wrong.\"\n\nAfter saying good-bye to Trixie, Skye headed back to her office, her mind on Elijah. Even though he had confessed, she still felt sorry for him. The poor man had been through so much in his life\u2014losing both his profession and his fianc\u00e9e. The only scenario Skye could come up with was that he had killed Alexis in an impulsive act of rage brought on by the woman's continual bullying. But then, how the victim's car had ended up in front of Kyle's house remained a mystery.\n\nCertainly Alexis's harassing behavior didn't justify Elijah's murdering her. No one deserved that. Nevertheless, Skye hoped his sister would find him a good attorney.\n\nWhen Skye arrived at the police station at a little after four, Wally greeted her at the door. Instead of his uniform, he was dressed in black jeans, a black long-sleeve T-shirt, and a leather jacket. While explaining where they were going, he hustled her out of the building, across the parking lot, and into his personal vehicle, a sky blue Thunderbird.\n\n\"Uncle Dante wants you to do what?\" Skye asked. \"And you agreed?\"\n\nWally slid into the driver's seat. \"I'll tell you all about it on the way.\"\n\nAs Skye buckled up, she demanded, \"But why did you agree to be Uncle Dante's security guard at his self-storage facility auction?\"\n\n\"Because the mayor requested a police presence.\" Wally put the T-Bird in reverse.\n\nThey had only found out five months ago that Dante owned a self-storage business, when he admitted that some of the police files\u2014the ones that were over ten years old\u2014were warehoused there. Without informing Wally, Dante had had the city hall custodians move everything from the PD's basement to his place and was charging the city rent.\n\nIf Skye didn't know how small-town government worked, she might have wondered how the chief of police could be unaware of where all the records were kept, even documents that were stored long before he became the boss. But in a good-old-boy regime, unless you knew the right question to ask, no one would volunteer the information.\n\n\"So you're the police presence?\" Skye twisted to look at Wally.\n\n\"Yes.\" Wally's gritted his teeth. \"Since his facility is in Laurel, it's out of my jurisdiction, and more important, I refused to have my men do Dante's private work while on the public's dime.\"\n\n\"So, instead of compromising your officers, you're doing it on your own time for free. Right?\" Skye asked with a sidelong glance.\n\n\"It seemed the lesser of two evils.\" Wally turned onto the road that would take them toward Laurel. \"Dante's request was more like an order, and I thought it was best to pick my battles.\"\n\n\"But why am I coming along?\" Skye asked. \"Surely, my uncle didn't ask for the psych consultant.\" Her uncle had often voiced his opinion that the Scumble River PD didn't need any blankety-blank shrink on staff.\n\n\"Not exactly.\" Wally grinned. \"But he did demand two security guards.\"\n\n\"Really?\" She giggled. \"I'm the other security guard? He won't be happy.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure why he thinks he needs guards anyway.\" Wally scowled.\n\n\"Probably because he's as much of a jerk to his customers as he is to everyone else. He's afraid someone will object to his selling their possessions when they're only a couple of days overdue with the rent\u2014or whatever the legal limit is. You do realize I'm more likely to throw the first tomato at my uncle than save him.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Wally decelerated for a dump truck turning into the local landfill. \"If there's trouble, which I doubt, I'll handle it. You head for the car and call the Laurel police.\"\n\nSkye hid a smile. Wally had to know she would never leave him alone in that kind of situation, but instead of pointing that out she demanded, \"Tell me about Elijah's confession. How could you drop a bomb like that, then fall asleep before giving me the details?\"\n\n\"I knew you'd be upset.\" Wally's expression was sheepish. \"Sorry.\"\n\n\"Fine.\" Skye crossed her arms. \"Now, how did you make him confess?\"\n\n\"Believe me, I wish I could take the credit, but it wasn't any great interrogation skill on my part.\" Wally's expression was rueful. \"We handcuffed him, read him his rights, and he said he did it.\"\n\n\"Son of a gun!\" Skye wiggled in her seat. \"Did he say why?\"\n\n\"Because God told him to.\" Wally tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. \"Supposedly, sometime toward the end of the bowler disco party, Jacobsen received a heavenly message to go to the basement and kill the vic because she was an unrepentant sinner.\"\n\n\"So how did he get Alexis to go down there with him?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"Jacobsen claims he doesn't recall that part.\" Wally concentrated on navigating the T-Bird around a curve. \"He says his memory's bad.\"\n\n\"Did he bring the cat toy with him?\" Skye asked. \"And why did he use it instead of something more lethal?\"\n\n\"He also claims he doesn't recollect committing the actual homicide.\" Wally blew out an irritated sigh, then muttered almost under his breath, \"In fact, when we asked him to describe how he killed her, he said he stabbed her with his pocketknife.\"\n\n\"That's odd.\" Skye knew the details of the homicide hadn't been released, but the murderer should know how he had done it.\n\n\"I think he's just setting himself up for an insanity plea.\" Wally's lips formed a thin white line. \"Despite his so-called brain damage, he seems to have some flashes of intelligence and cunning. Unfortunately, Zuchowski made a rookie mistake and blurted out that Alexis was strangled with a cat toy, and then Jacobsen quickly changed his tune.\"\n\n\"Oh. Anything else from Elijah's confession that struck you as strange?\" Skye didn't bother to explain the nature of a head injury again. It was fairly clear that Wally didn't believe that the ex-doc's issues were real. \"Did he remember leaving the bowling alley?\"\n\n\"He says he woke up, saw the body, and just went home.\" Wally twitched his shoulders as if his neck was stiff. \"It seems God didn't tell him to stick around or tell anyone that he killed her.\"\n\nAfter a few minutes of contemplation, Skye asked, \"When did God tell him to go into the wilderness?\"\n\n\"The next morning.\" Wally passed a slow-moving Grand Am with its windows down. The weather had warmed up into the seventies and the Pontiac's driver was clearly enjoying the pleasant temperature.\n\nSkye let her thoughts wander; then as Wally guided the T-Bird into the self-storage lot, she said, \"So that's that. Case closed?\"\n\n\"Yep.\" Wally parked the T-Bird beside an extended-cab pickup. \"Jacobsen confessed and we don't have any other leads to follow, so unless something new turns up...\" He trailed off, shrugging his shoulders.\n\n\"And you really, really think that Elijah is the guilty party?\"\n\n\"Not entirely, but as I said, he confessed, so without new evidence, it's out of my hands.\" Wally's tone held a hint of impatience. \"I went over everything with the county prosecutor today and he's satisfied. Unless something comes up in the pretrial motions, the police department's role is officially over.\"\n\nSkye let the matter drop even though she was far from happy with Wally's explanation, and she was silent as he opened her door. Exiting from the low-slung sports car, she examined the storage facility. She'd been here once before while searching for a missing police file, and she still thought it looked like a fifties-style motel, although the fact that it was windowless and surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence with razor wire strung across the top tended to spoil that illusion.\n\nThere were two types of lockers available. The smaller size had a regular pedestrian entrance, but the larger units had a heavy metal panel that rolled up into the ceiling like a garage door. The siding was a dirty tan, and the place reeked of bad luck and desperation.\n\nWhile Skye was pursuing that thought, Dante waddled up to them and bellowed, \"It's about time you got here.\" Short, squat, and with an enormous beer belly, the Scumble River mayor could have been a stand-in for the Penguin on the old _Batman_ TV show. \"The auction starts in ten minutes. Where's the second guard at?\"\n\n\"Right here, Uncle Dante.\" Skye waved from beside Wally, then hid her grin behind her hand when the older man's face turned red.\n\n\"What the hell?\" Dante sputtered, rounding on Wally. \"I told you I wanted two of your people here to protect my property.\"\n\n\"And you have two.\" Wally's face was expressionless, but his fists were clenched. \"Skye works for the police department and so do I.\"\n\nWhile Dante ranted about insubordination, Skye observed the throng gathered near the office. The parking lot was almost full. Most of the spaces were occupied by pickups, but there were a few SUVs, a snazzy sports car, and an expensive sedan. But the vehicle that caught her attention was a beat-up Buick Regal.\n\nThe Buick's exhaust pipe was sticking out from under the passenger door and suspended by a seat belt. Shifting her gaze, Skye saw that the windshield had a spider-web crack and the side mirror was duct-taped to the body. She closed her eyes and shuddered.\n\nIt couldn't be. She quickly scanned the crowd, waiting for the auction to start. Was that a familiar badly dyed blond hairdo near the front? _Oh, oh!_ She couldn't see with all the people milling around.\n\nSkye glanced over her shoulder. Wally and Dante were still arguing, or rather Dante was throwing a fit like a little kid who didn't get what he wanted for his birthday. His pointy, beaklike nose was twitching and he was stamping his foot on the asphalt.\n\nSkye edged closer to the horde of potential bidders, but before she could get a good look, she heard, \"Whoo-ee! If it ain't Miz Skye.\"\n\nIn front of her, waving his arms as if he was directing a 757 to a gate at O'Hare, was Earl Doozier. The pint-size man was wearing red, green, and yellow print Zubaz pants, a white sleeveless T-shirt, and a purple gimme cap with a Copenhagen can embroidered on the front and his ponytail sticking out the back. He patted his little round belly and beamed a toothless smile.\n\nSkye cringed. This was not going to end well. A Doozier's presence at an emotionally overcharged event like an auction guaranteed a disaster.\n\n# **CHAPTER 22**\n\n# Not Enough Room to Swing a Cat\n\nAfter exchanging a few words with Earl, Skye told him that she didn't have time to say \"howdy\" to the rest of the clan that had gathered. While he was still nodding, she slipped away and quickly returned to where Wally and the mayor were standing. She pulled Wally to one side and whispered, \"The Dooziers are here.\"\n\n\"All of them?\" Wally's tone was a mixture of disbelief and horror.\n\n\"Just Earl, Glenda, MeMa, Junior, and Cletus,\" Skye reported.\n\n\"That's more than enough.\" Wally grimaced. \"What are they doing here?\"\n\n\"Hunting for treasure,\" Skye explained. \"Glenda saw some TV show where people were buying old stuff at yard sales and making big bucks selling it online. So when Earl noticed Dante's ad in the paper about this auction, he figured it was easier to buy a bunch of junk in one place than to go from garage sale to garage sale.\"\n\n\"Shit!\" Wally scowled. \"I can't think of any valid reason to ask them to leave.\"\n\n\"Me, neither.\"\n\n\"But it would probably be best if we don't mention their presence to Dante.\" Wally glanced over at the mayor, who was screaming into his cell phone and shaking his fist in the air.\n\n\"Absolutely.\" Skye heartily agreed. \"What my uncle doesn't know won't hurt us.\" Although she didn't know why, Dante had a profound hatred of the Dooziers. He wouldn't care about the niceties of the law; he would simply order the family's removal whether the action was legal or not. \"Do you want me to distract the mayor?\" Skye asked. \"I speak fluent patriarchy even though it isn't my mother tongue.\"\n\nIt took Wally a second, but he finally chuckled and said, \"I'll deal with Dante.\" He tipped his head at the crowd. \"How about you hang around with Earl and his merry band while the sale is in progress?\"\n\n\"That's probably a good idea.\" Skye smiled bravely. Best-case scenario, she could act as a buffer between the family and the rest of the attendees. Worst-case scenario\u2014no, she didn't even want to think of the worst-case scenario, since it would probably involve her getting between an enraged gang of Dooziers and an even more infuriated mob.\n\nWhile Wally headed back toward the mayor, Skye went looking for the Dooziers. Earl wasn't where she had left him, so by the time she found the family, her uncle and his police escort had made their way to the front of the crowd and the mayor was trying to get everyone's attention.\n\nHe wasn't having much luck until the woman standing beside him handed him a megaphone, which he used to shout, \"Okay, folks, listen up.\"\n\nApart from the scuffle of feet and the heavy breathing, people quieted. Everyone, that is, except Glenda Doozier, a tall, meaty blonde wearing a camouflage miniskirt and a matching crop top that were riding up to reveal stretches of dead-white skin both above- and be-lowdecks. Hair dyed one shade beyond believability was swept into a towering beehive with a huge swirl riding low over her forehead. Her earrings, made from bullet casings, dangled nearly into her cleavage.\n\nPeering out from behind the enormous curl, Glenda narrowed her rodentlike brown eyes and said to Skye in a high-pitched, pain-inducing voice, \"Cain't you find nowheres else to stand than beside my man?\"\n\nEarl's wife was not a fan of Skye's, and she was vocally unhappy that her husband didn't feel the same way. Earl had learned through painful experience that disagreeing with his wife was futile, but he darted an apologetic glance at Skye and made a distressed sound.\n\nMeMa cackled at the drama unfolding between Glenda and Skye. The elderly woman had a face like a sock puppet, and was the clan matriarch as well as Earl's grandmother\u2014or maybe great-grandmother. It was hard to keep track of the Dooziers' twisted family tree since every time someone shook it a bunch of nuts fell out.\n\nWearing a neon orange muumuu and her signature red high-top sneakers, MeMa was clearly having a wonderful time. She leaned on a debonair-looking black cane, which she used to prod anyone who got in her way, while voicing loud opinions of the weight, attractiveness, and intellect of those around her.\n\nNext to MeMa, Junior and Cletus, Earl's son and nephew, respectively, giggled and elbowed each other in the side. Skye noticed that they both had large backpacks strapped across their shoulders and she wondered what was in them. In times past, she had warned Earl about allowing the teens to carry guns and he'd promised they would leave the weapons at home. She hoped he had kept his word.\n\nDante squinted in the direction of the Dooziers and Skye held her breath. She crossed her fingers that because her uncle was too vain to wear his glasses, he wouldn't be able to detect their faces in the crowd.\n\nApparently Dante didn't spot the Dooziers among the other people, since after a few seconds, he continued with his speech. \"Cash is king. I'm not taking credit cards, checks, IOUs, or sob stories.\"\n\nA discontented murmur rose from the audience, but Earl hooted, \"I's got the money, Sonny. So let's stop wastin' my time.\"\n\nDante frowned, seemingly still unable to see who was heckling him, then raised his voice. \"Here are my rules. Once the door of the locker is opened, you got five minutes to look around. You can't go inside, open any boxes, or touch anything. I don't want any rough stuff and if you bid, you better have the dough.\"\n\nWith that, Dante nodded to the woman next to him. \"This here's Willie Jo. She manages this place for me and will be collecting the payments.\"\n\nA statuesque platinum blonde waved a bunch of keys in one hand and a pair of bolt cutters in the other, then yelled, \"Let's go!\"\n\nDante stuck out his arm, Willie Jo rested her hand on it, and the mismatched couple led the way through a maze of lockers. As Skye struggled to keep up with Earl and his family, she examined the attendees. They ranged in age from teenagers to octogenarians, affluent to hard up, diminutive to gargantuan, and average-looking to downright odd. For once, the Dooziers fit right in.\n\nSkye hadn't realized the facility was so large. Previously, she'd seen only the front strip of lockers. But finally, after trekking down row after row, Dante and Willie Jo stopped in front of one of the larger units.\n\nDante shouted, \"This is a ten by twenty-five. Cut the lock, Willie Jo.\"\n\nThe blonde snipped off the padlock, rolled the metal door up, and quickly stepped aside as the pack descended. Skye stuck to Earl's side, peeking into the dark, somewhat spooky interior. It held old appliances, particleboard furniture, and a mountain of bulging black plastic trash bags.\n\nEarl turned to his wife and whispered furiously, gesturing avidly at the locker.\n\n\"I don't care if you saw somebody's great-aunt's girdle go for a thousand dollars on eBay,\" Glenda hissed. \"We may a' got married for better or worse\u2014you couldn't do no better and I couldn't do no worse\u2014but...\" She pulled the V-neck of her camo crop top away from her body and pointed down to her boobs. \"Iffen you go over two hunert, you'll never play with these babies again.\"\n\n\"But, honey pie,\" Earl whined. \"Don't youse see that big ol' doll thingy in the back? I bets we could get a ton a money for that.\"\n\nGlenda bent forward and Skye quickly moved behind her to block the view as the woman's camo micro mini crept up, revealing a dimpled derriere that should never have made the acquaintance of a thong. All they needed was Earl having to defend his ladylove's honor from some guy with a smart mouth or a fast hand.\n\n\"Two hunert,\" Glenda repeated. \"Ain't no headless green plastic woman with a phone in her belly worth more than that. The furniture's nothin' but cheap crap, and we don't got no idea what's in those bags.\"\n\nEarl's bid was quickly overtaken by a tall guy with slicked-back hair. His neck was the size of a Sunday ham, and he was dressed in tight black pants and a red silk shirt. He carried a small leather bag.\n\nAs he passed the Doozier clan to claim his locker, the man smirked and said to Earl, \"Step aside for a real player, Shorty.\"\n\nSkye recoiled, waiting for the first punch.\n\nBut Earl just narrowed his beady little eyes and said, \"Dumbass, I ain't short. I is fun size.\"\n\nMr. Silk Shirt paused as if to turn back and say something more, but someone from the crowd said to him, \"Word to the wise. Let it go.\"\n\nWord to the wise? Skye shook her head. Really? Shouldn't that be word to the stupid?\n\nEarl murmured something to Glenda, who nodded, and the pair moved on.\n\nThe next few units were filled with brown paper grocery sacks overflowing with used clothing and more black trash bags holding who knew what. A couple of them smelled so bad they made Skye's eyes water. She'd seen everything from dirty diapers to unwashed dishes, and couldn't believe the rubbish people paid good money to keep in storage.\n\nThe bidding had been lackluster, but the final locker of the sale perked everyone up. According to Dante, it was ten by thirty feet and big enough to store the contents of an entire moving van. As the lock was cut, a wave of excited chatter rose from the attendees, and immediately the crowd surged forward to get a better view. The unit was packed with what appeared to be new merchandise.\n\nSkye was shoved over the threshold and into a stack of cartons. Steadying herself on a pile of boxes that bore pictures of lawn mowers, weed whackers, and leaf blowers, she noticed the words stamped in red ink along the sides and top: PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF VIDERVILLE.\n\nShe frowned. Viderville was a municipality about twice the size of Scumble River, located fifteen miles south of her hometown. Why was its property being stored in Laurel? Almost before Skye could form the question, her uncle grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the locker.\n\nShouting above the multitude of excited voices, the mayor addressed the crowd. \"Sorry, folks. Wrong unit. The ink was smudged. This is three-six-six and we wanted eight-six-six.\"\n\nGrumbling, the mob followed Dante and Willie Jo to another large locker. This one contained an industrial oven, several rolling metal racks, and a mixer the size of a ten-year-old. There were also fifty-pound bags of flour, cornstarch, and sugar, as well as a huge white plastic tub of rainbow sprinkles and several gallon jugs of cooking oil. It looked like a bakery had gone out of business, and Skye heard the folks around her murmuring appreciatively.\n\nAfter a quick huddle with his wife, grandmother, son, and nephew, Earl started the bidding at two hundred dollars. It swiftly climbed upward, and the potential buyers dropped out one by one until Earl and Mr. Silk Shirt were the only two left.\n\nGlenda tugged furiously at her husband's hand as he shouted, \"A thousand!\"\n\n\"Is that all you got in you?\" Mr. Silk Shirt sneered. Then he yelled, \"Eleven hundred.\"\n\n\"Twelve,\" Earl countered. \"Youse got more than that in your itty bitty purse, Mr. Girly Man?\"\n\nSkye overheard Glenda hiss at her husband, \"If youse fell into our fishpond, we'd be skimming stupid offen the top for a month.\"\n\n\"But, sweetums...\"\n\n\"Don't sweetums me.\" Glenda dug her nails into Earl's arm. \"We only got thirteen hundert on us. Do youse want to give Leofanti a reason to mess with us?\"\n\nSilk Shirt checked the black leather bag hanging from his wrist, then screamed, red in the face, \"Twelve fifty.\" Hatred shooting from his eyes like flames, he taunted, \"Beat that, you river rat.\"\n\n\"Twelve seventy-five.\" Earl shook off Glenda's restraining hand.\n\nSkye winced. Earl would surely pay for that insubordination.\n\n\"Dante, let me write you a check,\" Silk Shirt pleaded. \"You know I'm good for it.\"\n\n\"Cash on the barrelhead.\" Dante crossed his arms. \"And if you bid more than you got, I'll have you arrested.\" He nodded in Wally's direction.\n\n\"Jerkwad,\" Mr. Silk Shirt snarled, but he didn't raise Earl's bid.\n\n\"Going once.\" Dante scanned the throng of people. \"Going twice.\" He paused, and when no one raised the bid he said, \"Sold for twelve hundred and seventy-five dollars to the man in the purple cap.\"\n\nSkye pursed her lips. Apparently her uncle still hadn't recognized the Dooziers. Either that or he didn't care that they were attending the sale as long as they had the cash to pay him.\n\nThe crowd quickly dispersed. Those who had bought lockers settled up with Willie Jo and went to find out if they had hit it rich, and those who were departing empty-handed hurried toward the parking lot.\n\nThe mayor insisted that Wally accompany him and the money box to the office. Before leaving, Wally shot Skye a look, and she nodded that she was okay. She pointed behind her, indicating that she would stay with the Dooziers for a little while longer. The family had disappeared into their unit and she could hear excited exclamations as they discovered new treasures.\n\nAs Willie Jo, Dante, and Wally vanished around a corner, Skye let out a sigh of relief that the auction hadn't resulted in a Doozier dustup. However, before she could fully relax, a smirking Mr. Silk Shirt sauntered into sight. With him were two muscle-bound men armed with baseball bats and badass expressions.\n\n_Shoot!_ Skye looked around. They were at the end of a corridor and there was no other way out. She dug in her purse for her cell and her can of pepper spray, wishing she had her Taser.\n\nShe was willing her phone to hurry and find a signal when Earl stepped into the locker's open doorway. He looked at the men coming toward him and fished a pair of spiked brass knuckles out of his pocket. Instantly, Glenda and MeMa materialized next to him. Glenda reached into her ankle-length high-heeled boot and pulled out a switchblade, and MeMa unscrewed the handle of her cane, revealing a fifteen-inch stainless-steel blade.\n\nIt always amazed Skye that the Dooziers seemed to be able to sense when one of their own was in trouble, and they appeared as if out of nowhere to fight side by side. Did they have some sort of psychic bond or did they emit a pheromone like a queen bee signaling her drones? And speaking of drones, where were Cletus and Junior?\n\nWhile Earl, MeMa, and Glenda lined up, blocking the entrance of their unit, Skye moved as far away as she could get. If the boys appeared, she'd have to try to protect them, but the adults were on their own. She told herself that facing your fears might build strength of character, but running from them offered a terrific cardio workout.\n\nThe Silk Shirt gang backed up when they saw the Dooziers' weaponry, but the leader grunted something to the others, and they resumed their positions.\n\n\"No one has to get hurt,\" Mr. Silk Shirt said. \"All you have to do is turn over this locker to me and we can walk away.\"\n\nEarl chortled. \"Oh, yes, somebody does got to get hurt.\" He bared the few teeth he possessed. \"Ain't no one threatens a Doozier and lives to tell the tale.\" Looking behind him, he yelled, \"You boys ready?\"\n\n\"Inna second, Pa.\" Junior's gleeful voice rang out from the unit's interior.\n\nSkye tensed. What were Junior and Cletus up to? She glanced at her phone; still no bars. Everybody loved their cells so much, but what good were they if they never worked when you needed them?\n\nThe Silk Shirt gang exchanged uneasy glances, but the leader said, \"Don't be wusses. We can take one scrawny redneck, a woman, and an old broad.\" He flicked a scornful look at Skye. \"And that fat chick won't be any trouble. Will you, babe?\"\n\nUntil then Skye had been hoping to stay out of the fray, but she really hated being called a fat chick, and _babe_ was almost as bad. Her fight-or-flight instinct had been triggered, and since she couldn't flee, there was only one option left. She slung her purse strap across her chest, checked that her pepper spray was aimed outward, and moved next to the Dooziers.\n\nThe thugs hesitated, clearly unsure of their next move. And as if picking up on their apprehension\u2014sort of like a pair of guard dogs in a junkyard\u2014Cletus and Junior burst out of the locker. They wore matching maniacal grins and held bright blue, oversize Supersoaker water machine guns.\n\nSkye raised her eyebrows. So that's what the boys had had in their backpacks. Evidently Earl had kept his promise about not allowing the boys to go around with actual weapons, and had compromised by buying them squirt guns. Honking huge squirt guns that could probably shoot twenty-five feet with the power of a water cannon.\n\nThe teenagers were pumping the levers as they advanced, and before the Silk Shirt gang could react, Junior darted forward and slid back the handle of his Super Soaker. A stream of oil arced into the air and drenched the three stunned tough guys. Immediately, Cletus followed with his own spray, which appeared to be a mixture of flour and rainbow sprinkles.\n\nThe teenagers continued showering their foes with alternating cascades until their adversaries were coughing and sputtering. The two henchmen stumbled away, but Mr. Silk Shirt charged toward the boys, swinging his bat like an enraged baseball player coming after an umpire who had made an unfavorable call.\n\nWithout considering the consequences, Skye threw herself between the man and the teenagers, aimed her can of pepper spray, and pressed the button. Simultaneously, Cletus and Junior pumped their Super Soakers and fired.\n\nWhile Mr. Silk Shirt turned and ran, clawing at his eyes, Skye was hit with the full force of the oil and flour sprays. Who knew that rainbow sprinkles propelled at a high speed could hurt so much?\n\n# **CHAPTER 23**\n\n# Has the Cat Got Your Tongue?\n\n\"No way. No how.\" Dante shook his head. \"She is not getting in my car.\" He took a step backward, as if to avoid contamination. \"She looks like a giant donut and smells like a rancid bagel.\"\n\n\"If you want me to escort this creep to the Laurel PD,\" Wally said, his tone brooking no argument, \"you will give your niece a ride home.\"\n\nWally had explained to Skye that he'd spotted Mr. Silk Shirt as the guy fled past the storage facility office. Since the man looked suspicious\u2014most of the bidders who were leaving the auction were not covered in goop\u2014Wally had stopped him. Then when the man refused to answer any questions, he'd decided to detain him.\n\nThe slime path led Wally to Skye and the Dooziers, and after hearing that Mr. Silk Shirt had tried to force Earl into giving him his locker's contents by threatening him with a baseball bat, Wally had handcuffed the thug and called the local police.\n\nNow, Wally stood with a firm grip on the guy's upper arm as he waited for a Laurel officer to arrive. He stared at the mayor, an unyielding expression on his face.\n\n\"Don't you forget that I'm your boss,\" the mayor blustered. \"I can make sure that the city council votes not to renew your contract.\"\n\n\"Uncle Dante.\" The flour and oil mixture was starting to harden on Skye, and she was rapidly losing her patience. \"I don't think you've considered the whole situation. Do you really want me to call your sister and tell her you're refusing to take her daughter home?\"\n\n\"She'll understand.\" Dante stood firm. \"May doesn't like a mess any more than I do.\"\n\n\"Maybe. But I'm positive she won't appreciate your threatening to fire my fianc\u00e9.\" Skye brought out the heavy artillery. \"Especially since it means I would have to leave Scumble River when he took a new job elsewhere.\"\n\nA nerve near Dante's right eye twitched, but he whined, \"It's a brand-new Cadillac with leather seats. You'll ruin them.\"\n\n\"Think what Mom will do to your car when her grandchild is born in another state. A little damage to the seats will seem like nothing in comparison to the wrath of May.\" Skye stared down her uncle, then hastily added, \"And no, I'm not currently pregnant.\"\n\n\"Fine.\" Dante pouted. \"But I'm washing you off and wrapping you in garbage bags.\" As he left to find the hose, he said over his shoulder, \"And you have to promise not to touch anything. Especially me.\"\n\n\"Fine.\" Skye turned to Wally, who was having some difficulty keeping a grip on his flour-and-oil-covered prisoner, and waved him away. \"Go ahead. I'll be fine, and if Uncle Dante tries to strand me here, I'll get Mom on the phone to straighten him out.\"\n\n\"It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours to process this scumbag.\" Wally started toward the Laurel squad car that had just pulled into the lot. \"The Dooziers are meeting me at the PD tonight to press charges, but I'll tell the chief that you'll come over Monday afternoon to give your statement.\" He wrinkled his brow. \"How in the heck did you ever get Earl and his kin to cooperate?\"\n\n\"I told them that either they pressed charges against this guy\"\u2014Skye pointed to Wally's prisoner\u2014\"or I pressed charges against them for assaulting me with a deadly water pistol.\"\n\n\"That explains it.\"\n\nAs she walked over to her uncle, who was motioning with one hand and flapping a hose in her direction with the other, Skye asked over her shoulder, \"Are you coming by my house after you finish at the Laurel PD?\"\n\n\"Absolutely.\"\n\nAn unfamiliar vehicle was parked in front of Skye's house when Dante steered his Cadillac between the wrought-iron gates. She squinted at the late-model sedan, trying to figure out who her visitor might be, but couldn't think of anyone she knew who drove a dark blue Chrysler Sebring. Uninvited guests were rarely a nice surprise, and she braced herself for an unpleasant encounter.\n\nWhile most of the males in her family would have asked if Skye knew her visitor, Dante seemed indifferent to his niece's safety. He had barely pulled his Cadillac into the driveway when he squealed to a stop and shoved her, and the plastic bags he had enveloped her wet body in, out the door. As soon as Skye's feet hit the gravel, he threw the car into reverse, zoomed backward onto the road, and sped toward town.\n\nSkye yelled a sarcastic thank-you at the retreating vehicle. It took her a few seconds to fight loose of the plastic, but once free, she gathered the trash bags into a ball, hitched up her purse, and headed toward the front porch, her feet squishing with every step.\n\nMost of her had dried off during the forty-five-minute trip from Laurel to Scumble River, but her shoes were still soaked from the hosing to which her uncle had subjected her. Although she had never quite understood how waterboarding torture worked, she was getting a glimmer of an idea now.\n\nAs soon as Skye neared the house, she saw Spike sitting on her porch swing. Relief washed over her\u2014at least it was a friend and not another crisis coming to visit\u2014and she called out, \"Hey, Spike. I wasn't expecting you. I hope you weren't waiting long.\"\n\n\"No.\" Spike got up, and after Skye climbed the stairs, she continued, \"And since you didn't know I was coming, it would be my own fault if...\" Spike stuttered to a stop when she got a good look at Skye. \"What in the world happened to you?\"\n\n\"It's a long story and I really need to take a shower before I become a papier-m\u00e2ch\u00e9 statue.\" Dante's hosing had helped, but getting rid of flour mixed with oil really required soap, and lots of it.\n\n\"I can see that,\" Spike said.\n\nSkye inserted her key and turned the lock. \"Can you give me fifteen minutes to clean up or is there something you need in a hurry?\"\n\n\"I'm just here to see you. I've tried a couple of times, but never caught you home. I guess I should learn to call first.\" Spike followed Skye inside. \"I'll make us a hot drink while you unmold. Just point me to the kitchen.\"\n\nAfter Skye had bathed, dressed in a pink and black velour tracksuit, and clipped her hair on top of her head, she joined Spike, who had entranced Bingo with a bag of treats she must have produced from her purse. The cat was lying across her lap purring like a diesel engine and literally eating out of her hand.\n\nAs they sipped tea and munched on Oreos that Skye had retrieved from her cupboard\u2014she still hadn't replaced her cookie jar\u2014Spike said, \"I really miss my sweet kitty.\"\n\n\"Chopsticks, right?\" Skye remembered Spike mentioning him in her e-mail.\n\n\"Right.\" Spike stroked Bingo's sleek black fur. \"I found her in back of a Chinese restaurant with her head stuck in a carryout container.\"\n\n\"Is your grandfather bringing her when he moves to Illinois?\" Skye asked.\n\n\"Yes.\" Spike nodded. \"I haven't had a chance to look for an apartment or a car, so I have no idea when that will be. The station is providing me with a rental and putting me up at an extended-stay hotel until I find my own place. And since it's a studio, there's no room for Grandfather, and it doesn't allow pets.\"\n\n\"Are you still tracking down small-town government corruption?\" Skye unscrewed the two chocolate wafers of an Oreo and scrutinized the cream center. After an experience with doctored cookies that had made her ill, she always checked to make sure that nothing had been added to the filling before she ate an Oreo. Some people might have avoided Oreos altogether after an experience like that, but Skye was made of sterner stuff.\n\n\"Yes.\" Spike watched Skye without comment. \"But I'm getting discouraged. As I'm sure you know, it's hard to get people around here to trust a stranger, especially one who doesn't exactly look like their neighbors. I think I'd have an easier time if I was blond with a Swedish last name like Anderson or an Italian one like Votta.\"\n\n\"Maybe. But I do think that the local residents are getting more tolerant. At least I hope so,\" Skye added, thinking about Loretta, Vince, and their future biracial offspring. \"Is your suspect's identity still top secret?\"\n\n\"I guess not.\" Spike wrinkled her nose. \"Just don't call up a rival reporter.\"\n\n\"Cross my heart.\" Skye took a sip of her tea, then put her cup down.\n\nSpike reached into her purse and pulled out a folder. She flipped it open and pointed to a group photo of two women and eight men. \"It's the Viderville Village Board, which consists of six trustees plus the city attorney, the comptroller, the clerk, and the mayor.\"\n\nSkye scrutinized the faces. \"They look pretty typical of a small-town board.\"\n\n\"Don't they?\" Spike scratched under Bingo's chin, sending the cat into a fit of ecstasy. \"However, the tipster claims that any contractors who want to do business within the corporate limits of the village have to obtain a special license. Which means plumbers, builders, electricians, lawn crews, et cetera have to pay to play, as they say in Chicago politics.\"\n\n\"Isn't it usual for towns to charge some sort of fee to verify that workers are legitimate and not ripping off the citizens?\"\n\n\"The tipster claimed the money wasn't going into the town coffers, but rather into the trustees' pockets,\" Spike explained. \"In fact, apparently the mayor and his cronies are making a ton of money skimming from their constituents.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\" Skye half closed her eyes. Why did she think she knew something about that?\n\n\"Anyway,\" Spike continued, \"I've got an appointment with Mayor Todd Urick tomorrow at eleven a.m. He's been putting me off, but he must have gotten tired of me calling every hour so he finally agreed to see me.\" She sighed. \"Although since I have no clout, I can't figure out how I can make him tell me anything important.\"\n\n\"Oh, my gosh.\" Skye covered her mouth, having just remembered what she'd seen earlier that evening at the storage facility. \"I think I might know how to get him to talk.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\nSkye explained about the auction and the brand-new merchandise with PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF VIDERVILLE stamped on its unopened boxes. She finished with, \"So I bet they order materials and equipment that on paper they claim are for various city departments. They use money from the city's budget to pay for the stuff, but when it arrives, they never add it to the departments' inventory. At my school, for instance, we have to stencil the items with a number that corresponds to the master list that the principals keep. But in Viderville, the mayor and his cronies sell the unopened goods and pocket the cash themselves.\"\n\n\"That's it.\" Spike leaped from her chair, scattering her papers and dumping an outraged Bingo from her lap \"Sorry, boy,\" she apologized.\n\n\"Hiss!\" The feline's response was sharp as he ran from the room.\n\n\"Now I've got Mayor Urick right where I want him.\" Spike pulled Skye to her feet, hugged her, and danced her around the kitchen.\n\nAfter Spike had calmed down and picked up her strewn documents, they discussed what Skye had seen in more detail. Once Spike had wrung every last scrap of information from Skye, she leaned back and smiled. \"Now that I have leverage, this is going to be fun.\"\n\nSkye agreed. Then, at the urging of her growling stomach, she got up and opened the refrigerator. Peering inside, she asked, \"Are you hungry?\"\n\n\"Starving.\"\n\n\"There's not much in here,\" Skye reported, \"but I've got a pepperoni and mushroom pizza in the freezer. Is that okay with you?\"\n\n\"My favorite.\"\n\nWhile they ate, the two women discussed their mothers, their jobs, and their cats. Skye had considered asking Spike to be a bridesmaid, but since her friend was also Simon's half sister, it might be awkward, so she contented herself with inviting the younger woman to the wedding. She intended to ask Bunny, too, though she was undecided whether to invite Simon.\n\nIt was nearly ten when Spike left, and a few minutes later Wally walked in the door. While he finished up the leftover pizza and drank a bottle of Sam Adams, Skye jogged his memory about Spike's story. Once he was reminded of her investigation, Skye told him about the merchandise she had seen in the storage locker.\n\n\"If the Viderville board is guilty, I hope Spike nails them,\" Wally said, draining his beer. \"There's nothing more despicable than a dishonest politician.\"\n\n\"Betrayal of the public trust should be a hanging offense,\" Skye agreed.\n\nWhile they watched the late news, Wally said, \"I was thinking that since we've arrested Jacobsen and the case is closed, you and I should go somewhere for a weekend getaway. How does Starved Rock State Park sound? There's the main lodge and a couple of other resorts in the area. We could do a little hiking and have some time alone.\"\n\n\"Perfect.\" Skye snuggled against his side and kissed his cheek. \"I'll ask Trixie to come over and feed Bingo while we're gone.\"\n\n\"I'll call now and see if I can get a room.\" Wally took out his cell.\n\n\"Wonderful.\"\n\nIt took a couple of calls, but Wally eventually reported, \"Check-in is at four, so we should probably leave here about noon. We can swing by my place so I can grab a few things, then stop somewhere along I-80 for lunch. Morris or Ottawa would be good.\"\n\n\"That means we don't have to set the alarm.\" Skye stretched. \"I'm exhausted.\"\n\n\"Me, too.\" Wally yawned.\n\nUpstairs, Skye dawdled in the bathroom until she was sure Wally was asleep. She was afraid of what Mrs. Griggs might pull if they tried to make love. Crawling into bed beside him, she made a mental note to ask Father Burns about an exorcism. The ghost was ruining her love life, and it had to stop.\n\n# **CHAPTER 24**\n\n# Cat-o'-nine-tails\n\nSkye and Wally slept until nine thirty the next morning. Then as they lingered over a late breakfast, she noticed something on the floor, wedged between a cupboard and the stove. Curious, she got up, walked across the kitchen, and fished it out of the crevice.\n\n\"What's that?\" Wally looked up from the newspaper as she sat back down. Since he'd begun spending the night more frequently, he'd ordered Skye a subscription to the _Chicago Tribune_.\n\n\"A picture that Spike had in her small-town corruption file. It's a photograph of the Viderville city board.\" Skye laid the glossy page on the table and pointed to the group portrait. \"Her folder fell to the floor yesterday when she jumped up to hug me, and she must not have seen the snapshot when she picked up the other documents.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" He turned back to the business section. \"Do you think she needs it?\"\n\n\"Probably not.\" Skye ran her finger over the shiny paper, smoothing the creases, then leaned closer. _Hmm_. Why did the mayor look familiar?\n\n\"If you're finished eating, you'd better start getting ready.\" Wally put aside the sports page and picked up the book section. \"I know how long it takes you to decide what to wear, so I'm sure packing will be a lengthy process.\"\n\n\"What?\" Skye stared at the photograph, not listening to Wally. Before he could repeat himself, she said, \"I think that Viderville's mayor was the deejay at Bunny's bowler disco party. Isn't that odd?\"\n\n\"Not really.\" Wally shrugged. \"Lots of people moonlight.\"\n\n\"But he was wearing a wig and had a beard when he was at the bowling alley.\" Skye fetched a black marker from her junk drawer and added a beard and DJ Wonka's elaborate hairstyle to the picture of the bald mayor.\n\n\"He probably wears it to keep his personas separate,\" Wally countered.\n\n\"I suppose that could be it.\" Skye got up and cleared the table; then when another thought hit her, she froze with her hand on the faucet. \"Bunny said DJ Wonka was from Chicago. I'm sure the mayor of Viderville has to live in town, so he fibbed to her about that.\"\n\n\"I'll bet he thinks people will be more likely to hire someone from the city, so he lies about where he lives.\" This time Wally's explanation didn't sound as confident as his previous two excuses.\n\n\"True, but don't you think if an area mayor was also a deejay, we'd have heard about it? I mean, surely the local paper would have done a story. And the _Star_ covers news from Viderville as well as Clay Center and Brooklyn.\"\n\n\"Why are you so interested in this guy?\" Almost before he finished his sentence, Wally shook his head. \"Let me guess\u2014you're still not convinced that Jacobsen is the murderer.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not. Convinced, that is.\" Skye crossed her arms. \"He didn't even know how she was killed. He claimed to have stabbed her.\"\n\n\"I admit that has been troubling me, too,\" Wally said. \"But why did he confess? It certainly isn't for the fame, which is what fuels most false confessions. No one around here seems very interested since the vic wasn't a celebrity and wasn't from town.\"\n\n\"People with Elijah's type of brain injury are very suggestible.\" Skye pursed her lips, thinking. \"Maybe somebody told him to.\"\n\n\"God?\" Wally quirked an eyebrow. \"Seriously? You're suggesting that God told Jacobsen to admit to a crime he didn't commit?\"\n\n\"Of course not.\" Skye blew a raspberry. \"But I do think we should call Bunny and see how she came to hire DJ Wonka in the first place.\"\n\n\"Maybe you're right. I haven't been happy with the resolution of this case, but between the county prosecutor being satisfied with Jacobsen's confession and no other leads to follow, there wasn't much more I could do.\" Wally pulled his cell phone from his pocket, and dialed. After identifying himself to Bunny, he asked, \"How did you find the deejay for your bowler disco party?\"\n\nSkye strained to catch the other side of the conversation, but could hear only Wally's responses, which consisted of, \"Oh. I see. That was convenient. Uh-huh.\"\n\nWhen he disconnected, Wally turned to Skye with a thoughtful expression. \"It seems DJ Wonka contacted Bunny and applied for the job. She says he did it for free.\"\n\n\"Which together with everything else seems strange,\" Skye commented. Suddenly, snippets of conversations in which she'd taken part were sliding into place like the last Legos of a complicated structure. \"You know, a group of girls at the high school said that they'd heard the music sucked. That it was as if the guy had never deejayed before.\"\n\n\"Well, that's certainly interesting.\" Wally stroked his chin.\n\n\"Did Bunny ask for references or question him as to why he wanted to work without pay?\"\n\n\"He told her that he'd heard some of the judges were bartering their services in exchange for the chance to participate in the cat show and speed dating and he'd like the same deal.\" Wally pursed his lips. \"But he didn't take part in the activities. He hung around, but he didn't enter a cat in the show or sign up for the speed dating or attend the awards brunch.\"\n\n\"Did he go to the after party at the Brown Bag?\"\n\n\"No.\" Wally got up. \"In fact, Bunny said he didn't socialize at all.\"\n\n\"Did he have any other alibi for the time of the murder?\"\n\n\"No. All the servers had alibis, but the bartender, bouncer, and deejay didn't.\" Wally paced the length of the kitchen. \"Since they had no contact with the vic, I didn't think they were viable suspects, so I put them at the bottom of the list.\"\n\n\"Which was reasonable at the time,\" Skye assured him. \"You have limited resources and you needed to use the manpower you had to investigate the most likely suspects.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\" Wally walked back and forth. \"However, now I'm beginning to think I should have scrutinized this deejay\/mayor guy more closely.\"\n\n\"That's easy to see now, but you didn't have all the information when you reached your original decision.\" Skye hated to see Wally beating himself up over a choice most people in his position would have made.\n\nHe shrugged, clearly not convinced.\n\nA few seconds ticked by. Then Skye narrowed her eyes as another piece of the puzzle slipped into its slot. \"Frannie mentioned that Alexis's last temp job was for a city official. What if she worked for Mayor Urick and somehow discovered his embezzlement scheme?\"\n\n\"That would give him motive, and we've established he had means and opportunity.\"\n\n\"Holy crap! We need to stop Spike before she confronts him.\" Skye checked the clock above the sink. \"It's ten fifty-five. She's probably already in Viderville.\"\n\nSkye searched frantically for Spike's cell number\u2014why hadn't she programmed it into her phone? She finally located the scrap of paper she'd written it on, stuck in her address book, and dialed it while Wally put on his loafers and fetched Skye's Keds.\n\nShe was slipping the tennis shoes on when the call went directly into Spike's voice mail. She shot Wally a worried look.\n\nHe nodded and said, \"We'd better get over to Viderville and see if she's okay.\"\n\nThey rushed outside and jumped into Wally's Thunderbird. Once they were buckled up, he threw the sports car into gear and they tore out of the driveway. Skye held on to the dashboard and watched the speedometer climb.\n\nAfter a few seconds, Skye caught her breath and asked, \"Should we call the Viderville police chief? Maybe he could check things out.\"\n\n\"No.\" Wally concentrated on the road. \"We can't be sure Chief Eden isn't mixed up with the embezzlement. I can't imagine how the mayor would pull it off without someone on the PD being in on the scheme.\"\n\n\"Maybe I should call city hall and ask to speak to Spike.\" Skye hated sitting and doing nothing while her friend might be in danger. \"I could tell her to get out, or at least to wait for us before she talks to the mayor.\"\n\n\"Go ahead and give it a try, but unless Urick is keeping her cooling her heels, she's already with him. Because if what we suspect about him is true, I doubt he wants her sitting around the waiting room talking to city employees. Or anyone else.\"\n\nA couple of minutes later Skye reported, \"No one's answering. I tried three times and the machine always picks up. The message says that due to a gas leak, city hall is closed for the weekend.\"\n\n\"Son of a buck!\" Wally tightened his grip on the wheel and pressed down harder on the accelerator. \"That doesn't sound good at all.\"\n\n\"Do you think the mayor cleared everyone out so he can get rid of Spike if it turns out she knows too much?\" Skye felt her stomach clench. If only she'd put the pieces together earlier.\n\n\"It crossed my mind.\"\n\nWally made the fifteen-mile drive in less than ten minutes.\n\nWhen he parked the T-Bird, Skye asked, \"Why didn't you pull into one of the spaces in front of the city hall? They were all open.\"\n\n\"Exactly.\" Wally reached into the glove box and withdrew a black calfskin case and a small flashlight. His gun was already in a holster under his leather jacket. He tucked the case and the light into the pocket of his jeans. \"If our car is the only one sitting there, the police might run its plates. And when they come back to me, they might mention it to their chief, who might\u2014\"\n\n\"Contact the mayor,\" Skye said, finishing his sentence. \"Gotcha.\"\n\nWally took her hand as she got out of the Ford. \"We're going to casually stroll by the front entrance and scope out the situation.\"\n\nThere were only a couple of people around. The city hall was on a side street, and the businesses nearby were mostly law offices, real estate firms, and insurance agencies. Skye hesitated when she saw a CLOSED sign on the door, but Wally didn't break his stride, tugging her along and then walking her around the corner.\n\n\"What do we do now?\" she asked when they were safely out of sight.\n\n\"This way.\" Wally led her toward the back of the building to an unmarked door. \"Stand in front of me and pretend we're having a fight.\"\n\n\"Why?\" Skye asked, as he drew the leather case he'd taken from the car out of his pocket. Then: \"Those are lock picks, aren't they?\"\n\n\"Yep.\"\n\n\"Where did you get them?\" She moved into place, blocking Wally's actions from the view of anyone who might happen to glance down the alley.\n\n\"I took them off a burglar when I was a rookie.\" Wally's voice was distracted. \"My sergeant told me to keep them because they'd come in handy someday.\"\n\n\"Have you used them before?\" Skye was fascinated with this side of her fianc\u00e9. He was usually so persnickety about breaking the law.\n\nHe ignored her question. \"Got it. Now we slip inside as fast as we can.\"\n\nWith one last glance behind them to make sure they weren't being observed, Wally eased the metal door open a few inches, waited for Skye to go through, then followed her, quickly shutting them inside. The room they had entered was windowless and pitch-black.\n\nWally produced his flashlight and illuminated the area in front of them. This was obviously a catchall space, full of boxes, old office equipment, and cleaning supplies. Skye felt her nose twitch at the odor of ammonia, and prayed she wouldn't sneeze.\n\n\"See that door to our left?\" Wally whispered. \"I'm betting it leads into the rest of the city hall, so we have to be extremely quiet.\"\n\nSkye nodded, glad she had on her tennis shoes. She put her purse strap across her chest\u2014a location she was beginning to think of as her fighting position\u2014and carefully squeezed past the haphazardly piled paraphernalia blocking her path to the exit.\n\nAs they stepped through the door into a dimly lit passage, Wally extinguished his flashlight. Now they had a choice: Take the hallway in front of them or the one that veered to the right.\n\n\"Let's each go a different way,\" Skye suggested, worried that they were already too late. \"What if we go the wrong way and by the time it takes us to backtrack something happens to Spike?\"\n\nWally hesitated, then reluctantly nodded, prodding Skye toward the side corridor. She stood firm, knowing he thought the one he'd chosen for himself led to the lobby and thus the mayor's office.\n\nHe nudged her again and she shook her head, digging in her heels.\n\nThis time he pushed her a little harder and whispered, \"I'm the one with the gun.\"\n\n\"Point taken,\" she murmured and reluctantly allowed him to follow the more likely route.\n\nShe made her way down the hall in her assigned direction, passing offices on both sides. When the corridor took a sharp turn, she emerged into a reception area. Looking around, she spotted the words MAYOR TODD URICK stenciled in gold leaf on a large interior window. The blinds were drawn, but light seeped between the slats.\n\nSkye wondered where Wally had ended up. She heard his voice inside her head telling her to wait for him, but she ignored it. What if her hesitation resulted in Spike's death? She would never forgive herself, or be able to look Bunny or Simon in the eye again.\n\nThe whole building had an eerily deserted feeling. Skye shivered, then forced her feet to move forward. She crept toward that office, and as she neared it, she could hear a loud whirring noise and raised voices.\n\nSkye was relieved to see that the door was slightly ajar, which meant it wasn't locked. Either something had made Spike nervous or luck was on their side. Skye tiptoed to the gap between the hinge and the door and peered into the office.\n\nOnce her eyes adjusted from the dim lobby to the brightly lit room, her gaze swept the area. Spike was handcuffed to the arm of the chrome chair in which she was seated. Duct tape covered her mouth and bound her ankles. A man Skye recognized from the board's photo as one of the trustees was shoving papers into a shredder and Todd Urick stood a few feet from Spike, pointing a gun in her direction.\n\nThe man who was shredding yelled at Urick above the noise, \"How did this bitch find out about the money? Did you tell that big-mouth wife of yours?\"\n\nThe mayor snorted. \"She didn't know anything, Garth. Until you burst in here waving a gun, she was just guessing. She had no proof. I told you on the phone that I had everything under control. All you had to do was to sit tight and keep your cool. I would have taken care of it.\"\n\n\"Like you took care of that nosy temp worker?\" Garth ran his fingers through his thinning blond hair and sneered. \"We told you to shut her up, not kill her.\"\n\n\"If you all hadn't insisted I give her the hundred thousand from my share, none of this would have happened,\" Urick snapped. \"I already bought her a new car to keep her quiet. If we'd split the cost of the blackmail, it would only have been twenty grand apiece.\"\n\n\"No way. We didn't cause the problem. Why should we pay for it?\"\n\n\"Then since you caused this problem, you get rid of this chick.\" Urick handed the pistol to Garth and pushed him toward Spike.\n\nSkye felt as if she couldn't breathe. She had to save Spike. Praying that the door wouldn't squeak, she had just started to ease it open when a hand snaked out and grabbed her arm. Swallowing a scream, she whirled around. Wally had his finger to his lips. He jerked his head, motioning for her to get behind him.\n\nWhile Skye was trading places with Wally, Garth said in a wheedling tone, \"Look, Todd, you already killed one bitch. What's one more?\"\n\nWally had his gun out and was poised to rush into the office, but as the men argued, he paused. He was clearly waiting for the best time to intervene.\n\n\"And who am I going to convince to confess for this murder?\" Urick retorted.\n\n\"How did you get that loony guy to say he did the other one?\" Garth asked. \"You never said.\"\n\n\"It wasn't part of my original plan.\" Urick leaned his butt on the desktop. Apparently he was a man who loved telling a good story. \"I was only going to tell Alexis that blackmailing me was a dangerous way to earn a living, and that if she didn't stop she might end up dead.\"\n\n\"Which she did.\"\n\n\"The bitch laughed in my face when I threatened her.\" Urick shrugged. \"I wasn't sure what my next step was going to be, but then she pissed off that cuckoo bird, Jacobsen. So when he attacked her, it came to me.\" The mayor snapped his fingers. \"Here was my chance to get her out of my hair permanently, and throw the blame on him.\"\n\n\"But how did you know he wouldn't have an alibi?\" Garth had managed to hand Urick the gun and was surreptitiously backing away from Spike.\n\n\"I drugged his soda. I always carry a few roofies in my pocket in case I want to get lucky, and I knew if the crazy guy acted strange, no one would notice.\" Urick shook his head. \"He barely made it into the basement before passing out.\"\n\n\"But how did you get him to go to the basement?\" Garth asked.\n\n\"I didn't.\" Urick's mirthless laugh was like a seal bark. \"God did. I heard Jacobsen talking to the Man Upstairs whenever he got stressed out, so I figured it was time for the Big Kahuna to answer him. Then all I had to do was have one of the waitresses pass Alexis a message from me that said I'd reconsidered, and the money she had demanded was in the basement utility closet.\"\n\n\"But, how\u2014\"\n\n\"Enough,\" Urick interrupted his coconspirator. \"I'm not conducting a Murder one-oh-one class.\"\n\n\"So-o-o-rry.\" Garth elongated the word like a teenage girl. \"Anyway. I'm almost done with the documents. Then I'll go to the storage facility and move the merchandise while you get rid of Ms. Nosy Reporter.\"\n\n\"No way.\" Urick's demeanor turned belligerent. \"It's time for you to man up.\"\n\nGarth fed the last paper through the shredder. \"I don't know what you mean.\" He sidled toward the door, his pear-shaped torso giving him a pregnant silhouette.\n\n\"I'm not killing her.\" Urick waved the gun toward Spike. \"You are.\"\n\n\"Uh-uh.\"\n\nUrick advanced until he was face-to-face with the other man.\n\nWally put his mouth to Skye's ear. \"I'm going in. Stay here.\"\n\nSkye felt Wally tense; then, when Urick tried to shove the gun into Garth's hand, Wally burst through the door with his weapon leveled and ordered, \"Drop the gun and put your hands up.\"\n\nUrick hesitated.\n\n\"Can you run faster than twelve hundred feet per second?\" Wally's voice was conversational. \"Because that's the average speed of a nine-millimeter bullet.\"\n\nSkye held her breath. Was Urick going to refuse? She dug frantically for the fresh can of pepper spray she'd tucked into her purse earlier. Her fingers had just curled over the cool metal when the mayor grabbed his partner and held his pistol to the other man's temple.\n\n\"I'm leaving here and if you try to stop me, I'll shoot him,\" Urick threatened.\n\n\"Fine.\" Wally shrugged. \"One less criminal the county has to provide an expensive trial for.\"\n\nUrick's shocked expression was almost funny, but Skye wasn't laughing. She knew Wally would never let the mayor shoot the other man, but what was his plan?\n\nThere was no other entrance, so she couldn't sneak up on the guy. She could phone for help, but as Wally had said, they didn't know which Viderville authorities they could trust. Should she call the county cops or maybe one of the Scumble River police? Who knew how long it would take either of them to get here? Maybe she was supposed to stop Urick when he came through the door.\n\nSkye caught a glimmer of a movement out of the corner of her eye, and saw that Spike had somehow slipped out of the handcuffs and was tearing at the duct tape binding her ankles. The two criminals had their backs to Spike, and Wally was focused on Urick's gun. It seemed that no one except Skye had noticed that the young woman was freeing herself.\n\nAs Spike ripped the last piece of tape from around her legs, the metal cuffs, which were still attached to the chair's arm, rattled and Urick's head whipped toward the noise. At that moment Wally lunged toward the man, grabbed his arm, and wrested the weapon from his hand.\n\nWhile Wally shoved Urick flat on the floor, Garth made a run for freedom. As he rushed through the door, Skye stepped back, took aim, and, for the second time in two days, emptied a can of pepper spray into the astonished face of a bad guy.\n\n# **EPILOGUE**\n\n# The Cat Who Swallowed the Canary\n\nIt had been a long, hectic week. Skye had had to give two police statements\u2014one concerning the storage auction bullies and the other regarding what she had witnessed in Todd Urick's office. She had barely seen Wally, who had been inundated with interrogations and paperwork.\n\nNot only did he have to deal with the Scumble River homicide, but he was also a key player in two additional cases\u2014Spike's abduction, which had become part of Alexis's murder, and the Viderville corruption mess. As Wally had feared, Chief Eden had been involved in the embezzlement scheme. The Viderville sergeant had been appointed acting chief, and he was leaning heavily on Wally for support and assistance.\n\nIn addition to Mayor Urick, Chief Eden, and Garth Anders, the city clerk and the comptroller were also in on the scheme to pilfer the town's coffers. They all denied that they had any knowledge that Urick had killed Alexis, but the county prosecutor wasn't buying their claims.\n\nWith Wally occupied and her television set broken, Skye spent her evenings making wedding plans. She'd had a stroke of good luck and been able to book an appointment at \u00c1 L'Amour Bridal Boutique in Barrington for Saturday morning at eleven. It was a long trip from Scumble River, but according to Trixie, who had been scouring the Internet, it was _the_ place in Illinois to buy a bridal gown.\n\nBecause Skye's superrich cousin Riley was footing the bill for the wedding dress as part of the payment for Skye's help the previous summer as a wedding planner, Skye was determined to get the dress of her dreams no matter what the cost. After all, her future in-laws were Texas multimillionaires and she didn't want to embarrass Wally.\n\nSkye had invited Trixie, Loretta, Frannie\u2014whom Skye had asked to be her third bridesmaid\u2014and her mother to accompany her. May's invitation had come with a caveat\u2014she was not to make any remarks regarding her daughter's weight, dress size, or other figure flaws.\n\nThanks to Loretta's speedy driving, they arrived at the upscale shop nearly a quarter of an hour early. After being shown into a private room and provided with coffee and tea, they were promised that their personal consultant would be with them in a few minutes.\n\nAs they sipped their drinks, Trixie and Frannie exchanged meaningful glances until Trixie finally asked Skye, \"Do you mind if we ask you a few questions about the murder while we wait?\" She wrinkled her nose. \"Or would you rather not talk about it today?\"\n\n\"Go ahead.\" Skye blew out a breath. She'd been surprised no one had brought up the subject during the hour-long ride to the store.\n\nMost of the story had been on TV, since Spike had been recording everything that happened in the mayor's office with a lipstick camera that she had rigged so its lens peeked through a flower pin she had on her jacket. But there was a lot that Wally hadn't shared with the reporter. And only the night before had he given Skye permission to reveal certain details.\n\n\"How did Todd Urick convince Elijah that God was telling him what to do?\" Trixie asked, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. \"I sure wouldn't believe something like that without a miracle or two.\"\n\n\"The messages came by way of Elijah's cell phone,\" Skye explained. \"He tended to pray out loud, and Urick overheard him. The mayor then used that information to persuade Elijah that the texts he sent were from God.\" She combed her fingers through her hair. \"You also have to realize that due to his brain injury, Elijah was much more open to suggestion than the average person.\"\n\n\"What I don't understand is the sequence of events,\" Loretta said, setting her cup of herbal tea down. \"How did Todd Urick even know Alexis would be at the cat show, let alone figure out how to set up his DJ Wonka identity?\"\n\nSkye started at the beginning, mostly because the circumstances were confusing even to her. \"Alexis was on the phone with Bunny about the show during the month she was working for the mayor. During that time, Alexis answered Urick's private phone and discovered his embezzlement scheme. Once she started to blackmail him, he remembered that she was going to attend the Cat's Meow event, and decided that was the perfect place to confront her.\"\n\n\"So he got himself hired as the deejay by Bunny so he could attend without anyone seeing the real him there,\" Frannie interjected. \"How did he pull that off? Most people don't have deejay paraphernalia just sitting around their garage.\"\n\n\"He borrowed the equipment from his coconspirator Garth Anders, who had deejayed in college. Urick thought that he could intimidate Alexis into backing down.\"\n\n\"But why didn't Urick just call Alexis or text her or e-mail her or even go talk to her at her apartment?\" Trixie demanded.\n\n\"He didn't want any record that he'd had any contact with her.\" Skye crossed her legs. \"He was really very clever.\" She shook her head. \"But Alexis didn't give an inch, so Urick came up with the plan to kill her and blame Elijah, because there was no way he was going to pay her a hundred thousand dollars.\"\n\n\"Why do men constantly underestimate women?\" May asked. \"Do they really think that there would ever be a second-born child if we were afraid of a little pain?\"\n\n\"The problem is if they ever admitted to themselves how strong we are, they'd have to treat us like equals,\" Skye said with a half smile.\n\nAfter they all agreed with Skye's statement, Loretta asked, \"How did Urick manage to kill Alexis and set Elijah up for the murder?\"\n\n\"Just before the disco bowler party ended, Urick sent Alexis a note via one of the cocktail waitresses saying that the blackmail money she had demanded from him was in the utility closet.\" Skye glanced at the door, not wanting the salon consultant to hear them talking about murder. She might be too frightened to be any help finding the perfect dress. \"Once Urick gave the server the note for Alexis, he put on the last song, hurried to the basement, and waited in the dark for his victim to arrive.\"\n\n\"And he garroted her with the wire part of the cat toy when she walked into the room,\" Frannie guessed.\n\n\"Right.\" Skye nodded. \"He used the cat toy because he hadn't come prepared to kill her.\" She paused, gathering her thoughts. \"Then, having already drugged Elijah's drink, Urick, claiming to be God, texted the ex-doctor to come to the basement.\"\n\n\"How did Urick have the drugs handy?\" Loretta asked.\n\n\"He told Wally that he always carried those roofie pill things in his pocket,\" May answered, then quoted Urick, \"He said, 'You never know when a girl in a bar will need a little chemical persuasion to put out and spread her legs.'\" May's mouth puckered in distaste. \"He really is a crude and vulgar man.\"\n\n\"Ew.\" Frannie made a gagging sound. \"That's just totally gross.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is. And something you should remember when you go down to U of I in the fall,\" Skye told Frannie, who had announced on the drive that she'd been accepted into the University of Illinois journalism school.\n\n\"Yes, Mother,\" Frannie shot back, then added, \"as if I'd ever be that stupid.\"\n\nSkye raised a brow, then went on. \"Urick watched Elijah come to the closet and pass out; then he wiped his prints from everything and hid until the cleaners were finished and Bunny went to bed. Once the coast was clear, he simply unlocked the front door\u2014the dead bolt has a thumbturn on the inside\u2014and left. He lucked out that Bunny hadn't set the alarm, but even if she had, he'd have been long gone by the time the police arrived, and Elijah would still have been the prime suspect.\"\n\n\"As you said, he's a clever one all right,\" Loretta commented. \"The criminals I end up defending are usually dumb as dirt.\"\n\nSkye gave her sister-in-law a thoughtful glance. Was Loretta getting tired of being a defense lawyer? Mentally shrugging, Skye resumed her account of the crime. \"After Urick killed Alexis, he took her car key from her purse, drove her MINI Cooper to Kyle O'Brien's, and parked it in front of the house. Next he wiped his prints off the car, jogged back to Scumble River, picked up his own vehicle, and drove home as if nothing had happened.\"\n\n\"Urick's wife told Wally that he'd suggested she visit her mother that weekend,\" May added. \"So Urick didn't have anyone wondering where he'd been or why he was so late getting home.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Skye nodded. \"Urick knew from when Alexis worked for him that she had dated Kyle, and he wanted a second suspect in case Elijah somehow wiggled off the hook.\"\n\n\"So let me see if I have this straight.\" Trixie jumped in, her eyes gleaming. \"Sometime later, Elijah wakes up, sees the body, thinks he killed Alexis per God's instructions, and goes home?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Skye looked at her watch. It was almost eleven. She needed to wrap this up so she could concentrate on selecting a dress. \"Then the next day, Urick texted Elijah for the last time and told him to park his car at the rec club, turn his cell phone off and throw it into one of the lakes, and then walk into the wilderness.\"\n\n\"Why did he do that?\" Frannie asked.\n\n\"So Elijah would look even guiltier.\" Skye shook her head. \"What a creep.\"\n\n\"True, but he was really ingenious.\" Loretta's voice held a hint of admiration. \"How did you and Wally get into city hall to save Spike?\"\n\n\"The back door was open,\" Skye lied. Wally had sworn her to secrecy regarding his lock-picking skills. \"Now _I_ have a couple of questions.\"\n\n\"Oh?\" Loretta looked nervous, which made Skye wonder what her sister-in-law had been up to, but she decided that was a subject for another day. Instead, she turned to Frannie and asked, \"What's the deal with Bunny's mysterious boyfriend?\"\n\n\"Why do you think I know?\" Fannie's expression was innocence personified. \"Miss Bunny says she doesn't have a boyfriend.\"\n\n\"If you ever want another scoop from me you'll spill,\" Skye threatened.\n\n\"Fine. Be like that.\" Frannie exhaled noisily. \"He's some old-timey movie or television star with oodles of money. He was one of the few who realized that CupidsCatsMeow.com was a dating service, and it turned out he had seen Miss Bunny dance in Las Vegas.\"\n\n\"Why all the cloak-and-dagger?\" Skye demanded. \"The guy sounds like a good catch.\"\n\n\"We-e-ell...\" Frannie drew out the word. \"The thing is, he's not quite divorced and so he's afraid his wife will try to get a bigger settlement if she finds out he's dating.\" She grinned. \"Believe me, it's killing Miss Bunny not to be able to show him off.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" Skye could understand that. \"One more thing. Have you and Justin made up?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\" Frannie's grin widened. \"He called me the other night and admitted he was wrong.\"\n\n\"Good.\" Skye beamed back, glad the two young people had patched up their differences.\n\nThere was a knock on the door and while everyone was distracted by the consultant's introductions, Trixie whispered to Skye, \"Did you ever talk to Father Burns about an exorcism for your house?\"\n\n\"Nope.\" Skye shook her head. \"I decided to wait and see if your theory about Mrs. Griggs's aversion to premarital sex is correct. I really hate to kick the old lady out of her own home.\"\n\n\"Do you think that's a good idea? After all, the wedding is _nine_ months away.\"\n\n\"All I know is that you have to lead with your heart and everything else in life will follow.\" Skye shrugged, then winked. \"And there's always Wally's place.\"\n\nAs Trixie giggled, Skye turned and saw the beautiful wedding dress the consultant had brought into the room. Her throat closed and tears of happiness welled up in her eyes. This was it. She was really getting married.\nTurn the page for a preview of  \nDenise Swanson's fabulous  \nbrand-new mystery in the  \nDevereaux's Dime Store series,\n\n_Nickeled and Dimed to Death_\n\nAvailable in March 2013 from Obsidian as a paperback and an e-book.\nI mentally tapped my toe as I waited for Miss Ophelia to make her selection from the glass candy case. As the foremost authority on etiquette in Shadow Bend, Missouri\u2014population four thousand and twenty-eight\u2014she'd been whipping the future generations of my hometown into excruciatingly correct behavior for the past fifty years. And since I had bought the dime store ten months ago, it had become her habit to stop in to purchase a single treat for herself every Saturday afternoon. Her last class on the proper way to dine, dance, and flirt with the opposite sex ended promptly at three thirty, and she arrived at my store exactly seven minutes later.\n\nWhile Miss Ophelia dithered between a hand-dipped dulce de leche truffle and this month's signature candy, a red velvet bonbon, I glanced at the vintage Ingraham schoolhouse regulator hanging on the wall behind the front counter. Although the clock had been manufactured in the 1920s, its beautiful carved oak case, convex glass, and brass pendulum still looked brand-new, and it kept perfect time. It was now 3:52 p.m.\n\nEight more minutes and my weekend clerk, Xylia Locke, and I could shoo the loiterers out, flip off the neon OPEN sign, and bolt the door. Devereaux's Dime Store and Gift Baskets closed at four on Saturday, and today I wasn't letting the customers linger a single second longer. I had smoking-hot plans for the evening, and only ninety minutes to make myself beautiful enough to fulfill them.\n\nAfter a lengthy verbal debate with herself, Miss Ophelia finally made her choice\u2014completely changing her mind at the last minute and going with the butter crunch toffee. While Xylia was ringing up the older woman's purchase, I began the process of herding the stragglers toward either the register for those who wanted to make a purchase or the exit for those who were sitting at the soda fountain using the free Wi-Fi and socializing.\n\nMy clerk had one foot over the threshold as she said good-bye to me when an attractive thirtysomething brunette carrying a large package rushed past her into the store. I called out that we were closed, but the woman either didn't hear me or ignored my admonishment. Xylia raised a questioning eyebrow, but I waved her away. Whatever the last-minute shopper wanted, she'd have to come back on Monday.\n\nI locked the door behind my assistant, not wanting another eleventh-hour customer sneaking in, then said to the brunette standing near the cash register, \"I'm sorry, but we're closed for the day.\"\n\n\"Do you own this store?\" the woman demanded, making no move to leave.\n\n\"Yes.\" Considering the cardboard carton in her arms, I wondered if she had a complaint about a previous purchase. \"I'm Devereaux Sinclair, and you are...?\"\n\n\"Elise Whitmore.\" She thunked the box down on the marble counter and I heard a metallic clinking sound. \"I understand you like old stuff.\" She scrutinized me, her expression clearly indicating that she found wanting my less than fashionable jeans, yellow sweatshirt with \"Devereaux's Dime Store\" embroidered across the chest, and frizzy cinnamon gold hair scraped into a ponytail. \"Is that true?\"\n\n\"If you mean vintage and antique items, yes, I am interested in them. I both collect them and use them for the gift baskets I make.\" When I had purchased the dime store, I had added the basket business.\n\n\"Good.\" Elise unfolded the carton's flaps and reached inside.\n\nMy treasure-hunting curiosity was piqued.\n\n\"I've got some old chocolate molds I want to sell.\" Elise pulled out a pair of metal Easter Bunny casts. \"What do you think?\"\n\nOne bunny was close to a foot tall and had a basket attached to his back; the other bunny, about half the size of the first, was carrying a mushroom. I loved them. They would be perfect for my Easter window display and for the traditional basket orders I had for the holiday; the erotic baskets I made needed a vastly different type of merchandise.\n\n\"They seem nice,\" I answered neutrally, hoping to keep the price within a range I could afford. \"How much do you want for them?\"\n\n\"You can have the whole box for a thousand bucks.\" Elise put down the ones she held, then lined up three more Easter-themed molds\u2014a girl bunny, a set of four eggs, and a rabbit riding a duck.\n\nI didn't know much about these particular collectibles, but I had a hunch this was an extremely good deal. \"Can you give me a second?\" When she nodded, I slipped into the storeroom, bent over my computer, and typed \"antique chocolate molds\" into Bing.com. _Zowie!_ According to several of the Web sites I clicked on, the largest rabbit alone was worth nine hundred and fifty dollars.\n\nSuddenly afraid that the woman would leave or change her mind about selling the molds, I hurried back out to the sales floor, and, keeping my voice cool, said, \"Since they're a seasonal item, and there's only three weeks left until Easter, I'll give you seven-fifty.\"\n\nElise frowned, then shrugged. \"Eight hundred, but I want cash.\"\n\nSince so many people used credit and debit cards, I wasn't sure I had that much money in the till. \"Eight-fifty if you'll take a check.\" I was willing to pay fifty bucks more to cinch the deal.\n\n\"No.\" She shook her head. \"Cash or I take these to the pawn shop at the edge of town.\"\n\n\"Let me see what I have on hand.\" I went behind the counter and opened the register. As I added up the contents of the drawer, I held my breath. I really wanted those molds.\n\n\"I don't have all day.\" Elise tapped her foot. \"Do we have a deal or not?\"\n\n\"One second.\" I dug in my jeans pocket and pulled out a twenty, two fives, and a single. \"Here you go.\" After adding them to the stack in front of me, I handed the pile to Elise.\n\nShe counted the money, nodded, and stuck it in her Dolce & Gabbana handbag, then turned on her heel and marched toward the exit. I followed her and unlocked it. She hesitated halfway through, and I nearly hit her with the door I was already closing.\n\nElise took a swift step to avoid the collision, then said over her shoulder, \"Do me a favor and don't tell anyone where you got the molds.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I called after her. A sinking feeling made my stomach clench. \"They were yours to sell, weren't they? You are the owner, right?\"\n\nBut it was too late; she had already gotten into her red Lexus and was backing into the street. As she sped away, I noticed her license plate read WUZ HIZ. Damn! I knew that had been too easy. Why hadn't I asked more questions? Had I just committed a felony?\n\nAfter hastily sticking the chocolate molds into my safe, I finished locking up the store and jumped into my sapphire black Z4. It was one of the few possessions that I had kept from my old life\u2014the one where I earned a six-figure salary as an investment consultant employed by Stramp Investments.\n\nI'd allowed myself to hang on to the BMW by rationalizing that in this economy I'd never get what it was worth if I sold it. However, the truth was, I loved that car, and I knew there was more chance of me winning the Miss Missouri contest than ever owning a vehicle like it again.\n\nChuckling at the thought of being a beauty pageant queen, I put the Z4 in gear and headed home. I lived with my grandma Birdie just outside of Shadow Bend on the ten remaining acres of the property my ancestors had settled in the 1860s.\n\nDue to three generations before me producing only one child each, relatives who had moved away, and several Sinclair men who'd died in various wars, Gran and I were the last of our clan in Shadow Bend. My grandfather's death fifteen years ago had forced Gran to begin selling off the land surrounding the old homestead to pay the taxes and support herself and me. Piece by piece, my heritage had been stripped away, and I treasured what we had left. Just as I cherished my grandmother.\n\nIt was when Gran had started to have some memory issues that I had quit my job in Kansas City and purchased the dime store. Going from a sixty-hour, or more, workweek to a little over forty hours had given me the time I needed to be there for her. As had swapping my two-hour round-trip commute for a twenty-minute drive.\n\nGran had taken me in thirteen years ago when my parents deserted me. Although my father hadn't had a choice about it\u2014he'd been sent to prison for manslaughter and possession of a controlled substance\u2014my mom didn't have any excuse.\n\nShe had dumped me on Birdie's doorstep with a suitcase and a fifty-dollar bill, and run off to California. I was sixteen at the time, and even though Gran had showered me with love and attention, I never got over my mother's actions or the feelings of rejection and abandonment they instilled.\n\nWhich is why when Gran's doctor informed me that she needed me to be around more, I hadn't hesitated to find another way to earn a living. I put in my two weeks' notice at Stramp Investment as soon as the deal for the dime store purchase was complete. Some people thought I resigned from my job because I found out my boss, Ronald Stramp, was a crook, and that he paid for my silence. But I'd been as surprised as the rest of the world when his Ponzi scheme was revealed.\n\nJust as my father had claimed to have been set up\u2014and was as innocent of committing manslaughter as he was of the bank embezzlement of which he'd also been accused but never convicted\u2014Stramp also maintained his innocence. However, unlike Dad, the jury at my boss's trial acquitted him\u2014a fact that the people he had bilked out of millions still resented.\n\nUnfortunately, most people blamed me for the not-guilty verdict that freed him. I hadn't been able to testify about Stramp's scam because I hadn't been aware of it. I don't know which I felt worse about: that my ignorance allowed him to get away with his crime or that I was so dumb I never noticed what he was doing. My only defense was that Stramp was an extremely secretive and clever man.\n\nAll of this was on my mind as I made the short drive home. After both my father's and my ex-boss's scandals, I had struggled to rehabilitate my image. As a teenager, I had shunned any and all controversy\u2014never getting so much as a detention at school or a speeding ticket around my hometown.\n\nAnd having made it through the Stramp disaster, I had pledged to avoid even the hint of dishonesty. Heck, I had solved a murder in which I was the prime suspect in order to escape being tainted by more gossip. Of course, my fear of being sent to prison might have also motivated me to find the real killer.\n\nNow, as I tore down the blacktop toward home, passing farmhouses, fields, and pastures of grazing cows, sheep, and goats, I wondered if my love of collectibles and antiques had led me to commit a crime. If I had, could I make things right before my reputation was damaged beyond all repair?\n\nHitting the steering wheel, I groaned. _Great!_ My good name was on the line again. And this time, it was my own damn fault.\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"_The names of certain persons have been changed._\n\n_Copyright \u00a9 2008 by Kim Sun\u00e9e_\n\n_All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher._\n\n_Grand Central Publishing_\n\n_Hachette Book Group_\n\n_237 Park Avenue_\n\n_New York, NY 10017_\n\n_Visit our Web site atwww.HachetteBookGroup.com._\n\n_First eBook Edition: January 2008_\n\n_Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc._\n\n_ISBN: 978-0-446-51108-7_\nContents\n\nDedication\n\nAcknowledgments\n\nAuthor's Note\n\nEpigraph\n\nWhere I Am\n\nI: Star of the Sea\n\nII: Your Refrigerator Smells Like Korea\n\nIII: Tracks of Desire\n\nIV: Culinary Opera\n\nV: Five Simple Words\n\nVI: Fig of My Imagination\n\nVII: Sticks and Stones\n\nVIII: Bodies of Water\n\nIX: The Monk's Table\n\nX: Heart, Apple, Knife\n\nXI: With Reservations\n\nXII: A Tire d'Ailes\n\nXIII: Some Enchanted Life\n\nXIV: Le Divan\n\nXV: L'\u00cele Flottante\n\nXVI: Home, Again\n\nXVII: Le Repas Maigre\n\nXVIII: Everything, Not You\n\nXIX: Room of My Own\n\nXX: Isle of Misfits\n\nXXI: Trail of Men\n\nXXII: Tunisia, Amnesia\n\nXXIII: Below Sea Level\n\nXXIV: Then, Again\n\nXXV: Hearts of Palm\n\nXXVI: Hungry After All\n_For my family_\nAcknowledgments\n\nThis book would never have become what it is today without the love and encouragement of so many people. I want to thank David Black for responding quickly to a late-night message one December evening and for introducing me to Joy Tutela, a woman of many talents. Thank you, Joy, for your enthusiasm and fierce loyalty. You continue to amaze me every day.\n\nTo my editor, Amy Einhorn: thank you for your wisdom and patience, and for generating so much enthusiasm for this book. Thank you for making my first author-editor experience unforgettably delicious.\n\nNo book comes into the world without a hardworking group of passionate and intelligent people. At Grand Central Publishing, thanks to the brilliant team of Emily Griffin and Les Pockell for taking me over the finish line. For fully supporting this book from the beginning, I'd like to thank Jamie Raab, Karen Torres, Martha Otis, and Jennifer Romanello. I'd also like to thank Erica Gelbard and Bill Tierney, who love to eat and cook as much as I do. And thanks to Judy Rosenblatt, Susan Richman, and Jill Lichtenstadter for their support and enthusiasm. In production and copy, thanks to the very patient Tareth Mitch, Tom Whatley, Allene Shimomura, and Sona Vogel.\n\nThanks to the delightful Anne Twomey for her wise and intuitive art direction, to Louise Fili for her gorgeous cover design, and to Mark Yankus for the back cover photo.\n\nTo those who read early drafts of this manuscript at James Nolan's writing workshop in New Orleans, many hurricanes ago, especially James Nolan and Melissa Phipps Gray.\n\nA special thank-you to Frances Mayes for her generosity and suggesting more comfort food. _Grazie mille._\n\nTo Rachel Beardsley and Charles Walton for astute and enthusiastic recipe testing and tasting. And for honoring my grandfather's crawfish bisque one spring afternoon (yes, we really did stuff three hundred heads) and helping to get it oh so close, thanks to Donna, Rachel, Erin, Robbie, Catie, Lolis, and Charles.\n\nI want to thank my first set of parents, wherever they may be, who loved me enough to let me go, and Mom and Dad, who loved me enough to not leave me behind. And I want to thank my family: the Hoppes, Keims, Tuckers, Cieutats, Baylisses, Suzy, and Josh, for sharing the stories and recipes; Grammy and Poppy, for their love and always having something good for us to eat.\n\nMes remerciements \u00e0 Olivier Baussan et Laure Baussan.\n\nThanks to Jan, for the very special gift of her friendship, and for always making me laugh. And to Florent, for teaming up with the most amazing woman to create an even more amazing gift to the world\u2014little Olivia. To Brigitte et Herv\u00e9, who were there for me, even in the loneliest of times. To Charlotte, a woman of many cities and words and silences.\n\nA Olivier Grignon, mes hommages les plus sinc\u00e8res. Vous \u00eates, entre autres, la po\u00e9sie et vous m'avez fait comprendre que je ne peux pas _tout_ dire, pas cette fois-ci en tout cas.\n\nThanks to my extended family at _Cottage Living,_ and at Southern Progress Corporation, for allowing me to do what I love every day. To my personal cheerleaders, Martha Johnston and Jake Reiss of Alabama Booksmith, and James Schwartz.\n\nTo Val, for gently guiding me through the Amazon and helping me on my way home again.\n\nTo Dorie and Michael Greenspan, for always allowing me a little bit of paradise\u2014a room (and kitchen) of my own\u2014when I need it most. Jean Anderson, for her guidance and sound advice on the quirky ways of food science and the even quirkier ways of the food world.\n\nAnd last, but never least, thanks to Charles Walton for so much more than I can ever thank him, including his patience, enthusiasm, and intuition, and for not saying anything when I was in the final drafts and drinking way too much Lillet Blanc, and for always caring and styling the food, even a plate of pickles and barbecue. \nAuthor's Note\n\nT _rail of Crumbs_ is a memoir. I have changed some names and the timeline of several events to protect certain individuals' privacy, not in an attempt to make light of the truth, but to enlighten it.\n\nIn the end, this story is as much mine as it is theirs.\n_Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it. In yourself right now is all the place you've got._\n\n\u2014Flannery O'Connor\n\n_Here before me now... my map, of a place and therefore of myself, and much that can never be said adds to its reality... just as much of its reality is based on my own shadows, my own inventions._\n\n_Over the years I have taught myself, and have been taught, to be a stranger. A stranger usually has the normal five senses, perhaps especially so, ready to protect and nourish him._\n\n\u2014M. F. K. Fisher, _Map of Another Town_\nWhere I Am\n\nLet me start by saying where I am. I've always thought that knowing this much may help me understand where I was and, if I'm lucky, to better know where it is I'm going. Luck. I know something about it\u2014it got me out of an orphanage in Asia and across the waters, through various port cities, to right here, in France, where I am.\n\nLooking out onto the foothills of the High Alps, in a damp Missoni bathing suit, I'm sitting on a cane-seat chair that once belonged to the father of the man I love. The father is long dead, of cancer, too much alcohol, and not enough tenderness. He's buried in a monastery high in the hills of Ganagobie, just a few kilometers from here. Olivier, my companion of nearly three years, is somewhere on the property. I hear his voice every now and then as he goes from room to room discussing colors with Ariane, the artisan from Carcassonne he has hired to repaint the walls of the entire house before the end of summer.\n\n_\"Ici, un bleu chaud, pas clair . . . l\u00e0, du vert fonc\u00e9 . . . \u00e0 la main . . . Tout.\"_ He wants warm, chalky blues, strong greens, and everything rubbed in with bare hands\u2014the reason Ariane charges so much money. Ariane lights a cigarette and, after taking a long, dramatic puff, stops to nod at the appropriate moments.\n\n_Tout,_ I repeat to myself, trying to say it like Olivier, but the _o_ and _u_ together is a sound I still have trouble pronouncing. _Tout,_ not _tu._ Everything, not you.\n\nAfter he has finished instructing Ariane, Olivier will busy himself with various tasks: opening bottles of red Bordeaux, negotiating tickets for a performance of _La Boh\u00e8me_ at La Scala, and tasting the mint sauce for a fresh fava bean salad I have chilling in the refrigerator. He'll do this and more while waiting for me.\n\nI have just finished swimming forty laps and am trying to catch my breath before the long evening ahead. It is midsummer, the longest day of the year, perhaps one of the longest years of my life, and I'm barely twenty-five years old. It's almost dusk, the first starlight splinters through the slender leaves of the linden trees. If I open the upstairs window wide enough, I can catch glimpses of Olivier's daughter, Laure, and her best friend, Lulu, the caretakers' daughter, as they chase each other barefoot through the orchards. They have eaten so many wild berries and plums that their small round mouths will be stained for days.\n\nMaybe because they are French children, or because I want them to be like me, I think they enjoy being at the table. But today the girls have so thoroughly stuffed themselves they will not be hungry for dinner. It seems we are always finishing one meal and preparing for the next. This is the way it's been every day, every season, for the last three years together with Olivier. But tonight's meal seems different somehow. I have taken extra care to tend to all the details.\n\nSophie, the caretaker's wife, and I were first at the market this morning, choosing small, ripe melons only from Cavaillon, the fattest white asparagus, and long, fragrant branches of fresh lemon verbena. The best salt-cured ham from Bayonne, fresh pork livers, and juniper berries for a terrine still warm from the oven. Our friend Flora gathered poppy leaves and wild mushrooms to bake with yard eggs and flowering thyme to accompany the lamb. Olivier always roasts the meat and chooses the wines. Laure and Lulu helped shell garden peas, the bright green juice spreading across the prints of their tiny fingers. And they played with pastry, smearing rich butter into the dough and cutting out hearts and stars before helping me to wrap it gently around wild peaches. Zorah, the Moroccan housekeeper, has been baking large golden moons of semolina bread all day.\n\nAll this for Olivier's family and our friends who have come from both small surrounding towns and as far away as Marseille and Paris. Some will stay through August and maybe into September. They watch as I begin to cook and then ask me questions about where I'm from. Olivier's friends from deep Provence still think it exotic\u2014an Asian face telling stories in French about _la Nouvelle-Orl\u00e9ans, le jazz, la cuisine Cr\u00e9ole._ Olivier, who loves to be in the kitchen, feels that I am better suited for it\u2014he thinks it is here that I am happiest. And because I'm young, or haven't yet mastered the language of opposition, because I don't quite know what it is that makes me happy, I oblige as they gather for the spectacle: Midas and his Golden Girl.\n\nLater, with full stomachs and slipping, slightly tipsy, between crisp, heavy linen sheets, the visitors will ask one another: What more could she possibly want? If they looked a bit closer, would they notice that despite Olivier's insistence on making me the mistress of the house, I still don't have a clue as to what is expected of me? And that Laure is both fascinated by how different I am and envious of the love her father bestows on me? Her mother, Dominique, a French woman whose beauty has been pinched with bitterness, sends letters filled with threats due to the pending divorce and malicious remarks in reference to the _chinoise_ Olivier has taken up with.\n\nBut they do not see any of this, because in the face of gastronomic pursuits, I appear fearless and without age. I am filled with courage as I take on two ovens, three refrigerators, one neglected caretaker's wife, a few sleepy housekeepers who turn about like broken clockwork, and a soon-to-be-official stepdaughter who loves me instinctively but hasn't quite figured out why I am sometimes distant, melancholy.\n\nAs always, at some point toward the end of the meal, Olivier will propose a toast, pleased that I can make a _daube_ or _soupe d'\u00e9peautre_ like the best of the locals. Laure will lean into me, her small ear pressed just at the level of my stomach, and she'll whisper to me that it's grumbling, that I must still be hungry. Then her giggle will turn into a deep, rich laughter, like a drunken sailor's. This always makes me smile. Olivier, who's always searching for a sign, will see this and think that I am almost happy. And sometimes I think so, too, believe that I have buried my constant need for departure. I always remind him, though, that this is really not my home, that I am just a small part that completes his world and not the whole of it. Nonsense, he declares.\n\nAfter years spent expanding his company while ignoring the yearnings of the heart, Olivier tells his friends and family that meeting me has proven that love\u2014despite its elusive market value\u2014is also an enterprise worth investing in. And sometimes I believe him, because being loved by him makes me feel whole, makes me forget sometimes that life was not always like this.\n\nWith Olivier, I am the least lonely, and I love the family he has tried to give me, love this country that will never be mine but whose language and markets and produce, flavors and secret recipes, I have come to know and desire as well as any native.\n\nLater, when I tuck the children into bed, Laure, cranky and still smelling of suntan lotion, complains of a bellyache. She holds up her tiny hand to mine, marveling at how close they are in size. _Tu t'es coup\u00e9e._ You cut yourself, she remarks. And then she shows me her green fingertips, stained from shelling the spring peas, before she and Lulu giggle themselves into a half sleep.\n\nSometimes, late at night, Laure asks to hear the story about how I met her father, in a cold country, how he rescued me from winter and brought me to be her American _belle-m\u00e8re._ Then she hugs me with all the love of a ten-year-old stepchild, as she has been doing ever since we met.\n\nBefore I turn out the lights, she makes me promise to take her and Lulu along wherever it is I may be going tomorrow. _Mais il faut revenir avant qu'il fasse nuit._ She wants to be back before nightfall. She has been having nightmares lately that she is lost in a forest, and just before dark her father comes to save her. _Mais parfois, j'ai peur. Je ne sais pas quand il reviendra._ Sometimes she's afraid; she never knows when he'll return. _Et toi?_ And you? she asks. I hug her one last time, amazed and surprised at how a little human being can already sense so much.\n\nI wait a few minutes more until I hear Laure's breathing slow down, until she finally lets go of my fingers. If I move too quickly, though, she grasps my hand again. _Tu te rappelles la premi\u00e8re fois o\u00f9 l'on s'est rencontr\u00e9s?_ Do you remember when we first met? she mumbles. Yes, I nod.\n\nIt was summer 1993; she would soon turn eight. Olivier and I picked her up at her mother's in Forcalquier, the nearby village, just about a kilometer from the house here in Pierrerue. I was still expecting boxes to arrive from Stockholm, where I had been living when Olivier and I first met. While waiting for Dominique to move the rest of her stuff from the house, Olivier had rented a huge apartment in Aix-en-Provence for us, but we spent most of the time in the Pierrerue house anyway. He and Dominique had been separated almost a year when we met. She lived part-time with Laure in Forcalquier and the rest of the time in an apartment in Paris. Olivier was paying for both and more, all because this was what Dominique demanded, knowing he would do nothing to jeopardize custody of his daughter.\n\nWhen Laure and I met, she greeted me with the customary kiss on both cheeks. I remember thinking how much more radiant she was than in the photos Olivier had shown me. A Venetian blonde with violet blue eyes, resembling, she claimed rather proudly, neither her mother nor her father. She ran her tiny hand along my smooth skin before turning to her father to say that she wished her limbs were brown and freckleless like mine.\n\n\"My name ees Laure, what ees your name?\"\n\nI told her slowly in English, but then she responded in French that she was learning my language in her school this year. Muscular and animated, breathless with questions, she seemed to understand I was the new woman in her father's life. She had never met anyone named _Keem._ She wanted to know how old I was, where I was from, but twenty-three and New Orleans meant nothing to her.\n\n_\"Je te montre le jardin?\"_ When we got to the house, she took my hand and showed me through the gardens and the fruit orchard. _\"Voil\u00e0 mes arbres.\"_ These are my trees. She stood firmly on the ground. Like her father, she knows and loves where she is from. _\"Cerises. Figues. Mirabelles.\"_ She waited, like a patient schoolteacher, for me to repeat after her as she pointed to the cherries, figs, and tiny yellow plums. _\"Et des p\u00eaches de vigne.\"_\n\nTogether we stooped to pick up fallen wild peaches. Blood peaches. It was the first time I had ever seen a wild peach. I held one up to the light, broke it in two to study the scarlet veins running through the flesh.\n\n\"Do you sleep with Papa?\" Laure asked, picking distractedly at a scab above her knee. Her question seemed so natural, so French, but I was still torn between nervous laughter and scolding.\n\n\"Yes,\" I answered firmly, biting into my first _p\u00eache sauvage_ ever. I had never tasted anything so delicious and forbidden. I almost wanted to cry, not from joy, but from some distant awareness that we would pay dearly one day for such sweetness.\n\nI kiss Laure's ear good night and wish her sweet dreams, and she whispers it back to me. _Sweet dreams._ It is one of her favorite phrases she has learned in English.\n\nAs I walk back downstairs to the remnants of the dinner party, I think of what I will teach her tomorrow and the next day, because soon, in a month, two, a year from now, I may be on a high-speed train back to Paris. On the TGV, men will look at me and see a foreign woman in an expensive dress and sandals, carrying a soft leather bag, and one of them may ask me to spend a moment telling him something it looks as though I should know.\n\nStaring out the train window, though, I'll think of all the things I have yet to learn, and I might catch a fractured glimpse of this same woman and see her for who she really is: a lonesome voyager, with uneven tan lines, knife cuts on her hands, and a heart speeding fast toward the season of fall.\n\nWILD PEACHES POACHED IN LILLET BLANC AND LEMON VERBENA\n\nWe picked _p\u00eaches de vigne_ * direct from our trees in Provence. If you don't have access to wild peaches, use ripe yet slightly firm and blemish-free white or yellow peaches. Substitute aromatic Pineau des Charentes Blanc, Monbazillac, or your favorite white wine for the Lillet Blanc. I've experimented cooking these in red wine, and the peaches, although delicious, are not as pretty.\n\n_6 medium-size ripe wild peaches_ *\n\n_1 (750-ml) bottle Lillet Blanc_\n\n_1\/3 cup sugar_\n\n_2 to 3 tablespoons honey_\n\n_1 (3-inch) piece orange rind_\n\n_Squeeze of fresh orange juice (from 1 quarter)_\n\n_4 to 5 fresh lemon verbena sprigs, plus leaves for garnish_\n\nCut an X in blossom end of each peach. Plunge in boiling water, about 30 seconds. Remove and peel peaches. Place peeled peaches in a large, wide, heavy-bottomed pot. Pour Lillet Blanc over. Add sugar, honey, orange rind, and juice. Gently crush lemon verbena leaves with hands to release fragrance and add sprigs to pot. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium, and poach, occasionally turning peaches gently for even cooking, 20 to 30 minutes (depending on ripeness) or until peaches are tender when pierced gently with tip of knife. Carefully remove peaches and place in a large serving bowl. Turn heat to high and cook poaching liquid 6 to 8 minutes or until thick and syrupy. Pour over peaches. Let cool and chill in refrigerator at least 4 hours or overnight. Garnish with more lemon verbena leaves. This is also delicious with a swirl of cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche or soft vanilla ice cream and grated Amaretti di Saronno cookies. _Serves 6._\nI\n\nStar of the Sea\n\nNovember 1973 was when I first got lucky. I was a scrawny three-year-old sitting on a bench in a South Korean marketplace waiting for _Omma_ to come back and take me home. My _omma,_ my mother, had left me a tiny fistful of food that had crumbled in the three days and nights of waiting\u2014endless hours of darkness with huge shadows and no promise of return.\n\nWhen local policemen finally brought me into the station, I shook my clenched fist at them. As they proceeded with abandonment papers, I scrambled to the ground to gather the crumbs, insisting: _She told me not to leave. She promised she'd be back._\n\nOf course, I don't remember everything. The policemen, for example\u2014shady contributors to my first days as an orphan\u2014are figures I am told existed, like in any ordinary fairy tale. But I wonder how they could have left a child alone for three days and nights. I imagine it was a time of survival for most. It was the early seventies, in a country still searching for an identity after decades of war and division. There were lots of us, abandoned or lost, and perhaps many, like myself, still questioning where it is we're really from.\n\nAlthough memories are distorted, there are true sensations one doesn't forget, like fear and hunger, deep rumblings echoing in a cavernous heart and belly. I still see rat-colored streets, try to focus in on market vendors, the swift movements of street cooks; I am forever trying to decipher a familiar face. I want warmth and a mouthful of hot fermented cabbage, a bowl of plain rice.\n\nMy adoptive mother keeps changing the story every time I ask her. I don't think she does it on purpose, but she has repeated the circumstances of my adoption many times over the years and always with discrepancies. Sometimes she insists I was never in an orphanage and stayed with an American serviceman and his Korean wife. But according to certain documents, I was also at the Star of the Sea orphanage.\n\nI'm sure I was there because there are photos\u2014I'm wearing an oversize polka-dot dress, sitting on a tattered sofa, squeezed between an Asian boy my age and a little girl much younger. There's another picture of me with other children who look as hollow as I do. Lined up like rows of fruit for sale, we're looking not at the camera, but beyond, as if expecting someone, anyone, to come and press on our skins to test for ripeness and cart us home.\n\nThe few papers I do have\u2014documents from this period\u2014state \"Dap Dong, Inchon City, Republic of Korea, Special City of Seoul,\" the address of an old woman who is \"Superior of the Star of the Sea.\" Not much else is really decipherable.\n\nNightmares sometimes help discern what's true and false. My Korean brother, I remember as younger but taller, huddles over me as we look out over the busy streets of our village. His skin is smooth and warm and glows golden, like the color of the moon in cold months. Below, women waddle back and forth, carrying baskets of fruit on their heads all day long. We take turns standing guard, searching for our _omma_ among them\u2014we are convinced our mother is one of the fruit ladies. But it gets dark fast, and the house fills up with damp shadows before we can even sense her shape.\n\nIn a letter dated 1973 or 1974, my adoptive mother writes to her family back in New Orleans that she and my father, on leave from Okinawa, have decided to adopt an infant girl. A newborn, abandoned on a doorstep. But, she writes, there is also another child who comes every day and jumps in our laps. I am the other girl. My mother continues to explain that I was found on a bench in the marketplace, cigarette burns stamped into my arms and shoulders. When the policemen finally brought me into the station, I told them defiantly that I was three years old, that I was called Chong Ae Kim and was waiting for my mother to return. I held up a scarred fist smeared with soot and starch and shook it at them. \"She's only twenty-three pounds, but perhaps she is older, because they say she speaks a strange yet beautiful Korean.\" The curious thing, my mother concludes, is they reported that I never cried.\n\nSomewhere in the world is a man who sized me up, measured me, and estimated my bones\u2014a type of carbon dating for lost children. I imagine him with pen and paper, arriving at the Star of the Sea to count heartbeats, trace circles, check teeth. Maybe he added up the number of burns and bruises on my upper arms and neck, calculated that I wasn't missing too many pounds, before deciding I was fit for adoption.\n\n\"Born between January and June,\" the doctor announced to my soon-to-be parents. Maybe a Pisces?\n\nHe validated me and decided my place among the stars. My birth date is a compromise, my beginnings a constellation of in-betweens and connect-the-dots. Since the approximate age of three, I've been a fish and swimming upstream ever since. There is no room for tears. Instead, I swim holding my breath. I've learned to ration the air, so vital for when I return to the surface of the sea, when it is safe to drift near the coastline of a warm and secure body.\n\nQUICK-FIX KIMCHI\n\nKorean cuisine\u2014hearty, rustic, and beautiful\u2014shines as the unsung hero of Asian cooking. A variety of vegetables, pickled, packed, and buried in the earth, is a traditional accompaniment. I could never pretend to prepare them the way Korean cooks do, but I make this express version of cabbage kimchi\u2014sometimes adding or substituting for the cabbage sliced cucumbers, zucchini, or bean sprouts\u2014whenever I long for a spicy hit of Korea.\n\n_1 small head Napa cabbage_\n\n_\u00bc cup sea salt_\n\n_1 (4-inch) piece fresh ginger, minced or grated_\n\n_1 garlic clove, minced_\n\n_3 to 4 tablespoons hot red chili paste (or Sriracha or_ sambal oelek _)_\n\n_1 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes_\n\n_1 tablespoon sesame or walnut oil_\n\n_1\/3 cup rice wine vinegar_\n\n_1 teaspoon fish sauce or 2 crushed anchovies_\n\n_1 tablespoon sugar or honey_\n\n_3 to 4 green onions, thinly sliced_\n\n_1 small head escarole, fris\u00e9e, or Romaine, torn or chopped_\n\nRemove outer leaves of cabbage, quarter lengthwise, core bottoms, and cut across into 1-inch pieces. Place in a colander in sink and sprinkle with salt. Let sit 45 minutes to 1 hour. Rinse and dry cabbage thoroughly, preferably using a salad spinner (otherwise the kimchi will be watery). Whisk together ginger and next 8 ingredients in a large bowl. Add cabbage, escarole, and toss to combine. Pack kimchi in a glass jar or bowl. Cover and refrigerate 2 hours and up to 2 weeks. Serve with steamed rice, grilled meat, on sandwiches, or stirred into soups. \nII\n\nYour Refrigerator Smells Like Korea\n\nMy parents are young, just twenty-two and twenty-three years old, when they decide, on a whim, to adopt two abandoned children from South Korea. With my soon-to-be baby sister, Suzy (An Sun\u00e9e), my soon-to-be parents return to Okinawa, where my father is stationed in the air force, while I wait back in Seoul for papers and vaccinations. After several months, I join them on the Japanese island before we all return to the States, to my mother's native city of New Orleans. We will meet my father's family, far away in a land called Minnesota, much later. My mother, the eldest of five children, seems to blossom suddenly at the center of attention. Her whole family is there to greet her and the two orphans\u2014aged six months and three\u2014who will need attention, nourishment, and love.\n\nSoon, as my parents fall into the routine of their lives, it is my grandparents who are looking after us. After school, we go to their house and wait for Mom and Dad to come home from work, always tired, never enough time to do what they want or enough money to buy back their youth. Maybe because I sense this, I am immediately drawn to my new grandparents, especially my grandfather. I can't pronounce \"Grandma,\" \"Grandpa,\" so I call them Grammy, Poppy. My grandmother's sister, Nani, an actress, is also there, always ready with a gift, a theatrical pronunciation of a new word in this new language I am quickly devouring.\n\nMy early memories are always related to hunger. My grandmother has told me this story many times over the years.\n\n_\"Your refrigerator smells like Korea,\" I tell Grammy, plugging my nose. \"Pee-you, it stinks.\"_\n\n_My new grandmother laughs, sticks her head in, and pulls out a rotting pineapple from the fruit drawer. I shove my way in, too. I want to smell Korea._\n\n_\"She's so little, and look how she squats, just like in the Orient,\" Dad remarks. \"They say their muscle structure is different.\"_\n\n_I only hear \"different\" and plop down butterfly style on the kitchen floor in front of the open refrigerator. If it smells like Korea, maybe there are others who squat different like me in there. It's cool inside, with lots of colors I don't have words for yet. I try the new ones my grandmother tries to teach me: hot dog, Cool Whip, Tabasco._\n\n_\"What would you like, Kim Sun\u00e9e?\" She pronounces my name slowly, like the new words she teaches me, words from books and magazines with shiny pictures of people with big creases down the middle of the page; it tears their smiles in two._\n\n_I point to a bowl of lump crabmeat because I worked real hard to help Poppy dig it out of its shell. It smells like the sea, and lights like pearls._\n\n_\"How about cookies and milk? All the American kids want cookies and milk.\"_\n\n_But I'm not like the other kids she's talking about. In my school, some are black, most are white, but no others have hair like me. They eat brownies and red Jell-O and drink lots of white milk._\n\n_\"Cookies. No milk.\" I watch carefully as Grammy takes out the red carton with the white smiling cow. I tilt my head as she pours some in a glass and see the photo of the girl who looks my age. \"Who's that?\" I ask. I know exactly who the girl is. I know they put faces of disappeared people on the milk so in the morning when you're feeding your bones, you can grow strong to find the missing faces._\n\n_\"Brown milk,\" I say, crossing my fingers, hoping my new grandmother knows I want the dark syrup in the squeeze bottle that swirls the white into sweet._\n\nIn my memories, sometimes Poppy sports a white apron flecked with brown gravy stains, but mostly he is opening huge packs of pork chops, picking crabs and crawfish for pan-fried cakes and chocolate-roux gumbos. A large man of German descent, Poppy is always ready with a joke or anecdote\u2014he tells us his great-grandfather was a German shepherd\u2014and he loves to see Suzy and me laugh so hard that our round yellow faces turn hot pink.\n\nPoppy served in World War II, among other duties, as a cook in France. He doesn't talk much about the war, or maybe I'm not interested enough. Instead, my sister and I sit with him on weekends and watch the Cajun Justin Wilson, Julia Child, and other great chefs on PBS as they sip and saut\u00e9. Poppy and Julia have similar-shaped bodies, so sometimes he puts on my great-aunt's wig and does a little jig. He tells us how to proceed, in Julia Child falsetto, with mashing the lumps out of perfect potato pur\u00e9e. My sister gets so excited, she jumps up and down on her tiny feet and squeals at the top of her lungs, her two shining pigtails flapping the sides of her ears.\n\nEverything in my new world seems shiny and palatable, especially my new favorite color. The bright red on my tennis shoes suddenly makes me run real fast. Orange red is the color of fire under the pots and peppers of all shapes and sizes. Some become a liquid called Tabasco from Avery Island, others get ground into a dark magical powder with the beautiful name of cayenne.\n\n\"Mirliton, okra, sassafras,\" my grandfather booms like a marching band leader. \"These are the words you need to learn.\"\n\nSuzy and I follow him with metal lids and spoons accompanying his orders: \"Cayenne [ _boom!_ ], crawfish [ _clack!_ ], blue crabs [ _ding!_ ].\"\n\nI gobble all the new words and sounds I can manage at one time, because when my new grandfather speaks, I listen. Poppy, a native New Orleanian, seems always to talk about things that are important. \"The trinity,\" he says solemnly. \"Onion, bell pepper, celery.\"\n\nHe hands me the crisp, ribbed stalks that I discover always hide an exquisite, tender heart. I stand for hours in the kitchen as he stirs, chops, fries. The day he announces me his official taster, I know I am the luckiest child in the world. I will myself to never again think about the dark and hollow streets I dream of at night, but I know it's impossible.\n\n_I run around the house singing,_ Omma, Abba, kundungi _. This makes everyone in my new family laugh, but I don't know what's so funny about Mama, Papa, bottom. I like to sleep on the hardwood floor next to Grammy's side of the bed and feel the cool air from the ceiling fan against my face. I close my eyes, though, real tight before the dark comes into the room and makes things move like famished giants. I dream a lot. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad._ Nightmare _. It's not a beautiful word like_ mirliton _or_ gumbo, _but it's a real word, and I need it so they can understand why I am so afraid, especially of the night._\n\n_Nightmare about the rat and the woman who carries fruit on her head all day long. It's the chop, chop noise of Korean helicopters hovering low in the sky. Nightmare's when the dark comes home faster than_ Omma _does and it's cold on the floor and I'm too small to shut the door all by myself. I feel lucky when I dream about my brother, because he taught me how to hold my eyes closed real tight. I know he is real. He has hair like me, squats like me, and smells like Grammy's refrigerator._\n\nSundays, as we head out of the Lutheran church on the corner of Port and Burgundy, Poppy or my mother invites anyone who seems lonely or the slightest bit capable of appreciating a home-cooked meal to have dinner with us. Friends stop by to order a pound of crabmeat salad, a dozen garlic-and-herb-stuffed artichokes. Poppy takes Italian bread crumbs, olive oil, dried parsley, and lots of garlic, lemon juice, and hot red pepper, pats it all with his hands until it holds together just so. Then he lovingly stuffs each steamed, tender leaf. Sometimes he chops up hearts and adds them, along with shrimp or lump crabmeat, into the stuffing.\n\nOther friends beg for jars of his famous crawfish bisque made with Binder's French bread that he fries off in a big cast-iron skillet with garlic and spices. The crawfish heads have been pulled and cleaned at the most recent seafood boil, and the sweet tail meat gets chopped and stirred into the stuffing. To eat this fragrant stew, we ladle heaping portions over hot boiled rice and use the tips of our tongues to scoop out the stuffing from the heads. I don't know how to say it yet, but I want this heat, this unprecedented sweetness, to nourish me the rest of my life.\n\nEveryone says Poppy should open a restaurant. But money and fame don't matter to him. He loves feeding his family and watching as Suzy and I stand in the kitchen waiting for him to finish adding a squeeze of lemon to the whole-roasted redfish, a sprinkle of hot sauce to the dirty rice. Then, just when we can't stand it anymore, he sneaks us a taste before serving steaming portions to everyone. Our grandfather sits at the head of the table, leaning back a bit in his chair, his hands folded across his round belly, a smile across his face, spreading out to the corners of his bright blue eyes.\n\nSuzy and I are the only Oriental girls, as we are called, in our school, so the comfort of Poppy's kitchen after school every day, the promise of his home-cooked meals, are a refuge, a safe place where our grandparents nourish us\u2014solid food to remind us that we exist, that we live in a new world where we have not been forgotten.\n\nPOPPY'S CRAWFISH BISQUE\n\nThe men in my family used to gather all the goods for a traditional seafood boil\u2014blue crabs, crawfish, and shrimp, an enormous pot of water with liquid crab seasoning, and lots of Dixie beer. Into the pot we'd throw garlic heads, bay leaves, onions, corn, potatoes, and andouille sausage. While we devoured our mudbugs, Poppy whistled along, cleaning the crawfish heads, picking the tail meat, and setting it aside for a labor-intensive but most rewarding dish.\n\nMy aunt Amy and uncle Odie Tucker marketed this for a while as Poppy's Crawfish Bisque, which sold briefly in local restaurants and at New Orleans Airport. I urge you to stuff the heads because there's truly nothing more satisfying than scooping out the spicy crawfish stuffing with the tip of your tongue; but if you want to save time, just make the stuffing below, form into 2-inch round balls, and let simmer in the tomato sauce.\n\nFor cleaned, ready-to-use crawfish heads, the Louisiana Seafood Exchange (504-834-9393) will ship.\n\n_Note:_ Prep time on this with 8 friends is about 3 bottles of Prosecco, 2 ginger beers, 1 bottle of Albari\u00f1o, and 2 Tecates.\n\nCRAWFISH STUFFING\n\nIt's best to fine dice all the ingredients for the stuffing.\n\n_2 (12-ounce) loaves (Louisiana-style) French bread (preferably day-old)_\n\n_2 tablespoons canola or olive oil_\n\n_2 tablespoons butter_\n\n_1 medium yellow or Vidalia onion, finely diced_\n\n_2 celery ribs with leaves, finely diced_\n\n_2 green onions, thinly sliced_\n\n_3 to 4 tablespoons fresh finely chopped parsley_\n\n_3 to 4 cloves fresh garlic, smashed and minced_\n\n_1\u00bd tablespoons dried Italian seasoning_\n\n_\u00be to 1 tablespoon salt_\n\n_1 teaspoon fresh-ground black pepper_\n\n_\u00be to 1 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper_\n\n_Water or shellfish stock, as needed_\n\n_2 pounds cooked and peeled crawfish tails, divided_\n\nCube bread into small pieces and dampen with enough water just to cover (or to moisten). Heat oil and butter in a large skillet over medium high heat. Add onion, celery, and green onions and cook, stirring occasionally, about 7 minutes or until soft. Squeeze out excess liquid from bread, add to skillet, and cook, stirring occasionally, about 2 minutes. (If bread is too chunky, use side of spoon to break it up.) Add parsley and next 5 ingredients. Cook, scraping bottom of skillet as stuffing browns. Add water or shellfish stock a bit at a time if stuffing gets too dry. It should be moist but not saturated with liquid. Chop about two-thirds of crawfish tails (reserve other third for sauce). Stir in chopped tails. Taste and rectify seasoning, depending on saltiness of crawfish and amount of heat you prefer. Remove stuffing from heat and let cool enough to handle.\n\nCRAWFISH BISQUE\n\nYou can make a roux, but Poppy never did because he used the extra stuffing to thicken and flavor the sauce. Serve this with hot cooked rice.\n\n_1 teaspoon canola or olive oil_\n\n_\u00bd small onion, diced_\n\n_1 celery rib with leaves, diced_\n\n_2 garlic cloves, smashed and chopped_\n\n_2 (28-ounce) cans good-quality tomato sauce_\n\n_5 to 6 cups shellfish stock or water_\n\n_2 bay leaves_\n\n_4 sprigs fresh thyme or oregano or 1 tablespoon dried Italian seasoning_\n\n_Salt and fresh-ground black pepper, to taste_\n\n_Ground cayenne pepper, to taste_\n\n_1 teaspoon Creole seasoning (optional)_\n\n_Pinch of sugar, as needed_\n\n_About 1\u00bd cups reserved crawfish stuffing_\n\n_50 to 60 cleaned crawfish heads (if using purchased ready-to-use heads, place in a bowl of very hot water and let soak about 10 minutes)_\n\n_Garnish: chopped green onions_\n\nHeat oil over medium high heat in a large pot (big enough for 60 stuffed heads). Add onion and celery and cook about 5 minutes. Add garlic and cook about 1 minute. Stir in tomato sauce and stock. Add bay leaves and next 5 ingredients. Taste and add a pinch of sugar, depending on quality of tomatoes. Bring to a low boil; reduce heat and let simmer about 30 minutes.\n\nStuff heads with as much crawfish stuffing as possible, reserving at least 1\u00bd cups stuffing. Gently place stuffed heads in sauce and stir reserved stuffing into sauce. Let simmer on low about 30 minutes or until heated through.\n\n_To serve:_ Mound hot cooked rice in large shallow bowls and divide bisque and heads evenly (this way there will be no arguments at the table). This is the best of finger foods. Be careful not to cut yourself when scooping out the delicious stuffing with the tip of your tongue. Garnish bisque with chopped green onions. Serve with lots of French bread to dip in the sauce. _Serves 8 to 10._\n\nWHISPERY EGGS WITH CRABMEAT AND HERBS\n\nMy grandfather used to put fresh crabmeat in everything from seafood casseroles to stuffed mirlitons. Use the freshest lump crabmeat you can find. Pick through carefully to remove any shells. Many different herbs complement crabmeat. I like fresh chervil, tarragon, thyme, parsley, chives. In Provence, Laure and Lulu used to call scrambled eggs _nuageux_ (cloudy) and _chuchotants_ (whispery). Whisking the eggs vigorously yields light, fluffy, \"whispery\" scrambles.\n\n_4 eggs_\n\n_\u00bc teaspoon salt_\n\n_Fresh-ground black pepper, to taste_\n\n_1 tablespoon cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche_\n\n_1 tablespoon butter_\n\n_1 teaspoon olive oil_\n\n_1 spring onion (or green onion or shallot), chopped_\n\n_1 to 2 tablespoons combination fresh chopped herbs_\n\n_1 cup fresh lump crabmeat_\n\n_Fresh lemon zest or hot sauce (optional)_\n\nWhisk eggs vigorously in a large bowl 1 to 2 minutes, using a handheld whisk (note: an immersion blender whips these up in a flash). Add salt, pepper, and cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and whisk 1 minute more. Set aside.\n\nHeat butter and oil in a large (preferably nonstick) skillet over medium high heat. Cook onion and herbs about 2 minutes. Give eggs one last whisk (or whir of the immersion blender) and pour into skillet. Reduce heat to medium low and gently stir eggs about 2 minutes. Add crabmeat and cook another minute (for soft eggs). Serve warm with fresh lemon zest, more herbs, or a dash of hot sauce. _Serves 2._\nIII\n\nTracks of Desire\n\nOur parents, because they are so young or because of things they cannot begin to understand about us, don't know how to react, especially to my sister's anger, explosive even as a baby. When my mother tries to comfort her, she cries for hours\u2014a long, lonesome howl. She's strong-willed and thick-boned and throws tantrums, knocking beer bottles to spill out onto the newly cleaned carpets. My inexperienced father, thinking this is what fathers do, whacks her on the legs, leaving handprints up and down her chubby thighs until she stops for one peaceful moment before crying some more. My father's eyes, sometimes the color of the Gulf of Mexico on a bright day, sometimes the deep green gray of hurricane season, hold no clues as to what's storming inside. I don't want to be in the path of his fury, so I tie up my new red sneakers and run as fast as I can.\n\nMy aunts play games with us and teach us new words. I don't have to really share Poppy with little Sue because she's only one and a half and too busy breaking things. We put MADE IN KOREA stickers on her forehead. Someone calls her Genghis Khan, and she cries. I don't know who Genghis Khan is, but maybe Sue does because she throws a glass bottle on the floor. It breaks like tiny stars all over her fat little legs. They start bleeding, and Grammy and Poppy whisk her off to the emergency room. Sometimes I get mad at her because she lets it all out, shows everyone how vulnerable she really is. I prefer silence, scribbling down new words, and making books from scraps of wallpaper to house stories about imaginary places.\n\nLater, at school, though, Suzy and I are united, if only because we are the same in our differences. Her eyes are more slanted than mine, so the kids make fun of her more, knowing they can always elicit tears at the slightest taunt. Even though I want to shake some sense into her, I realize, being three years older, that I must protect her, especially when the bigger boys, pale Tommy and his dark-haired sidekick, Paul, are feeling particularly cruel.\n\nI am always crossing and landing near water. We drive by the Mississippi River every day when Mom drops us off at school. Tommy and Paul, who ride the school bus back, live near our grandparents, almost the last stop. When it's only the boys and Suzy and me, I take my sister's hand and our lunchboxes and march up to the front of the bus to sit right behind Mr. Larry, the bus driver. He's got a dark spot on the back of his head that looks like a crater. He smells like soft caramel and dough and keeps a picture of his dog taped to the rearview mirror. I like him, especially when he yells at the boys. They are always calling my sister Suzy Wong or asking us if we know \"the ancient Chinese secret.\"\n\nSometimes they even sing a little song and tug at their eyes until they're stretched like knife slits. \"Chinese, Japanese,\" they taunt. \"Dirty knees, look at these.\"\n\n\"We're not Chinese!\" my little sister screams. \"We don't know the ancient secret.\"\n\nShe's so mad that she closes her eyes and cups her ears. I wish I could fly away with her under my wing, and I get madder now because tears are starting to squirt down her puffed-up cheeks. Mr. Larry makes the boys get off the bus blocks before their stop.\n\n\"Chinks,\" they spit from the sidewalk. The bus door slides closed, and Mr. Larry speeds off. \"Gooks,\" we hear them yell.\n\nSuzy wipes her nose on my sleeve, and I close my eyes and think of new words, whisper new names for myself: Catherine. Jenifer. Alison. But I can still hear their voices. Chink. Crack. Cleft.\n\n\"What do you think Poppy's made for dinner?\" I ask my sister, hoping to distract her. It's Monday, so I tell her that maybe he has made red beans. I remind her how much she likes to help him with the long wooden spoon smash some of the beans on the side of the pot to make them creamy and thick. I like the hot cooked rice, with just a pat of melted butter. I tell her we'll make her favorite dessert, and suddenly the thought of poking warm yellow cake with her fingers before sprinkling it with red Jell-O powder and slathering it with whipped cream calms her down.\n\nShe leans against me for the rest of the ride home. I remind her that Mom and Dad said we're soon going to be naturalized, and she perks up at the thought of it.\n\n\"We're going to get natural eyes?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I whisper, pressing my face to the cold glass window. It's almost dark out, and when it's dark, you can't tell the difference between sky and water. _Horizon._ Another beautiful word, although I can't touch or taste it.\n\nI try to imagine what life will be like when I become like all the others. But for now, the kids think I have a strange name, strange face. One of the few black kids, an older girl in the sixth grade with long stiff braids and the beautiful name of Shalane, told me the reason I'm different is that I don't have a bridge to my nose.\n\nSometimes the mean boys call me moonface or pignose, and now I know it's because I don't have a bridge. I look up the word in the encyclopedia during library hour and read something about connections and passageways, a bony structure, but it explains nothing more about noses. After I say my prayers at night, I rush to the mirror to see if I've changed. Sometimes if I fall asleep with my index finger pushing up the tip of my nose and suck in my cheeks real hard, I think I'll wake up with dimples and look like Pam and Kathy in my class, instead of resembling a pig.\n\nBut then I fall into a dream where the teacher makes me stand up and starts asking me a series of questions. I know the answers to all the hard ones. I can spell better than any other kid. I hunger after long vowels and multiple definitions. But when she asks the questions, all I can do is oink, and the whole class laughs.\n\n\"Spell 'subterranean.' \" Mrs. Borschelt hates me. I know it. And I'm sure she thinks my face is flat, too. But she knows I know the word. I spell it perfectly in my head: _s-u-b-t_ . . .\n\n\"Oink,\" I hear myself say. The kids are roaring in their chairs, crying with laughter, and they look like huge waves coming in from the Pacific Ocean. \"Oink. Oink. Oink,\" I protest until the waves get louder and bigger, and soon I'm underwater.\n\nA few years later, I write my first real poem, handwritten on a lined notebook page, about a timid baseball player, and it wins me first prize at my junior high school fair; but that evening I hear my mother whisper to my father that she wonders where I copied the poem from. I fall into a restless sleep of more waves that come storming in, a hurricane of gigantic question marks and doubts.\n\nMy mother and father come home one day with another baby. We knew Mom was getting rounder and rounder, but no one talked about how or when or why. These are questions we do not ask in my family. My mother looks nervous, tired. Our new brother, Joshua, smells like talcum powder and cherry Benadryl\u2014he's allergic to everything, it seems, but he has the blue eyes of our father on the brightest days. Suzy and I take turns holding him, squeezing him too much, loving him so.\n\nMy mother soon becomes the volunteer maven, spending more and more weekends tutoring junior high school kids, chauffeuring the elderly, and singing in the choir. Sometimes she takes us along with her when she is going to play games with less fortunate children. \"Just remember how lucky you kiddies are,\" she says, buckling us up tight in the backseat of Dad's clunky old pale blue Mercedes. She gives us each extra-quick kisses on the head, which we savor. We like it here because she drives fast and sings along with the radio, old deep-throated tunes by Sarah Vaughan, Billie Holiday. When she leaves us behind, my sister waves good-bye with her favorite book, cheeks puffing out with the promise of tears and a good scream. I grab the book and start reading to her. \"We don't want her charity,\" I mumble. I don't want to be her cause.\n\nLater, when boys become interested in us, my sister and I have very different tastes. She's attracted to everything all-American, dating mostly boys in baseball caps with parents who winter in places we've never heard of. She reads _Seventeen_ and wears penny loafers and openly disdains my flashdance look or the floppy hats I wear with long skirts, black kohl to highlight my eyes, and bangles around my wrists and ankles. By the age of thirteen, I am drawn to the marginal types\u2014a young vicar who gives me books by Kerouac, Jim Harrison, Dickinson, the older skinny chess champ who takes me to see Truffaut films and after to eat crusty baguettes, funny-shaped, tiny pickles, and country p\u00e2t\u00e9 at Caf\u00e9 Degas on Esplanade Avenue\u2014always someone, anyone, with the promise of someplace other than here.\n\nAt fourteen, I audition for the creative writing program at the New Orleans Center for the Creative Arts on Perrier Street. I'm surprised to hear myself answer the director that I want to be a writer, a poet, maybe. It's the first time I've ever allowed myself to say what I want out loud. Did he know, I wonder, at fourteen what he wanted to be? I show him some poems, and after another hour of questions, I'm accepted into the program and breathe easy when Mom and Dad let me participate.\n\n\"Look around you,\" the principal tells us on the first day of orientation. There are fat kids, multicolored skinny kids in tattered clothes. The ones who look hungry, some with greasy hair and torn cuticles, I find out are the writing students. The music students are too cool for us. \"Only half of you will be here in a week.\" The young dancers, with their perfect posture and thin, graceful necks, keep their distance.\n\nSometimes music drifts in during class, sweet, sad sounds from Ellis Marsalis and his students. Our instructors, visiting writers from Oxford, New York, Zurich\u2014places I love the sounds of\u2014let us write anything we need to. I like it here. I'm a high school freshman, but because I skipped a year in grade school and the first-year program here is for sophomores, I'm two years younger than the other students; but Tom Whalen, the director of the writing program, let me in anyway. He makes us read Nabokov, Cheever, Rich, watch Wenders and Godard. I have no idea what any of it means. _Une femme est une femme_ \u2014I want to be Anna Karina, batting big-eyelashed eyes, breaking eggs into a bowl, singing about being a woman. After only six days, Whalen kicks out half of our class, but I am determined to stay.\n\nMy first published poem is called \"Foreigner,\" and my parents remain speechless as they read about a bald nameless man who visits two sisters every Thursday. He makes them spumoni. Once, when he is finally about to tell the sisters his name, their mother comes home to punish them for talking to strangers. When they try to protest, only odd-sounding words fly from their mouths.\n\nMy father's grandmother speaks flying English with a bobbing accent. She is visiting from International Falls, Minnesota, talking about how cold it is back home. Her name is Nora, and I have only ever known her with white hair, her thin frame wrapped in cotton floral-printed aprons. She hand-knits sweaters with elaborate patterns\u2014Bert and Ernie for Suzy and me\u2013that are too warm for our subtropical climate, but we wear them anyway in the air-conditioned house. For the two weeks each year she's with us, we don't go to Grammy and Poppy's; instead we come back from school to a kitchen that smells of rising yeast, scraped cinnamon, hot melted butter. Nora's a breath of fresh air\u2014she makes my father smile, which he doesn't do often enough. Even my mother is more attentive, cheerful.\n\n\" _Ja,_ this is how you do it,\" she sings one afternoon, smashing hot boiled potatoes into flour and butter. She is making our favorite, a Norwegian flatbread called _lefse._ Suzy and I watch carefully as Nora and Dad cook thin layers on the smoking griddle. When the golden bubbles pop out and lift up the dough, Joshua waves his magic wand to indicate that it's time to turn them over. A pile of the soft layers appears magically at the table. Nora says a prayer in Norwegian that makes Suzy and Josh giggle. Then we watch Dad and Nora show us how to spread the hot potato flatbread with butter and then sprinkle the sugar evenly. We roll it and bite into layers of sweetness that dries on our lips and fingers. Sometimes Dad gets up early before the sun and makes apple pancakes, big, fluffy biscuits, his blue eyes shining bright as we fight over the last crumbs.\n\n\"Uff-da,\" we mimic as Nora gets up to clear the table. We rush to her side, gladly washing and drying dishes, ready to help her with the next batch of cinnamon rolls or our new favorite casserole of cabbage and rice smothered in a white cream sauce. We don't know this secret language that she speaks, but we like the way it makes her bounce and bake and makes our father finally sit back at ease.\n\nNothing's easy when I'm fifteen. My father remarks that I'm growing. I don't look like a little girl anymore. My hips are widening\u2014like a woman's\u2014childbearing hips, he assures me. I don't know how I'm supposed to respond. There are awkward moments like this, more as I get older because my father sometimes tries so hard to be something that he's not\u2014an openly warm and loving person. In my mother's family, we are always at the table, making plans, organizing events, but my father seems to be an outsider. He tries to explain to me one day about his own childhood, his own distant father who drank too much and who eventually divorced his mother. I knew this about him, but only through his whispered conversations with my mother behind closed doors. I am convinced he loves us, but the sadness in him is deep, and I am too young to know how to help him. Instead, I have learned to mimic his gestures, to resemble him the only way I can\u2014for now, I keep my distance.\n\n\"The devil's beating his wife again,\" my little brother pipes up, jumping up and down and pointing at the sky. \"It's raining and sunning at the same time.\" His blond curls bounce as he tugs my arm. We're on the outside porch watching the sky. It's hurricane season again. It has been raining for weeks now, and every day the experts try to track the eye of the storm as we listen, anxious, restless.\n\nSome people build their houses up high, hoard batteries and water. There are also levees to protect from overflow. But I've never quite understood how it is we are to survive seven feet below the level of the sea. I don't want to board up windows or have duct-taped views of the world. I'm restless, too, and all I long for is solid shelter.\n\nJoshua bounces up into my lap. He's six and golden and sweet. He dons a plastic nose and fake mustache, a black cape, and does more magic tricks for us. A rabbit pops out of my father's sleeve, a scarf disappears into thin air. We applaud as shiny coins appear from our mother's ear. He loves games, is always inventing new contraptions, and I like teaching him new words. Prestidigitator. Merlin the Magician. Houdini.\n\nI'm practicing my own art of escape. One day my mother comes home and sees me getting ready to go out with my girlfriends. I see her reflection in the mirror\u2014she picks nervously at her worn cuticles, afraid of every day that goes by, watching as my body becomes more like a woman's, my face nowhere near resembling hers. Everything about her is so tightly closed, her life so carefully portioned out. Her short brown hair frizzes in the summer heat. She watches as I rub blush into my olive skin. I smooth magnolia-rich cream into my arms and legs. I love the way the scent rises off the skin and mixes with the August heat.\n\n\"Let me look at you,\" my mother says, squeezing my cheeks tight between her thumb and forefinger, making my lips puff out. \"You're not going out looking like _that._ \" She starts picking at her nails again. \"I know what you're up to.\"\n\nIf she really knew me, she would understand that all I really want is for her to hold me, to whisper that she loves me even though I am not like her. Instead, I try to break free\u2014I want to be like the other girls. I want to ride around with my friends\u2014to the lake, to the bayous, to sit high on the levees, ride up and down the streetcar path with the windows rolled down and our hair spread out like wings. We make up our lips at red lights and blow sweet violet kisses to the young interns on Tulane Avenue. We stop for Coca-Colas at the corner K&B, sip them slowly as though they're bourboned mint juleps, and call one another by our nicknames\u2014Betsy, Camille, Scarlet. We're fifteen, sixteen, and think we know everything about freedom and possibility.\n\nMy mother's lips are clamped shut, and I try not to stare at the dry skin flaking around the edges. She's standing behind me with her arms folded tight across her ample chest. I know she and my father\u2014the only parents I really have\u2014want to teach me good judgment and values, but I don't know the currencies of their country; I don't understand their exchange rates and can't begin to fathom the depth of my debt.\n\n\"I know you lie about where you go with boys. I know what you do with your _body._ \" My mother pronounces \"body\" as if it were a dirty rug that needed to be beaten and hung out in the fresh air. I want to wear lipstick, have feathered bangs, and kiss boys, but I am grounded all the time\u2014even for things I have not yet done\u2014as if grounding will keep me from wanting to fly away. I am trying as fast as I can to grow up. I want so much, but I don't have words for it all. I ask my mother what desire means, but she tells me it's like a four-letter word. For now, desire is just a wooden streetcar that used to rattle up and down the tracks of my childhood city.\n\nUNCLE KERRY'S MONDAY RED BEANS AND RICE\n\nAll Louisiana home cooks have a version of this classic one-pot dish. You'll find it in many New Orleans restaurants, especially on Mondays, served with fried pork chops, sausage, or, if you're really lucky, hot, crispy fried chicken. The secret to this recipe, adapted from Kerry Hoppe (my grandfather's only son), is Zatarain's Liquid Shrimp & Crab Boil. Also, my uncle doesn't soak his beans, but you can do a quick soak (boil enough water to cover beans and let soak 1 hour). For a garnish, my grand-father used to marinate sliced sweet onions in white vinegar with dried Italian seasoning. In Provence, I used shallots and _herbes de Provence_ or fresh thyme picked straight from the fields during my morning run.\n\n_1\u00bd tablespoons butter_\n\n_1 medium yellow onion, chopped (about 2 cups)_\n\n_1 green bell pepper, chopped (about 1\u00bd cups)_\n\n_4 celery ribs, chopped (about 1\u00bd cups)_\n\n_3 garlic cloves, smashed_\n\n_1 teaspoon salt_\n\n_\u00bd teaspoon fresh-ground black pepper_\n\n_1 smoked ham hock (about \u00be pound) or pickled pork_\n\n_1 (1-pound) bag dried kidney beans (soaked, if desired)_\n\n_1 teaspoon liquid crab boil_\n\n_1 teaspoon Creole seasoning_\n\n_2 to 3 sprigs fresh thyme_\n\n_1 pound smoked sausage (such as andouille or kielbasa)_\n\n_2 tablespoons cornstarch (optional)_\n\n_Hot sauce, to taste_\n\n_Garnishes: green onions, shallots in vinegar, parsley_\n\n_Heat butter on medium high in a large pot or Dutch oven. Add onion, bell pepper, and celery and cook, stirring occasionally, about 7 minutes or until soft. Add garlic, salt, and pepper and cook 3 more minutes. Add smoked ham hock, beans, liquid crab boil, Creole seasoning, and thyme and stir. Add enough water (about 2 quarts) to cover beans. Stir, bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium, and let simmer, stirring occasionally, about 1\u00bd hours. If beans get too thick, add more water, about \u00bd cup at a time. Add sausage to pot and let beans cook another 30 minutes or until tender. For creamy beans, I like to smash some of them on the side of the pot with a wooden spoon. Uncle Kerry mixes 2 tablespoons cornstarch with cold water and adds to sauce. Season to taste with more salt, pepper, or hot sauce. Garnish, if desired. Serve with hot boiled rice and shallots in vinegar. Serves 6 to 8._\n\nSHALLOTS IN VINEGAR\n\nCombine 3 to 4 tablespoons rice or white wine vinegar, 2 thinly sliced shallots, and _herbes de Provence_ or fresh thyme leaves in a bowl and stir to combine.\n\nCINNAMON CREAM CHEESE ROLLS\n\nFor this recipe, all-purpose flour is fine, but bread flour results in a lighter confection. You can also omit the cream cheese and sprinkle the dough with cinnamon and sugar instead.\n\n_1 (16-ounce) container sour cream_\n\n_1\/3 cup sugar_\n\n_1\/3 cup unsalted butter_\n\n_1 teaspoon salt_\n\n_2 (\u00bc-ounce) envelopes active dry yeast_\n\n_\u00bd cup warm water (100 to 110 degrees)_\n\n_1 tablespoon sugar_\n\n_2 large eggs, lightly beaten_\n\n_6 to 6\u00bd cups bread flour_\n\n_Cream cheese cinnamon filling_\n\n_2 tablespoons melted butter (optional)_\n\n_Citrus vanilla drizzle_\n\n_Cook first 4 ingredients in a medium saucepan over low heat, stirring often, until butter melts. Set aside and let cool. Stir together yeast, warm water, and sugar in a bowl; let stand 5 minutes._\n\nBeat sour cream mixture, yeast mixture, eggs, and 2 cups flour at medium speed with an electric mixer until smooth. Gradually add in enough remaining flour, \u00bd cup at a time, to make a soft dough. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface; knead until smooth and elastic (about 10 minutes). Place in a well-greased bowl, turning to grease top. Cover and let rise in a draft-free, warm (about 85 degrees) place 1 hour or until dough is doubled in size.\n\nPunch dough down and divide in half. Roll each portion into a 24 by 12-inch rectangle. Spread half of cream cheese cinnamon filling (or other flavor) on each rectangle.\n\nRoll each dough rectangle, jelly roll fashion, starting at the long side. Place each dough roll, seam side down, on a lightly greased baking sheet. Slice into 12 equal slices. Place cut rolls, cinnamon side up, on baking sheets. (You can also make ahead to this point, cover with plastic wrap or foil, and freeze. When ready to serve, unwrap and proceed with directions.) Cover and let rise in a draft-free, warm place 20 to 30 minutes or until doubled in size. Brush with melted butter, if desired.\n\nBake, uncovered, at 375 degrees for 15 to 17 minutes or until golden. Let cool on pans on wire rack (about 5 minutes). Top with citrus vanilla drizzle.\n\nCREAM CHEESE CINNAMON FILLING\n\n_1\/3 cup sugar_\n\n_1 tablespoon ground cinnamon_\n\n_2 (8-ounce) packages softened cream cheese_\n\n_1 large egg_\n\nCombine all ingredients, using a hand mixer, until smooth and blended well.\n\nCITRUS VANILLA DRIZZLE\n\n_3 cups powdered sugar_\n\n_\u00bd cup fresh orange juice_\n\n_1 tablespoon butter_\n\n_1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice_\n\n_2 teaspoons grated lemon zest_\n\n_\u00bc teaspoon vanilla extract_\n\nStir together all ingredients in a small saucepan over low heat until butter is melted and all ingredients well blended.\n\nCHESTNUT-MASCARPONE ROLLS\n\nWhip together 1 (8-ounce) container mascarpone with \u00bd cup _cr\u00e8me de marrons_ to make filling. Prepare cinnamon cream cheese rolls and substitute mascarpone filling for cream cheese cinnamon filling. \nIV\n\nCulinary Opera\n\nI'm flying again. I get a running start and flap my arms, head straight into the wind, bracing myself for liftoff. If it's a good dream, I get to glide high above the treetops\u2014-centuries-old live oaks and sycamores. Other times when someone is chasing after me, I blink and turn myself invisible.\n\nI really started vanishing at the age of seventeen, forcing people to forget about me. I left on a creative writing scholarship to a liberal arts college in Florida to study poetry, but it felt as though I had landed in a cultural desert with another group of people who looked nothing like me or wanted anything I recognized\u2014athletic boyfriends, fast cars, deep tans, and degrees in marine biology. I muddled through my freshman year, and what saved me during my sophomore year\u2014I had decided to minor in French\u2014was being able to put together an independent study program to study in France.\n\nStrangely, Europe was the first place where I felt almost at home. It reminded me how much I always dreamed of being away, heading fast to a place that could have been the moon for all my family knew. I was eighteen when I landed in Paris for the first time. Nicole, the mother of my host family, worked from home and took me into the city for classes and excursions. She loved being the tour guide but spoke French so fast that I had no choice but to learn the language quickly.\n\nMy second day, I convinced her to let me take the train in alone, even though I had no idea how to do it and hadn't really adjusted to the time change. But I loved the idea of being in Paris by myself. I hadn't really slept, which, oddly enough, heightened my senses even more. I remember walking the boulevard Raspail toward the Montparnasse tower, toting a navy blue backpack, taking in the smells and sounds of this new city. The air smelled of coffee and rising yeast, and mixed with my excitement and lack of sleep; I felt surprisingly hopeful.\n\nI walked into a Montparnasse caf\u00e9 called the Cosmos. It was early, so there were mostly men at the bar drinking from tiny cups, a few blue-collar workers nursing their first beers of the workday, eating what looked like dried sausage sandwiches. I realized that I was hungry. A paunchy waiter came over to my tiny round table and stood above me like a rising tower.\n\n_\"Alors?\"_\n\n_\"Parlez-vous anglais?\"_ I managed. The waiter shrugged and started tapping his foot. \"What is the difference between _croque- monsieur_ and _croque-madame, s'il vous pla\u00eet?_ \"\n\n_\"Croque-madame_ is with egg. Of course.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" I agreed. \"One, _s'il vous pla\u00eet._ And a glass of _vin rouge._ \"\n\nThe waiter pointed to the list of red wines: Haut-M\u00e9doc, Saint-Amour, Graves.\n\n\"Saint-Amour,\" I blurted out.\n\nI ate heartily, breaking the warm yolk over the ham and creamy b\u00e9chamel sauce. After, I ordered an espresso, and as I sat there looking around, I noticed a young woman across the room. She vaguely resembled someone I knew, a bit off balance, but her dark eyes were not as immediate as the expression of something between sheer exhaustion and hope. I kept trying to place her, and when I lifted the cup to my lips, I realized that the woman was me. But I was only really seeing myself for the first time, in a different sort of way. I ordered another glass of the red Amour and drank, not knowing when I would ever be able to sleep or dream again.\n\nA man walked into the Cosmos and sat at the table next to mine. He was concentrating on his newspaper. I glanced at some of the headlines, trying not to stare at him. He must have sensed I was reading his paper because he closed it suddenly and looked straight at me.\n\n\" _Excusez-moi,_ I'm very sorry.\" When I blinked, my eyes burned from lack of sleep.\n\nHe smiled and went back to his reading. I could see part of him in the mirror, the same one in which I hadn't recognized myself. He was about ten years older than me, dressed in black. Everything about him was impeccable except for his thick curls, which gave him a look of fine-tuned neglect. He seemed at ease sitting there, securely holding _Le Monde_ between his hands. Watching his lips move as he read, I felt a small crush come over me.\n\n_\"Mademoiselle.\"_ He was talking to me. _\"Je peux vous offrir un caf\u00e9?\"_\n\n\" _Oui._ Yes. _Avec plaisir._ \"\n\nHe gestured to the waiter, who promptly brought me another tiny cup of black coffee, and when I held it up to thank him, he was sitting at my table. He introduced himself as Fran\u00e7ois, from Bordeaux. He had studied modern letters but also dabbled in the dead languages, even translating parts of the Vedas. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I listened as he spoke English with a half-British, half-French accent. He was intriguing but spoke too quickly for me to question anything.\n\n\"And you, you are new here, _non?_ \" he said, looking at my college backpack.\n\nI nodded, and the movement of my head made me dizzy. I saw him looking at my watch, which read 12:30 a.m. \"Eastern time,\" I offered.\n\n\"I see. You are still in the past. Here it is already morning, and I have already finished my work for the day.\" He spoke in riddles, with strange lulls in between.\n\nWhen I didn't respond, he went on to explain that he was an antiquarian, that he found the most valuable objects between 3:00 a.m. and now. He stared at me, and while he was speaking, I stroked the coarse strands of my hair and told myself that surely he wasn't speaking to me. I was a college sophomore, and until then no one, especially a man, had ever addressed me with such interest and genuine pleasure. My heart was beating so hard, I could feel it in my ears, and I was afraid he could hear it, too, but he just kept talking, mostly about all the places he had been and the others he wanted to see before he died\u2014New Guinea, Bhutan, \"She-cow-go,\" the bayous of Louisiana. He asked me lots of questions I didn't know the answers to.\n\n\"And you, I'm sure a young woman like you has many dreams.\"\n\nI remember wanting to say something about happiness, such a strange word in many languages, but even back then I knew that it was never really a goal in itself. I took pleasure, hastily, from where I could because I sensed that it would never last. Instead of waiting for an answer, Fran\u00e7ois told me that he had always wanted to see _le quartier fran\u00e7ais._ After another round of coffee, it was decided that he would accompany me back to New Orleans after my semester in France. It was the first time since leaving home that I felt I really wanted something. I must have given him some right answers because he suddenly said to me, \" _Viens._ I will show you my city.\" He stood up abruptly, took my bag and my hand, and led me out into the street.\n\nThe sun was starting to spread across the wide boulevards, a light I had never noticed before that seemed to settle deep and warm into the bones of the city. I thought about calling Nicole so she wouldn't worry but instead spent the rest of the day with Fran\u00e7ois, riding around in his miniature car, succumbing to his whims. I tasted everything I could, no matter how odd or disturbing: butter-drenched organ meats, crusty sour breads, cheeses covered with the softest gray fuzz. We ate the crispy darkened skin of duck breasts and drank lots of wine before crossing his favorite bridges.\n\nI finally got on the train late and back to Nicole's in the suburbs, sick with what I thought was longing for Fran\u00e7ois, but the next morning Nicole proudly diagnosed my liver as having its first _crise de foie,_ a true French liver crisis. She happily made herbal concoctions from her garden and made me drink salty Contrex water for three days. When she decided I was better, she taught me to make pork rillettes and monkfish larded with fresh garlic and sprinkled with toasted fennel seed, crispy potatoes with shallots and parsley. She was a fabulous cook and had only sons, no daughters or nieces, so I let her teach me and initiate my unassuming liver into the wanton ways of the French culinary world.\n\nFran\u00e7ois didn't call for a week, and when I did see him again, he was seated at a sidewalk caf\u00e9 across from the Luxembourg Garden with two women, drinking small glasses of golden-colored wine. He waved promptly and stood up to introduce me. The women kissed me absently on the cheek and said something too quickly for me to understand; looks were exchanged. I envied them; they had been raised in this country, mastered a language of gestures to help them deal with engaging and singular men in a city where whole affairs were constructed or demolished with the slightest glance or nod of a head.\n\n\"Come, join us.\" Fran\u00e7ois sat close to me and held my hand. One of the women, a North African with deep olive skin and huge black eyes, smoked endlessly, stopping only to sip her wine or shrug her shoulder every once in a while. While Fran\u00e7ois conferred with the waiter, the women were quick to ask me how I had met their friend and offered a few words of advice. I'm sure they dismissed me as some naive _Am\u00e9ricaine_ who didn't know much about anything, and they were right\u2014but for a moment I was someone else, momentarily happy, and I found everyone around me palatable and glowing. The waiters were unusually charming, and the toast-colored wine was like butter on my tongue. I drank while Fran\u00e7ois gently stroked my thigh under the table.\n\nThe following morning would be the last time I'd ever see Fran\u00e7ois. He picked me up early\u2014it was still dark\u2014from Nicole's and drove me to the outskirts of Paris to sell and bargain at the Saint-Ouen flea market. He showed me the difference between fake and real first editions, the value of certain artist's proofs, and which porcelain plates were _tr\u00e8s recherch\u00e9e._ I bought an etching from a South American shipwreck collection with the few francs I had. Over a sunrise _caf\u00e9 cr\u00e8me,_ he told me that he was off to Spain and Italy to search for rare books and prints.\n\n\"They have the best crostini with crushed chicken livers, salted anchovies, and the women . . . ooh la.\" He smiled. \"You will come with me, _non_?\"\n\nI was about to answer that I would taste anything for him when one of the women, the dark, beautiful one from the day before, showed up at the caf\u00e9. I don't remember her name, just that her head was expertly wrapped in a printed silk scarf and she wore large dark sunglasses, even though there wasn't much sun to speak of. She ignored me and said something to Fran\u00e7ois and left. I looked at him, waiting for something, but he just shrugged and lit a Lucky Strike.\n\nI looked around, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. Midmorning light flooded the stalls of used and battered things; the smoke that escaped from Fran\u00e7ois's nostrils crisscrossed in shadows across his face, rendering his eyes cavernous and hollow. He kissed me, talking the whole time, though no longer in English.\n\n_\"Tu es si jeune. Je ne peux pas l'expliquer. Je m'en vais bient\u00f4t.\"_ He embraced me and whispered something about my being so young, about not being able to explain, about having to leave, but filtered through the sounds of the rising babel in my chest, it could have been Latin or Sanskrit or some other ancient language spoken long ago.\n\nI swallowed hard, nodded, and pointed at his watch. I told him that by the time he arrived at his destination, he would be the one in the past. \"As for me,\" I said, finally changing the hands of my watch, \"it will be a new day.\" I sounded braver than I was\u2014I wanted to stay there forever, be loved by this strange and beautiful man in a country I was just beginning to discover\u2014but I hadn't cried for anyone up until then, and I wasn't going to start for him.\n\nI hated returning to Nicole's in Pr\u00e9cy-sur-Oise, hated the idea of returning to the bankrupt sky and bleached sands of Florida's waterways. Nicole sensed this, so with her contacts, she arranged a two-month stint for me to work (where one of her sons was already) as a Club Med Gentil Organisateur on the Greek island of Kos. After that, I promised to return to the States in time for a new semester, and I did, hating my dismal dorm life of cardboard pizza boxes and overlit salad bars. All I wanted was to cross the ocean again and disappear into a copper pot, into the big _creuset_ of France.\n\nMy family came to visit me in Florida once, and I returned to New Orleans for the holidays, but I knew it wouldn't be long until I would leave again. I had disappeared at age three, at seventeen when I left for college, eighteen to Europe, and then again my senior year, when I transferred my credits and enrolled at the University of Nice to study French language and civilization. I said good-bye, leaving behind my sister and brother, my parents and grandparents, promising I'd be back soon, not knowing that soon would be in ten years.\n\nIn Nice, I met Joachim, a Swedish political science major with ambitions of working for the United Nations. He was my complete opposite: pale, green-eyed, confident, and stubbornly convinced that he could change the world. When we met on campus, he said I looked like someone who had survived a shipwreck. But it was my lucky day, he claimed, because he was going to save me.\n\nNot that I believed he could save me, but I liked the boldness of his declaration. We started out as friends and shared a rented flat in Vieux Nice, just behind the Cours Saleya, with a Dane and a German architecture student. Joachim, Teis, and Wolfgang had decided\u2014three male votes to my one\u2014that I would have the smallest room off the kitchen. After I'd spent several hours rearranging my new room, the roommates I had secretly dubbed the European Larry, Curly, and Moe summoned me.\n\n\"Vee are to eat,\" announced Wolfgang like a fledgling ma\u00eetre d'h\u00f4tel.\n\nOn the makeshift table in the living room were mismatched bowls and plates of boiled gray potatoes, stewed onions, jars of pickled herring, dented tubes of Kalles Kaviar, and hard brown bread.\n\n\"Vee three made it. Our first meal together.\"\n\nThey must have thought I was delighted since I remained speechless as they seated me at the head of the table. I managed a smile and thanked them. Chewing wistfully on a slimy onion, I closed my eyes an instant and recalled the sweet Vidalias from my childhood and recipes for thick and creamy potato salad, fried chicken, and corn bread.\n\nWhen I opened my eyes, the boys had disappeared from the table and were leaning out the window. I joined them as they jeered at a street brawl below. Men in earth-colored clothes and lopsided berets screamed strange syllable combinations, shaking their fists at one another. One toppled another's stand of bright red tomatoes, kicked over some heads of lettuce, and, hand in hand with a beautiful woman, marched off through the crowd, disappearing through the arch and into the Mediterranean.\n\nI was grateful for the uproar and encouraged by such excitement at a food market. I slipped on my sandals and, with the stooges in tow, rushed down the three flights of stairs and out into the street. The sun lit up the Cours Saleya like a culinary opera. Children danced around, tossing figs at one another while their mothers in brightly colored skirts flirted with the vendors. I immediately offered up a few francs in exchange for a basket and waltzed through the stalls, composing my own private aria filled with musical words: _fleur de courgette, asperge sauvage, cabri, jambon de Montagne, rascasse, cigale de mer._\n\nThe boys were also excited and pulled out money to help buy kilos of tiny sun-warmed squash and fresh fava beans, lemons, bouquets of fragrant blush peonies. I courageously began bartering in broken French with the _marchands._ Most were happy to listen, patiently allowing me to finish a sentence, then offered up samples of warm peppery _socca_ and sweet and savory _tourtes aux blettes,_ a _pissaladi\u00e8re_ of sticky caramelized onions and salty-sweet anchovies. Others tried to speak Japanese to my Asian face.\n\nWe went back to the flat, and without a word the boys scraped the onions and potatoes into a dish for the neighbor's dog. They waited impatiently, along with the poodle's owners, Jean-Philippe and his girlfriend, as I orchestrated my first French meal. I watched the Stooges' Nordic eyes light up as they popped yellow teardrops of tomatoes into their mouths and tasted my sweet pea salad with mint and bacon. They were a bit reluctant but enjoyed my omelet of wild asparagus dusted with fragrant thyme blossoms.\n\n_\"Sublime.\"_ Jean-Philippe winked and slid closer to me.\n\nI think I was happy and didn't even wince when the Dane lathered lingonberry jam on his portion of _fromage._ We finished off the meal with a tender salad of m\u00e2che, creamy Camembert _au lait cru,_ and another bottle of red. The next morning, I was unanimously voted into the largest bedroom and allotted full command of the kitchen, and later, when Jean-Philippe came by to take me for coffee, I started to relish the subtle powers of knowing my way around a kitchen.\n\nCROQUE-MADAME\n\nThis is basically a really decadent ham-and-cheese sandwich with an egg on top to elevate it from a monsieur to a madame. Substitute thin slices of grilled chicken for the ham. I like my egg sunny-side up so I can swirl the cheese sauce into the warm yolk, but poached or over easy eggs would work as well.\n\n_Butter_\n\n_4 slices sourdough or_ pain de mie _(white sandwich bread)_\n\n_4 slices good-quality cooked ham (or chicken)_\n\n_Dijon mustard (optional)_\n\n_1 cup grated Gruy\u00e8re or Emmentaler, divided_\n\n_1\u00bd to 2 cups Mornay sauce_\n\n_2 sunny-side-up eggs_\n\nHeat a large ovenproof skillet over medium high heat. Butter bread on all sides and top 2 of the slices with ham (sometimes I add a smear of Dijon). Top with half the cheese and cover with remaining bread slices. Place sandwiches buttered-side down into the skillet, pressing gently with back of spatula. Let cook about 1 to 2 minutes or until bottom is lightly golden. Top with Mornay sauce and remaining cheese. Place ovenproof skillet in oven and broil 1 to 2 minutes (be careful not to burn) or until golden and bubbly. Top, with a fresh sunny-side-up egg and serve hot. _Serves 2._\n\nMORNAY SAUCE\n\nI usually make this in a nonstick saucepan, which makes for easy cleanup.\n\n_2 tablespoons unsalted butter_\n\n_2 tablespoons all-purpose flour_\n\n_1\u00bd to 2 cups milk (whole or 2 percent)_\n\n_\u00bc teaspoon salt_\n\n_1\/8 teaspoon fresh-ground black pepper_\n\n_Freshly grated nutmeg, to taste_\n\n_\u00be cup coarsely grated Gruy\u00e8re or Comt\u00e9 (about \u00bc pound)_\n\nMelt butter in a heavy-bottom saucepan over medium high heat. Stir in flour and cook, stirring constantly, about 1 minute (do not let brown). Add milk, whisking constantly. Bring to a low boil and cook, stirring constantly, about 2 minutes more. (Once it boils, if too thick add more milk.) Season with salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Remove from heat and stir in cheese.\n\nSPRING PEA SALAD WITH MINTED CREAM AND GRILLED CHEESE TOASTS\n\nIf you make this out of season, frozen peas can be substituted. I also like to add fresh fava beans (cooked and peeled).\n\n_2 cups fresh, shelled English peas_\n\n_1 cup fresh snow peas (about \u00bc pound)_\n\n_3 slices prosciutto or Canadian bacon_\n\n_1 cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche_\n\n_\u00bd teaspoon fresh lemon juice_\n\nFleur de sel _and fresh-ground black pepper, to taste_\n\n_2 to 3 tablespoons julienned fresh mint leaves_\n\n_Grilled goat cheese toast_\n\nCook English peas 1 to 2 minutes in salted boiling water. Add snow peas and let cook 1 more minute. Shock peas in an ice bath and let drain. Cook prosciutto in a hot pan until crispy. Remove from pan and reserve. Combine cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, lemon juice, _fleur de sel,_ pepper, and fresh mint in a bowl. Add peas and stir gently to combine. Let chill in refrigerator about 1 hour. Top with crispy prosciutto and serve with grilled goat cheese toast.\n\nGRILLED GOAT CHEESE TOAST\n\nMake this with almost any cheese you have on hand, but I like to use ch\u00e8vre such as a young, fresh white Crottin, or try Rocamadour or a fresh Saint-Marcellin. Slice country bread or baguette and grill or toast lightly. Rub with garlic, if desired, and place cheese on top. Broil for a few seconds, sprinkle with some fresh herbs and\/or a drizzle of good olive oil, and serve hot with spring pea salad with minted cream or your favorite green salad. \nV\n\nFive Simple Words\n\nI almost drowned once when I was seven, at a birthday party for my friend Kathy. Everyone knew how to swim, it seemed, except me. But I stood in line with the other kids and, in turn, jumped off the diving board and into the deep end. I could see Kathy's mother and all my friends above the water, and I wondered if they could see me as I was starting to go down.\n\nI still remember that sinking feeling, the slow sensation of losing air. I sometimes think of this when I'm flying thirty thousand feet above the earth, in a jet transporting me to another part of the world, farther away from my point of origin. I wonder sometimes, if I had actually drowned that day, how long it would have taken my adoptive parents to forget about me.\n\nInstead of returning to the States after my last year at the University in Nice, I left for Sweden with Joachim. Perhaps since my adoptive father's family is from Norway, I headed north instead of east.\n\n\"When are you coming back?\" I remember my mother asking when I called from a pay phone along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice.\n\n\"I don't know, in a year maybe,\" I replied, and shrugged, watching the Mediterranean crash into the black rocky beach below. Her silence said it all: She didn't approve, she wanted me to come back and live close to home. She didn't understand why I would study in France, why I was living in a foreign country. I was momentarily homesick and blurted out that I would try to come home for Thanksgiving.\n\n\"Where are you going to live?\" My sister was still in high school, and maybe my mother thought I was proving to be a bad influence, even though Suzy and I hadn't been close in years. \"Where are you going to live?\" she repeated.\n\nI think she knew I was moving in with Joachim, and obviously, there was no wedding in the near future. Marriage was the last thing I was looking for. I didn't need a ring to escape, just a valid passport.\n\nI knew when getting my first Swedish visa that I wasn't really going in the right direction, but at least I had the illusion of going somewhere, and I think I believed that Joachim could make me feel that home was somewhere close.\n\nIt was in Stockholm, however, that I discovered the first of many places I would never quite belong. I could speak French fairly fluently at this point, but no one in Sweden wanted to know if you could do anything better than they could. So the fact that I couldn't speak Swedish well quickly endeared me to Joachim's family and many friends.\n\nAt Sunday dinners, his father or brother-in-law (who had studied in the States) made a point of sitting next to me, not to make me feel more welcome, but to show how well they could speak my language.\n\n\"Did you know that Sveden has the highest rate of literacy in Europe?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't.\" I'd smile, crunching into a mustard-sweetened herring.\n\nJoachim and his brother-in-law would then often go into a litany of all the high-quality products that come out of the great country that is Sweden\u2014Volvo, Ericsson, Saab, Esselte.\n\n\"Vee are proud of being Swedish,\" someone would affirm. \"But vee can English probably better than half of the kids in American high schools.\"\n\nI'd nod agreeably, not wanting to correct them. Instead I cracked a hard round of _kn\u00e4ckebr\u00f6d_ in two and smeared it with a squeeze of liver paste. We did this every Sunday. Just a few more shots of schnapps, I'd remind myself, coffee, and maybe a few lines from an ABBA song I could never quite remember and I'd be home-free.\n\nSoon I found part-time work at the International School, teaching English and basic French to the awkward and privileged children of diplomats. I also signed up for Swedish language lessons, but Joachim, who liked speaking English, \"the international language,\" told me I could get along perfectly fine without Swedish. But English had been my first language of survival, and I was determined to survive in Sweden, too.\n\nJoachim liked to eat but didn't like to cook, so he'd go out drinking after class and sometimes not come home until dinner was already too cold to eat or it was too late to reheat. Every day, I'd try a different dish from one of his mother's cookbooks\u2014recognizing words like _potatis, \u00e4pple, soppa, br\u00f6d_ and learning new ones like _Jansson's frestelse,_ a warm potato temptation with anchovies, onions, and cream. Sometimes, though, after too many boiled potatoes, I longed for Louisiana heat, dirty rice, shrimp Creole, or even a simple fried egg sandwich with a dollop of mayonnaise and lots of Crystal hot sauce.\n\nWhen I wasn't teaching, I was obsessed with watching Brazilian soap operas subtitled in Swedish so I could learn other words away from the kitchen: _\u00e4lskar, andra, beh\u00f6ver._ I learned to say with a certain Brazilian fierceness that \"Jo\u00e3o was out of the hospital, in love with Rosita, and drinking all night.\"\n\nOnce, after two days away from home, Joachim came back. I was seated at the small kitchen table, in a half sleep, watching layers of snow pile up outside the window, a pot of lukewarm gumbo on the stove and a few shots of vodka in my blood. I accused him of having his own Rosita at the corner bar.\n\n_\"Jag vet att du \u00e4lskar henne.\"_ I know you love her, I mispronounced.\n\nBut it wasn't Rosita he loved, he assured me, taking off his boots and making his way into the kitchen. \"It's windy-eyed Kim,\" he sang, lifting the lid of the gumbo pot. \"I'm hungry.\"\n\nHe lit the gas to high, then turned around to tell me that he also loved Johanna, a girl he had introduced me to once. Someone from his study group. Before I could say anything, she appeared in the kitchen\u2014perfectly on cue\u2014and of course I remembered her. Tall, big-boned, with midnight blue eyes and lots of swinging hair. She was beautiful; she looked nothing like me.\n\n\" _Hej._ I'm Yo-hana,\" she said, smiling. Her voice, like crushed ice, didn't quite match the sleekness of her body. She turned to Joachim, who fed her a spoonful of my gumbo. \" _Lite salt.\"_\n\nShe sprinkled some salt into my dish and stirred the pot, asking me something about how I was surviving the winters. But I was already standing at the hall closet, putting on the warmest clothes I could find: stockings under my long brown skirt, Joachim's thick wool socks, a mismatched pair of mittens, a red scarf, and a black wool cape. I grabbed my purse and started toward the door.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" Joachim and Johanna asked almost in unison, frowning like a pair of disapproving parents.\n\nMy face turned hot, as if I had been caught in the act of something I would have a hard time explaining. All I could do was shrug and bite the inside of my cheek to stop the tears from clouding my throat, stop myself from turning back. Joachim tried to hug me, but I turned abruptly and he stuffed a phone card in my hand instead.\n\nLooking back, I don't even know why I took the card. Who was I going to call? I certainly wasn't going to call him. I knew hardly anyone in Stockholm, and with the time difference, if I had tried someone back home in the States, it would have been an alarming hour to ring.\n\nI didn't know where I was going, either, but I felt relieved stepping out into the thick snow that night, letting the cold air slice into my lungs. Wandering the streets, I thought of my father\u2014my adoptive one with the Scandinavian roots. I longed for his Minnesota story, the same one of having to walk miles in snow to get home from school every day: \"Up a hill . . . both ways.\" He told it so often, my sister and I mouthed the ending with him, rolling into laughter. My father never laughed much when he talked about his childhood, so I liked the story, because it was one of the rare and tender moments he shared with us. But I hated it, too, because it always ended in a lecture about why we should appreciate the smallest of what we're given. I always wanted to shout that I wanted the big things, lots of whatever there was in life, even if I knew back then that I wouldn't know what to do with so much.\n\nI must have sensed even before that last evening with Joachim that I wasn't going to find the \"lots of whatever\" in Sweden. A country proud of being neutral, proud of its many islands and its cold surrounding waters. A country where all the clich\u00e9s are true\u2014the people and sky both dark and drunk in the winter and prematurely happy and drunk again with the slightest promise of warmth and sun. A place where strangers keep to themselves and the scent of foreign spices is considered suspicious.\n\nI walked across the bridge into Gamla stan, old town, until I found a bakery-caf\u00e9 that was just about to close. They let me in, and I ordered a big cup of hot tea and pointed to the last puff pastry roll stuffed with whipped cream. I dug out some coins from the bottom of my purse to pay and found a postcard I had bought some time back, a photograph of a wilted smorgasbord and a smiling blond girl holding a glass cup of mulled wine.\n\nThere were only two other people inside the caf\u00e9, sitting at opposite ends of the room, trying to stay warm. I sat at a table somewhere between the two and started to write my sister on the back of the card, wondering if my family missed me at all, but I drew a snowflake instead. The sweetness of the white cream filling made my teeth ache, and suddenly I was sorry that I had left the gumbo with Joachim. I imagined him in the kitchen with Johanna, her small, perfect nose crinkling as she inhaled the salty, spicy stew.\n\nAfter leaving Joachim\u2014my visa hadn't yet expired\u2014I decided to stay on in Stockholm a little longer. I may have been drifting, waiting for my life to begin. And even though I had no concrete reason to be there, something kept me from leaving right away.\n\nI soon rented an apartment from a woman named Berit. When I spoke to her in broken Swedish, her name came out of my mouth sounding more like \"Beirut,\" but she didn't seem to mind.\n\n\"Sometimes,\" she said in Swedish, showing me through the different rooms filled with packed boxes, \"life is like a knocked-out city.\"\n\nThere was nothing harsh or exclamatory about her comment. As she showed me how to work the two beautiful _kakelugns_ \u2014tiled heating elements, one in the living room, the other a sea-colored tower in the bedroom\u2014she went on to explain that she was a Lutheran minister and that her girlfriend had just broken up with her, that's why she was moving and renting out her apartment. I nodded, following her around, taking in the bouncing sounds of her voice.\n\n\"And here is the kitchen,\" she said, sliding open the window. \"There's an elementary school.\" She pointed. \"And the communal laundry room. Lots of sunshine through here. It's a good place to simmer and think.\"\n\nAs I was paying her the deposit, she said she liked me because I wouldn't be trouble, because I was quiet\u2014maybe a loner, like herself? I lied and told her that I had many friends in the city. I then explained that I had found a rhythm to my Swedish existence: free language lessons for immigrants on Fridays at the Gullmarsplan location, workout and sauna at Friskis & Svettis (Healthy & Sweaty) on Tuesdays, and teaching on Mondays and Wednesdays.\n\nI think I wanted routine and order, things my parents and people like Joachim had tried to teach me but knew I'd never be good at. Maybe I wanted the illusion that if I had control over the timetable of my life, I could avoid emotion and the uncontrollable details like sorrow and love and absence.\n\nA month or so later, I started teaching at the Berlitz School on Kungsgatan. It was there I met a poet named Charlotte. At first, we were reluctant to meet each other, everyone having told us how well we would get along. Finally, we met for tea. She was dressed in a bright green tunic and wide-legged pants, nothing like what any of the Swedish girls our age were wearing.\n\nConversation came easily, in Swedish at first and later in English. We compared our favorite words and poets, cities we longed to visit. Meeting her was like finding a mirror, and we searched silently, wondering about the darkness inside each of us that compelled us to write.\n\nAlso at Berlitz, I met Kajsa. Aside from being an aspiring model\u2014she had just landed a modest contract\u2014Kajsa freelanced, tutoring students where I used to teach, at the International School, in Swedish and theater.\n\n\"As if these kids needed any more drama in their lives.\" She told me stories of the different families, where they were from, what they ate. She spoke always in her precise and throaty way, using her big rusty features to emulate her idol, Bibi Andersson. Kajsa made me laugh. She was a good distraction and helped me pronounce the strange bubbling sounds of the Swedish language.\n\nOver spiced tea and pickled herring sandwiches one day, she told me she had been making extra money translating brochures for L'Occitane, a French perfume and soap company. I hadn't heard of it. The founder, Olivier Baussan, she went on to explain, had started it in a small town in Provence years earlier, and they were expanding, going international. They needed someone to do the English translation. He was a good friend of hers, and she had met him while on vacation in Portugal the summer before. That's the summer Kajsa was breaking up with Lars. Before I could ask her, she said she really liked Olivier when they met, but she was still in love with Lars.\n\nAnyway, she continued, Olivier was coming to Stockholm to look at store locations, and he'd be in town only one night. She thought I should meet him and see if maybe he would hire me to translate the new L'Occitane brochures from French to English. Why not, I told her. I truly had nothing better to do.\n\nKajsa, who subsisted on tea and hard bread, insisted on cooking that evening. I don't know why, but I offered to bake a cheesecake\u2014New York style. I bought a hard-to-find springform pan and graham crackers and improvised with a jar of lingonberry jam to top the cake. I stood in line at Systembolaget, the government-run liquor store, to buy wine and randomly chose a 1985 bottle of red rioja. At the time, I'd never tried Spanish wine and didn't know what to look for in a \"good bottle.\" But as I handed over my crumpled 100-krona bill, I felt that my life suddenly depended on it.\n\nIt was the end of November, so the sun had barely risen and already set by the time I was to be at Kajsa's. I wore thick stockings, knee-high boots, a dark velvet skirt with a gray sweater. Bundled in a hat and coat, I walked the ten blocks from my place to Kajsa's. The weight of the cheesecake and the bottle of wine, the crunch of ice under my boots, all suddenly made me feel hopeful. I had a purpose, small as it was. I was taking a familiar path to meet someone new. I was just twenty-two years old, and everything seemed possible.\n\nBefore I made it to the top flight of stairs, I heard music coming from Kajsa's. It wasn't what she usually listened to, it was melancholy and rich\u2014something I recognized but had never heard before.\n\nIt was Olivier who came to greet me at the door. He took my hat and coat and bent down to take a look at the bottle of wine. I regretted my ignorance and wished I had bought French instead.\n\n_\"C'est une excellente ann\u00e9e,\"_ he remarked as I handed it over. His smile was sudden but not mocking. I could feel him taking me in as he closed the door. I knew Kajsa's place better than he did, but he showed me to the kitchen as if he had been living there his whole life. I followed, concentrating on his voice. He spoke in slow, deliberate cadences, carefully repeating words we might not understand in French.\n\nKajsa had attempted a carrot-mushroom ragout but had overcooked the pasta into mush. She laughed it off and pulled out dark bread and a triangular block of nondescript cheese as we savored the wine. It was delicious, and Olivier told me again that my choice had been, in fact, a very good year.\n\nOlivier didn't talk excessively, but when he did, he told us about his latest projects for L'Occitane, which included sponsoring a sewing circle for pregnant teenagers in Burkina Faso. He told us about the magic of the shea tree and his new line of products using the butter from the shea nuts, his seven-year-old daughter, and briefly about a pending divorce. Mostly he talked about his love for Provence and the foods of his region. He talked of recipes, his hazel brown eyes lighting up at the taste memory of creamy _bourride,_ green and black olive tapenade, garlic-and-anchovy-rich _ancho\u00efade._\n\nI studied him discreetly. Small, wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of a straight and handsome nose. I stared at him when I thought he wouldn't notice, as he changed the music again from Kajsa's rock to Schubert's trios. He wasn't at all the type of French man I had imagined falling in love with when I was a student in Nice. Olivier was tall, lean, and exceptionally graceful, so sure of his space and position in the room, in the world, that even his movements, at times almost feminine, were in perfect sync with his solid legs and thick-soled shoes that kept him firmly grounded. He caught me watching him and tilted his head, as if, in turn, to both study and question me.\n\nI suddenly felt small and inadequate, lacking words in his language that would render me seductive and beautiful\u2014-perfect syllables to answer that I too was falling and that yes, I too wanted something more.\n\nInstead, I rambled on in my mediocre French about the translation I would do for him and how Stockholm was just a random stop in a long line of places I wanted to visit. I soon excused myself and thanked Kajsa, refusing Olivier's offer to see me home. In turn, he insisted we make plans to meet the following day before his late flight back to Paris.\n\nThe next morning, after my workout at Friskis & Svettis, Olivier met me and we walked to my favorite bookstore in Gamla stan where I used to go on Sunday mornings, when it was the least crowded. I pretended to read Whitman but was watching Olivier instead. I couldn't help but want to know him better\u2014a French man in Scandinavia, joyous among the crooked rows of dusty, neglected books that I loved so much. I watched over the edges of _I Sing the Body Electric!_ as he fingered pages, letting his large smooth hands run down the spine of each book. He spoke very little English, but I managed to understand that something important was happening.\n\nHe bought a copy of _Gilgamesh_ and _Leaves of Grass_ for me, and then we quietly slipped out of the shop together.\n\n_\"Je n'aime pas le froid,\"_ he said, shivering.\n\n\"I don't like the cold, either,\" I answered in French, thinking in English how no one ever gets used to below zero.\n\nIt was freezing, and he had to be at Stockholm Arlanda Airport in several hours. But we continued along the dark stone streets of the old city and ended up in a caf\u00e9 for gravlax, boiled potatoes, and squat glasses of cold, hard Absolut. Then we walked along the river, not really knowing where to go, just knowing that we couldn't bear to separate.\n\nHe held my hand all the way back to my apartment, neither of us really saying much. We listened to the rhythm of our steps echo in a country where neither of us belonged. He wanted to stay and take the next morning flight back to Paris, but I whispered he should go. There was both tenderness and joy in the way he told me good-bye, a promise of many more arrivals and departures to come.\n\nOlivier flew me to Paris the next weekend. We met at the H\u00f4tel du Jeu de Paume on the island of Saint-Louis in the heart of the city. He had reserved two rooms so there would be no misunderstanding. But all I understood was that I was meeting a man in a foreign country, someone I knew very little but who I sensed would be of immeasurable importance in my life. We ate fresh Vietnamese basil rolls on the street before going to the theater, where we sat in the dark, the electricity shooting out between us. And I savored the way he brushed the nape of my neck with just the tips of his fingers.\n\nWe dined on a late supper of oysters on the half shell at a grand brasserie in Montparnasse. It wasn't until years later, stopping in French coastal towns like Bouzigues and Cancale, that I understood this: Naked and eaten in its unaltered state, the oyster is the perfect food. Olivier tipped the first oyster into me, a taste so cold and sweet\u2014it conformed perfectly to the shape of my mouth and tasted suddenly of the sea. We drank white Sancerre, a few bites of a steamed whole turbot with a side of beurre blanc. Later, walking the streets of the city, we tried to catch a cab, but it was late and I started to get wet with Paris rain, so we went deep into the underground, and that's when he kissed me for the first time, his tongue fitting perfectly the shape of mine, there deep down in the rush of the Paris m\u00e9tro.\n\nOlivier flew me to London to spend a weekend in Bath, to Venice to celebrate my twenty-third birthday at Harry's Bar, where we ate John Dory and artichokes, capellini baked with ham and cream. He flew me to Nice, and we drove to the Moulin de Mougins, where I had my first taste of black truffle, a small one stuffed into a squash blossom and a larger whole truffle baked into an individual dinner roll. And he came to Stockholm almost every weekend after. Since he had shared custody of his daughter, it was easy to have her for a week at a time before leaving to come and stay with me. But when he was with me, I could tell how much he missed her. He'd call Laure just before her bedtime. I remember envying the tenderness in his voice, the longing as he sent small kisses through the invisible wires to his faraway daughter.\n\nOur courtship began in the winter, so we hibernated, staying in bed for hours at a time, making love until I was sore and raw. After, we read to each other\u2014poems from the elder Milosz, Tagore, Neruda, S\u00f6dergran\u2014imagined houses he wanted me to live in, places we would visit, foods he wanted me to taste. Olivier would rearrange my bookshelves, adding new editions in French he thought I should read. \"You need your own bookstore,\" he commented one morning while I was still half-asleep. Um-hmm, I nodded, not really daring to say much more. Yes, I loved books but had never even entertained the idea of owning my own shop one day.\n\nSometimes I would surprise Olivier and meet him at the airport so we could ride the shuttle together back to the city, his hands already between my legs, his mouth already tasting of mine. Before his arrivals, I would go to Konsum and System-bolaget and stock the fridge with wine, red and black caviar, fish and vegetables, crisp bread for our erratic feedings. I would doze off, then drift in and out to the thick scent of stocks Olivier had simmering in the middle of the night. I'd find him in the half-lit kitchen, half-dressed and smiling like a mad _chef d'orchestre,_ tasting Champagne as he conducted shallots to reduce down into red wine and roasted perch filets and steamed Chinese cabbage for a 4:00 a.m. meal. After a taste of cheese or bittersweet chocolate and several spoonfuls of ice cream, we'd fall back asleep, clinging to each other, just as the sun was starting to splinter across the winter sky.\n\nHe always brought me gifts from his travels: aged balsamic vinegars in hand-blown glass, mud-stained _bogolan_ cloths from Mali that we used as bedspreads, vials of lavender essential oil he had distilled himself. And boxes and boxes of individually wrapped mild soaps from the L'Occitane factory in Manosque. Milk, almond, sandalwood. They scented his clothes and skin. He shampooed my hair with _lait aux c\u00e9r\u00e9ales,_ new products he was creating. I loved our private bathing ritual, how he doted over me in the shower, massaging my scalp with essences he had chosen so carefully.\n\nAfter our time together, when he'd have to fly back, there was a hole in my heart, a gap so big that I was afraid it would divide us. But he would send packages, always including something to sweeten my tongue\u2014Italian dried fruit cakes, Spanish almond confections, small boat-shaped cookies from Provence, and always a heavy linen cream-colored envelope with Swedish kronor to pay for phone bills. We'd talk at least three or four times a day, our ears pressed hard into the receiver\u2014as if we could possibly get any closer\u2014whispering about the next time we would touch each other or why we had to say good-bye. I'd fall asleep with the phone cradled on my chest, crumbs of orange blossom cookies pressed between my body and the warm sheets.\n\nNeither of us really knew what was happening. Olivier used words like _femme de ma vie, reine de mon univers._ Sounds I repeated to myself, not translating them on purpose but wanting so deeply to understand. It didn't matter that I was in my early twenties and that he would soon turn forty. His body was strong and firm, and all that really mattered was that he wanted me. More than anything, though, is that with him I felt the least lonely. One night in his sleep, Olivier held me so tight that I almost couldn't breathe, and I remember thinking that in another life we could have been twins\u2014he my exact and perfect opposite.\n\nThe rare weekends Olivier didn't come, I'd go back to the little world of out-of-print books, first editions, and talks with Mats, the owner. We had become friends, and I felt that we were linked because he had been a witness to my beginnings with Olivier. Mats would brew hot, milky tea, and we'd spread cloudberry jam on thick slices of potato-flour bread. Sometimes I'd meet Charlotte and listen to her talk of Milton, her Jamaican lover she had met around the same time I'd met Olivier. I liked her because she was quiet, a loner like myself. Other writers would come and go to the bookstore, and while Mats discussed Transtr\u00f6mer with them, I would drift off and wonder if Olivier was ever going to come back. I knew he was real because of the marks he'd leave on me: my oversensitive skin red from his morning stubble, the churning in my stomach from the anxiety of being in love, and the resulting weight I had lost\u2014parts of my former self left as a trail if ever I needed to find my way back.\n\nBut he always came back, and always with more gifts, more love, more reasons to make me feel I wasn't so alone in the world. After the sixth month of weekends and good-byes, he showed up at my apartment with a one-way ticket. He had dreamed this moment, he said. Dreamed these five simple words: _Prends ton passeport et viens._ Get your passport and come.\n\nJANSSON'S FRESTELSE (SWEDISH POTATO TEMPTATION)\n\nThis dish is offered up as part of the holiday smorgasbord in Scandinavia but comforts anytime with the rich combination of potatoes baked in cream and the surprise of the sweeter, milder anchovy found in Sweden. It would be a shame, but for a less decadent version, substitute \u00be cup whole milk for the cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche. Also, fresh thyme and Parmigiano-Reggiano or Comt\u00e9 cheese would be good additions.\n\n_1\u00bd to 2 pounds Yukon gold or russet potatoes, peeled and sliced_\n\n_Salt and fresh-ground black pepper, to taste_\n\n_1 medium yellow onion, sliced_\n\n_8 to 10 oil-packed flat anchovy filets_\n\n_1 (8-ounce) container cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche_\n\n_1 cup heavy whipping cream_\n\n_Fresh nutmeg (optional)_\n\nPreheat oven to 375 degrees. Place half of sliced potatoes in a lightly greased baking dish. Season with salt (use less or omit, depending on amount of anchovies) and pepper. Cover with onion. Finish with layer of remaining potato slices and top with anchovy filets. Add more salt and pepper, as needed. Combine cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and cream in a small bowl (sometimes I grate fresh nutmeg and add a little more pepper to the cream). Pour cream mixture over potatoes, adding more cream to cover, as needed. Bake at 375 degrees for 45 to 50 minutes or until potatoes are tender. Cover with foil if potatoes begin to brown. Uncover and bake another 10 minutes or until top begins to crisp and turn golden. Remove from heat and let sit 5 to 10 minutes before serving. _Serves 6 to 8 as a side dish._\n\nALMOND-SAFFRON CAKE\n\nI was initially inspired by a Swedish holiday saffron yeast bun traditionally baked to celebrate Santa Lucia, but this cake is more straightforward and has taken on a fragrant life of its own. I've incorporated the richness of almond paste and sour cream. Confectioners' sugar yields a light batter and a tender, airy cake. _Note:_ I highly recommend gathering and measuring all ingredients before starting to bake. Also, I've made this with a hand mixer, but a stand mixer just makes it so much easier. Toast any leftover slices, smear with your favorite ice cream, and top with fresh seasonal berries. I also drizzle toasted leftovers with fruity extra-virgin olive oil and eat it with cheese, such as aged Mimolette, Spanish Manchego, or Fromage Blanc.\n\n_1\/3 cup milk_\n\n_Generous \u00bd teaspoon saffron threads (0.1-ounce jar)_\n\n_Grated zest of 1 orange (about 2 teaspoons) (reserve juice)_\n\n_2 cups all-purpose flour (stir flour before measuring)_\n\n_1 teaspoon baking powder_\n\n_\u00bd teaspoon baking soda_\n\n_1\/8 teaspoon salt_\n\n_1 cup butter, softened_\n\n_1 (8-ounce) can almond paste (not marzipan), about 1 cup (can also use 1 [7-ounce] tube)_\n\n_1 cup confectioners' sugar_\n\n_5 large eggs_\n\n_1 (8-ounce) container whole-fat sour cream_\n\nPreheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly butter and flour (or spray with cooking spray) 2 (8-inch) round cake pans. Heat milk in a small saucepan over medium heat. Add saffron and zest. Bring to a low simmer, remove from heat, and let steep. Sift together flour, baking powder, and baking soda into a large bowl. Stir in salt and set aside.\n\nBeat butter and almond paste together at medium speed until creamy, about 3 minutes. Gradually add sugar and beat until fluffy, scraping down sides. Add eggs, one at a time, beating just until blended after each addition. Gradually add flour mixture alternately with sour cream, beating at medium speed just until blended, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Add in saffron-milk mixture, beating just until blended (no need to overbeat).\n\nPour batter into prepared cake pans. Shake pans gently or use spatula to smooth tops. Bake at 350 degrees for 25 to 30 minutes or until tester inserted in center of cake comes out clean. Let cool in pan on wire racks 5 minutes. Remove from pan and serve warm, dusted with more confectioners' sugar or drizzled with the reserved juice of 1 orange (about 1\/3 cup) combined with 2 to 3 tablespoons powdered sugar. _Makes 2 (8-inch) cakes._\nVI\n\nFig of My Imagination\n\nI packed up the few possessions I owned in the empty boxes saved from Olivier's care packages and took the shortest path from Stockholm to Provence, leaving only the slightest trace of my having ever passed through. I had nothing to regret, except my newest friend, Charlotte, who like myself appeared shipwrecked and had found the soft-spoken Milton, the Jamaican banker, an anchor disguised as love.\n\nAll the times I've changed cities and countries, I've left a trail of things behind\u2014clothes and worn shoes, crumpled maps with highlighted borders to tell me concretely where I am. I keep books and music, postcards. Over the years, I've also kept tasting notes, menus, and jotted-down recipes, clues as to what I crave that may help me know who I am, better understand how food has the power to ground and comfort in times of disarray.\n\nThen there are photos, life captured in a time warp. Here's a picture of Grammy and Poppy on a sky lift one summer in the Smoky Mountains. My parents, preadoption, tanned, lingering on a white hotel balcony in Hawaii. There's a picture of my young mother smiling, with her arms open to the world; another photo of the two of us sitting on the ledge of a stone fountain in an Asian garden. I'm an awkward, skinny orphan leaning toward the young woman for shelter, but there's distance between us\u2014my new mother afraid to touch me. A photo of my sister and me in Tiffany blue leotards and soft white ballet slippers, Suzy with one hand on her hip, head tilted, smiling and waving at the camera. There are two pictures my grandmother recently sent, one of me, age four, sitting in a miniature folding chair, legs crossed, concentrating on the newspaper headlines; another of me in my first pair of American running shoes. On the back in her flowing handwriting she writes: \" _You never took these off in the beginning, not even to sleep._ \" I have the urge to call my family when I look through the photos, but the distance built up over the years is not just geographic.\n\nI keep all these images in a black linen box that I've promised myself to sort out later, into a real family album so one day there will be proof that I was part of one. This is my delusion\u2014that I can create my own history, even randomly chosen, if I believe in it enough.\n\nOlivier is obsessed with the camera. I, too, have taken up the habit. Look, focus, click. It's addictive, this focus, focus, click, again and again. I understand nothing about the measuring of light or film speeds, but I like this time frame, life frozen for just an instant. One of the first gifts I offered Olivier was a 1952 Leica, made the same year he was born, found in a shop in Stockholm. It took me hours of teaching, months of saving up, but it was worth it. No one, he said, tears in his eyes, had ever known what to give him.\n\nThere are so many images of our early times together. Here's one of us on our first weekend in Paris, on the island of Saint-Louis, like the only lovers in the world. Here we are on Santorini, July 1993. Olivier photographed me from the hot black sands of Perissa as my body slipped in and out of the ancient sea. There are photos of Spanish roads and half-lit mornings in port cities. And then the images of the stone house, Olivier's pride, called La Fare on the outskirts of the village of Pierrerue in the High Alps of Provence. We've got stacks of color and black-and-white prints from my first month here.\n\nHere I am leaning against the smooth kitchen island, squeezing lemons, crushing ice with fresh flowering thyme to bring to the workers. I'm not really looking at the camera\u2014I kept thinking of water, remembering the Aegean just a few evenings before. I had cut my left thumb and was sucking the blood so it wouldn't turn the lemonade pink. Just in case, though, I floated a few wild strawberries into the glass pitcher. I couldn't find any Band-Aids in the kitchen, and as I wrapped my finger in layers of thin cheesecloth, I realized that if there was an emergency, it could be a problem. I didn't really know where anything belonged yet. It was my first attempt at making anything in Olivier's kitchen, my second time in Provence, and our last day alone before the beginning of our new life together.\n\nEarlier that morning, in the azure cool of the bedroom, I kept waking at different hours, each time blinking away the haze of disembodied voices and watery spaces of port cities\u2014Stockholm, Marseille, Pusan, New Orleans. I felt for Olivier in the dark, the warmth and solidity of his body to remind me who I was and why I was there instead of anywhere else.\n\nI remember the blood starting to soak through the cheesecloth and wanting to call to Olivier, but he was circling the house\u2014a tiny _hameau_ built during the French Revolution\u2014instructing Serge, the caretaker, as his wife, Sophie, hung batches of hot white laundry to dry in the sun. Olivier and Serge were checking water filters and air vents. Olivier, in his subtle yet determined way, demands everything be perfectly restored by the end of summer. He's ordered extra shipments of ocher powders from the nearby town of Rousillon to color-wash the walls and beechwood to build shelves for my office. The three villagers he hired from the local bistro were setting large cream stones up the walkway. They kept watching me, though, through the glass doors, as if for some sign of truth to the rumors they had heard over pastis about who I may be: l'Am\u00e9ricaine, l'Asiatique.\n\nThey turned, tools suspended, as I walked toward them in my big black Jackie O sunglasses. I was wearing a bright white bathing suit, happy that my skin was brown from Santorini sun and trying to be cool and exotic. But as I offered them lemonade, my makeshift Band-Aid slipped off and bobbed in one of the glasses. _Merci,_ they nodded, sincere, wiping sweat from their foreheads and taking huge gulps. They smiled, looking me up and down, but before they could say anything else, Olivier suddenly appeared and clasped my wounded hand: _Viens, mon amour._\n\nWe walked past Serge, whose back was to us, but from the look on Sophie's face, we could tell he was reprimanding her again. Sophie managed an embarrassed smile in our direction, the same one from that morning when I walked into the kitchen and saw them for the first time, speaking to each other in harsh, hushed tones. Serge introduced himself, then quickly left to buy fresh bread and croissants. They had been preparing for my arrival\u2014Olivier always with his careful planning had sent a telefax from the island. Sophie handed me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. \"From Flor-eed-a,\" she announced proudly in English, and then went on to tell me in French that she's part Russian, speaks some English because her father is American\u2014a UFO specialist living isolated in Missouri. And that she and Serge ran away together to Tangiers when she was fifteen, where she aborted several times before keeping their son, Aden, and later Lenin, and now Lulu. I wondered why she told me all this my first morning here in Provence, but she did, carefully braiding her long dark blond hair while waiting for a pot of hot Yunnan to steep for Olivier before he came into the kitchen. Sophie said it all in a hurry\u2014the thrust of words not quite matching the movement of her lips\u2014relating a dubbed version of her life.\n\nSophie waved at us, and her small, callused hand in the air was like a child's. She's beautiful, yet flawed. Serge is her scar, her birthmark\u2014a short man from the north with pudgy hands, a big heart, and an even bigger appetite for oily _frites_ dipped in thick mayonnaise and lots of draft beer. Olivier waved back and tapped his watch\u2014a sign for Serge to keep checking water pressure and pumps\u2014and continued to lead me to the swimming pool that's finally finished. The outdoor kitchen, however, is still under construction, so we stood among chipped tiles and ripped-opened sacks of cement, holding hands overlooking the village of Forcalquier deep in the valley. Beyond are fields of fat white asparagus and overripe cantaloupe that sweetens the air, like stewed chocolate, and makes my stomach turn.\n\n\"What's over there again?\" I asked Olivier in French, taking off the oversize glasses, pointing beyond the forest. I can't quite situate myself on the map, never could.\n\n\"Still disoriented?\" Olivier laughed and lifted my long heavy hair, bending down slightly to kiss the nape of my neck. I could feel him swell as he pressed his pelvis to my lower back.\n\n\"The Alps are that way, right?\" I pointed to the far northeast. I remembered then that to the south was the Mediterranean. To the west, the Atlantic Ocean, and beyond, the family I hadn't seen in almost two years.\n\n\"How do you feel?\" he asked me in French for the third time that day, turning me around gently to face him. \"I want you to feel at home. I'm giving you my office. I'll have a desk and more shelves built. Your books will be here soon.\"\n\nI started to tell him about my dream the night before, the one I often have about the darkness and the fat rat that comes home faster than _Omma_ does, but I am trying to be light and multicolored like the Proven\u00e7al countryside and not tainted like my sleep.\n\nInstead, I buried my head in Olivier's chest and inhaled his odor. I remembered this smell from the first time we had met in Stockholm and loving it about him\u2014instantly, unwittingly\u2014the scent of the earth he comes from, this landscape of lavender and ancient olive trees, ripe citrus, and the Mediterranean Sea. I wondered, if I smelled like a country, which one it would be.\n\n_\"Je veux tout t'offrir.\"_ I want to give you everything. Olivier swept his arm across the valley as if it were his kingdom. Suddenly I wished I had my camera. Photograph Midas, the local industrialist who had recently sold his local perfume and soap industry, transforming it into a multimillion-dollar golden enterprise. But he stood there, with the goofy smile of a teenager, in his leather Jesus sandals and cutoff blue jeans, staring, almost afraid to touch me.\n\n_\"Tout,\"_ he repeated. Somehow, I thought, he'll never realize that the everything he wants to give me will never take away the nothing that I've always had.\n\n\"Sit,\" he told me. \"We will celebrate, and then I will take you to the _march\u00e9;_ we still have about an hour before they start packing up.\" Olivier walked over to the outdoor kitchen, took out a bottle of chilled Ruinart from the refrigerator. He raised the bottle to me, about to speak, when the phone rang. He answered, and in the distance, shrugging his shoulders in apology, he watched me.\n\n_\"Pas de probl\u00e8me,\"_ I mouthed. I can wait. I walked over to the deep end of the pool, balancing myself along the edge. _\"Tout,\"_ I said out loud, trying to pronounce it like Olivier, sweeping my arm across the kingdom. I could hear the tension rising in his voice, although he wasn't close enough for me to hear exactly what he was saying. I glanced over at him, watched as he paced and kicked around clay tiles. His legs are strong from years of cycling the hills of Provence. I dipped my toes in the pool. The water was cool. I stretched out in the hot Proven\u00e7al midday, starting to feel hungry with promises of the open market, ripe blueberries for a chilled soup I've been wanting to make, succulent olives, and sweet ham shaved from the bone.\n\nThe cold of the glass bottle on my neck brought me back as Olivier sat next to me at the edge of the water. He took my hand in his, examining my cut thumb. \"It's better now, but you'll have a scar.\"\n\n\"I always do,\" I told him.\n\n\"I love that about you,\" he whispered, sucking my thumb. \"Always a trace. Like a map.\" He glided his wet finger along my legs, outlining the mosquito bite marks around my ankles, and traced his finger to the ugly birthmark on my inner calf. As he leaned over to kiss it, the phone rang again. _\"C'est encore elle.\"_\n\nHe told me softly that Dominique wanted to drop off Laure a week early for the rest of the summer. She was driving back from Italy, and that was probably her calling again. He had decided that we would go and pick up Laure at her mother's, down in the village, when they returned, in about two hours. I leaned back on the grass, gently rolling the damp bottle back and forth over my tanned stomach.\n\nI nodded. What else could I say? He popped open the Champagne and poured two glasses. He dipped his forefinger into my glass, touched the back of each of my ears with a drop of the cold liquid, and offered a toast. Olivier winked, and I could feel everything melting, the space between my legs. I leaned back and closed my eyes, ready for him to kiss me, but he filled my mouth with a sweetness I had never known before, deeper than honey. I opened my eyes to a handful of fresh fat figs dripping with their own milk. He whispered that we would roast them with red wine, taste them with acacia blossoms he would fry and powder with fine sugar.\n\nI looked out toward the unfinished outdoor kitchen. The air was hot and dry, with just the slightest wind. I could see the tips of the Alps far, far in the distance. I pushed the hair off my face, and the sweetness from the wild figs stuck to my fingers and lips. I licked them again, willing myself to memorize that full-mouth flavor.\n\nFIGS ROASTED IN RED WINE WITH CREAM AND HONEY\n\n_12 to 18 fresh figs (ripe but firm)_\n\n_\u00bd (750-ml) bottle red wine_\n\n_3 tablespoons honey_\n\n_1 cinnamon stick_\n\n_3 tablespoons sugar_\n\n_2 tablespoons thick cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche (or heavy cream)_\n\n_Garnish: fresh mint leaves_\n\nRemove stems from figs and cut a small X in top of each. Place figs cut-side-up in an ovenproof pan. Pour wine over. Drizzle with honey. With a knife, scrape cinnamon stick over figs, and add stick to pan. Roast figs at 375 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes or until figs are tender but not falling apart. Gently remove figs, using a slotted spoon, and place on serving dishes. Place pan over medium high heat, stir in sugar, and bring wine to a boil; let cook on high heat about 7 minutes or until syrupy. Remove from heat. Stir in cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche. Spoon wine and cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche mixture over figs. Serve warm (or chilled). Garnish, if desired. _Serves 4 to 6._\n\nCHILLED BLUEBERRY SOUP\n\nAdd 1 or 2 teaspoons of this to a glass of Champagne or Prosecco for a sweet summer sparkler; use to top cr\u00eapes, pancakes, or ice cream; or serve for dessert in chilled espresso cups.\n\n_6 cups fresh blueberries, divided, or 2 (12-ounce) bags frozen blueberries_\n\n_4 cloves_\n\n_\u00bd cup liquid honey_\n\n_1 vanilla bean, scraped, or 1 cinnamon stick_\n\n_1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice_\n\n_3 tablespoons cr\u00e8me de cassis_\n\n_1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar_\n\n_Garnish: lemon or orange zest, cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche_\n\nRinse blueberries and place all but 1 cup in a large pot. Add cloves and stir in honey. Split vanilla bean lengthwise, scrape seeds into pot using tip of knife, and add scraped bean halves (or scrape cinnamon into pot and add stick). Add 1 cup water and stir. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and let simmer about 10 minutes. Strain, using back of spoon to crush berries, through a fine sieve, into a bowl. Discard solids. Let soup cool. Stir in lemon juice, cr\u00e8me de cassis, and vinegar. Add more honey, as needed. Chill in refrigerator 4 hours and up to 2 days. Serve in chilled bowls with reserved 1 cup fresh blueberries. Garnish, if desired. _Makes 3 cups._\nVII\n\nSticks and Stones\n\nEverything I own\u2014a few African handbaskets, mismatched terra-cotta dishes, some vintage New Orleans Jazz Fest posters, clothes, and books\u2014has finally arrived from Stockholm. I take refuge in the boxes, locking myself with my past in the office Olivier has insisted I take as mine. This writing room he designated is a medium-size, beautiful space in the center of the main house. I like the big square window that looks out onto the immense sunflower fields to the east, but this room, my office, is the only path from the inside of the house that leads to Olivier's wine cellar. Olivier has also set up a thick beechwood table as a desk and added his father's cane-seat chair he insists I use as my own. \"So, when you write poems and stories, you can think of him. He would have loved you . . .\" The chair is big and uncomfortable, but I accept it, not wanting to disappoint Olivier.\n\nAlready, too much time has passed since we were alone together in Sweden, Italy, especially Greece, sunbathing on Santorini, sharing quiet suppers of feta and grilled octopus, drinking pine-scented wine as we overlooked the volcanic traces of the past, the landscape of centuries before us, and wondering if this was real\u2014our having found one another. But I am doing more than surviving. This is my new life, a reinvention of myself. I clean closets, dust shelves, organize my books and photos.\n\nOutside, the workers have almost finished setting the stones. I hear their foreign babble carried by the rustle of a wind they call mistral and the familiar cadence of Olivier's voice. Somewhere on this property, I remind myself, is the person I love\u2014I have always loved. Before, I imagined every place a temporary space, a waiting room for somewhere else. Even when I met Olivier, I wasn't thinking home or happiness, I was just learning to be a young woman with a multistamped passport, wondering which fear is greater, losing what I have or actually having what I want.\n\nI'm afraid to think I may fear having everything.\n\nThese past few months, I've met so many new people, but I concentrate on getting to know Laure better and the rest of Olivier's family\u2014his mother, Giselle; brother, Alain, and his wife, Annie; his sister, Pascale. There are many friends, some with names I can't quite pronounce, and a variety of local misfits, curious people in the village who want to know who I really am. Olivier has incited gossip since selling most of L'Occitane and becoming a millionaire. I try to ignore the rumors that I'm pregnant, a gold digger, or simply an exoticism for the rich industrialist.\n\nSo far, those Olivier has introduced me to have all been chosen carefully. He presents me as a treasure, to be protected from scrutiny and jealous acquaintances who frequent Dominique. For now, I also concentrate on perfecting my French. No one here speaks English anyway, except for Sophie, who whispers a few words to me in confidence, usually about Serge's drinking. And Laure and Lulu, who like to pretend they speak American, dancing around random phrases like \"sweet dreams,\" \"bye-bye,\" \"cookies and milk.\"\n\nOlivier and a man I've never met before are laughing together by the pool. Or rather it seems Olivier's trying to unbury the laughter from deep within his friend. Laure and I come down the hill, barefoot, our toenails shiny with the same pale pink polish from Laure's _jeune fille_ makeup kit.\n\n_\"C'est Thibault! Un nouveau cerf-volant pour moi, pour moi.\"_ A new kite, for me. Laure runs to the man and jumps in his arms. She kisses him and then grabs the kite he's holding. Just as she goes to grasp the string, the kite starts floating up into the sky.\n\nWe all watch as the thin sheets of rice paper and bamboo\u2014bright reds and deep browns\u2014in the shape of an Eskimo bird mask flap away from us. Thibault pulls the string again, and the bird swoops down just above the child's head, within her reach. She shrieks with silky pleasure.\n\nOlivier introduces me to his friend. \"Tee-boe,\" I pronounce. He's a few years younger than Olivier and hungry looking. He stands lopsided, one leg slightly longer than the other. He stares at me, his eyes the color of afternoon thunderstorms. For an instant, I feel my own paper-thin weightlessness.\n\n_\"Je suis enchant\u00e9,\"_ he whispers.\n\nI, too, am enchanted. His scent rises and mixes with the fragrant fruit trees. He smells strongly of something familiar, pungent and pleasant at once\u2014like something retrieved from deep in the earth after a long time.\n\nLaure jumps down and takes Thibault's hand, leads him proudly up the hill to fly the kite with her. I watch as he limps alongside. She is running and laughing child's laughter with a strange, funny-smelling man who can delight with wind and skies, and I watch her, suddenly wishing I were paper and wood, attached to the earth by a string. I take Olivier's hand in case he has sensed the slightest ambiguity in my thoughts, but he hasn't; he never does.\n\n\"I've invited Thibault to stay for dinner. He lives in the hills beyond the route d'Apt, makes these one-of-a-kind kites for a living. I'm trying to help him out.\" And then, as if he had never thought it before, Olivier adds, \"I need to take care of him, like a brother.\"\n\nI nod yes because I understand his words, even though I don't know this strange longing invading my bones and my blood. He smells like Grammy's refrigerator. \"Your sister's coming, too,\" I answer distractedly. \"And your friend, that woman you sent me to meet in the village\u2014\"\n\n\"Flora?\"\n\n\"She's asked me to take her to the clinic in Marseille tomorrow. Is it cancer?\"\n\nHe nods. \"Where's her new lover, what's-his-name?\"\n\nI shrug. \"I told her I'd accompany her.\"\n\n\"Are you going to be okay driving to Marseille?\"\n\nI nod. Olivier knows I hate to drive. I am always getting lost in this new landscape, am hesitant when it comes to on-ramps, tolls, and merges.\n\nThe first time I met Flora, last Monday morning at the market in Forcalquier, I was to stop by her studio and drop off photographs from our trip to Greece that Olivier wanted framed by Flora. She has known Olivier and Dominique for years. According to Sophie, Olivier has saved her many times in this life, and although Dominique tries to get information about Olivier from her, he knows that Flora's loyalty to him is unfailing.\n\nBefore I could find her studio, I stopped along the way, intrigued by a short, thick woman wrapped in layers of bright silks and linens, bickering with another dark, feisty woman at the olive stand.\n\n_\"Puta!\"_ the dark woman yelled, and spat at the ground. \"My husband will lose a television over this, that two-timing prostitute of shit.\" She stared at the crowd that had gathered as if she were about to cast a spell and then disappeared instantly. I pretended to be sampling the green and black tapenades the olive vendor was promoting that day.\n\n\" _Ahh, bah voil\u00e0 . . ._ You must be Keem,\" the colorful woman said, pointing to the photos. _\"Enchant\u00e9e.\"_ Flora kissed me on both cheeks and apologized for the scene as she paid for a large wedge of _fromage d'abondance._ She turned to me and smiled, and then, shifting her produce in the basket to fit the cheese, she frowned up at the sky. \"I just can't seem to make her understand that it's her husband's love that can save me,\" Flora said in her Proven\u00e7al-accented French.\n\nI must have looked confused, because Flora went on to explain that she had been seeing the Portuguese woman's husband, Jean-Marie, for several months now. \"But it's not what you think,\" she added quickly, lowering her eyes.\n\nI didn't know what to think as I walked with her silently through the village. Children waved, and various people called out, _\"Flora, \u00e7a va mieux aujourd'hui?\"_ She waved back, smiling. I remember being struck by her lack of dramatic intonation, as if everyone knew that only love could remedy the disease that had already eaten away at one of her breasts and was now spreading to her lungs.\n\nOlivier and Thibault go through my room to the cellar to choose the wines for dinner. Laure's up on the hill, tied to the end of the bird mask, skipping along to the child's music in her head. She stops for a moment to wave at me. A half-erased moon is already pressing itself into the sky, although it's not quite night. How much closer it appears on this side of the ocean.\n\nOf those Olivier trusts, I'm most drawn to and amused by Flora. Tonight, instead of a crazy hat, she shows up for dinner wearing a turban of muted colors. Her hair's slowly growing back after the second round of chemotherapy treatments, and she is always radiant, laughing despite the cancers growing slowly in her body, the stains spotting her lungs. She's abundant in her flesh, and tonight she's wearing a bright blue djellaba with slits up both sides to reveal thick, muscular calves.\n\nShe arrives carrying a basket of wild scarlet strawberries and black _trompettes de la mort_ mushrooms. She offers me a pictureless frame made of opalescent razor-clam shells. That's what she does, builds frames of every material she can find\u2014chicken wire, metal from broken fences, and chunks of broken stone\u2014to capture what other people want enclosed. Then she holds out the palm of her hand and asks me to close my eyes. I smell something musty, irregular to the touch.\n\n_\"Une truffe.\"_ A summer truffle, she explains, marbled cream on the inside, not as pungent or prized as the black winter truffles. Olivier takes it from me, kisses Flora thanks, and places the gift in a jar of arborio rice.\n\nEverything about Flora points to the sky, one earring like a shooting star. Even her voice is lifted, floating toward some unrelenting god of good health. Her arms are solid, and as she hugs little Laure and Lulu, I too long for my mother, real or adoptive\u2014one whose shape I can't recall, the other whose touch is of distant kindness and disapproval.\n\nFlora has what my grandfather would call spunk, joie de vivre. She's what I would have wished a mother to be\u2014-courageous with the qualities of a dying heroine. \"Men,\" Flora told me that first day at the market, \"sometimes don't know what to do with so much abundance in a woman. They don't know where to store all the love we have to give.\"\n\nShe and Thibault forgo the customary kiss, clasp hands instead and exchange knowing looks before joining us. Thibault's not laughing like the others, but staring. I can feel his presence from across the room but I pretend not to notice because they're all here\u2014Sophie and Serge, Lulu and Laure, Flora, Pascale, and Olivier\u2014gathered around me, expectant, as if I'm here to breathe life into the main artery that is Olivier's house. Instead, I offer up smoked duck breast slices wrapped around almond-stuffed prunes to accompany the ap\u00e9ritif. Olivier's glowing as he pours generous portions of cold Prosecco, some with wild peach pulp for Bellinis. The phone rings in the glass-enclosed alcove, and I rush to answer it.\n\n_\"Puis-je parler avec Laure?\"_ It's Dominique, asking for her daughter. The few times I've answered the phone when she calls, I immediately passed it over to Olivier or Laure. But tonight I feel different.\n\nI make the first move. \"May I ask who's calling?\"\n\n\"It's . . . uh . . . Laure's mother,\" she responds, caught off guard.\n\nOlivier knows immediately from my tone and whispers, \"Tell her that Laure is playing with Lulu.\"\n\nSomewhere deep inside, I enjoy telling Dominique that her daughter is unavailable, no matter how imperfect my French.\n\n_\"Passez-moi Olivier.\"_ Then I want to speak with Olivier, she says in that clipped Parisian accent I'm still trying to emulate. I hold the phone out to him, but he refuses to take her call.\n\n\" _Bien,_ tell _my husband_ that I need five thousand francs tomorrow to send to Laure's school before the start of classes, and he can throw in a couple thousand more because I want to buy some new clothes.\" Just when I think it's over, she adds, \"Oh, and I'll stop by next week to get more of my things. My panties and bras, I trust, are still in the dresser?\"\n\nOlivier's explaining something to his sister as I hang up the receiver. I decide to take a deep breath, swallow the last drops in my flute, before opening my eyes again. They're waiting for me in the other room. I can hear their watered-down voices coming to me like an undertow. Her panties and bras have been in an upstairs room for over a year now since she moved out. I never allow myself to go in there, but I did, once.\n\n_\"\u00c7a va, Kim?\"_ It's Thibault. His hand's on my shoulder, and I freeze, inexplicably wanting to go to him for some sort of comfort. Why didn't Olivier just take the call? \"I'm sorry if I've frightened you,\" Thibault continues. I look at him, not really understanding. \"I know you. I mean, as if from some other time . . . Never mind . . . I can't explain. It's like the birds I draw in my mind.\"\n\nThe phone rings again, and Thibault gestures to answer, but I take the phone before he does, determined to be unyielding if it's her again.\n\n_\"Allo?\"_\n\n\"Kim Sun\u00e9e?\" It's an American voice. \"What time is it over there?\"\n\n\"Grammy?\"\n\n\"Are you all right? Where have you been?\" She yells to my grandfather that I'm alive. \"Your mother says she hasn't talked to you in a while.\"\n\nI shake my head, almost wishing it had been Dominique instead. \"Olivier and I were in Greece. Didn't you get my postcard?\"\n\n\"Sweetheart. When are you coming home?\"\n\nI want to answer that I am home but instead ask, \"How's Poppy? What's he cooking right now?\"\n\n\"I need your address again. Those French words are so hard.\" My grandmother pauses as she always does to hum and worry. \"If you don't come back soon, we're just going to have to come over there and get you. Do you know I bought a new address book just for all the times you've moved? Let's see, there's Nice, Stockholm, Aix-en-Provence, and now this place called . . . Pierrerue?\"\n\nPascale is lighting candles. She gestures for me to join them. I motion back to start without me.\n\n\"Grams,\" I say, \"we're getting ready to have dinner.\"\n\nShe pauses to sigh heavily and hands the phone to my grandfather. \"How's my chowhound?\" he booms, and I am immediately back in his kitchen. \"I've made crawfish pies and stuffed artichokes with crabmeat.\"\n\nWe send kisses to each other over the phone, and Grammy gets back on to say that my parents have been talking about wanting to come to Provence and that she and my grandfather will also try to make a trip over. \"It's so far . . . I don't know if I can make it all the way there.\"\n\nJust when I am about to remind her that they made it to Ireland and London three years ago, that I would love for them to visit, Olivier comes to me, holding out a piece of baguette dripping in olive oil. He puts it in my mouth and takes the phone to tell my grandmother in his soft, elementary English that \" _allo_ . . . yes . . . good . . . we . . . uh . . . call back yesterday.\" He nods, says, \"Bye-bye, I tell to her,\" and hangs up.\n\nBefore I can object, Olivier is gathering us all at the table, directing everyone to their seats.\n\n\"How are things going?\" Pascale asks, scooting in next to me. \"My brother\"\u2014she nods in Olivier's direction\u2014\"even with the best of intentions, can sometimes be . . . overwhelming?\" She laughs. \"Always starting this project, helping out some artist or other. But he's in love, openly . . . we've never seen him so happy . . . not like our father.\" Before I can respond, she glances at Thibault, who is settling in next to Flora. \"That man intrigues me. Always has,\" she whispers.\n\nI'm not thinking about Thibault, but his scent of freshly dug earth suddenly sends me to the truffle Olivier placed in the rice jar. I wonder how long it needs to stay in there to fully penetrate the grains with its chewy aroma.\n\n\"So,\" Thibault says, smiling at Pascale while talking to me, \"Olivier tells me you're a poet.\"\n\n\"Not really,\" I mutter. \"But I do miss writing workshops, you don't really have those here in France, and I try\u2014\"\n\n_\"Elle est ma petite po\u00e8te,\"_ Olivier answers. I cringe. My little poet. He raises his glass to propose a toast. _\"J'aime le hasard. Le destin.\"_ Chance. Destiny. _\"A la po\u00e9sie.\"_ he says, smiling. We all raise our glasses.\n\n_\"A l'amour.\"_ Thibault raises his glass.\n\nWhen Sophie gets up to start serving the first course, Serge stands and I'm thankful that there will be some comic relief.\n\n\"My turn.\" He clears his throat, letting out a roaring belch. \"To this soon-to-be-finished construction site,\" he says, raising his glass. While he has everyone's attention, he starts recounting Dominique's latest ploy\u2014her attempts at shaming Olivier into giving her more money. He tells the story as I imagine him holding court down at the village bar\u2014the rich man's caretaker as the others buy him drinks in exchange for his embellishments. \"She's telling everyone\"\u2014he hesitates\u2014\"that Olivier has to give her the house. This house that I take care of\u2014that Olivier paid for\"\u2014he looks around and fixes his watery green eyes on me\u2014\"and that Kim is now the mistress of.\"\n\n\"But she never really lived in this house,\" Pascale protests, and for an instant I think she's talking about me. \"She only wanted Olivier to buy it if she could have an apartment in Paris\u2014 _quelle petite bourgeoise_!\" Pascale puts her lips together and puffs out an air of disgust, shaking her head.\n\n\"Children, go play outside,\" Sophie commands.\n\n\"But what about dessert?\" Lulu whines.\n\n_\"Allez!\"_ Flora stomps her foot, and Laure and Lulu scatter away like frightened crows.\n\nSerge lifts another bottle of Bordeaux\u2014the Calon-S\u00e9gur I like that's rich and creamy\u2014and gestures to Olivier, who nods approval before opening it. Serge smiles at me and proposes a toast\u2014\"To Keem.\" I want to disappear, but I also want Serge to continue. I want to hear it all, no matter what it will cost my heart.\n\n\"She says that Laure loves this house and won't understand why her mother isn't in it with her\u2014why a stranger is in her mother's place, and\u2014\"\n\n\"And she told Laure that she didn't even have enough money to buy her candy at the store,\" Sophie interrupts. Serge shoots her a look. \"I heard her the other day at the bank,\" she adds, passing the basket of bread as I serve seared scallops and confit of shallot with a saffron beurre blanc.\n\n_\"C'est d\u00e9licieux,\"_ Thibault exclaims, sopping up the bright yellow sauce with his bread. \"If she's as good a poet as she is a cook . . .\" He winks at me.\n\nMy face feels hot. Olivier, on the other side of me, laughs lightly, shaking his head, opening a bottle of Condrieu. \" _Incroyable._ I've got it all under control. I've already talked to Laure about most of this. She's eight . . . she understands a lot more than we think.\"\n\nThe children dart in and out of the room.\n\n\"Papa, can we have dessert now? Kimette made American cookies just for the kids.\" Laure leans into me, licking her lips.\n\nI am grateful for her gourmandise. I bring out the warm chocolate oatmeal cookies on a platter for the children while Sophie clears the cheese plates and serves apricot _clafoutis._ Olivier opens a bottle of _vin cuit,_ Domaine de Caz\u00e8s. The apricots are tart-sweet against the creamy custard. I swallow the amber liquid of wine, hoping it will flood me fast.\n\nAfter dessert and prune _eau de vie,_ Pascale tells us good night. Thibault follows shortly after, lingering softly on each of my cheeks after kissing the others good-bye. I lead Flora to one of the guest rooms, my favorite with hand-rubbed ruby walls. I lay out a white linen nightshirt and fresh ecru towels.\n\n\"What time do you want to leave in the morning?\" I ask, placing a small glass and an unopened bottle of Volvic water on the bedside table.\n\n\"I don't\u2014but I have to be at the clinic for ten. The treatment lasts five hours, you know.\"\n\nI nod.\n\nFlora begins to undress slowly, hiding herself behind the door to the bathroom. When she's finished putting on the nightshirt, she slides quickly into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck.\n\n\"I'm cold\u2014it's freezing in here.\" Flora's cough is thunderous.\n\n\"There's a warm breeze, but I'll shut the window.\" I go to turn off the light, then sit at the edge of the bed, tucking the covers snugly around her feet and legs. She looks like a mummy.\n\n_\"Merci, Maman,\"_ Flora jokes.\n\nThe kids burst into the room, smelling of sweets and sweat, to kiss her good night.\n\n_\"Bonne nuit, Flora,\"_ Lulu says, rubbing her eyes.\n\n_\"Bonne nuit, les enfants.\"_ Flora hugs the children to her one last time, and when she thinks they've left, she slowly unwraps the turban to reveal a thin fuzzy layer of hair, the only visible sign of her illness. The children let out a squeal of shock. Sophie calls for Lulu, who runs out of the room, gasping. Laure tugs at my hand, backing toward the door, staring at Flora's head.\n\n_\"Tu viens?\"_ Are you coming? she whispers, keeping her eyes fixed on Flora.\n\n\"Your father's going to read you a story tonight, I'll be in later.\"\n\nShe hugs me, burying her eyes in my neck. I whisper not to stare, not to be afraid, and send her on her way.\n\n\"Keem,\" Flora says before I leave the room. I wonder if I've forgotten something, an extra blanket or tissues. \"Thibault,\" she says, suppressing a cough, \"he likes you, very much.\"\n\nI feel myself blushing.\n\n\"I've known him for many years. He's a charming, isolated soul.\" She hesitates. \"He needs love, like all of us, I suppose, but sometimes he looks in the dangerous places.\"\n\nI shake my head. \"Let me know if you need anything else,\" I tell her.\n\n_\"Allez, bonne nuit.\"_ Go on, good night.\n\nWhen I make my way back into the kitchen, I see Sophie from behind, her shoulders trembling in the last of the candlelight. When she hears me approaching, she turns to the wall.\n\n\"Sophie?\"\n\n_\"\u00c7a va, tout va bien.\"_ Her lovely brown eyes are swollen and thick with tears.\n\n\"I loved the dessert you made tonight\u2014the best _clafoutis_ I've ever tasted,\" I offer. Sophie tries to catch her breath but starts crying again as water fills up in the sink. \"I'll rinse off the plates. Go on. Zorah's coming early tomorrow to clean.\"\n\n\"Ah, Keem\u2014\" She sighs deeply. \"I speak English with you now\u2014no one understand except you, okay?\"\n\nI nod, turn off the faucet, take the dishtowel from her, and lead her out of the kitchen into the night. We stand for a moment in silence, watching the sky.\n\n\"You know what it means to love someone even if it is no more possible?\" She looks at me and then begins to laugh. \"But of course not. You are so young, and Olivier is so in love with you.\" She lights a hand-rolled cigarette. \"He is my age, Olivier, but I am so old already.\"\n\nWe walk past her house and down the hill to the pool, sit at the edge with our feet dangling in the water. Sophie leans down to rub her feet. Her ankles look unusually swollen, bruised. She catches my eyes and blows smoke rings to distract me. We watch them one by one float up into the air.\n\n\"You see that?\" Sophie asks, pointing to the rings. \"That is my life with Serge\u2014light like smoke, but also toxic.\" She laughs again\u2014a delightful, resigned laughter that puts me at ease.\n\n\"Sophie?\" Serge's voice is a sharp sword. Sophie jumps up and puts out her cigarette. _\"Soph\u2014 Au lit, tout de suite.\"_ To bed, immediately.\n\n_\"J'arrive,\"_ she yells. She blows me a kiss from the dark. \"Tomorrow, I make breakfast for you and Flora before you go to the doctor.\" She stops and turns to me. \"It is very nice to have you here . . . in the house. It is good for everyone.\"\n\nOn my way back up to the kitchen, I hear Olivier calling for me, too. \"Laure wants us to tuck her in.\" Laure's and Olivier's voices come to me from the open window. \"You're getting too big, I can hardly carry you anymore.\" I see Olivier silhouetted against the curtain. He feigns a minor heart attack, almost dropping Laure, which sends the child into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.\n\n\"I'll be up in a minute,\" I answer, reaching to pick a few plums.\n\nThe cool night air feels good on my face. I spread out my arms to balance myself in the wind. My head is full of wine and the movements of the evening\u2014Olivier always making sure everyone knows his place, his unquestionable way of making the world turn in his direction. And I must call Grammy back after Olivier so quickly ended our conversation. I hear my grandmother's voice telling me she'll come and get me if I don't come home soon. I allow myself a small tipsy moment to believe that this could be home, that here is where I can make a difference. And maybe a place where I can begin to belong.\n\nOn our way back home from the clinic in Marseille, Flora asks me to take the small roads along the coast. Highways make her sleepy and sad. \"You never know if you're coming or going,\" she tells me, rolling her window all the way down, opening her mouth wide to gulp the fresh summer air. The high wind lifts her spirits, whips her magenta scarf playfully, but she coughs instantly. _\"Merde.\"_\n\nI push the central control button to roll her window halfway up. \"Dr. Eskandari warned you about catching cold, Flora,\" I remind her, and regret it instantly. She pops in a cassette tape she's brought with her. _\"J'ai deux amours,\"_ she sings charmingly off-key. She lights up a cigarette, inhales once, watching me out of the corner of her eye. I pretend to sing along as Flora finally tosses the cigarette out the window and rests her head back an instant.\n\nI like being on the road but am afraid when driving; that's why Olivier bought me the tank\u2014a 1986 Saab injection\u2014a wink to our meeting in Sweden. Charcoal gray and, although not brand new, undeniably solid and reliable. But with Flora in the passenger seat, I am not as afraid, I feel strong and responsible. I want to impress her, although she's the one who gives me directions.\n\n\"Cassis,\" she says out of the blue. \"Has Olivier taken you to Cassis yet?\"\n\nI shrug.\n\n\" _Allons-y._ A small port town with tons of outdoor caf\u00e9s.\"\n\nBecause of the latest tests, which seemed to confuse the doctors, they decided to reschedule her five-hour treatment and instead run a series of different tests, which lasted two hours. I know she can't possibly think of food, but I must admit, I wouldn't mind stopping in Cassis.\n\n\"You have to eat,\" she tells me, reading my mind. \"I just need to sit by the sea.\"\n\nThe waiter leads us to a portside table for two. The water is many shades of blue agate and green, the _calanques_ in the backdrop stark white and rugged. A multitude of leisure boats bob up and down, eager for their owners\u2014older men in crisp whites with slim women in capris and tortoiseshell sunglasses. I am acutely aware of entering a life portrayed mostly in movies with subtitles.\n\n\"How do you feel, Flora?\"\n\n\"I feel like shit.\" She laughs lightly, wrinkles tightening around her faded green eyes. It's the first time I've heard her complain. \"I've got one breast. Hair like a newborn, and my whole body's polluted with all those chemicals they love putting through my veins.\" She studies the sea like an impenetrable watercolor. \"Let's have some wine,\" she says, summoning the waiter. \"A bottle of Cassis blanc.\"\n\nFlora wipes the rim of her glass, jingling the multicolored bangles on her swollen wrist. She sips the wine, not really drinking. I know she's trying to have a good time, for my sake.\n\n\"Flora, maybe we should get back\u2014\"\n\n\"There are lots of things you shouldn't miss,\" she says suddenly, not really even looking at me. The waiter brings menus, but I shake my head. I'm ravenous but refuse to eat in Flora's presence. _\"Si, elle mange.\"_\n\nShe whispers something to the waiter, who nods and returns promptly with the bottle of wine and a small white dish of black olives. The wine is crisp and lingers brightly on the tip of my tongue. The waiter reappears with a platter of freshly opened sea urchins, small rounds of bread and cold salted butter, and then a first course of lightly roasted scallops with the coral still attached, salty sea flesh like thick pink commas.\n\n_\"Tu aimes la bourride?\"_ Velvety fish stew.\n\nI nod slowly, still not sure if I should insist on driving Flora home immediately. The doctor said she needed to rest. But then the waiter sets down a fragrant bowl of whitefish, _loup_ and _baudroie,_ in front of me, with aioli croutons.\n\n_\"Mange.\"_ Flora pours the rest of the first bottle of Cassis into my glass, then orders a ros\u00e9. _\"C'est la f\u00eate,\"_ she tells the waiter, winking.\n\n\"Just like my grandfather, feeding me.\"\n\n\"How's your family?\"\n\n\"I don't really know. My grandmother calls, sometimes my mother . . . I think they're going to come and visit . . . but no one else really . . . calls that often.\" I dip a piece of crusty bread into the warm saffron sauce, thinking of those across the ocean. As the wine gently floods me, my thoughts whip through me like a hot sirocco. \"And Thibault?\" I ask, surprised by my curiosity.\n\nBut Flora responds as if she's been waiting for the question. \"I loved Thibault once. Many years ago . . .\" Her voice drifts off. \"He was living with an older woman. Much older.\"\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"At least ten years.\"\n\nI wait patiently but wanting more.\n\n\"She fell ill,\" Flora continues. \"Actually she was schizophrenic, and the family put her in an institution, near Digne. They took all her money. I think he was relieved in a way. He couldn't stand not being remembered when she'd become someone else.\"\n\nI nod. Not being remembered. \"And you showed up?\"\n\n\"We've known each other forever. Centuries and centuries. Olivier, too. Different circles, though.\" Flora sips her wine, rolls a piece of crust between her thumb and forefinger. \"One day, after driving back from Digne, Thibault showed up at my door. I made him soup, and he slept for twenty-two hours straight. When he woke up, I drew him a hot bath and we . . . you know . . .\" She takes a sip and then another of the cool ros\u00e9, which actually flushes into her cheeks. \"To get it out of the way. Then we spent the next weeks smoking a lot and taking walks up to the observatory . . . have you been up there yet? We'd sit at the highest point of the hill and play games about the stars. Pretend they were people we'd like to see again . . .\" Flora's voice drifts off, and for a moment I think she's censoring herself for my sake.\n\n\"Who did you want to see again?\" I ask quietly. \"The living or the dead?\"\n\n\"For me, the living, without a doubt. The dead can stay where they are.\"\n\n\"And Thibault?\"\n\n\"Definitely the dead. He lost his older sister. She was sixteen. A car ran over her, right in front of him. He loved her\"\u2014she pauses\u2014\"more than any woman he's ever loved.\"\n\n\"Did you love him?\"\n\n\"I did. I do. But Thibault loves his kites and birds, wind and paper, things of the floating world\u2014I think that's why he likes you.\"\n\n\"Flora . . .\"\n\n\"It's nothing to be ashamed of\u2014\"\n\n\"But Olivier, he gives me everything\u2014\"\n\n\"Nothing to do with it. You're a woman. There will be other men who will fall in love with you, if there's Olivier or no Olivier. And I suspect you'll do the same.\" She waits, daring me to object again. \"That's the way it is. And Thibault coming to me after losing that woman doesn't mean he loved me more, or for what I was.\" She leans close to my face. \"He loved me, I'm sure of it, but also and mainly . . . because I was a _continuation._ \"\n\n\"Is that what we are?\" I protest a little too loudly. I lower my voice, concentrating on counting the veins pulsing in her temple, imagining the silent cells multiplying.\n\n\"When it comes to love. I don't mean convention or morals, but _un vrai amour._ We continue what others didn't finish or left behind. I hate to say it, _ma petite,_ but it has nothing to do with _us._ \"\n\n\"And the day I met you at the market. Who did you say that woman was\u2014the one who was screaming at you?\"\n\n\"My lover's wife. _Une portugaise._ She's crazy. Throws a television out the window for every infidelity.\"\n\n\"Does she know you're . . . sick?\"\n\n\"The whole village knows. But ever since I met Jean-Marie, I've been better. He makes love to me, _tu imagines_ . . . to this mangled radioactive body.\" She pauses to touch her neck, her shoulder, her heart. \"I'm not a monster. I don't want to take him away from his wife. I just want the bit of love he can give me. I'm barely forty years old, and I don't know how much longer I'll be around. Do you understand that?\" she asks, suddenly exasperated.\n\nI look down at my half-eaten bowl of food, no longer hungry. Perhaps she thinks I am too young, too healthy, too American, to understand any of this. We watch the flow of people around us arriving and departing, and I think how we all go where love is.\n\n\"Look at Sophie,\" Flora finally says.\n\n\"What about her? You mean Serge?\"\n\n\"Men are crazy about her. But Serge has her under his thumb. He's the only man she's ever known.\"\n\n\"I noticed some bruises on Sophie's ankle. Do you think\u2014\"\n\n\"He used to be . . . intriguing, witty . . . before the alcohol.\"\n\nThe waiter clears my plate, returns with small bowls of lemon water and a clean napkin while Flora insists on paying. He offers us a digestif, and Flora accepts readily. I order an espresso before the long drive back.\n\nFlora's sleepy now, so it doesn't matter if we take the highway back, she says. Halfway there, she asks me to stop at the rest stop, she needs to vomit. While she's gone, I hum along with Gainsbourg and Birkin on the radio. Her cell phone rings.\n\n_\"Allo?\"_\n\n\"Who is this?\" a man's voice asks with irritation.\n\n\"It's Kim. Flora will be right back.\"\n\n\"Tell her Jean-Marie called. I can't make it tonight.\" He hangs up.\n\nWhen Flora gets back in the car, I'm still trying to figure out how to disconnect. \"Did he call?\"\n\nI nod, handing her a bottle of water and a fresh napkin. She wipes her mouth and forehead, then sighs as I give her the message and shift into first gear.\n\n\"Did he say _why_ he couldn't see me?\"\n\nI shake my head, silent, accelerating to merge. I take the highway, speed past villages and mountains. Flora sleeps on and off. The fading light over the hills in the distance plays games, shadows like forgotten souls. A light freeze and the cool mountain air from the hills of Provence make me want to drive faster and farther. Speeding until it all becomes a blur, hazy and white.\n\nFlora snores with her mouth wide open, but when I pull into the gravel driveway, she jolts awake. The wide iron gate is open, swinging back and forth with the force of the mistral, blocked by a car I don't recognize. Flora rubs her eyes.\n\n_\"Merde. Elle est l\u00e0.\"_ She's here.\n\n_\"Qui?\"_ Who, I ask.\n\n_\"Elle.\"_\n\nJust then I realize that _elle_ is Dominique. She's in such a hurry, pulling little Laure along by the hand, I don't have time to realize what's happening. They both see me as I drive up, their eyes wide like animals caught in headlights. Laure looks at her mother pleadingly and then at me. Dominique flashes a wicked smile. I always imagined her beautiful from the pictures I've seen, but her face is weathered with hatred, creviced with bitterness, her short black hair wild in the relentless wind.\n\n_\"Monte!\"_ she howls. Her voice is cracked ice as she yells at Laure to get in the car. Dominique turns on the motor and revs the engine, but there's nowhere to go because she has to wait for me to back up in order to get out. I relish this small power I have over her but relinquish. She accelerates and speeds past, little Laure in the backseat of the silver Renault\u2014her panicked face a blur as she waves to me from the half-opened window.\n\nOlivier's in the kitchen on the phone. He takes my hand and pulls me toward him as he says departing words to his lawyer. Sophie stands up to greet me, hugging me longer than is custom. Serge offers hot tea, gesturing for me to sit.\n\n\"You must be tired,\" he says, patting me on the shoulder.\n\nI look to Flora, who has understood immediately. She's holding the local newspaper, reading out loud. On the front page of _Le Proven\u00e7al_ is Olivier's face, smiling at the camera. PROVEN\u00e7AL INDUSTRIALIST WORTH MILLIONS. Flora shows me the continued article on page three. In the upper right-hand corner is a picture I don't recall. A charity event, the two of us, and a caption in French: \"Olivier Baussan, founder of L'Occitane, and his new companion.\" I turn to Olivier, who's hanging up the phone, nodding.\n\n\"Olivier's furious,\" Serge explains. \"That the paper would print something like this. Then Dominique showed up, came back from vacationing in Saint-Tropez, packed up Laure, and stormed out of here, screaming about wanting more money. _She's_ furious. Humiliated.\"\n\nOlivier sits with Flora, Sophie, Serge, and me around the table. The newspaper is spread open before us, like a battle plan.\n\n\"What's going on?\" I ask Olivier. \"Did you know they were writing this article?\"\n\n\"They interviewed me when Indosuez bought L'Occitane. But that was ages ago. Serge brings me the paper this morning with my croissant, and\u2014\"\n\n\"And Dominique refuses shared custody, divorce, unless there's a lot more money on the table,\" Flora finishes.\n\n\"She read WORTH MILLIONS and saw green.\" Serge laughs.\n\n\"Don't you have a bar to go to?\" Flora asks him, annoyed.\n\n\"I'm not worth millions, it's the company.\"\n\n\"What about Laure?\" I ask. \"I thought she was here for the rest of the summer.\" I take some magazines and newspapers, the only American ones I can get in this small part of Haute-Provence, and sit in the worn leather chesterfield on the other side of the room.\n\n\"Dominique just took her away. She showed up and told her to pack her things, poor Laure in tears . . .\"\n\n\"That's one thing that I will _not_ tolerate.\" Olivier gets up from the table and starts dialing from both his cell phone and the house line.\n\nFlora, Sophie, and Serge sit around the table whispering, flipping through the paper, organizing a plan of attack. I don't want to read it. Instead, I flip through _Time_ and other newsmagazines that Serge buys for me in the village sometimes. Photos of strange faces with a blur of headlines. MONGOLIANS HAVE TEN DAYS TO CHANGE NAME. CLINTON TALKS OF LOVE ON CHINESE RADIO. SREBENICA, FLOODS OF UPROOTED WOMEN AND CHILDREN WAITING FOR FURTHER NOTICE. One of the articles catches my eye: \"Missing Children Often Kidnapped by Own Parents.\" There are several photos of milk cartons and weathered posters thumbtacked crookedly to trees and random walls.\n\nLater, Olivier's longtime colleague Marie-Claire and some lawyers arrive at the house for an ap\u00e9ritif. They convene like generals preparing for war. It's the first time I've seen Olivier this anxious and tired. Angry. He's acute and swift, and I realize that his wrath is to be feared. I leave them to go and sit in the other room. The phone rings several times before Olivier gestures for me to answer.\n\n_\"Allo?\"_\n\nThere's silence and then the sound of ice cracking again.\n\n_\"C'est parfait. C'est la chinetoque? Passez-moi Olivier.\"_\n\n_\"Il est occup\u00e9.\"_ He's busy, I tell her.\n\n_\"Je m'en fous.\"_ I don't give a shit. \"Next time he'll be talking to _my_ lawyers.\" The dead on the end of the line is a relief. I hang up the phone and decide to bury myself in bed. I take the Larousse with me to look up _chintok_ in the dictionary but can't find it.\n\nI slide myself between the cold bedsheets before Olivier comes to warm them up. I will pretend to be asleep when he comes.\n\n\"Kimette? _Tu dors?_ \" I hold my breath and listen as his footsteps echo into the room. Olivier sits next to me, his body finding the familiar dent in our bed. \"I'm sorry for all this\u2014\"\n\n\"She won't take Laure far\u2014\"\n\n\"She likes money too much to go too far.\"\n\n\"Olivier, what's _chintok?_ \"\n\n\" _Chinetoque?_ Did she call you that? _Putain!_ \"\n\n\"Tell me. I want to know.\"\n\nHe shakes his head. \"It's vulgar. Pejorative for . . . Chinese\u2014\"\n\n\"But I'm not Chinese\u2014\"\n\n\"Of course not. But you're all the same to her.\"\n\nI pull the covers up to my neck.\n\n\"I'll go see everyone out, turn the lights off, and I'll be right back.\" He kisses my cheek. \"Are you crying?\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" I lie, turning my back to face the wall. I just want to be alone. I know that Olivier can sense when I'm slipping away from him and sometimes even from myself. It's happened before, but he accepts the dark parts of me. He tells me, though, how he wishes he could take it all away\u2014whatever it is that haunts me. He says he can make more than enough money but that when he feels the nightmares seep into my body at night and the way I clutch him close, he wishes more than anything to be an alchemist, to turn my darkness into gold\u2014-something precious that he can give back.\n\n_\"Chintok,\"_ I whisper to myself when Olivier has left the room. Chink. Gook. Sounds of words that become swords. To Dominique I am an object, for Olivier a treasure. A precious chinoiserie. I try to sleep. Pray for sleep. I close my eyes. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will always hurt me. Beneath my eyelids, a kaleidoscope of colors and voices. The bright kites in the sky, jewel-colored wine with Flora, Laure's drawing of her new family . . . lopsided smiles on our round, happy Crayola-colored faces. I want to remember Dominique, the cold stone face, what she was wearing\u2014something tight and maroon colored, surprisingly sensible shoes. \"Go to sleep,\" I whisper. \"Breathe.\" Prune-colored lipstick. She is the mother of Olivier's child; her deep-set eyes and jawline clenched like an animal about to pounce. Why her? And then I remember that night with Olivier in Stockholm . . .\n\nHaving dinner one evening, he made the mistake of telling me that he was the one who'd wanted a daughter\u2014Dominique refusing to ruin her perfect figure, \"the ultimate triangle,\" she called it\u2014and how he'd begged her, not out of love, but out of frustration and a need for regeneration. We were at our favorite restaurant in central Stockholm, and that was the night he had planned on asking me to come to France, but I never gave him the chance.\n\n\"How could you beg a woman you no longer love to bear your child?\" I insisted on knowing, cutting into the bloody filet of reindeer on my plate.\n\n\"You can't understand,\" he told me sadly, shaking his head.\n\n\"Why, because I'm too young?\" I knew I sounded puerile but couldn't stop there. It was the closest we had ever come to arguing.\n\n\"I just wanted a daughter before it was too late. And I don't regret\u2014I adore my daughter. You'll see when you meet her. She's nothing like her mother.\"\n\n\"But you claim you no longer loved\u2014\"\n\n\"I never loved her in that way.\" Olivier took my hands in his. I wanted to believe him, and then I heard him say, \"Please stop. You can't know.\" He lowered his voice. \"You were adopted.\"\n\nI got up before he could stop me, before he could take back the words. Somehow I found myself in the ladies' room. The metal door was cold against my forehead. Someone flushed, and the sound of water made me want to cry. I will not cry, I promised myself. I am made of steel and carbon. I made my way back to the table, and Olivier was sitting there, waiting. No more questions, I wanted to reassure him. I let out a deep breath, but before I could stop, I heard myself say, \"So why did you marry her? Why did you live with her for so long? Was it because of her beauty, her perfect triangle?\" I despised myself for such questions, such lack of control. But I didn't want lies\u2014any misunderstandings.\n\n\"She wasn't beautiful really. Vulgar\u2014big breasts, pouty mouth, sassy. It was a challenge, I guess. I don't know.\"\n\nI could feel it rising in me\u2014all of the things I hated about myself: the ugly childhood bruises on my arms and legs and the darkness of my hair and skin. I hugged my sweater tight around me. \"And you like these, after all that?\" I asked, pointing to my chest.\n\n\"Keem!\" Olivier looked appalled, and I was instantly sorry.\n\n_\"Excuse-moi.\"_\n\n\"I've told you. Dominique and I have lived separate lives for the past ten years. I thought I was stuck with her, so I plunged myself into my work. It's banal, but true.\"\n\nThe waiter brought more wine and hard bread. I took one of the rounds and broke it in two, spreading cold butter on both halves. I handed one across the table. \"Olivier?\"\n\nHe looked up at me, anxious, taking the bread. He had told me from the beginning that he would always tell me the truth because he knew what it meant to me, and he always said he had nothing to hide.\n\n\"Do you see me as Asian or a woman?\" I traced my finger along the rim of the glass and then caught my reflection upside down in the spoon.\n\n\"Well . . .\" He thought. \"You're a woman, of course, so I guess I see you as Asian.\"\n\n\"You see me as _Asian_? And Dominique?\"\n\n\"She's a woman.\" Olivier didn't understand what I was doing. Why I insisted so. \" _\u00c7a suffit._ I beg you.\" There were tears in his eyes. \"Why can't you just accept that I love you?\"\n\nI wanted to, but I couldn't say it. I was fighting a private battle about who I was, an identity I didn't understand. No one else was going to fight for me, so I had to carry valiantly on. \"In other words\"\u2014I paused while the waiter gave us the check\u2014\"I'm not first and foremost a woman.\"\n\nI remember stopping myself from crying silently into my food and then later on at the apartment, in the kitchen, Olivier anxious at the stove, waiting for water to heat to make tea. I flipped through the UNICEF calendar with its monthly photo of a different child in the world, left behind for lack of love. September: a village in Sudan destroyed by famine. November: a smiling emaciated boy playing with his little sister in a refuse pile of used tires and stagnant water. Each square had become a day and an event without Olivier\u2014the exhibit he is sponsoring in Spain, a business trip to Dubai, his daughter's birthday. With each swallow of hot black tea, I thought of all the things I might never be\u2014a woman with a perfect triangle, a good mother.\n\nThe lawyers have left. Olivier comes to me with a cup of hot oolong and gets in bed, balancing the saucer on his lap. After a while, he lets me sip the soothing liquid. I feel my flesh warm and thick. He kisses me, gently at first, waiting to feel what I want, then drinks me in. I'm with him. I'm not alone. My body reaches to meet his, open and wet, wanting him so much, not gently but voraciously. He touches me in the darkest regions, takes sips of tea in between, and then dives back between my legs, his tongue hot with a rush I've never felt before. When he enters me, I realize that I want it to hurt a little, some rawness mixed with tenderness. More than anything, I want Olivier to love me until there's nothing left. I want him to fill me whole, to drink me up until I disappear, until I am no longer discernible as a race or a gender, but just simply an empty shape that needs defining, filling in.\n\nThe mistral has decided to return to us\u2014the third visit this August\u2014chasing everything out of its path and causing strange cloud formations overhead. Olivier and I are not alone. The child is finally back, after Dominique unexpectedly took her away when she read the article in the paper. Laure is here with us, where Olivier claims she is rooted and safe, here in the rocking house. Although Laure's not as voluble as before the uprooting, she seems unshaken. Like her father, she's as solid as the sediments that form the mountainside from which this house was constructed.\n\nThe child, like the mistral, whips in and out of the house, playing chase with little Lulu, hesitating before plucking ripe fruit from the trees. I see her from the kitchen window, trembling an instant in the wind before disappearing. She reappears\u2014coming up from behind me\u2014and mimics the wind as she blows on the back of my neck and plays with my hair. She kisses me sloppily, then jumps in and out of our laps. She is cranky, pulling on Olivier's fingers, knocking the newspaper from my hands. The weather section floats to the floor, lands open to an article about the consequences of past, prolonged winds. Years ago, the mistral lasted a record one month in this part of Provence, turning people mad with the howling in their ears.\n\nThe laundry moves in a wicked dance attached to an unrelenting string. And every night, the animals move restless in their pins, anxious lovers turn to each other for comfort. I listen to the wind tear away branches, like missing limbs, like the broken hearts and bodies of those we lose and continue to love.\n\nThibault arrives at the house with a bouquet of sunflowers and some red poppies for little Laure. He looks at me as if to speak but takes Laure in his arms instead, whispering to her until she giggles in delight. Then she jumps out of his arms to count the number of poppies in her bouquet. The three of us sit at an outdoor table, the wind dying down.\n\n_\"\u00c7a va, Olivier?_ Laure seems to be doing okay.\"\n\nOlivier nods, smiles at his daughter in the distance. \"Two weeks of hell and negotiations with Dominique\u2014I couldn't track her down.\"\n\n\"Are you pressing charges?\"\n\n\"Absolutely not, only for Laure's sake. It's all about money, anyway. I'll find a way.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you will,\" Thibault replies.\n\nThe leaves rustle in a moment of agitated silence. I get up to offer _l'ap\u00e9ritif._\n\n\"Just a quick one,\" Thibault says. \"I haven't packed yet.\"\n\n\"Neither have we. Where are you off to?\"\n\n\"Indonesia. Kite and paper festival.\"\n\nLaure comes back to us, jumps on my lap. \"Tomorrow I'm going to Corsica with Papa and Kimette,\" she announces to Thibault proudly. \" _Maman_ said I could go with them, even though she said Spain with her is much better.\"\n\n\"Spain,\" Olivier repeats, raising his brows.\n\n\" _Maman_ said that you told her to take me, but it was a surprise.\"\n\nOlivier reaches for his phone, maybe to call his lawyers again now that he has discovered where exactly Dominique had taken Laure. There's so much I don't understand about this custody battle.\n\n\"Laure, come help me in the kitchen, _ch\u00e9rie,_ \" I say. \"We'll put your flowers in water, too.\"\n\nThe child takes my hand. On the island, I set out a large round platter the color of faded sunflowers. Laure steps in rhythm and takes out cotton print napkins with tiny yellow-and-green paisley print.\n\n\"Do these go with?\"\n\nI nod and hand her a wedge of Parmigiano-Reggiano, a handful of fresh figs. I wipe the small glasses for Lillet, and when I turn around, Laure has already arranged everything on the platter. She has even added some fresh herbs and shelled walnuts.\n\n\"Do you think Papa will like it?\"\n\n_\"C'est tr\u00e8s joli.\"_\n\nShe giggles deeply. I make a pitcher of fresh strawberry lemonade for her, and she follows me out to the table with the platter.\n\n\"Maybe Thibault will stay longer,\" she whispers giddily to me, setting the food before the men as they ooh and aah. She clasps my hand in delight. \"Just like Kimette, eh, Papa?\"\n\nI pour the golden liquid into the glasses, but before we can drink, Olivier's back in the house to answer the phone. When Thibault finally stands up to leave, Laure jumps in his arms to kiss him good-bye.\n\n\"Will you bring me a surprise from the kite festival?\" she asks, hugging him tightly. \"And something for Keem,\" she adds, gesturing for me to come close. She hangs on to Thibault but leans over and presses her cheek to mine.\n\n\"Don't forget us,\" she reminds him, running after the car. \"I'll be right here.\" She stomps her foot firmly on the ground. Thibault waves good-bye.\n\n\"Where's Indonesia?\" she asks as we make our way back to the house.\n\n\"In Asia.\"\n\n\"How far's that, to the moon and back?\" She points to the sky, to her chest, and to the sky again, her freckles turning darker as her cheeks flush with the thrill of traveling such distances.\n\nTRUFFLES\n\nAside from _la brouillade aux truffes_ (my favorite way to eat scrambled eggs) I also like to use fresh truffles, both summer and winter, in some of the following ways:\n\nFor a surprising dessert I ate years ago in Saint-Paul-de-Vence: Whip together 1 (8-ounce) container softened mascarpone cheese with 1 cup powdered sugar until light and fluffy. Whip 1 cup whipping cream and fold into sweetened mascarpone. Shave, using a truffle slicer or vegetable peeler, some truffle slices and stir gently to combine. Cover and refrigerate at least 30 minutes. Serve in small, individual dessert cups and taste with Sauternes wine.\n\nTo satisfy guests before dinner: Toast baguette slices. Drizzle with extra-virgin olive oil; sprinkle with _fleur de sel_ and shave truffle slices over.\n\nThinly slice crisp celery ribs and toss in a bowl with extra-virgin olive oil, _fleur de sel,_ and cracked black pepper. Shave fresh truffle slices over and garnish with celery leaves.\n\nToss cooked fettuccini (or other pasta) with cream and shave truffles over. Sprinkle with _fleur de sel_ , a crack of pepper, and, if desired, Parmigiano-Reggiano.\n\nBefore roasting chicken, slip slices of fresh truffle under the skin. Reserve the pan juices to make a sauce and stir in some truffle shavings.\n\nSlip a truffle slice between 2 very thinly sliced potatoes. Brush with melted butter or extra-virgin olive oil and bake at 375 degrees until crisp and golden. Serve hot, sprinkled with a bit of _fleur de sel._\n\nAdd chopped truffles to hot potatoes mashed with cream and salted butter.\nVIII\n\nBodies of Water\n\nOlivier wants it all perfect\u2014our first summer voyage together as a family\u2014so Laure gets everything she asks for at Marseille-Marignane Airport. She wants green-and-yellow Eiffel Tower lollipops, glossy magazines, _herbes de Provence_ in a terra-cotta jar, a music box with a smirking sailor that spins and sings \"La Marseillaise.\" She shrugs nonchalantly when Olivier says yes to the makeup bag, to the T-shirt. Yes. Yes to it all because he doesn't want any contradictions. Yes to happiness no matter what form it takes or how much it costs.\n\nOn the small plane, there are only rows of two. So, yes, Laure can sit with Keem. Yes, she can change to sit with her father. Olivier looks to me, but I'm staring out the window, ignoring his plea for complicity. What can a child possibly do with so much? I want to ask him. Why can't a father just say no? Just then Laure crumples in my lap, crying with indecision. She doesn't know whether to sit with her father or with me. I caress the child's head, check for fever for no particular reason.\n\n_\"J'ai faim.\"_ I'm hungry, she whispers.\n\nLuckily, I've remembered to bring Prince chocolate-filled cookies and Lu vanilla wafers, a small paper bag of ripe golden plums. Laure takes the cookies, licking the cream greedily, dropping crumbs on my arm.\n\n\"I'll sit with you,\" she says. \"Papa can see us from across the aisle.\" She waves at him, and a huge chocolate-smeared smile lightens her face because she has finally made a decision. She leans her head on my shoulder, taking my hand in hers.\n\n\"I'm scared of flying,\" Laure whispers, her hand clammy with clumps of wet chocolate stuck under the nails. \"Sing me a song, Kimette.\"\n\nI tuck the child under one arm and kiss her cheek, tenderly, the way I think a mother should. I wish I could hum something comforting, but there are no soothing songs in my memory, just the fairy tales my grandmother used to make up, substituting me for the heroine. She used to begin the made-up stories the same way: \"Once upon a time there was a little girl, her name was Kim Sun\u00e9e, and she was hungry . . .\" But when I read the books myself, I always turned to the middle of the story, anticipating the wicked witch or the poisoned apple.\n\nThe Air Littoral flight to Figari Sud Corse Airport lasts only an hour from Marseille but is still long enough for both Laure and me to feel the pain in our sinuses, excruciating needlepoints pricking constantly at the temples.\n\n\"Yawn,\" I tell the child, rubbing her temples. \"Soon we'll be in the sea.\"\n\nShe finally falls asleep, her cookie-scented breath warm on my shoulder. Olivier winks at me from across the aisle as he turns to find a more comfortable position and then dozes off again. I envy their sleep, this gentle state of calm, as I rub my clammy palms on a wet napkin, thinking about anything other than crash landings, bombs planted in suitcases, separatist attacks on the island I've been hearing about on the news every night. I think of Flora and how I won't be able to take her for treatments while we're in Corsica. I think of all the people who would come to Olivier's funeral if something happened to him. Dominique, triumphant, taking little Laure away from me forever. She hates that we're traveling together as a family, but Laure's the one who wanted to spend the rest of the summer with us, the way it was planned from the beginning. I am starting to understand more about children and their boundaries, their heightened sense of what is just and bearable.\n\nThe drive from the airport to Roccapina in the south of Corsica is curved and sensuous. There are asphodel and bright golden genet, huge chestnut trees with their leaves spread out like wilted stars. I tell Laure and Olivier to roll all the windows down\u2014let the odors of the island ride in the car with us. Laure lets her hand swoop along the wind, waves out the window, clapping her hands with delight. Olivier squeezes my knee.\n\n\"I love this country, this island. It's my childhood.\"\n\n\"Mine too,\" Laure adds proudly, her head popping up in the space between Olivier and me. Her eyes light up. \"Remember, Papa, when we used to come with _Maman_ . . . but she was always sick.\"\n\nI glare at Olivier and then say softly, \"I thought you said you never came here with her.\"\n\n\"Once or twice, but she despises Corsica. _Trop rustique,_ I guess. Not bourgeois enough.\"\n\n\"Papa, what's bourgeois?\"\n\nWe speed past rows of holm and cork oaks, fields of flowering thyme and rosemary. Finally, we stop at the edge of the fragrant maquis; beyond are a long stretch of golden sand and the Mediterranean.\n\n\"Voil\u00e0, Pascale.\" Olivier shields his eyes from the sun, pointing to his sister and the others. Pascale and her lover, Thierry, are digging a hole in the ground next to their tent to store food. Marion, Pascale's child from a previous marriage, runs up the hill to greet her cousin. She's smaller than Laure, with thin brown hair. She waves at us.\n\n_\"Enfin.\"_ She sighs and throws her arms around Laure to give her a big hug. She reaches up to kiss me and pinches Olivier in the stomach. Olivier feigns unbearable pain and falls to the sand. For a moment, the girls look at each other in horror, and then they burst out laughing.\n\nPascale, Thierry, and the others who have come for the month are walking toward us. From a distance, they are a band of tanned stick figures, their smiles awkward and polite. As they get closer, they're an ambulant color ad for Club Med, in various states of undress\u2014exuding good health and abundant sex.\n\nPascale's topless, wearing navy-and-white polka-dot bikini bottoms and a straw hat on her curly head of short black hair. She's only thirty-six, but her breasts are heavy, sagging. When Thierry gestures to greet me, I realize that he's wearing only a T-shirt that reaches just below his navel. His sex is hanging, swaying now as he moves to kiss me on each cheek. I glance at Olivier, who doesn't seem to notice. The others are mostly naked, too, except for a man with a pair of goggles dangling around his neck, and his wife, Fran\u00e7oise, stunning in a loosely wrapped red silk sarong. She kisses Olivier and hugs him a little longer than necessary. Then she turns, studies me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I bury my sandaled feet into the hot sand.\n\n_\"Bien s\u00fbr, vous \u00eates Kim dont tout le monde parle.\"_ You must be Kim everyone's been talking about. Her thin-lipped smile never changes as she leans down to kiss me. There are about twelve of us\u2014Olivier's brother, Alain, and his wife, Annie, Pascale and Thierry's friends and their kids\u2014all laughing, welcoming us to their colony.\n\n_\"Je t'aide.\"_ Let me help you. Thierry lifts the weighted-down backpack from me and the bottles of water.\n\n_\"Bienvenue en Corse\u2014l'\u00eele de beaut\u00e9,\"_ says a man completely naked except for his Dal\u00ed mustache. \"A bit overdressed, _n'est-ce pas_?\"\n\nI untuck my Wasa ship T-shirt from my heavy linen shorts, kicking off my shoes. Voil\u00e0, I want to say. This is all you're going to get, because I'm not exposing anything else. Olivier pulls off his T-shirt and slips his hand in mine as we follow the others to our tent site.\n\n_\"Elle est am\u00e9ricaine,\"_ one of the women whispers behind us.\n\n\"In _Am\u00e9rique,_ \" a man says to me in English with a heavy French accent, \"you see guns and blood, dead pee-ple on zee _t\u00e9l\u00e9vision,_ but no titties, no ass.\"\n\nI step up the pace, not wanting to agree right away. More friends come to help carry the blankets and provisions to the campsite, a secret untouched part of Corsica, visited by a handful of those in the know\u2014nature lovers like Alain and Annie, who have been coming to this part of the island for years. The sand, superfine sugar, shines like ground crystal. Small yachts dot the horizon. The sea is a brilliant turquoise, not like the gray gulf of my childhood. The sheer beauty of it all is too much to take in all at once. Pascale and the others have lined up the tents so that each one remains hidden just so among the trees, separate from one another to allow for privacy. Why the thought to so much privacy when everyone is walking around entirely exposed, I haven't yet asked.\n\nThe next few days pass as in a dream. The children run around, build sand castles, nap, pick asphodel and rock rose from the maquis. The men spearfish and dive for sea urchins. Everyone hikes, fishes, and swims naked. We roast whole langoustes and potatoes in the open fire, read piles of thick books. After the initial hesitations of disrobing, I am now like the others\u2014in a state of nudity that I never imagined so lovely, even though I am aware of how different I am from the other French women who have low-slung breasts and boast a freedom about their sensuality that is so foreign to me.\n\nBut soon I forget that I'm American, that I'm Asian. I swim naked in the sea, learn to dislodge sea urchins, cut them in half, and carefully scoop out the orange roe, sucking it from my bare fingers. I taste _lonzu,_ the herbs of the maquis, dip chestnut-flour bread in dark liquid honey from the island. I am in love with the sheer rawness of it all\u2014the water and sand, my new life so different from the closed-in world of my adoptive parents' ways.\n\nI want to go with the men to spearfish and photograph the underlife of the sea\u2014starfish and _rouget,_ sea stones\u2014but it's understood that the women stay together, sunbathing, reading _Paris Match_ and _Marie-Claire._ One of the women, R\u00e9gine, reads an article out loud to us in French: \"Johnny Halliday has found love again with the young Laetitia, age twenty. . . .\"\n\n\"Don't they all, the older they get?\" Fran\u00e7oise rolls her eyes dramatically, wrapping her red sarong around her head.\n\n\"And you, Kim? How old are you?\" R\u00e9gine asks, pausing to stare at me.\n\n\" _Un b\u00e9b\u00e9._ You are . . . what . . . just twenty-three, twenty-four, _non_?\" Fran\u00e7oise stares. \" _Et Olivier,_ let's see . . . he'll be forty, _non_?\"\n\n_\"J'ai fini.\"_ Pascale announces that she has finished painting each of our portraits in vibrant watercolors. She has painted me in greens and reds, lying on the sand, curled up like a cat in the sun.\n\n_\"Pas mal.\"_ Not bad, Fran\u00e7oise remarks. \"But she looks a bit skinny.\"\n\n\"She's thinner than all of us,\" Pascale says.\n\n_\"Elle n'a pas accouch\u00e9, non plus.\"_ She hasn't had children yet, either.\n\nThe women look down at my taut stomach and firm, muscular legs. One of them notices, though, the stretch marks across my outer thighs. Pointing, she says mischievously, _\"Peut\u00eatre qu'elle a des enfants et que personne ne le sait.\"_ Maybe she does have children and no one knows about them.\n\nI explain that the marks are not from childbearing, but from hunger. I bite the inside of my cheek so my voice won't quiver and try to explain how the doctors told me that my body stretched in the same way as a pregnant woman's after I was taken to the States and fed as a normal American child. Fran\u00e7oise glares at me, then stands up and stretches, lights a Gauloises cigarette between her sun-spotted fingers, and marches off.\n\nAfter a week of sun, saltwater baths, roasted fish, and spiny lobster, we explore the land and on a nearby abandoned property discover a freshwater creek. The water's cold and sharp like ice slivers on our sun-hot skins. I pour handfuls of it over my head and let the water run down my neck to my hardened nipples. I don't care anymore who is watching or looking, if anyone is at all. My body is mine. We swim, soap one another's backs with thick sea sponges. The women take turns washing the children's hair.\n\nWhen we've finished, silence and satisfaction come over us. The children are worn out and nap on and off in the shade. We sit and tell jokes, slice thick pieces of coppa meat, and devour them with ruby-colored wine.\n\nIn the evenings, when the men return with dinner, we build a fire and cook, tell stories and smoke. Before sleeping, we scrub ourselves in the sea. I like how the salt sticks and dries in soft white patches on our skin.\n\nOlivier licks the salt off me in our tent at night, his tongue lapping my body like the tiniest of waves. We make love again in the early morning before anyone is awake, leaving the small flap to our tent open to the sea and the sun slowly rising. I want him. I want this way of life. I want everything he promises but will never allow myself to admit it. I want him open before me like a map of the world that I will hold in my hands, carefully folding and unfolding it at the creases, knowing that entire lives depend on such precision.\n\nWe fall asleep again, the howling of the mistral to remind me that I am part of this earth, that I am flesh and my body open to all the possibilities.\n\nToward the end of our stay, we celebrate Olivier's birthday. For some reason, he has requested jambalaya. We dress and go into the town of Sart\u00e8ne to buy long-grain rice, Corsican sausage, bell pepper, onion, celery, and garlic, a few spices. We buy fruit and sweets. In Corsica, most of the confections are made with chestnuts and honey. And I cannot get enough of Brocciu, a soft fresh local cheese.\n\nBack at the beach, I stir the rice over the open fire while Pascale puts together a birthday cake of semolina that she cooks on the campfire and tops with peach slices.\n\n\"No candles,\" Olivier tells us. \"We know I'm getting old, and already I'm so much older than my Kimette.\"\n\nI shake my head and give Olivier a kiss on the cheek, tasting the day's dried sea salt on his skin. We have not showered properly in days, but I realize for an instant that I am happy, that this is a family who could accept me, flaws and all.\n\n\"Are you off to the continent right away, or will you visit more of Corsica?\" asks Annie, Olivier's sister-in-law.\n\n\"Papa, can we stop in Bonifacio?\"\n\n\"We'll see. We've got to get back for you to start your school.\"\n\n\"Maybe in Paris, eh, Papa?\"\n\n\"Paris?\" Laure's cousin asks. \"Are you moving to Paris?\"\n\nLaure nods, shrugs. \"I want to stay in Forcalquier . . . but _Maman_ has to, for work.\"\n\n\"Laure, your mother wants to, she doesn't have to,\" Olivier corrects her. \"But you know Kim and I are buying an apartment in Paris, so we can be near you.\"\n\nI turn to Olivier, raising my eyebrows. He nods at me as if we had already spoken of this.\n\n\"Have you still got the house in Bonifacio, or has Madame B. claimed that, too?\" Pascale asks. \"If you haven't sold it yet, maybe we'll stay a few days.\"\n\nOlivier nods. \"I want Kim to see Bonifacio. We'll stop there tonight, fly out tomorrow, so it's free any time after. I don't think we'll be using it much anymore.\"\n\nPascale looks at her brother, stands up. \"How about some wine?\" she asks. \"Kim, will you help me wash the glasses?\"\n\nI stand up, too, wrap the damp towel around my hips, and gather the plates and utensils to follow Pascale down to the sea.\n\n\"My brother,\" Pascale says while rinsing a glass, \"has never been so happy.\"\n\n\"But Dominique\u2014\"\n\n\"A fake. He never really loved her. It was all about Laure. You should know, too, that the divorce is going to be difficult. She's going to try to get all she can and drag it out as long as possible.\"\n\nI shake my head as if to protest, but I'm not sure why or what I'm fighting against.\n\nWhen it's time to leave, Pascale and Thierry and the kids, Alain and Annie, kiss and hug us good-bye. A straw hat here, Laure's stray sandal there, and we're off. In the car, it feels strange to be in clothes again, even the thin cotton sundress I'm wearing. The leather seats are hot and steamy, and there's no air-conditioning in our rented Citro\u00ebn.\n\n\"Papa, it's too _hot_ in here. I don't want to sit in the back.\" Laure's voice is cranky with that same indecisive tone as on the plane, and then, like the child she is, she changes her mind. \"I'll sit back here and sleep. Papa, that was the best vacation ever. When can we come back?\"\n\n\"Maybe next summer, we'll see.\"\n\n\"With Kimette?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Look, I'm even as dark as her.\" She leans over into the front seat to compare her sunburned arm with my dark brown one. \"See, Papa.\"\n\n\"Almost darker,\" I tell her.\n\n\"Ooh, la, la . . . ooh, la, la,\" she sings, lifting my arm in the air. She sits back in her seat with the headphones on, humming to her own music.\n\nThe heat makes me sleepy, and I feel relaxed with Olivier at the wheel, driving smoothly up and around the cliffs. I know that he knows where we're going and without him I'd never get there. As we get closer to Bonifacio, Laure starts complaining.\n\n\"I don't feel good, Papa.\"\n\n\"What's wrong, _mon coeur_?\"\n\n\"Pa-paaa . . .\" Laure lets out a heart-wrenching cry, tears that rise from deep within her belly. Olivier tries to comfort her with one arm while driving. I take her other hand and squeeze it. When she calms down, Olivier asks her what's wrong.\n\n\" _Maman_ 's going to be mad I didn't call her.\"\n\n\"She knows we went camping and that we couldn't call\u2014\"\n\n\"But she told me I had to call her _every_ day\u2014\" More tears.\n\n\"It's okay,\" I tell her. \"We'll call her as soon as we get to Bonifacio.\" I give Laure some water and cookies and start playing a game. \"I went to my grandmother's house and I brought an apple . . .\" By the time we reach the letter _G,_ Laure is stretched out on the backseat, snoring lightly.\n\n\"She gets like that when she's tired. Too much sun,\" Olivier offers as an explanation.\n\n\"Olivier, did it ever occur to you that maybe it's all too unbearable for her?\" I ask. Olivier shifts into third gear, lips tight. I don't really know what I mean, so I say the first thing that comes. \"This happiness. Your wanting everything to be so _perfect._ \"\n\nOlivier accelerates, keeping both hands on the wheel, no longer slowing down to take the curves. \"But it is,\" he tells me when we are high on the cliff. \"Laure adores you. My family loves you, my friends. What's wrong with finally being happy?\"\n\nI don't have an answer. Obviously, Olivier has never wondered what he did to merit such happiness. As for myself, I anticipate daily what I will have to do to deserve it.\n\nWe don't speak for the rest of the drive to Bonifacio. When we arrive, I'm dazzled by the white cliffs of the town, the hollowness of the dusk-worn streets. The drive through the narrow, winding alleyways jostles Laure awake.\n\n\"We're here. We're here. Can we eat down by the water, Papa? I want pasta and calamari in that yummy sauce.\"\n\nThe white cliffs are steep, and I feel the vertigo come over me. A wave of nausea as I anticipate entering a house Olivier shared with Dominique. I roll up my window and lock the door; I don't want to get out. I also know before we get to the house that I will ask Olivier questions. So many of them, about his life before me, why he loves me now and not someone else. Questions about his past that will hurt me in the deepest invisible way, some that are sometimes better left unanswered. But I know that he's confident in his moves, his decisions. I try to remind myself that everything he does is toward our happiness.\n\nOlivier parks the car in the impasse. The stairs leading to the front door are damp with peeling, water-stained blue paint. When he unlocks the door, my body tenses\u2014my stomach tight with anticipation. Laure rushes to the phone to call her mother. Olivier makes his way into the entrance with me behind him. We drop our backpacks filled with sand and rocks and empty water bottles. I'm amazed at first how different this place is from the house in Provence\u2014no beautiful African masks or oversize olive jars, hand-stained walls, and heavy quilts. I realize that it's not Olivier's style at all. Pale wicker furniture with floral-printed cushions dominates the main room. There are matching thick rugs and silk plants in white ceramic pots throughout. Hanging on the brightly painted blue walls are strange erotic drawings of tree-men. Olivier sees me staring at them.\n\n\"Do you like those? A Polish painter friend of mine and Domin\u2014\"\n\n\"I hate them,\" I say flatly. \"I don't want to be here,\" I whisper so Laure won't hear. \"This isn't your house.\"\n\n\"Of course it is. I just let _her_ decorate it, to appease her. But it's mine, not hers. It's ours, yours and mine. Listen, we're only staying one night. Laure wanted to stop here.\"\n\nLater, after tucking Laure into bed, I tell Olivier that I don't want to sleep in any of the bedrooms, so he pulls the cushions off the sofa and we line them on the stone floor, cover them with musty sheets and a cotton blanket. He's exhausted from the drive and falls asleep quickly, his body wrapped tightly around mine. During a few moments of restless sleep, I dream that I am a warrior, an invader, but I can't fight because my body is swollen with hollow eggshells. In another dream, my adoptive mother's in Germany or Switzerland, in Joachim's house, looking for me under the covers, in the cabinets. And then later in a New Orleans shotgun, she's scrubbing floors, waterproofing the walls and all of our clothes.\n\nIn the morning, I hear water running and realize that Olivier's in the shower. The scent of his vetiver soap mixed with hot steam floats to me from the bathroom. It sounds like a group of children outside the window, playing tag or ball. I roll over, hungry for sleep.\n\nUnder the sofa, shadows and dust. I blink. I stretch my arm to discover some papers, credit card receipts, a little girl's sock, and a few photos. There's one of a woman caught in a half turn. I flip it over. Dominique, 1982. I turn it back around and blow off the dust to better study the photo. Her profile is perfect, a straight nose slightly upturned, large brown eyes with long lashes, and short dark hair. She's sitting at a caf\u00e9 in a port city. It could be Saint-Tropez or Cassis. She looks like an actress, a _vedette,_ waving to some distant admiring crowd. I look around nervously. I want to keep the picture for some reason; maybe it will help, help me understand why Olivier married her in the first place and why he loves me now. Outside, the children's cries get louder, more rhythmic, lulling me back to sleep.\n\n_I'm eleven, twelve, and grounded all the time, grounded because I read things that aren't for my age\u2014_ Love Story _and_ The Bell Jar. _I'm grounded because I want to wear powder and have lips the color of seashells. I'm grounded for the mess in my room, but I must keep everything, especially the books with drawings of girls who have curly hair the color of faded strawberries. Mine is more like burnt chocolate milk. The strawberry girls are always smiling, and boys like them. I look in the mirror and touch the smooth flat skin beneath my faint eyebrow. Why don't I have eyelids like the other girls at school? I'm happy when they let me play games or jump rope with them, but when it's my turn, they sing this song:_\n\n_Kim Kim comes from the moon,_\n\n_came to earth but landed too soon_\n\n_One, two, three, four_\n\n_Jump, jump, don't touch the floor_\n\n_Kim, Kim landed too soon_\n\n_Maybe someday she'll go back to the moon_\n\nCHOCOLATE CAKE WITH MASCARPONE-CHESTNUT CREAM\n\nIn Corsica, chestnuts are abundant and found in both sweet and savory recipes. Chestnut cream is sweet and can be baked into breads, used as a filling for cr\u00eapes and cakes, or frozen into ice creams.\n\n_8 ounces good-quality bittersweet chocolate_\n\n_\u00bd cup unsalted butter, softened_\n\n_1 cup confectioners' sugar_\n\n_3 large eggs_\n\n_1 cup all-purpose flour_\n\n_1 teaspoon baking soda_\n\n_\u00bc teaspoon salt_\n\n_1 (8-ounce) container sour cream_\n\n_1 teaspoon vanilla extract_\n\n_Mascarpone-chestnut cream_\n\nPreheat oven to 350 degrees. Melt chocolate in a microwave-safe bowl at high for 30-second intervals until melted, or on stovetop. Stir until smooth.\n\nBeat butter and confectioners' sugar at medium speed with an electric handheld or stand mixer, about 5 minutes or until well blended. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating just until blended after each addition. Add melted chocolate, beating just until blended.\n\nSift together flour, baking soda, and salt. Gradually add to chocolate mixture alternately with sour cream, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Beat at low speed just until blended after each addition. Stir in vanilla. Pour batter into a lightly greased and floured deep 9-inch round cake or springform pan or a 9\u00d713\u2013inch glass pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 28 to 30 minutes or until tester inserted in center comes out clean. Let cool in pan on wire rack 5 minutes. Remove cake from pan and let cool completely. Serve with a dollop of mascarpone-chestnut cream.\n\nMASCARPONE-CHESTNUT CREAM\n\nYou can double this recipe and use leftovers to stuff fresh figs or cr\u00eapes or smear on toasted bread and top with chocolate shavings for a sweet snack. All I really need for this is a spoon.\n\n_1 (7-ounce) container mascarpone, softened_\n\n_1 (8.75-ounce) can_ cr\u00e8me de marrons _(chestnut spread)_\n\n_\u00be cup chilled whipping cream_\n\n_1 teaspoon grated lemon zest_\n\nBeat mascarpone and chestnut spread together at medium speed, about 3 minutes or until light and fluffy. Beat whipping cream in a medium bowl until soft peaks form. Fold whipped cream into mascarpone-chestnut mixture. Stir in lemon zest. Cover and chill in refrigerator until ready to serve. \nIX\n\nThe Monk's Table\n\nSometimes I have to remind myself where I am. Sitting in my writing room, after swimming forty laps, I jot down in my journal: Tuscany, by way of Nice (warm peppery socca, buy chickpea flour) and Genoa, a quick business trip to Lausanne and Neuch\u00e2tel (frame poster from the Mus\u00e9e d'Ethnographie), a bike tour near Laguiole and dinner at Michelin-starred Michel Bras, a stop at Eug\u00e9nie-Les-Bains for a rose-petal steam facial and _cuisine minceur_ (lamb rolled with foie gras) . . . and finally back in Provence. Our days and nights are dense, and now already Olivier has us packing up again.\n\n\"Just a suitcase for a few days in Paris,\" he suggests. \"Eventually we'll want one set of clothes for the city and another for the country.\"\n\nIt is the last days before Laure is to start school in Forcalquier. The minute we arrived back from Corsica, Dominique started calling again, claiming at least 50 percent of everything, even though she and Olivier were married under the separation of property and goods, a technicality I don't quite understand about French marriage laws but that Olivier explains means he doesn't legally owe Dominique much more than child support. Because of this foresight on Olivier's part, she calls at odd hours, leaving ranting messages demanding large sums of money with outrageous stipulations. She thinks that moving to Paris with Laure\u2014taking his daughter out of his beloved Provence\u2014is a way to punish Olivier. So because of Dominique's threats, although nothing has been decided, Olivier and I will be on our way as well to start looking at apartments. I tell him if we move to Paris, I might join a writers' workshop I found at the British Institute and take lessons at Le Cordon Bleu.\n\n\"Why?\" he asked. \"You're already my favorite chef.\"\n\nI don't have an answer. Instead, I fold scarves and gather shoes, thinking of Dominique. Olivier's mother told me how much Dominique liked to spend money, lots of it, at Cartier, Yves Saint Laurent. I don't quite understand her financial frenzy. She gets everything she asks for and doesn't need to work. Money for me is like directions, disorienting, especially this new currency that comes in bright and oddly shaped pieces of paper. Monopoly money. But it is a necessity, so I have to learn a new exchange rate, percentages, count in a new language.\n\nOlivier tells me not to worry about anything. His colleague and partner of almost twenty years, Marie-Claire, receives our bank statements, balances our accounts, deposits money whenever it is needed.\n\n\"Let me take care of everything,\" he said again as he kissed me good-bye this morning, driving off with Serge to a town called Ganagobie just a few kilometers from here. \"You just worry about what you want to cook tonight\u2014we're having guests\u2014swim some laps, and enjoy all this.\"\n\nAfter several seasons with Olivier, it doesn't get any easier, trying to learn to be a _social_ being. I am still uncomfortable as the hostess in this huge house that isn't mine. And I don't want to fight him, but the more he tries to do or give, the more the earth feels tilted and heavy, slipping away in deep, thick layers. It is difficult not to feel like an impostor. I think of the poem my mother accused me of copying from somewhere so many years ago. I can write my own poems, but is it possible that this isn't the life I'm supposed to be living?\n\nFor now, I want to try to savor the last moments of summer. So I buy more glossy food magazines\u2014 _Saveurs, C\u00f4t\u00e9 Sud, Cuisines du Bout du Monde_ \u2014and delve into more new recipes. It seems there are always people to meet, some with accents I can't quite understand, but it doesn't matter because the menus I create seem to transcend any need for translation. If anyone thought me an impostor, I learn more and more that you can't fake it in the kitchen\u2014it is here I suspect that I just may actually be good at something.\n\nFor tonight's meal, I am deciding between serving whole legs of lamb\u2014which I like to sear, cover with rosemary, thyme, and tapenade, and wrap in fresh bread dough to bake in the oven\u2014and roasted _cabri_ with anchovy-and-garlic-spiked caramelized tomatoes. But I'm not sure who's coming or how many, so when Olivier chooses rabbit, before leaving with Serge, I agree. I still make him quarter it, though, because he likes the head intact. I threw it away the first time.\n\n\"No, no . . . that's where all the flavor is,\" he said, laughing. He picked it up and rinsed it off, then added it to my earthenware dish where I had gently placed the saddle and hindquarters.\n\nHe watched as I melted butter and whisked in strong Dijon mustard, cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, before pouring it all over the rabbit, soaking the head and covering each protruding eyeball with a black olive before adding sprigs of rosemary and a crack of black pepper.\n\n_\"Tu m'\u00e9pates.\"_ How do you know how to cook rabbit? he wanted to know.\n\nI shrugged, because I really didn't know, and directed him to scrape the carrots and potatoes to roast in the oven. He kissed me gently on the side of the neck and scraped vegetables clean as though it were the most important job in the whole world.\n\nBut more than rabbit, my job this week is to pack, cook, and enjoy the rest of the time here before starting another life in Paris. Tonight I will also sear duck breasts with fresh raspberries and balsamic vinegar. I start to make a batter for small muffins of olives and Sauternes, but I keep thinking of Olivier, why he chose today to go with Serge and visit his father's grave. Fernand is buried high on the hill of a monastery, and Giselle and Pascale, although family, must obtain special permission, because they are women, to visit the grave.\n\nLater, Sophie and Lulu come to help set the table for lunch, carrying a market basket full of fresh baguette and herbed _fougasse_ breads, fresh peas. As we start to peel fava and cranberry beans, Olivier and Serge pull up to the front of the kitchen with an enormous table loaded in the bed of Serge's truck.\n\n\"What'd you buy now?\" Sophie asks, shading her eyes from the sun.\n\n\"A monk's table, for us.\"\n\n\"I don't see any monks around here,\" I tell him.\n\n\"But imagine,\" Olivier says, his eyes lighting up, \"the history . . . the meals associated with this table.\"\n\nSome of Serge's friends from the bar are there to help carry it into the kitchen. It takes five of them to haul the long wooden table from the back of the truck.\n\n\"It seats thirty,\" Olivier announces proudly.\n\n\"What's a monk, Papa?\" Laure skips around the table.\n\n\"Thirty hungry mouths around that table. _Ma pauvre,_ you've got some work ahead of you.\" Sophie gathers the pods into a bag and hands me the bowls of bright green and marble-colored beans.\n\n\"We can't help it if everyone always shows up at mealtime.\" Serge winks at me. \"So, what's for lunch?\"\n\n\"As if we didn't have enough room, enough guests?\" I tease halfheartedly.\n\nSerge and the guys go off to Sophie and Serge's. Olivier opens a bottle of red.\n\n\"You know, they made my father mayor of Ganagobie,\" Olivier says, not really talking to me. \"Even though he was a journalist. He died young. Only fifty-two. Cancer. Drank too much. Loved too little.\" He gets up to stretch his arms and take a deep breath before continuing. \"I feel young, but still, I'm older than you. I need to stay in shape. There's so much I want to do. I'll be fifty-two in . . . _twelve_ years.\" He pours two glasses of wine.\n\nI don't really want one, but I take it anyway. He sits across from me, dusting off the end of the table. He's mentioned his father many times before but always briefly. \"Your parents . . . they weren't divorced, right?\" I ask.\n\n\"No, but Fernand had a mistress for many years. Giselle was too busy taking care of us kids, wanting to be an artist. It was different back then.\"\n\n\"How, people don't have mistresses anymore?\"\n\n\"It's a terrible life . . . cheating the heart. Doesn't tempt me whatsoever. I had to make a decision: stay with Dominique because of Laure or leave, continue to love my daughter, and also love a woman\"\u2014he looks up at me\u2014\"the way I want to\u2014wholly, fully. Not in hiding.\" He gulps down the wine and pours another glass.\n\n\"Did Giselle ever know?\"\n\n\"Of course she must have known, felt it. But didn't want to know. I want to know everything . . . about you. I have nothing to hide from you ever. No secrets between us, okay?\"\n\nI nod, knowing this is impossible. How can he know everything about me when I don't even know myself?\n\n\"This wine is delicious, isn't it?\" he asks, holding the glass up to the light. \"Maybe we should serve it tonight. It will go with the rabbit and duck.\"\n\nI am relieved to be talking about more familiar subjects. \"So how many people are coming?\"\n\n\"Well, we have Pierre and Louise, G\u00e9rard, Flora, Thibault, the usual suspects, oh, and Nelly and Louis will be here any minute now\u2014driving down from Paris\u2014\"\n\n\"But don't they know we're leaving soon to go up there?\"\n\n\"They can stay. Sophie and Serge will take care of them. We'll be back soon.\"\n\nNelly and Louis Pons have known Olivier since he first started buying Louis's paintings ten years ago. I met them at the summer theater festival in Avignon. During intermission of a performance of _Semel\u00e9,_ Nelly roared, _\"Robert Wilson est un pur g\u00e9nie, la fille est trop grosse, par contre.\"_ I told her I thought the woman was beautiful. She scowled but smiled charmingly after I agreed with her that Wilson was a genius. She waved to the conductor, claiming, _\"William Christie est aussi un homme incroyable.\"_\n\nShe looked wistful, as she often does when talking about brilliant men, including Louis. Nelly is, Olivier explained, a _pied noir._ Black foot, a French citizen born in Algeria. When I met her, I knew what Olivier meant when he said, \" _Elle a d\u00fb \u00eatre tr\u00e8s belle._ \" Beautiful, or had been, years ago. Even bitterness and age have settled comfortably into her features, sharpening them with a rich sadness.\n\nI saw them again at one of Louis's exhibits. Louis stood off to the side while Nelly held court with various gallery owners and collectors, spending most of her time with the _nez_ of Chanel, discussing Jacques's latest scent, convincing him to let us all smell Allure before finalizing it.\n\nNelly had been anxious about me liking them, but more important, about me loving Louis's work. More than her or the paintings, though, I liked Louis immediately; it was like reuniting with a long-lost relative.\n\n\" _Et toi, Kim? Tu es heureuse?_ \" Louis asked. I thought his question so strange, asking me about happiness, but before I could open my mouth, he winked.\n\nSpread out on the newly polished monk's table are clear glass carafes of wine and water, loaves of Moroccan bread baked by Zorah. Olivier passes around Roquefort-stuffed celery sticks while I unmold warm miniature green-olive-and-Sauternes muffins. There's a big bowl of orange couscous, chilled ratatouille-stuffed cabbage leaves, green pea, fava, and mint salad, duck breast with raspberry-balsamic reduction, three different pur\u00e9es: sorrel, saffron-carrot, and celery root. Bright green leaves of tender m\u00e2che and wedges of aged Laguiole and _ch\u00e8vre frais._ For dessert there's _fromage blanc_ sorbet with candied ginger and warm _tartelettes_ crowned with golden Mirabelle plums.\n\nThe first to arrive is Pierre Magnan, an aging mystery writer from Manosque. For his wife, Louise, a beautiful small bird of a woman, I have made a batch of fresh melon soup. She loves these melons from Cavaillon, sometimes seeded, slightly chilled, and filled with the finest port.\n\nOther guests show up, along with acquaintances we didn't know would be coming. They stay for drinks and invite themselves to dinner. I scramble to make more salad, set out more cheese and olives. Olivier doesn't seem to mind the extra ten people who have decided to stay. He is impressed and beaming when I'm complimented by everyone. Even Nelly seems content and offers a toast in honor of _la cuisini\u00e8re._\n\n_\"Ma ch\u00e9rie,\"_ she says, her mouth full, \"you two should open up the house . . . start a table d'h\u00f4te . . . one of those luxury bed-and-breakfasts. The house is way too big for just the two of you.\"\n\n\"That's a great idea. We'll rent out three of the bedrooms,\" Olivier says without missing a beat, \"have it listed in the _Guide des H\u00f4tels de Charme._ Sophie and Serge can run the daily tasks of the bed-and-breakfast. And when Kim and I aren't traveling or in Paris\"\u2014he pauses to wink at Laure\u2014\"we'll cook meals for the table d'h\u00f4te, meet with guests, teach Proven\u00e7al cooking.\" He looks at me. I'm silent but smile reassuringly.\n\n\"But what about my room, Papa?\" Laure pipes up. \"What if I have to go to Paris with _Maman_?\"\n\n\"Your room will always be yours.\" He pours more wine. \"This project will really just be an extension of our regular dinners at the house,\" he continues, looking my way.\n\nOlivier gestures for Sophie to grab a pen and piece of paper, and soon there is talk of seasonal menus, summer berries, truffles in the winter, mushrooms in the spring and fall. I do love the passion for the distinct seasons here in Provence and the singular flavors each one promises.\n\n\"Winter's the best,\" offers Pierre's wife, Louise. \"Show them how to find truffles. Like you showed us last year.\"\n\nIn season, the _rabassier_ comes to the property with his _chien truffier._ Last winter, I went with the hunter to our special oak trees, where the dog unearthed truffles, big, black, and abundant. The hunter sells his share at the market for 5,000 francs a kilo. But we store ours in fat glass jars of arborio rice for fragrant risotto. Or I place them gently in a bowl of yard eggs, allowing the porous shells to take on the deep scent of the earth.\n\nFor a first course, I like to crack the eggs into the top part of a _bain-marie,_ stir them ever so slightly until they are just cooked. Then I swirl in fresh salted butter before plating the soft _brouillade._ There's always a moment of silence as we all watch Olivier shave big black paper-thin moons of truffle over each serving, an extra slice over mine. Then a round of applause and an \"Ooh-la-la\" from Olivier as the last bit of black gold disappears into his mouth.\n\n\"And Sophie would have to quit her job at the nursery school,\" Olivier decides. Serge and Sophie like the idea of a shared project with Olivier, but I'm not sure their relationship can sustain being together all day and all night.\n\nOlivier then brings out the bottle I bought him in Nice a few weeks back, a slim antique glass olive oil bottle. He told me he had been thinking about olive trees, _oliviers,_ and the history of the olive route. \"This,\" he says, holding up the bottle to everyone, \"is also going to be the start of another project.\"\n\nI'm not sure what he's talking about, but I welcome any new projects after L'Occitane, both for his sake and in the hope of allowing myself room to pursue my own writing.\n\n\"And in Paris,\" Olivier announces, \"I think our Kimette is going to open a bookstore.\"\n\nI look at Olivier, surprised. We talked about it briefly when we first met in Stockholm, but never with any certainty. Before I can ask any questions, Nelly stands up.\n\n\"To the happy couple,\" she offers. \"If _I_ were so lucky . . .\"\n\nWe all raise our glasses, pausing to look carefully into the eye of each toasting companion. I look around, and yes, there are exactly thirty of us around the monk's table, exactly as Olivier envisioned. But no matter how many people, I know with Olivier on my side, we can tackle criticism, jealousy, any and all new projects, even if some of them are just ideas he needs to throw out there, maybe to test us, test himself. But I know, too, that none of this will last. Nothing ever has. As I look around at the guests, somewhere deep inside I also sense that sooner or later there will be a last supper.\n\nAfter dinner, Nelly pulls me aside to whisper that ever since the sale of L'Occitane, just before his meeting me in Stockholm, Olivier has wanted to focus on family and love, aspects of his life he never paid attention to before me. \"And I just want to let you know that before you and Olivier leave for Paris, I'm going to ask for a small loan. You don't mind encouraging him, do you, _ch\u00e9rie?_ \" She smiled.\n\nThis is the third time this year. I don't say yes or no to Nelly, but I know that between her, Dominique, and who knows how many other people asking for loans, donations, and, most important, time, Olivier will have to eventually say no. Olivier, who likes playing the father figure, always tries to find a way to help someone. It is a strange reversal of roles, but I sense that I will have to learn to be the protector, the reasonable one.\n\nThibault lifts his glass and winks in my direction. Nelly watches carefully as Olivier leans into me, and when he places his arm possessively around my waist, I am filled with the realization that there is something both desperate and hopeful about our love, and I feel invincible for just a small but tightly wrapped-around moment.\n\nSometimes when Zorah is cleaning the kitchen and the guests have all slipped away into their rooms, I go out into the cool night and stop to pick a ripe purple fig. I open it in two and scoop out the flesh with my tongue, letting the milk run down my chin.\n\nTonight I walk past the fig trees down to the vegetable patch, close the makeshift gate behind me, and stretch out among the summer vegetables. I am taken with the richness of the soil and how quickly things grow in this garden. I break off yellow flowers from the young squash that I will stuff tomorrow with goat cheese and pluck fresh mint leaves for a tea custard recipe I dreamed I would make. I think about Fernand, Olivier's father, never having allowed himself to live or love fully, how the number 52 plagues Olivier, feeding his obsession with our age difference and his inconsolable need to produce and create.\n\nOlivier opens the gate and sits next to me. \"You know, I've been thinking about olive oil. I want us to start something . . . I need to start something else, since L'Occitane. Remember the bottle I brought out tonight? What if we searched for the best olive oils in the Mediterranean. We'll go to Spain and start there,\" he decides, excited again about a new enterprise. \"Then we'll go to Greece, Italy, find the best olive oil producers.\"\n\nI recognize that look in his eyes, what I've come to understand as his immeasurable need to leave a legacy. His father's disappearance at such a young age has made his desire for immortality even stronger. His energy excites me, but at the same time his life is in such sharp contrast with my own\u2014I have done nothing of value, of legendary proportions, as he has. Yes, I'm young, he continues to remind me, but he also firmly believes that being his companion, sharing his life, is enough for both of us. I do not know yet how to say that it's not. There are other things he needs to do that are important, he has said again and again, like finding roots for me.\n\n\"We'll trace the route of the _olivier,_ the olive tree,\" he continues, \"and, I've been meaning to tell you . . . we've got to go to Hong Kong and China soon for L'Occitane.\"\n\nI press my cheek to the ground, to bring myself eye level with the rows of salads and tender shoots of peas. I am suddenly struck by the profound realization that I have no earth, no history of my own. And without a past, how can I possibly build a future, especially with a man so deeply rooted, so sure of where he is from, and so confident about his every move? In contrast, I am sometimes a three-year-old orphan again, a young woman still trying to make sense of the ground beneath her.\n\n\"You know,\" he says, stroking my hair, \"maybe there's even something in Asia with your namesake, like the _olivier_ in the Mediterranean for me, something that leads back to you. We'll see. I think we need to stop in Seoul on our way to Hong Kong.\"\n\n\"I don't know, Olivier, I don't speak the language\u2014\"\n\n\"You'll learn. We'll get you a Korean tutor, surely with the university in Aix or Marseille, we'll find someone.\"\n\n\"I don't have any way of knowing if I even have any family\u2014\"\n\n\"You always said you had a brother and that you talked about your Korean grandmother.\"\n\n\"Those are memories,\" I remind him. \"Things my American family said I _talked_ about. I have no way of knowing or finding them. I don't even know my real name, only what I told the policemen at the station.\"\n\n\"Well, then that is your name. Chong Ae Kim. You said it. Don't worry. I'll make all the arrangements for the trip. All of it. _Tout._ \"\n\n\" _Tout,_ not _tu,_ \" I whisper. Everything is possible, even if I've never allowed myself to say it before. As for now, I want to stay here forever, my body pressed so close to the earth of this new country, fragrant and rich.\n\nA week or so later, while one of the carpenters is building some chairs for the upstairs terrace, I ask him to follow me into the kitchen. He admires the craftsmanship of the long heavy oak table, sliding his hand along the smooth edges, caressing the legs.\n\n_\"Elle est tr\u00e8s belle._ \"\n\nVery beautiful, I agree. _\"Je veux que tu m'en coupes un tiers.\"_\n\nHe looks at me, frightened almost. \" _Pas possible._ I would never cut a third of it off. It is a pure _sacril\u00e8ge._ \"\n\n\"Fine, then _you_ come and cook dinner for thirty people tonight and tomorrow night and the next and every night until\u2014\"\n\n\"When do you want it done?\" he asks, the saw high in the air.\n\nThe following night, with a third of the monk's table cut off, there are only eighteen of us at the large table and six kids at the smaller one. Olivier doesn't mention the table at first, then concedes and says he actually thinks it looks better, he was thinking of having the same thing done.\n\nNelly has invited a friend of hers, Gianna, a gallery owner, and her anorexic poodle to the house. The last supper, I realize now, is nowhere near as I roll out pastry dough for a raspberry tart and prepare the meat filling for _p\u00e2t\u00e9 en cro\u00fbte._ While coring pears to stew in chestnut honey and Chianti, Olivier walks into the kitchen.\n\n\"Do you still want me to roast the lamb?\" He looks at my pastry, eyes the slightly imperfect decorative leaves. \"This is gorgeous. I love smelling your cooking when I come in. So much better than what I can do.\"\n\n\"Olivier, you know you're a great cook.\"\n\n\"Dominique hated the kitchen. She thought cooking was a ridiculous waste of time.\"\n\nNelly glides in next to me, starts stirring the pot simmering on the stove. \" _Ch\u00e9rie,_ is that rice pudding? Gianna's dog is allergic to dairy, perhaps we could have something else for dessert.\"\n\n\"This isn't for the dog,\" I reply dryly, taking out the spoon and covering the pot before placing it in the oven. \"Besides, you told me he had an eating disorder, like Gianna. We're having stewed pears.\" I shut the oven and go back to trimming the dough.\n\nNelly huffs her shoulders and snaps a green bean in two. \"Hmmm. A bit too al dente,\" she says, chewing thoughtfully.\n\nThe knife in my hand, fortunately, needs honing.\n\n\"I guess it'll do,\" she decides.\n\nI roll my eyes at Olivier.\n\n\"I saw that, Kim,\" Nelly says. \"Why have you been so rude to my friends? I invite them for dinner and you hardly talk to them.\"\n\n\"I got up at six-thirty this morning, after the big dinner last night, to go to the market, and I've been standing in this kitchen all morning cooking for them.\" My voice is higher than I want it to be.\n\n\"No excuse. You and Olivier with everything you have and poor Louis and me struggling like we do.\" She breaks into a hysterical rage of tears\u2014something I imagine only seasoned actresses capable of\u2014and then starts to hyperventilate. \"Do you think it's easy being an artist's wife?\"\n\n\"Nelly, calm down,\" Olivier says. \"I just gave Louis a check this morning for seventy thousand francs. He can give us the painting whenever he's ready.\"\n\n_\"C'est vrai?\"_ she asks, batting her moistened lashes. \"He didn't tell me. Louis . . .\"\n\nThe next day, Nelly and Louis, their friend Gianna, and her dog do not show up for lunch. I spend the afternoon out on the back terrace. It's an odd time of year. The fields are turning brittle and brown. The stink of rotting cantaloupe penetrates the air. I am once again faced with the onset of this in-between time, this season before the fall. The abundant rows of sunflowers with their heavy bowed heads remind me of my own forgotten prayers, my folded, tired bones.\n\nNelly has left a note of thanks to Olivier and a P.S. informing us that she's not speaking to me anymore, not until I come to my senses. Whatever that means.\n\n_\"Kimette, fais un effort,\"_ Olivier says, holding out the letter, sitting next to me in the sun.\n\n\"Why do you insist on taking her side?\"\n\n\"I'm not. It's just that she relies on us, we're like family . . . you're like a daughter she never had.\"\n\n\"Well, she's not like a mother I would ever want to have. She's demanding and dramatic. We cook for all these people, she invites anyone she wants . . . Where does she get off\u2014\"\n\n_\"Elle est hyst\u00e9rique._ She's jealous. And Louis is an important artist.\"\n\n\"I know. I love his work, but why do you always have to defend her? She takes and takes.\"\n\nOlivier stops to take me in his arms. \"My Kimette. Do you realize that before meeting you, I had everything\u2014this house, my family, my friends, my career\u2014but not love.\"\n\n\"Do you realize I'm just twenty-four years old and trying so hard, to be the hostess, the cook, the stepmother, the confidante\u2014\"\n\n\"But you're all that and more\u2014\"\n\n_\"\u00c7a suffit._ I'm nobody. I haven't done anything with my life. I'm not even myself, much less what everyone thinks I am.\"\n\n\"Stop it. You're perfect, just the way you are.\"\n\n\"You're not listening.\" I take his hand in mine and pause for a moment. \"Olivier, I love you and everything you've wanted for me, but this is _your_ house, _your_ family, _your_ friends. It's _your_ perfect life.\"\n\n\"But . . . I've given you a new life. My friends, my family . . . they all love you . . . they've adopted you like their own.\"\n\nSuddenly I can't find the words in any language to tell Olivier that it's not an honor to be \"adopted\" again and again and that he can't just order me an identity, create an instant history. He doesn't seem to grasp that my past is the one thing he can't conquer or fix.\n\n\"I cook all day to have these glamorous dinners\u2014a show we put on for your friends and family\u2014as if everything's perfect. It's not. The divorce proceedings. It's going to take forever, and . . . Dominique\u2014her phone calls and stories she's spreading. You know there're still rumors going around that I'm your pregnant _mistress._ I thought everyone knew that you were separated before we even met?\" I get up to go inside. \"You know how awkward it is sometimes when we go to the market in the village, everyone either staring and whispering or pretending to be your friend.\"\n\n\"Okay, okay. We'll take a trip to Spain, the Costa Brava, if you want, or Venice. You love Venice. We'll go to your favorite restaurant. Keem,\" he calls, following me into the house. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the change in light. \"I thought you enjoyed this. Convivial dinners, just like your grandfather. It's _who_ you are.\"\n\n\"I do enjoy it, but you're not listening to what I'm saying.\" I grab a handful of magazines and newspapers and start flipping through the pages.\n\n\"I'm doing what I can,\" Olivier says, lowering his voice. \"She's on a rampage right now . . . it's her pride. It's not about me. It's my name, what I represent. _\u00c9coute,_ I just need to wrap up some things here and then we'll be off to Paris. I'll take you to have a nice dinner, just the two of us.\"\n\n\"I'm sick of food, too. _Ras le bol._ \" I open a bottle of water and drink down three hard gulps.\n\n\"My Keem. Just a few more days, we have a few more dinners to host this week, and\u2014\"\n\nI fold up today's _Lib\u00e9ration_ and toss it onto the counter. \"You know what, I'm like all the other laborers in this country. I am officially _en gr\u00e8ve._ On strike,\" I add in English for emphasis.\n\nHe looks genuinely surprised, and for an instant I reconsider my act of social protest to strike. As I make my way out of the kitchen, I hear him yell something about Harry's Bar and the Hotel San Daniele, maybe we'll bring my family over here.\n\nI go to my office, scan the shelves, and make a mental note of books and authors I want to read again: Woolf and Rilke, _Turtle Island,_ Didion. And other books, new editions of Freud in French and a copy left from one of our summer guests, a book by someone named Lacan I find on one of the bookshelves.\n\nLater, at dinner, Laure and Lulu, Serge, and Olivier are at the table. After two months of nonstop friends, Sophie and I set out leftovers in mismatched pots and pans directly from the stove onto the long wooden table. No silver, no dishes. No more cooking for the masses. No more diversion by getting on a plane and escaping to some luxury hotel against the backdrop of a beautiful landscape.\n\nI reheat leftover summer vegetable gratin, steam some couscous with a pat of salted butter, unwrap half-eaten wheels of cheese and set them on the table as well.\n\n_\"Bon app\u00e9tit.\"_\n\n\"Where are the forks?\" Lulu asks, not sure if she should laugh or not.\n\n_\"Voil\u00e0.\"_ I hand her a basket of bread. She looks at Laure nervously, and they both begin to giggle when Serge takes a slice of baguette and scoops a mouthful of minted squash into his mouth. \"Or, use your fingers.\" The kids shout with joy and dig into their food. Olivier looks at me as if I've gone mad. \"Have you forgotten? I'm on strike, _ch\u00e9ri._ \" I kiss his forehead, then grab a handful of blueberries and pop a few in my mouth.\n\n\"Me too.\" Sophie takes my wrist and we run out of the kitchen, race down to the pool. We untie our sundresses and slip off our sandals before diving into the cool water.\n\n\"Swim for your life!\" Sophie screams, doing the backstroke. \"For your sanity!\"\n\nAfter, we sit on the swing wrapped in thick blue towels, and I watch Sophie hand-roll a cigarette. Moonlight shines down on us, blue and golden on our moist skin.\n\n\"I've never felt so free!\" Sophie shrieks. She towels her hair dry and pulls at the scabs on her forehead. She said she fell the other day. \"It's healing, _non_?\"\n\n\"How's it going with Serge?\"\n\nShe shrugs, lights a match.\n\n\"Sophie, you don't have to put up with that.\" This is the first time I've mentioned the unmentionable. \"You know Olivier will end everything with Serge\u2014\"\n\n\"No. He would be devastated. He hasn't had a drink in weeks. He's been trying.\" Her voice gets softer until she's sobbing into her wet towel. \"Promise me you won't fire him, that Olivier won't.\"\n\nI put my arm around her shoulder, and we sit like this for a long time.\n\n\"Do you think Flora's going to hold out much longer?\"\n\nI shake my head. I don't know if any of us will, I want to tell her. Instead, we gather our clothes in silence and trudge back toward the house, guided only by starlight pooled in soft patches along the rocky path ahead.\n\nFlora's been in bed at four in the afternoon the last few days. Much to Nelly's disapproval, I've designated one of the guest rooms as Flora's alone. She won't eat much lately, except for rice pudding that I make in large batches and that she sometimes washes down with shots of single-malt Scotch. Or she eats pur\u00e9es and desserts, anything sweet and smooth that soothes her craving for tenderness. She no longer wants me to read to her. She wants me only to recite poems, short ones that I've written or poems of love by Neruda, Roethke, a few lines of cummings, Rich.\n\n\"Has he called?\" she asks quietly as I sit on the edge of the bed one afternoon. The room smells of alcohol and the inside of plastic medicine vials. I get up to open the windows. Flora squints. _\"Ferme tout,\"_ she orders. Close everything.\n\n\"You need some air in here. And no, he hasn't called, Flora. It's been weeks, and you've got to\u2014\"\n\n\"What, give up? You're always the one telling me how hope is important.\" She scoots herself up against the wall behind her bed, looking pale and remorseful. \"I'm sorry.\" Her eyes cloud up, and her shoulders start to tremble.\n\n\"Flora, I went to his house this morning, on my way back from the market. I knocked on the door and\u2014\"\n\n\"Did _she_ answer? Was she there?\" I shake my head, thankful that I don't have to lie.\n\n\"Well, what did he say?\"\n\n\"He wasn't there, either. So I went to the caf\u00e9, the one by the fountain, and . . .\" I want to tell her that he loves her but that he can't face her death. A coward. I sat at the table with him.\n\nAre you here to accuse me? he asked, staring straight into my eyes, jaw quivering.\n\nI shook my head. I wanted to say that I just wanted him to go and see her one last time. But before I could ask, he was already sobbing into his murky pastis, claiming softly that he didn't want to kill her by not being able to give her all his love, that all he wanted was to share a little bit of it, that he couldn't save her, and in that case he was worth nothing. He had done what he could. _Un rien, un vrai vaurien,_ he called himself. A true, worthless nothing.\n\nAnd then I found myself screaming at him, shaking him by the shoulders, shouting that all I was asking was that he come and kiss her one last time. Not to just disappear as if she had never existed.\n\nI remember feeling suspended, as if I were suddenly someone else, as if he were suddenly everyone who had ever loved and left. I was so close, I could smell my own perfume sweating off of his body. In his dilated pupils, I swear I could see myself\u2014a madwoman, a floating country, a long-forgotten language.\n\nORANGE COUSCOUS SALAD\n\nThis dish lends itself to many different combinations. Try adding grated zucchini or carrot, toasted pine nuts, lemons instead of oranges, fresh snow peas, fresh summer tomatoes . . . the possibilities are endless. You can also substitute bulgur wheat for the couscous.\n\n_1 cup water_\n\n_1 (10-ounce) box medium-grain couscous_\n\n_\u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil_\n\n_1 teaspoon salt_\n\n_\u00bd teaspoon pepper_\n\n_\u00bd small red onion, thinly sliced_\n\n_2 oranges_\n\n_2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley_\n\n_2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint leaves_\n\n_1 cucumber, peeled, seeded, and chopped_\n\n_1 cup golden raisins, currants, or chopped dates_\n\nBring water to a boil. Pour couscous in a large bowl and add water, stir, cover with plastic, and let steam 5 minutes or until couscous is tender. Fluff with a fork. Stir in olive oil, salt, pepper, and onion. Let cool slightly.\n\nZest both oranges. Juice 1 of the oranges. Remove white peel of second orange and chop. Add zest and chopped orange to couscous. Stir in parsley, mint, cucumber, and raisins. Cover and chill in refrigerator 1 hour and up to 2 days. Taste and rectify seasoning by adding more salt and pepper, olive oil, and juice before serving. _Makes about 4\u00bd cups._\n\nTIPSY MELONS WITH PROSCIUTTO\n\nHalve 3 small ripe Charentais (or other summer) melons. Discard seeds. Slice a small piece off bottom of melon so it will balance on a plate without wobbling. Fill melons about a third with good-quality port wine. Chill until ready to serve. Grill slices of country bread or baguette, top with fruity extra-virgin olive oil and _fleur de sel._ Serve with thin slices of _jambon de Bayonne_ or _prosciutto di Parma_ or _Serrano._\nX\n\nHeart, Apple, Knife\n\nIt's almost autumn, and with the change of seasons, Olivier always decides something of unprecedented proportion. Backing the car out one morning, I find a twelve-foot sculpture by an artist friend in our driveway. It's nothing we would ever buy, but the friend was _emmerd\u00e9,_ in the shit, and needed the money fast. We are also preparing for a huge anniversary party at the house for all the employees of L'Occitane, and there are more last-minute business trips to book . . . Not that Olivier needs falling leaves to make deci-sions, but there's something in the air. Flora senses it first.\n\n\"So, what has he decided today?\" she teases as she slices fresh fennel bulb and plump leafy brussels sprouts. \"To buy a small island nation and employ all its inhabitants?\"\n\nI shrug and crunch into a pear.\n\n\"Thibault's coming to lunch. I invited him,\" she reminds me. Today is one of her better days, and seeing Thibault always cheers her up. \"I think he needs me.\"\n\nI crush hazelnuts to sprinkle on the fennel salad. When Thibault arrives, he and Flora sit out under the linden tree, speaking in soft, hushed tones as I try to concentrate on garnishing the plates with shaved Pecorino, a drizzle of olive oil.\n\nAt the table, Olivier announces that he has found the perfect spot for the poetry bookshop, the one he mentioned when we first met way back in Stockholm and again at dinner this past summer, the one I have never let myself hope for.\n\n\"Where?\" we all want to know.\n\n\"That's a surprise.\" He smiles.\n\n\"Keem, locked in a bookshop?\" Thibault says, concerned.\n\n\"What's the name going to be?\" Sophie asks, popping open a bottle of beer for Serge.\n\n\"Something symbolic of poetry,\" Flora answers.\n\n\"And of the poet,\" Thibault adds, a bit sarcastically, it seems.\n\nWe go through a list of possible names, including French and English, recite characters from Greek mythology. Somehow we go from Pegasus to wings, _ailes._ I like the idea of wings and flight.\n\n\" _A Tire d'Ailes,_ \" Olivier says.\n\nFlora and Sophie and the girls seem to like it. Thibault thinks it is not simple enough, pretty enough, for me.\n\n_Ah, tier-dell,_ I pronounce. Her tears? \"What does it mean?\" There is no real translation for it, but from what I can gather, it means \"On the Wing.\" Flight, poetry.\n\n_\"Oui,\"_ Olivier confirms, nodding toward Thibault. \"A Tire d'Ailes . . . it's perfect for Keem. That's what we will name it.\"\n\n\"Won't you have problems with the working papers, a visa for her?\" Thibault asks.\n\n\"Marie-Claire has already got that worked out. We've got it all covered.\" Olivier opens a bottle of wine. \"Now, the other news is that the parents of our Kimette are coming to France.\"\n\nI look at him. \"Why didn't you tell me?\" I need time to prepare for such a visit. I haven't seen my parents since Thanksgiving over two and a half years ago, a quick trip home I promised them just after I had announced I was moving to Stockholm.\n\n\"I'm telling you now . . . I'm having tickets sent as we speak.\"\n\nThe day before my parents are to arrive, I drive to the _roseraie,_ the wholesale rose nursery, not too far from Pierrerue. I pick out two hundred roses\u2014porcelain cream, red, and the rare black ones\u2014to place in vases all throughout the house. Perhaps out of guilt for being so far away or in my attempt to prove that my life is not a total waste, I want to make this the best trip of my parents' life. Olivier could have given me a bit more notice about their visit, but I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Sophie has made sure there are lots of fresh linens, and Olivier has brought home boxes of L'Occitane soaps and shampoos for their room.\n\nAt dinner the night before their arrival, Olivier says, \"It's about time I met your parents. Even if they aren't much older than me. I'm grateful to them no matter what, for not leaving you behind in Korea.\"\n\nI nod. \"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them.\" I scrape my half-eaten polenta and daube into the dogs' bowls. I can't eat. I'm nervous. I want my parents to like Olivier, Laure, Sophie and Serge, and Lulu. I want them to approve of my life here, of, as Olivier would say, my new adopted family.\n\nMy mother and father make the journey from New Orleans to Paris, and from Paris to Marseille, where Serge meets and drives them the one hour from the airport to the house here in Provence. Laure and Lulu and the dogs, Gribouille and Noisette, run to the gate to greet them. It has been so long since I have seen them that when they hug me tight, patting me on the back, it is bittersweet, awkward, the gestures somewhat misplaced.\n\nOlivier and I show them around the property. My mother smiles, nods, doesn't say much else, a quiet grunt here and there, so I can't tell if they're excited, surprised, or just plain jet-lagged. I show them to their room, a beautiful renovated space in a separate building, and offer bottled water and newspapers in English, a map of Provence. It is odd to see them here, my parents as my guests.\n\n\"Why don't you freshen up and we'll get lunch ready.\"\n\nMy mother squeezes my hand and whispers, \"He seems really nice, Olivier. And Laure is so cute. I guess she's kind of like my granddaughter?\"\n\nI nod, I guess so.\n\nSince Olivier's English is lacking and only Sophie speaks it a bit, I spend the days and nights as constant interpreter, sometimes mixing up words, forgetting the simplest combinations in both languages. My parents prove to be gracious guests despite the language barrier and are quick with the _mercis, bonjours,_ and _oui, oui, s'il vous pla\u00eets._\n\nAs the days pass, I realize that there is something to being lost in translation. Here, in the distinct light of Provence, my father is no longer the sad, stern father I left so many years ago. I discover that he has a good ear for languages and prefers speaking with Flora and the girls, who hardly speak any English, whenever he can. They practice new words in English and French, and my father delights them with jokes I never knew he could tell.\n\nMy mother has quickly shed her tightly wound, nervous American self. She takes the market basket from me and walks through, bartering and gesturing for runny cheese and the best crusty baguette. She lingers over bowls of steaming sugary coffee and croissants that Serge brings back to the house fresh every morning. She buys silk and cashmere pashminas for both of us to toss around our shoulders against the cool of the evening. She and my father taste all the wines Olivier offers up, toast with him. He and my father smile and gesture and toast each other repeatedly. I think they like each other, how could they not? It's so much easier when words are filtered, gestured, half understood.\n\nBut just when I think I can breathe easy, we go to Aix-en-Provence one day, and walking through the Cours Mirabeau to the market, my mother asks me if this is how I intend to live my life.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I ask defensively, bracing myself.\n\n\"Well, have you thought about getting a job? Are you going to let Olivier support you for the rest of your life?\" I look to my father, but he is too far away, engaged in a conversation with one of the cheese vendors.\n\n\"I . . . um . . . do translations for L'Occitane,\" I stutter. \"I'm cooking all the time, traveling with Olivier . . . And . . . you know I write. I had some poems accepted for a local French journal recently.\"\n\n\"Writing isn't a _real_ job,\" my mother reminds me. \"Poets don't make a living at _poetry._ \"\n\nI swallow hard, reduced to silence. Things have been going so well since they got here, too well; I should have been prepared for something like this. I want to defend myself but realize there's nothing much I can say. I want her to know that I'm trying as best I can to invent a life for myself, to discover that there may be a place, no matter how foreign to her, that I can call home. I realize, too, that she may be worried about me, but her tone is harsh and critical, always, and never counterbalanced with something more generous, never a hint of approval.\n\n\"Oh, look, there's Olivier.\" She perks up. \"He said he would take us to the lavender fields on the way back, a place where we could stop and cut fresh lavender.\" She waves frantically at my father while Olivier gestures for me to come to him. He is standing next to an older Asian woman holding a bunch of fresh white anemones.\n\n\"I want you to meet someone,\" he tells me as I approach. \"This is Madame Song.\"\n\n_\"Bonjour,\"_ I say, looking at Olivier, waiting for an explanation.\n\n_\"Bonjour,\"_ the woman says, smelling her bouquet of flowers.\n\n\"She's Korean,\" Olivier explains. \"Madame Song teaches at the university here, and I thought maybe she could give you some lessons.\"\n\n\"Olivier say you go home to Korea, very nice.\"\n\nYes, I nod, looking around for my parents in the bustle of the market, in case they have overheard that we are going to Korea. I haven't had a chance to tell them yet. Madame Song is smiling, nodding, as Olivier sets up a time for me to meet with her. But I am distracted. I keep searching\u2014somewhat frantically now\u2014for someone resembling my parents. I don't want to lose them, but it seems there is not a trace of them anywhere.\n\nOlivier has decided on a February date to fly us to my homeland, back to another planet, as far as I'm concerned. We have a few months for me to change his mind, although I'm not sure where to begin. With Laure back in school and most of our friends in Paris for the _rentr\u00e9e\u2014_ the mass return to the city after the summer season\u2014the house in Provence is empty, and just for a few solitary moments, I enjoy the hollow echo of my steps on the large stone floors.\n\nWe've been on \"the grape cure.\" Olivier claims it reestablishes our imbalances and protects throughout the harsh winter months. End October, early November, is the best time. The first day we drink only vegetable bouillon, followed by three days of grapes, and the fifth day back to vegetable bouillon. I lose three kilos, Olivier only one. We compare as he's packing his bags to fly off to Saudi Arabia.\n\n\"I told you wine doesn't count as grapes,\" I tease.\n\n\"It was a good try. Now I'll be eating for days on end with the Bedouins in the desert. And no wine.\"\n\n\"Do you have to go?\" I ask. \"Can't they come here?\"\n\n\"They will. But Hamad wants to show me the shopping center where he'll franchise L'Occitane and then a stay in the desert with a renowned astronomer. It's polite. You'll be fine.\"\n\n\"But this house is . . . immense.\"\n\n\"Sophie and Serge are on the property. Flora's here, and I can have my sister come and stay in one of the rooms if you want.\"\n\n\"No, I'm fine.\" I want him to go, I want time for myself, but I can't sleep without him. I can't risk dreaming without him next to me, just in case.\n\n\"And tonight I have invited Madame Song, the Korean tutor from Aix, to come to dinner. She and her husband are coming at around eight. I asked Thibault to come, too. So that's four for dinner, Flora might join in as well, depending on how she's feeling.\"\n\nI nod. \"When are we leaving for Seoul?\"\n\n\"We have to be in Hong Kong the first week of February to meet with potential franchise buyers. And Chinese New Year is on the tenth, so we'll stop in Seoul first.\"\n\n\"Olivier?\"\n\nHe looks at me, waiting for the same question. We've been through it before, my not really wanting to go back. Nothing there for me. But he wants it, and I want what he wants, for now, even though I'm afraid to go, afraid that the plane will not quite make it, afraid of what I might find. Or not. But I don't tell him any of this\u2014I do not want to disappoint him. I will go, secretly hoping someone will recognize me, perhaps tell me something I've been wanting to know. I shake the thoughts from my head. \"What do I cook for Madame Song?\"\n\nOlivier smiles. \"Who's married to a Frenchman? _Une bonne blanquette de veau,_ made by a Korean American who lives in Provence, what else?\" He laughs, charming in his attempt to steer me away from the fact that he is leaving me alone in this half-restored house that, as Serge put it, I am now the mistress of. He takes me in his arms, pulls me close, and kisses the top of my head. \"What am I going to do with you?\"\n\nVeal stew for my future Korean teacher just doesn't seem right, and when Serge drives off with Olivier to take him to the airport, I flip through cookbooks. I can think of nothing Korean to serve but grilled beef and spicy kimchi, and where am I going to find that around here?\n\nWhen Thibault finally arrives along with Madame Song and her husband, I'm ready but nervous. I've covered the outdoor table beneath the linden tree with an olive-printed Proven\u00e7al tablecloth and pale green dishes, and in the center I've placed a small vase of lemon verbena and spearmint from the garden. I want to impress this Madame Song, make sure she has time to teach me my mother tongue. I've made a curried pumpkin soup with langoustine, veal loin stuffed with fragrant girolles, tried a last-minute gingered _panna cotta_ that I hope will be set in time for dessert. I change clothes twice and finally answer the door wearing a long black skirt and a cream cashmere sweater.\n\nMadame Song's a small woman with wisps of white hair that fall softly just above her rounded shoulders. When she smiles, handing me a bouquet of fragrant yellow freesia, her face is like shiny cracked porcelain. Her husband, Pierre, a French diplomat, is unassuming and soft-spoken, gentle when he greets me. I offer them wine, and Madame Song takes the glass from me with both hands, nodding and smiling.\n\nOnce we're seated, Pierre asks in French, \"Are you South Korean?\"\n\nI find this a strange question since they already know. \"Yes,\" I answer.\n\nHe looks at Madame Song, and they exchange what I hope is not a look of doubt. \"You don't look full Korean\u2014\"\n\n\"But I am,\" I protest a little too suddenly. \"If not, what am I?\"\n\n_\"O\u00f9 est votre mari?\"_ Madame Song wants to know where my husband is.\n\n\"They're not married,\" Thibault responds, and I glare at him.\n\n\"On his way to Saudi Arabia,\" I reassure Madame Song, ladling hot soup into her bowl.\n\nShe swallows the creamy pumpkin and nods in approval. \"This very good, but you no cook Korean food?\"\n\nI shake my head and look down into my steaming soup.\n\n\"It's okay.\" She smiles. \"I give you recipe for _bi-bim-bap._ \"\n\nI thank her and get up to serve the veal.\n\n\"Sun Ae, your family, in Korea?\"\n\nI shrug. \"I was abandoned.\"\n\nMadame Song stops chewing, and her eyes widen with dismay. \"No possible. Korean never abandon children\u2014\"\n\n\"I was found at the marketplace. My mother\u2014\"\n\n\"Mother no abandon. Korean mother never abandon children.\"\n\n\"Then she lost me,\" I retort lightly, returning with the sliced veal. I forgot the _jus_ and the chopped parsley garnish.\n\nMadame Song seems to like the lost version better and leans back in her chair, her face a thick slice of pale moon. \"Ahhh, yes, your mother lose you at market. And mother have many, many questions to answer when she get back to house and no little girl.\"\n\nI want to laugh at the thought of my mother returning home after twenty-five years, reprimanded for having lost me at the marketplace, but then I realize there's something graver in what she's saying.\n\n\"You,\" she says, leaning in close to me, \"no abandon. But very, very lost.\" She shakes her head, not out of pity, I think, but for emphasis.\n\n\"Do you remember your family?\" Pierre asks.\n\n\"A brother, grandmother. Mostly my brother,\" I repeat as if to convince myself. Thibault looks at me from across the table, searching my eyes if he should change the conversation.\n\n\"So when will you go to Seoul? Olivier say you go soon . . . when we meet first time in Aix.\"\n\n\"In February,\" I tell her.\n\n\"Very, very cold.\"\n\n\"Yes, but Olivier has business in Hong Kong and China. He decided this was a good time.\"\n\n\"And what do you think?\" Pierre asks.\n\nThere is an awkward moment of silence as I search for an answer, but I have too many thoughts about it all, too many apprehensions I don't want to go into at this first dinner.\n\nThe wind picks up with the first fall chill. I serve dessert and chamomile tisane, and finally, Madame Song and her husband thank me for dinner and make their way back to Aix. Before she leaves, though, Madame Song writes down her phone number and we make an appointment for our first lesson the following Wednesday.\n\nThibault helps me clear the dishes and then sits in the worn chesterfield next to mine, in front of the fireplace, a pot of hot lemon verbena steaming between us.\n\n\"You're quiet\u2014\"\n\n\"She's right. I was lost . . . and maybe\u2014\"\n\n\"There are a thousand maybes. She can't know.\" He scoots closer to me, but I stand up, throw some more wood onto the fire, slip off my shoes, and sit back down.\n\n\"I'm sorry if that was difficult for you. Olivier asked me to come . . .\"\n\n\"I know, but . . . Olivier's not even here.\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\nI know he is, and I also know that it's time for him to go. I get up, start to clear away the cups.\n\n\"Was the bookshop your idea or Olivier's way to keep you . . . tied to him?\"\n\nI shrug, pretending not to understand his question. \"I'm not a kite.\"\n\n\"Are you actually going to decide any of it?\" he continues.\n\nI grab his car keys and walk out of the kitchen, stepping out onto the wet grass, my bare feet pale in the moonlight. Thibault follows, but I can't look at him.\n\n\"Don't be afraid.\" He takes my hands in his, brushes them with his lips. He smells like fire and wood. \"Kim,\" he whispers, \"I want . . . to kiss you.\"\n\n\"Not here,\" I hear myself whisper back. \"Not here\" doesn't mean yes, but it doesn't mean no, either. I walk him to his car, an old blue Citro\u00ebn, hidden behind the hedges and Cumberland rosebushes. I'm cold now and want to go to bed, dream of something else. Thibault pulls me toward him, and I think of Olivier, guided by the renowned astronomer, zooming in on us through a telescope in the desert.\n\nFocus. I must focus.\n\nThibault's lips are wet and sudden. He presses his body to mine, and I'm weightless, struggling against the density of his hands as they keep me grounded, tugging at me like one of his kites. It is the briefest of kisses, but there's a strange rush in my veins. These are the games we play, longing for the dead and for the living. I want him, and I don't. He's my brother, my savior. I am paper thin and opaque. Restless and unattached. He's my string, my tie to another world.\n\nI've been trying to practice new Korean words every day. _Komapsumnida,_ I pronounce, counting the syllables in my head. Olivier and I are on the streets of Saint-Germain-des-Pr\u00e9s, near our new apartment. After looking at a handful of places with the real estate agent, Olivier decided in five minutes that the fourth-floor apartment at 9, rue de Luynes would be ours. It needed renovation, but that, too, was decided swiftly. In less than a month, we were moved in, and now it's as if we have been living here our whole lives.\n\n\"Come on, try it,\" I urge Olivier as we walk to pick up Laure from her school, located in the Marais on the other bank. Friday afternoons in the city are bustling with Parisians on their way to Normandy, Provence, anywhere to get away from the city. But this weekend we're here with Laure. Olivier wants to take me shopping for our trip in two weeks. Summerlike in Hong Kong and China and winter in Seoul. Olivier repeats after me, _komapsumnida,_ trying to learn politesse in my mother tongue.\n\n\"I give up. You're the one who can get us through. I can't even speak English.\"\n\n\"It's not easy. I haven't had that many lessons. Especially since we're spending more and more time in Paris. Madame Song has been very patient with me canceling lessons. Okay, listen: _Maum, sagwa, k'al, nabi._ Heart, apple, knife, butterfly. Try _I tabang arumdapkunyo._ \"\n\nOlivier repeats after me and then shrugs. _\"Qu'est-ce que \u00e7a veut dire?\"_\n\n\"I think it means 'It's a beautiful tearoom.' \"\n\n\"Ah, _oui,_ very useful.\" Olivier laughs and opens the door. \"Let's go in here.\"\n\nAt the Guerlain shop across from the Bon March\u00e9 department store, we buy spicy Samsara for me and Eau de Guerlain for him. Back at the Bon March\u00e9, we look at shoes, to see not if they are comfortable, but if he likes them on me. He loves to play Poup\u00e9e. I'm his China doll. He buys me things I'd never buy for myself. We go to Issey Miyake, Pleats Please. Anything I want. All of this and more, but it always seems too much. I tell Olivier that I want a pair of boots, but the heel's too high, he decides.\n\n\"You look better in casual, not frou-frou,\" he tells me. \"You're not a Chanel type. Gold chains on purses. That's all Dominique wanted. You're more raw linens and silks, ecru colors.\"\n\n\"But I like this purse,\" I lie, testing him, knowing he'll say no.\n\nWhen we get to Laure's school, we spot her in the courtyard. She sees us and waves excitedly but stops to walk in sync with the other girls. They're coltish and fashionable, some in short skirts with high boots and others in flared pants and perfectly matched sweaters, whispering and giggling secrets to one another.\n\nWhen we're a good distance from the school, Laure takes my hand. \"No one else has red hair like me,\" she laments. \"Not even Papa or _Maman._ \" She peers in the window of the _boulangerie_ where Olivier's purchasing _pain au chocolat_ for her after-school treat. \"Look\u2014\" She points. \"You'd never know he was _my_ papa.\" She says this catching her breath, as if the thought were both delightful and dangerous. Then she frowns. \"Who do you look like, Kimette?\"\n\nI shrug. \"Someone.\" I'm sure.\n\n\"Papa said you didn't know your real parents. _C'est bizarre, \u00e7a._ \" She squeezes my hand, then pats it gently. _\"Vraiment bizarre.\"_ It's her new favorite word. I realize that the child actually feels sorry for me, but I remind myself that she can't begin to understand how bizarre it actually is. Olivier steps out of the _boulangerie_ smelling of sugar and yeast.\n\n\"Now don't eat too much. We're going to Nelly and Louis's for dinner tonight.\"\n\nIgnoring her father's words, Laure takes the sweets from him, biting greedily into the sugary dough. I pretend to be looking for something in my purse to let them walk ahead of me. I follow Laure and Olivier, longingly. I study them like strangers, objectively, as if I were going to paint or photograph them. In my eyes, a portrait of a father and child, connected by the simplest of gestures\u2014passing back and forth warm, buttery pastry.\n\nIn my head, there's _maum, sagwa;_ in my heart, _ppang, nabi._\n\nTonight, I'm wearing a simple black silk dress with silver-and-brass jewelry Olivier brought back from various trips to Mali and Burkina Faso while I was living in Stockholm. Nelly greets us in a rush, her jet black hair smoothed into a tight chignon, her amber-colored eyes outlined in smoky blue kohl. She is breathtaking.\n\n_\"La m\u00e9nopause, qu'est ce que c'est affreux!\"_ she whispers in my ear, fanning herself as she leads us in. Menopause has also caused her sudden forty-pound weight gain, she laments. On seeing Laure, she smiles. _\"La petite, quel plaisir.\"_ She looks me over and, with a breath of approval, whisks us into the living room. The whole apartment smells of cardamom and earthy cinnamon, something sweet. _\"Une tagine de poulet aux dattes,\"_ she announces passing around cumin-infused carrot slices and large marinated olives.\n\n\"Where's Louis?\" I ask, biting into a juicy _harissa_ -spiced olive. She wipes her forehead with a frayed Herm\u00e8s silk square and points to the cellar.\n\nLaure takes my hand as we descend the spiral stairs to his studio. \"It's always a little scary, but I'm not afraid,\" she tells me. \"Papa, are you there?\"\n\nOlivier's right behind us as we duck into Louis's studio. He stands when he sees us.\n\n\" _Salut._ Laure, I'm so happy you came. _Comment vas-tu? Kim, tu es tr\u00e8s \u00e9l\u00e9gante._ \"\n\n_\"Merci, Louis.\"_\n\n\"What a beautiful piece.\" Olivier's crouching down to look at Louis's latest object: a large wooden board painted teal blue with small pieces of chicken wire and shells, a stunning mass of feathers painted terra-cottas and gold. _Entre chien et loup._\n\n\"It's always about the yes and the no,\" Louis explains. \" _Oui ou non. Ici ou l\u00e0-bas._ The pull in opposite directions, choices.\"\n\nLaure bends down and stares at the array of lost-and-found objects: ruins of trees and bent metal rods, tiles from wrecks, dried rat heads, and misshapen wood pieces. _\"Bizarre,\"_ she whispers to her father. Olivier stands next to me as I stare at a newly finished piece hanging on the wall. I can't keep my eyes off it, a rectangular-shaped light wooden background, three birds in the center, ochers and blues and pale pink. There's a wooden dial for a moon.\n\n_\"\u00c7a te ferait plaisir?\"_ Olivier asks Louis how much. He holds up one and a half fingers. I look at Olivier. \"It's our little system. _On l'ach\u00e8te._ \" Louis takes the piece off the wall and wraps it loosely in Kraft paper. Laure grasps my hand, and as we ascend the stairs, I think of perches and flight, hope and feathers.\n\nCHICKEN THIGHS WITH CINNAMON AND DATES\n\n_1 teaspoon olive oil_\n\n_2 sausage links (such as Merguez, spicy Italian pork, or lamb), about \u00bd pound_\n\n_6 to 8 skinless chicken thighs_\n\n_1\u00bc teaspoons salt, divided_\n\n_\u00be teaspoon fresh-ground black pepper_\n\n_1 large onion, thinly sliced_\n\n_3 garlic cloves, smashed and coarsely chopped_\n\n_1 tablespoon fresh-grated ginger_\n\n_1 teaspoon ground cinnamon_\n\n_\u00bd teaspoon ground cumin_\n\n_\u00bd teaspoon hot paprika_\n\n_1\u00bd cups low-sodium chicken broth or water_\n\n_\u00bd cup fresh orange juice_\n\n_About 1\/3 cup golden raisins or currants_\n\n_2 to 3 carrots, cut lengthwise and halved on the bias_\n\n_1 large orange, cut into 8 wedges_\n\n_12 to 15 dates (preferably Medjool), pitted, or 12 to 15 large prunes, pitted_\n\n_2 to 3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro_\n\n_Garnish: fresh cilantro, toasted almonds or pine nuts_\n\nHeat olive oil over medium high heat in a large ovenproof pan or Dutch oven. (If using a tagine to bake in, a wide skillet will do.) Cut sausage links in halves or thirds, depending on length, removing casings if desired. Add sausage and chicken to pot in one layer; sprinkle with half of salt and pepper. Let cook about 5 minutes. Turn meat over, season with remaining salt and pepper, and let cook 5 minutes more. Remove chicken to a plate. (If using a tagine, place chicken and sausage directly in bottom of tagine.) Add onion to pot (if brown bits are stuck to bottom, add about 1 tablespoon white wine, water, or orange juice, scraping to loosen bits) and let cook about 5 minutes. Add garlic, ginger, cinnamon, cumin, and paprika. Stir and let cook about 3 minutes. Add chicken broth and orange juice, raisins, and carrots and stir. Pour onion-carrot mixture over chicken and sausage in tagine, or if not using tagine, place chicken and sausage back in pot. Add orange wedges and dates.\n\nStir, cover, and bake at 350 degrees for about 1 hour 30 minutes or until chicken and carrots are fork tender. Taste sauce and adjust seasoning as needed. Top with cilantro and serve with hot buttered couscous and _harissa_ paste or coriander (or other favorite) chutney. Garnish if desired. _Serves 6 to 8._\nXI\n\nWith Reservations\n\nThe final lesson, after New Year's, with Madame Song is spent perfecting \"please\" and \"thank you,\" \"I like the hot of the ginger tea,\" \"the dumpling soup, please.\" This is ridiculous, but it's my fault for not being able to pick it up. I will it, but nothing comes back. And even though Olivier found Madame Song, he decided after just a few lessons that it wasn't necessary, especially after he saw how frustrating it was for both of us.\n\n\"You speak English and French, Swedish,\" he said. \"That's two more languages than I can manage . . . we'll be just fine. You don't need to learn Korean after all.\" But I insisted on continuing, trying to learn words in my mother tongue if we were to survive a return visit to Seoul.\n\n\"Soon,\" she calls me, interrupting my thoughts. \"I no understand. Your French fluent, no accent, and you no pronounce _Kurigo sajindo myot chang tchikko shipsumnida?_ \"\n\nI try again to imitate her cadence, but it doesn't flow. She shakes her head and clucks her tongue like a mother hen.\n\n\"I'm not doing it on purpose.\"\n\n\"Of course not.\" She crosses her arms over her chest, unconvinced. \"But I come all the way to Paris from Aix-en-Provence for your final lesson, and . . .\" She stops to shake her head. \"Why don't you just practice vowel combinations.\"\n\n\"Can't I just write the letters with the calligraphy brush instead?\"\n\nShe tilts her head to one side and then the other, tapping her fingers on the tabletop, staring at me. I take a sip of my tea, hiding behind the steam. \"You know, my husband and I were saying . . . ninety percent Korea people no look like you. Eyes different. Maybe, in fact you not\u2014\"\n\n\"Madame Song, I'm leaving for South Korea in two days, and I have tried my best. Would you care for some more tea?\"\n\nShe nods. I pour and then dip the thick bamboo-stick brush in black China ink, poise myself just so over the large scroll of white paper. \"You no get lost over there,\" she jokes. She smiles and leans over me, placing her hand gently on mine, guiding my wrist and fingers as I write _\"Komapsumnida\"_ in large black swoops. The ink drips and dries in strange shapes, like shadows of missing faces. I stare at the blots, the variations in depth, willing myself to recognize them, understand the elongated forms and nuances of my mother tongue.\n\nLaure and Olivier arrive at the door just as I am kissing Madame Song good-bye for the last time before our trip to South Korea. Olivier takes a picture of the two of us before she leaves.\n\n_\"Un cadeau pour toi.\"_ Laure hands me a drawing of the three of us. Olivier and Kim on a jet and Laure waving to us from the ground. I thank her, and she follows me into the bedroom as I start folding clothes. \"Where's Asia?\" she asks, wrapping herself in one of my cashmere stoles. \"Near Indonesia?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I answer. \"Far, far away.\"\n\n\"Papa, are you coming back?\" She pulls on a pair of my boots.\n\nWe both answer yes. The bell rings, and Laure wobbles to open the door.\n\n\" _Ma ch\u00e9rie,_ are you all alone?\" Nelly's voice is shrill, and I know immediately that she's in one of her hysterical states. I hold my breath as she waltzes into the room. Louis kisses me and whispers that Nelly is in \"one of her moods.\"\n\n_\"Salut, Nel.\"_ I cover my open suitcase with a blanket, but as Nelly leans down to kiss me hello, she unearths a brown wool turtleneck.\n\n\"But, Keem. You can't possibly think of taking this to Hong Kong. _Non, non, non._ \"\n\n\"It's my favorite sweater.\"\n\n\"Even if it is designer, this color doesn't go with you. You need bright, happy colors for such a . . . how do you say . . . sad journey.\"\n\n\"Sad?\" I grab the sweater from her and fold it neatly back into the suitcase.\n\n\"Yes, you know. Going back to your roots, even though there is no one there for you.\"\n\n\"Is anyone hungry?\" I walk past her and into the kitchen. \"How about some pasta? _Olivier, un peu de vin, s'il te pla\u00eet._ \"\n\nOlivier pours wine while Laure does her homework and I make spaghetti carbonara, a salad of Belgian endive, oranges, and walnuts. Flora calls, and so do Thibault, Sophie, and my friend Charlotte from Stockholm, all to wish us good luck. Everything seems so final and tragic that I put on some bossa nova and dance around with Laure while waiting for the water to boil. She has traded my boots for my favorite sweater, the sleeves too long for her. She asks if she can keep this one, just until I get back. Of course, I tell her.\n\n\"So have you learned the words for shopping in Korean?\" Nelly inquires during dinner. I shake my head. I can hardly ask the time. \"You're leaving tomorrow, no?\"\n\n\"Monday.\"\n\n\"Papa.\" Laure throws her head into Olivier's shoulder and then climbs onto my lap, sticks her thumb in her mouth. I assure her that we'll be back soon, even though I read in a recent issue of _\u00c7a m'Int\u00e9resse_ magazine that Korean pilots are undertrained and I've been dreaming the wreck, the crash, for weeks in anticipation.\n\nAfter we've tucked Laure into bed, I brew up some aromatic tisane.\n\n_\"Bon voyage en Asie.\"_ Nelly gives me a bottle of perfume, Yves Saint Laurent's Paris _._ \"So you won't forget us. So you'll come back.\" She looks at me, and the gentleness in her eyes makes her seem momentarily concerned and quite old, even maternal. I hug her tightly.\n\n_\"A tr\u00e8s bient\u00f4t.\"_ Louis presses a square notebook in my hand, with a Bic pen drawing of me and the planets shooting out from my hair. There are open spaces for notes and photos.\n\n\"Write it all down, furiously. And good luck,\" he adds, winking at me.\n\nOn our way across the continents to South Korea, I keep thinking of Madame Song back in Provence. I have her photo. I've glued it along with Laure's drawing onto the first page of the book Louis gave me. Madame Song looks like the 10 percent of Koreans she told me I resembled. Although I never really noticed the difference until she pointed it out, it's all I can think about now. And I remember now how Suzy always insisted she was not Korean because she didn't look like me. Her eyelids are smoother, less pronounced.\n\nLaure, she claims, looks like neither her mother nor her father. \"Maybe when I'm ten,\" she said hopefully, \"I'll look more like one of them.\" But she looks a lot like Olivier\u2014the same jaw and piercing way she stares at you when there's an idea about to take fruition.\n\nEight weeks of Madame Song's tutoring and I'm only able to confidently repeat the same words I've said all these years: _Omma, Abba, kundungi._\n\nChanging Olivier's mind about the journey was impossible. Every day I read him the articles from the _International Herald Tribune._ North Korea resistant to international inspections. Below freezing temperatures. I even called the American embassy in Seoul. \"I'm American, but Korean . . . If there's a war or something . . . is everything okay over there?\"\n\n\"It is today, February first, 1994, but you never know about tomorrow.\"\n\nI recall the functionary's words as the flight attendant dressed in a red-and-blue silk dress takes cocktail orders. \"A double for me, please,\" I remind her as I slip Lexomil under my tongue. When she returns with just one glass of Champagne, I mix it with another dose of Ivadal and wait for sleep.\n\nWe're only twenty minutes into the seventeen-hour flight from Paris to Seoul. When the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign blinks off, I'm able to breathe a little easier. This is my first time flying Korean Airlines. Small, square-shouldered pilots in navy blue and red take turns walking up and down the aisles.\n\n\"Why aren't they flying the plane?\" I whisper to Olivier, squeezing his hand. He's stretched out, putting on the massaging microfiber socks that come in our first-class complimentary bags.\n\n\"Some dinner and a nap and we'll be there in no time.\" He kisses my forehead.\n\nDuring rice and fish, hot soup, and a blurry movie, I ask Olivier if I look like the flight attendants. ( _Non._ ) The pilot? ( _Non._ ) An ancient Korean man walking down the aisle? ( _Non._ ) Then the little boy by the window? (A slight resemblance, _si tu veux_ ).\n\nThe captain announces that because of the conflicts in Afghanistan, we will have to take a longer route. I order another glass of Champagne and think of the stretch of continents below, how the earth constantly shifts and changes, and the wars being fought in the remotest regions of the world, the tiny battles inside.\n\nEventually I lapse into a half sleep and see my Korean brother who sometimes appears in my dreams. He is always warning me about the dark and the cold. There is a warm spot on the empty floor of our Korean house, built high on stilts. I am the youngest or smallest and must wait in line to sit on the spot. Sometimes he lets me cut. Together, as in the grim fairy tale, we are an exotic version of the blond Hansel and Gretel, minus the loving father to take us home.\n\n_Then they fell asleep and evening passed, but no one came to the poor children. They did not awake until it was dark night, and Hansel comforted his little sister and said: \"Just wait . . . until the moon rises, and then we shall see the crumbs of bread which I have strewn about, they will show us our way home again.\" When the moon came they set out, but they found no crumbs, for the many thousands of birds which fly about in the woods and fields had picked them all up._\n\nMany dreams later, we prepare for an evening arrival at Kimpo Airport. My throat tightens as we shuffle into a multitude of lines. I do as the others, remain silent, keep my head down\u2014I want to blend in, be accepted across the border without being noticed, as if I've always belonged. When it's my turn, I show the immigration officer my American passport, offer an international smile\u2014sincere but brief\u2014in an attempt at discretion. It's the heart of winter, so I'm dressed in black boots, black cashmere coat, wool pants, and a gray turtleneck sweater. My hair is silky and straight under a knit hat. I'm cold and anxious and speak only when I am spoken to.\n\n\"Kim Soon-nay?\" The immigration officer looks at me, raising his wide, sparse eyebrows. I nod, holding my breath. \"American?\"\n\nI nod again and watch as he flips through the pages. Stamps from Athens, Geneva, JFK, Valencia, Marseille, and a Swedish work visa fan out like an animated travel log. The moon-faced man nods, adds his own black stamp, then jolts his head for me to pass.\n\nSweet victory. I've been granted entrance to my home country. I take a deep breath as Olivier is also allowed in. He squeezes my hand. I look around the airport as we make our way to the baggage claim, holding back the tears, not wanting to admit that I was half hoping someone might be here to greet me, acknowledge me as one of theirs.\n\nIn the back of the cab on our way to the Westin Chosun Hotel, Olivier whispers in my ear, \"This is so exciting for you, for us.\" His enthusiasm is jarring. What could possibly be so wonderful about this cold, gray, silent city? But I feel guilty as he makes an effort to point out every brightly lit temple and square. I lean into him, thankful that he's real and solid and sitting next to me.\n\nWhen we arrive at the hotel, the cabdriver grunts as Olivier pulls out dollars and francs and Korean won. He points to the revolving glass doors and lurches away, leaving us at the hotel entrance. Mostly men in dark business suits walk swiftly in and out of the entrance. Olivier checks us in, ignoring the thumbs-up from a Korean man in the lobby.\n\nThe next morning, February cold aches in my bones. Olivier rubs my legs to warm them up as I recall dreams of crowded places and missing faces. They come back to me throughout the morning. We have breakfast standing in the street: cloudy soup with a side of fried dumplings and a thick red dipping sauce. The flavors are hot and sweet and dense at once. I devour the dumplings whole, burning my throat with this food I so long to remember. I stare at the faces through the steam. Are they staring at me, or is it just my imagination?\n\nLater, another cabdriver drops us off at Folk Village\u2014the memory park of a country, my country. It looks like a back lot of Disney World where they put the less commercial, less exciting countries on hold. There are artisans working diligently to reconstruct what Korea was. Merchants sell wooden tools, figures, and bowls and offer steaming ginseng tea. There's even a film crew, Korean Hollywood, filled with a tired cast of Korean warriors. I photograph a young girl leaning on her mother's body. Do I look like her? Olivier shakes his head wearily. \"She almost looks real,\" I tell him, focusing in on the swan curve of her neck. \"Not like the others who pretend to show us the past.\"\n\nWalking along a trail, I freeze in front of a row of houses. They're built on stilts, just as I've always remembered, with outside heating devices. An old woman opens the door to one of them. She is ancient. I watch her as she slowly lifts a blue surgical mask off her mouth, the one I see many older people wearing to protect from the bitter cold, and calls after a little boy running toward us. He stops, waves at the woman, laughs, and continues in the opposite direction. I instinctively go to follow after him, but Olivier catches my arm.\n\n\"He won't come back if you chase him.\"\n\nLater at the National Museum, we must wait our turn. It's below freezing, and children line up military style in the large perfect square. It appears they're on a field trip, but they're not smiling; gravity weighs down their faces, pulls down their shoulders, shutting their smooth eyelids to the outside world. Everyone seems so serious and sad here, or maybe it's just me.\n\nThe museum guards let us enter the stone cold museum, one by one. No one smiles, no one speaks. They listen to our footsteps echo, watch us as we take in the pottery and tools, costumes and weapons. There's a replica of a pharmacy filled with ancient remedies for memory loss and solitude.\n\nIn another section are glass-enclosed cases. There is one of a miniature version of a wall in Kach'ang village. I feel like a giant, standing above, looking down. Tiny women made of earth and clay carry baskets of heavy stones on their heads. Each year, they must circle the wall three times with the weight of the stones to protect their families against tempests, fever, and nostalgia. My body aches for them. The guards follow us around, trying to see what we see.\n\nOur third morning, drinking fish broth and biting into crunchy rice cakes, I tell Olivier I want to leave. I know it's sudden and inexplicable, but I fear the truth\u2014never finding anyone who recognizes me.\n\n\"You have to give it some time,\" Olivier says. \"I know we can't really find your family.\"\n\nI shake my head. \"Maybe if I had contacted the Catholic Relief Services . . . it's on one of my documents . . .\"\n\nOlivier takes a sip of his soup. \"I'm sorry. I should have been better prepared. I should have tried to find your family. What was I thinking?\" He turns away, and I can't tell if he's angry or sad or mad at me, even.\n\n\"I never asked you to look for them,\" I say. \"It's impossible. There's no trace, really . . . just these stupid papers, and . . .\" I stop myself, breathe in the cold air to shock my system out of crying. \"I'm sorry. It's the jet lag. And the weather. You've done so much already . . .\"\n\nOlivier kisses me and then hands me a piece of rice cake. \"At least the food is really good.\"\n\nI nod. The food is wonderful, both rustic and exquisitely presented. I love the spicy red pastes to slather onto grilled meats. Shiny earthenware bowls, hot with sizzling rice. \"But I do want to leave soon,\" I remind him. \"Time won't change anything. Look what happened last night.\"\n\nLast night, we wanted to eat authentic food outside of the hotel. So the concierge scribbled down the name of a local restaurant in Korean for the cabdriver while the female hotel clerk seemed to delight in informing me in broken English that the only Korean women with white men at five-star hotels are high-end prostitutes. She looked me up and down, daring me to respond.\n\nThe cabdriver dropped us off at the restaurant. I was excited to eat Korean food and marveled as waiters brought tiny bowls of colorful kimchi and larger, steaming stone bowls of rice and beef to the tables around us. We waited and waited. Finally, a woman reluctantly gave us menus and disappeared behind a silk screen. We waited some more, and then she sent out a fat, laughing waitress, who pointed at us, pointed at Olivier, the white man at my side. She then called the others to come, look at us, and finally shoo us away. I wanted to shout at their round, scornful faces that I was just like them. That I didn't choose to leave, that it was all a mistake or a bad dream.\n\nBut because they wouldn't serve us, Olivier led me out of the restaurant, out onto the street, where, luckily, vendors were cooking thin slices of beef and bits of sweet, spicy omelet behind vapors of steam and starch. We walked a little farther and huddled together against the harsh Korean winter at the open-air counters and devoured half-moons of pan-fried dough, steaming bowls of rice-thickened soup. Olivier ate for both of us as I thought about the faces rejecting me.\n\nCome, is all I wanted them to say. Eat at our table.\n\nOn our last night, I dream of _Omma_ again and again. I hear her voice hovering, like the helicopters that threaten to chop away at the air and swallow up the people from the ground below.\n\n_I open my eyes from sleep, uncurl my body, and sit up on the bare floor. \"Shhh,\" my brother whispers, placing his finger over my lips. In the next room, a woman's voice as sweet as scented rice explains that it was all a mistake. I rub my eyes and blink away sleep to discover plump waitresses laughing._ Omma _speaks: \"She's simply been lost all these years. Misfortune, everyone knows, misplaces people, but loneliness and persistence,\" she explains awkwardly, \"brings them back.\"_\n\nOmma _shuts the door firmly and quietly starts brewing water for tea and sweetened rice cakes. We'll have to share. I'm happy even to give my piece away, as long as I don't lose my place._\n\nOn our last morning in the city, we walk the streets of the main center. In a back alley, people dressed in bright blue, red, white, and yellow silks gather at an open altar, surrounded by rice offerings and multicolored ribbons. I want to bow, too, and pray with them to whatever gods unite them, but I stop myself because I realize that I would only be an intrusion. I wouldn't know how to kneel properly, haven't learned the vocabulary necessary to ask for blessing, forgiveness, and grace.\n\nOn our way back to the hotel, we take a detour through the antiques quarter. I want something to take back with me, something old and meaningful, anything that will prove that this part of the world exists, a vestige of my memory. Olivier hands me a beautiful papier-m\u00e2ch\u00e9 box covered with multicolored cutouts. The ancient merchant and his wife speak broken French to us.\n\n_\"Bo\u00eete\u2014\"_ She points enthusiastically. _\"Cent cinquante ans vieux.\"_ One hundred and fifty years old, filled on the inside, she points, with stories written in Chinese. Stories of love and loss. _\"Merci, revenez, bient\u00f4t, bient\u00f4t.\"_ Come back, soon, soon.\n\n_\"Komapsumnida,\"_ we repeat, bowing in her likeness, thanking her for such kindness.\n\nWe're on a Cathay Pacific flight. As the Boeing lifts its heavy body into the sky, we rise, too, our bodies floating above my birth country. Our next stop is Hong Kong, and I'm ready for anything as long as I can get out of here. I can't dream any language to make them understand that I had no choice but to be taken away the first time. But this time, I can choose not to stay.\n\nThis flight, for some reason, I'm not worried about bombs or terrorists. I want to be airborne. I know that I will fly and land safely somewhere, sometime, soon. I clutch the box to my heart, squeeze Olivier's hand. The flight attendant offers cocktails, but I shake my head. My throat's hot and swollen, and no words will come out. I scoot all the way into the back of my seat, letting my legs swing back and forth.\n\nBecause there are no formal records, because I was abandoned, I realize that Seoul is not where I can validate myself. I cannot look to this part of the world to see where I belong. No familiar faces, and certainly no one to claim me. I look out the window through the clouds, imagine the plane piercing the emptiness of the sky.\n\n\"You see\u2014\" Olivier points out the window. \"This isn't really your home.\" Maybe he's right, but does he have to say it? Pronouncing the words just makes it more real. \"Your home is here\"\u2014he points to himself\u2014\"with me.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, South Korea,\" I whisper, not really ready to say adieu. It gets smaller and smaller, and I look down to the people and buildings below, the temples and rivers and villages. Suddenly, I am one of the miniature women in the museum replica of the village of Kach'ang, circling the wall again and again, my body heavy with nostalgia, not strong or wise enough to ward off tempests, fever, and loss.\n\nAs we prepare to land in Hong Kong, the passengers wave to the late workers in the high-rise buildings on both sides of the arriving Boeing. One of Olivier's business associates, a half-Vietnamese, half-Chinese woman named Ling, will be there waiting for us at the airport. Another border to cross, and we're in.\n\n\"Everything is for sale here, twenty-four hours a day,\" Ling boasts as we make our way through tunnels from Kowloon to our hotel overlooking the bay. The waters of the city are silver, reflecting metal skyscrapers and jets. Ferries, shrimp boats, and flat-bottomed junks slowly drift in and out of the bay. There is so much to fill the eyes and nose here that there is little time for thoughts, no room for longing, and definitely no time for tears. When we arrive at the lobby of the New Harbour View, an Asian man stops me and asks, \"You? Half Japanese, half white?\" I don't think to answer and instead find myself shaking my fist at him.\n\n\"I'm not like you,\" I hear myself say in such a strange-sounding accent, not recognizing the sound of my own voice.\n\nThe food in China and Hong Kong is equally thrilling, but in both places I am claustrophobic with the rivers of people\u2014they _do_ look like me, but not one familiar face or smell or syllable among them. All I care about now is Chinese New Year in a few days, February 10, and all I want are colors and dragon dances and red lanterns. I can't have the Korean family I dream, so I want a movie poster version of this part of the world.\n\nIn the morning, Ling takes us on the Hong Kong Peak train to Victoria Park, and then I venture out on my own for a few hours while she, Olivier, and the others discuss business. I walk the streets far from the hotel, taking pictures of the open markets\u2014macro shots of dried scorpion, pale starfish, and red roots shaped like withered men. I focus in: a cow's head with the skin ripped off, left on a garbage heap. I want to capture it along with freshly fallen ginkgo leaves and rotting Asian pears.\n\nIt's almost noon when I realize I must find a taxi to meet Olivier and the others for lunch. The air suddenly feels hot on my body; it wraps around me like a heavy gauze, making it harder and harder to breathe. Buses come and go, but no cabs. The heat thickens and swirls in my throat. A digital sign flashes: 24\u00b0 CELSIUS\/95% HUMIDITY. Something's slowly seeping into my body, invading my lungs. My head begins to spin with the honking of horns and trolleys, people everywhere, all with someplace to go, negotiating and trading their lives away. I finally see a cab and rush out into the flood of Asians.\n\n\"Thank you,\" I mouth to the cabdriver. I shut the door, exhausted.\n\nThe cabbie, a small, older Chinese man, looks at me in the rearview mirror. \"Thank _you,_ \" he mimics in English. \"You no thank you me.\" He spits and slams on the brakes. \"Is that all you people know to say . . . thank you, thank you?\"\n\nI'm not sure if he's kicking me out, so I start to open the door, but he accelerates, cackles, and growls at me as we wind our way through the puzzling jigsaw of the city. My throat is starting to swell, and I can't find the words to defend myself.\n\nSomehow I make it to the restaurant where Olivier's waiting for me, seated next to Ling. Her husband and father are there along with four Chinese investment bankers. Ling gestures for me to sit opposite her, but Olivier takes my hand and seats me next to him. Our table's in the center of the main dining room, filled with families and miniature kumquat trees hung with bright red and gold envelopes. We smile, nod, greet one another. Immediately waiters place multicolored dishes, saucers, bowls, and chopsticks on the large lazy Susan in the center of the table. I want hot ginseng tea, but before we can order, the waiter sets down a glass of cognac for each of us. Ling's father rises and proposes a toast for loyalty and prosperity in the Year of the Dog.\n\n_\"Gan bei,\"_ we all repeat after him. Bottoms up. The cognac soothes my aching throat. The waiter immediately refills our glasses with the same amber liquid as the first courses are served: hot-and-sour soup, smoked oysters in a dried black mushroom sauce served in an intricately woven basket of fried noodles.\n\n_\"Gan bei.\"_ We lift our glasses and drink. I try to whisper to Olivier that I think I'm coming down with something, but Ling keeps leaning in to him, interrupting our conversation. She swirls more cognac into my glass as her father leads Olivier to the large fish tank to choose the next course.\n\n\"What year were you born?\" Ling asks me in her high-pitched French, leaning into the empty space where Olivier was sitting.\n\n\"In 1970, 1971?\" I shrug. \"More or less.\"\n\n\" _Un chien._ It's your year to flourish. Dogs are very faithful,\" Ling informs me, \"but no good with dragons. Olivier is a dragon, no?\" She lets out a tiny burp and then excuses herself to the banker on her left, who's also drunk. Someone spins the lazy Susan, and a few of the porcelain bowls go flying off the table.\n\n\"To the Bank of China,\" says a young woman dressed in last season's pinstripes, looking around nervously.\n\nI read recently that the same architect who designed the pyramids in the Cour du Louvre also designed the Bank of China. To no one in particular, I whisper, \"It looks like a knife in the heart of the city.\"\n\n\"Forget 1994. A toast to 1997,\" encourages another banker at our table.\n\nWhen Olivier returns, my head is spinning. \"I'm sick,\" I tell him.\n\n\"You've had too much. Just pretend to drink, and I'll help you with the rest.\"\n\n\"No, it's my throat.\" I swallow and can feel the saliva barely squeeze down. \"And I think I have a fever.\"\n\n\"On second thought, drink the cognac,\" he responds, kissing my damp forehead.\n\nLing looks over at us, and I shoot her a canine smile. I excuse myself and find my way to the bathroom, clutching my stomach, my face dripping with sweat. I throw up in one of the toilets, the women scowling as I wash my face and gesture apologies.\n\nThe fish Olivier has chosen is plated with uniform slices of ginger and scallion. The head is cut off and offered to Olivier, but he declines politely, offering it to the eldest at the table. I'm amazed as Ling's father pops it in his mouth, whole, sucks and slurps, then spits out what he doesn't want. I turn away to see that everyone in the restaurant is doing the same. Men and women in custom-tailored silk suits and dresses sit, concentrating their agile tongues to separate the good from the bad, spitting out the inedible. There are fourteen courses and several bottles of cognac that I somehow manage to sit through. I do not want to make trouble\u2014I do not want to embarrass Olivier.\n\nThe next day, my fever is up to 103 degrees. Breathing feels like a razor scraping the inside of my throat. Olivier gives me a bottle of essence of red thyme, distilled in Provence. I take a drop of the liquid on my tongue. It burns like fire and makes me gag.\n\n\"Maybe we should wait until you're better. You can't travel like this,\" Olivier suggests, wiping my chin.\n\nBut it's the Chinese New Year, I want to say. The Year of the Dog, and I will dig a hole to China if I must. I swallow another drop of the potent essence because I want it to cure me, whatever has crept into my body and shoots from my throat down through my chest. A Chinese pharmacist says I have the pollution in my lungs . . . bronchitis.\n\nOlivier checks for fever: 104 degrees now. The pharmacist gives me watered-down root tea, offers dried scorpion powder ground into a fine mist to drink down with cognac. My whole body aches, my lungs heavy with congestion. One of Olivier's business acquaintances jokes that I am having an allergic reaction to Asia.\n\nThe next day, Olivier relents and we take the Kowloon\u2013Guangzhou express train from Hong Kong across the border and into China. Ling has made arrangements for Olivier to meet a Chinese businessman, a possible supplier of bottles and plastics for L'Occitane, in Shenzhen, in the Cantonese region of China.\n\nThe Chinese businessman is waiting impatiently when we arrive. He doesn't shake hands or talk to us. He talks only to Ling, who then translates, what I understand, from their gestures and facial expressions, to be a censored version. I don't catch his name, but he's much taller than Olivier, with big, pointy teeth. I secretly call him the Wolf. He drives us around in his shiny black Lexus, which costs what a Chinese laborer makes in a lifetime, he tells us through Ling.\n\n\"This part of the region is prosperous,\" he continues. \"The people are becoming healthier, wealthier.\"\n\nI can feel the heat rising through me, pushing up something in the back of my throat. I'm going to vomit again, but I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead. The outside bumps by\u2014a war zone, from the evening news broadcast. There's dry dust everywhere, and the light, it seems, has no direct source. Old men on bikes sell sugarcane on the side of the street, a child limps across an open running sewer and waves at us, a big toothless grin across his weathered face. Buildings are under construction, but they're nothing but big cement blocks with minuscule windows on every other floor.\n\nThe scaffolds here are amazingly precarious, made of dried sticks of bamboo. Their fragility reminds me of the houses I used to build as a child. Houses made of my grandfather's playing cards. I would set them on the kitchen table, creating a whole village, and then stomp by noisily to test the solidity of my construction.\n\nThe Wolf pulls into the parking lot of a five-star hotel in the village. \"For tourists,\" he says proudly. A young man promptly arrives and opens the Wolf's door. They lead us into the hotel. The Wolf flashes a pointy-toothed grin, and all the girls behind the reception desk squeal as they line up in front of him. They are plump and shimmering in their gold lam\u00e9 tops. They kiss him one by one as he slips a red-and-gold envelope into their eager palms. He says something, and one of the girls translates that the Big One will return in several hours to take us for dinner. The Wolf doesn't say good-bye, just turns. I keep my eyes planted firmly on his back until he is swallowed up by the automatic doors.\n\nWe're taken to our room, which overlooks the city center. Everything in the hotel is five-star, on the surface\u2014large meeting areas, overly polished light fixtures, and smiling employees. But the walls are a mud brown and the floors a powdery gray tile. In the bathroom, Olivier points out the large marble bathtub, a toilet with no seat, and a sink. _\"Regarde,\"_ he says, pointing under the sink. I squat down to see that all the pipes have burst and are held together with worn pieces of masking tape. Rusty water leaks from around the toilet base.\n\nSomeone knocks on the door. Through the peephole, I can make out only a shiny black eye. I let in a young man from room service who is carrying a plastic tray with two mugs, two Lipton teabags, and a thermos of boiled water.\n\n\"Happy Chinese New Year,\" he wishes us. He sets the tray on the table next to the window, then opens the closet door.\n\nOlivier pours tea while I take another drop of red thyme. I'm used to its burning, so this time it soothes me. Fever twists my body, aches in my bones. I take a sip from the thermos. Lukewarm water. I spit it out, take a deep breath, and close my eyes. I want to click my heels three times and be back in Paris.\n\n\"I want to go home.\"\n\n\"Soon,\" Olivier answers. I fall asleep in the chair and awaken later to the sound of gunshots and explosions. With every blast, my heart jumps. Helicopters swarm down low over the streets. The chop-chop sound of the blades reminds me of early childhood nightmares. Not a war, I pray. It's dark out, and from our window we see people lighting up the sky with fireworks and red fire bombs. Olivier shoots a photo quickly before powder and smoke fill the air. I cover my ears as another explosion pops. Don't let me die here, I think. Anywhere but here.\n\nThe phone rings, and I vaguely hear Olivier say, \"We'll be right down.\n\n\"Do you think you can join us for dinner?\" he asks me. \"Maybe you should stay here.\"\n\nI can't swallow, but I don't want to be left alone. I nod, take one last drop of red thyme. Ling and the Wolf are waiting for us in the hotel dining room. The Wolf is the only man dressed in a suit and tie. Olivier and Ling's husband are in dark pants and linen shirts. The three other Chinese businessmen at our table wear polo shirts and slacks with navy blazers. The Wolf picks his teeth and spits on the chair where Olivier is to sit. Olivier pretends not to notice and smiles. I don't understand these customs, especially if there is a business deal to be made.\n\nThe Wolf orders for us all. With each course, the waiters show it to him first, and if he approves, they set it before us. I ask for hot tea with lemon instead of the cognac they pour for everyone else. The meal slips before me in a blur: dried oysters stewed in oil, meat in a thick red sauce, peanut paste steamed in pale sticky buns. I notice that the Wolf doesn't eat. He watches us, and every once in a while he sits back to clean his nose or pick at his finely manicured nails. I can't chew or swallow but pretend to enjoy the greasy food set before me. I'm relieved when the waiters bring out hot bowls of soup. The steam feels good on my nose, raw from wiping it so much. I inhale but can't really smell it. I dip in the spoon and pull out a black marbled egg-shaped object. I bring it closer to see that it's furry. I plunge it back in before anyone sees me.\n\nOlivier whispers, \"It's the thousand-year-old eggs. A Chinese delicacy.\"\n\nI push my bowl toward him. I suddenly long for Korean food\u2014aesthetic, clean, and spicy, served in smooth hot bowls.\n\nAfter dinner and toothpick time, Ling announces that we're going to celebrate the New Year. I perk up at the thought of petite women in traditional dress with plump red lips and paper lanterns, dragon dances. I want the China of picture books and movies, the clich\u00e9s of Asia I have always fought against.\n\nLing leans close to Olivier, chatting on like a schoolgirl. But he hugs me close to him as we make our way out to the parking lot. I wonder how we're all going to fit in the car when a young man from the hotel runs out, the Wolf's car keys high in the air, then backs the big fat Lexus right up to where we're standing. The employee gets out, pops open the trunk, and places three large cardboard boxes at our feet.\n\nWe look at one another, puzzled. Is someone going to pop out of one of the boxes? Are we to applaud? Say thank you? The Wolf ceremoniously opens the boxes and pulls out long red firecrackers, places them on the ground between the car and the street. He takes his silver lighter and lights them one by one as he watches them shoot off into the night. After each explosion, he spits happily on the ground. I look around and there are no dancing dragons, just wolves, businesswomen instead of ladies in red dresses carrying lanterns. This is it? Suddenly I imagine the Wolf in a wide-brimmed hat and spurred boots, the lonesome Chinese cowboy kicking the West in its sides, except that his back is slightly hunched, and as he turns his head, light shines on his greasy, sweaty face, his pointy teeth becoming even sharper in the night.\n\nThe next morning, the Wolf sends a message for us to meet him for breakfast in the semiprivate dining room on the top floor of the hotel. Eight a.m. and already multiple trays of steaming bamboo baskets are rolled to our table. The same waiter from last night sets down a steaming basket in front of Olivier at the Wolf's approval. He lifts the lid: steamed black-footed chicken's feet with its claws in a thick red sauce. The Chinese are all watching him. Olivier lifts his chopsticks, bites into a foot, chews, and smiles. They laugh and raise their glasses in a toast, and then my heart sinks as the Wolf insists on rotten egg soup for the whole table.\n\nBreakfast, thankfully, is cut short because Ling and the Wolf are eager to take us on a tour of the prospering village. We follow them through the winding streets covered with red confetti and discarded fireworks from the night before. At the marketplace, we see where all the produce from last night's dinner is sold. An old woman squats behind a cardboard box laden with shriveled oysters. Cut-up raw chicken pieces are spread out on the dirt floor. At every stand is a bowl of the black furry eggs. Children run around playing among broken branches and waste from trucks.\n\nWe stop in front of a baby, wrapped in green cloth and a dirty sweater, lying on the ground on top of a large white piece of paper. I can't tell if it's a girl or a boy, but surely it can't be more than six months old. I ask Ling to translate.\n\n\"Please take this child. I have no choice but to abandon my child.\"\n\nI look around at the crowd gathering, hoping someone will come and help, but they are laughing instead, talking among themselves, reading the paper, buying produce, pointing at the baby, the sky, and the foreigners in their midst. I am compelled to run away with the child in my arms, run as fast as I can, but I start coughing hard, my lungs on fire now as I take the camera, point, and shoot, imagining already the developed image\u2014a lost child and, along the edge, the feet of all those standing around waiting, expectant, paralyzed into doing nothing.\n\nWe walk back to the hotel along the lake. It has become the village dump. I photograph the floating chairs, electronics parts, and waste. This is what I will think of when I remember this part of the world. I start to focus in on a man squatting at the edge of the water but cover up the lens and stare at him with my naked eyes. He slices open the throat of a turtle, rocks back and forth as if humming a lullaby. I watch him watch it bleed to death.\n\nThe road leading out of China is shared by pedestrians, truck drivers, men on bicycles, chickens and turtles, a few private cars, and taxis. We're finally leaving, on our way to Hong Kong for an evening flight back to Paris. The fever is still high, but I'm dying to get on the plane.\n\nAt the airport, our flight is delayed. We're in Cathay Pacific's first-class lounge with Parisians clad in black, businessmen from Singapore and China, a few Australians, and a handful of Americans.\n\nOlivier and I are finally seated on the top level of the jet. It feels like a small private plane. There's one attendant, it seems, for every three passengers. They smile demurely, offering caviar, fresh fruit, Champagne in abundance. All I can swallow is hot water with lemon, a drop of honey. I can't sleep, can't breathe. I try to restrain my cough while everyone snoozes in the cabin, stretched out comfortably in their seats, eyes masked, necks cradled in velvet pillows. We're pulled up into the sky, and I can feel my body instantly lighter, effortlessly slipping away.\n\nWhen we arrive back in Paris, I could almost kiss the ground. Asia is such a far, faraway land. Coughing is painful and leaves traces of mucus and blood in my throat. At Roissy, we fold into a cab under the gray sheets of cold rain. When I see the driver's Asian face in the rearview mirror, I feel resentment rising in me for no particular reason.\n\n_\"O\u00f9 aller?\"_ he asks.\n\nOlivier directs him. _\"En bas du boulevard Raspail et vers Saint-Germain. Rue de Luynes.\"_\n\n_\"Rue de Lune?\"_\n\n_\"Luynes,\"_ I correct him, irritated with his lack of understanding.\n\n\"You\u2014\" The driver points to me in the mirror. \"You not one of us. Hair too shiny, too thin.\" When he grins, I notice half his teeth are missing and the other half rotting.\n\nI cough into the back of his head, blow my nose like a foghorn, and throw the shredded Kleenex on the backseat floor. I lean into Olivier's body, let him stroke my forehead, which is damp with rain and fever, as we make our way back through the streets of Paris.\n\n\"I want to go home,\" I whisper. But the words get caught and sound foreign in my mouth.\n\n\"Ohh-mmma,\" _the little girl calls. Her voice stretches across the village and bounces back into her heart._\n\n\"Ohhh-mmma,\" _she cries. Everything is in slow motion. Her limbs ache with longing. Her brother reaches out to her, or maybe it's her grandmother. The market is gray with rats and picked-over fruit that nobody wants, leftovers that will rot for days._\n\n_She's sitting on a bench, legs dangling in midair, surrounded by vendors. She sits clenching a morsel of food tight in her fist, so tight, her knuckles are white and cold. She whispers to herself, \"She told me not to move.\" She rocks back and forth with the words and rhythm to keep her warm. \"She told me she'll be back.\" And then everything speeds up. The sun goes away and leaves her in the dark with lights glaring from the port. Alone again and wandering, circling the marketplace. Her head spins with directions and street clatter. Swimming on land, drowning in shadows of the disappeared._\n\n\"Reviens, Omma.\" _She hears her voice, like streaks of rain. \"Come back. Come back.\"_\n\nSomeone's shaking me, wiping sweat from my cheeks. _\"\u00c7a va, mon amour? R\u00e9veille-toi.\"_\n\nWhen I finally open my eyes, a man's sitting on the bed, speaking a strange language. I try to answer but cough instead, and the pain takes me out of the dream. The dream. When I blink, my eyelids hurt. Olivier's staring down at me as if I were dead, and for a moment I think maybe I am. I touch my chest and head, try to get out of bed, but I'm soaked. Moisture drips down my back and sticks in between my thighs.\n\n\"The fever has broken,\" Olivier says.\n\n\"What time is it?\" It's night somewhere. Everything is suddenly motionless as I lie back in bed and wait. Finally, the late night m\u00e9tro roars beneath the city. Paris, I sigh, pulling the sheets up to my chin. I'm in Paris. I watch Olivier disappear into the hallway. The light falls across the bogolan bedspread from Mali. The shapes are strange, masklike, mocking. I strain to hear everything in its exactness, Olivier as he steps barefoot into the kitchen, opens a bottle, and pours water into one of our green Moroccan tea glasses. The sound of water soothes me back into sleep.\n\nA doctor is waiting when I wake up around noon the following day. I've never seen him before. Olivier must have called SOS M\u00e9decins. He's sitting in our living room talking with Olivier about the best helmets for motorcycle riding in big cities and which world city is the most polluted.\n\n_\"Ath\u00e8nes est horrible. Mexico, tr\u00e8s tr\u00e8s pollu\u00e9.\"_\n\n\"Hong Kong,\" I say, coughing. It feels as though a piece of my lung is missing. I sound like an old man. Swallowed up in Olivier's bathrobe and making my way across the room, I feel like a ghost. I sit on the white sofa, next to the doctor, and prop my feet on the low wooden table.\n\n\"You shouldn't be barefoot,\" the doctor tells me.\n\n\"I'm sick,\" I claim. Leave me alone.\n\n_\"Exactement.\"_ The French love it when they're right. The doctor prods and pokes me with his yellowed fingertips. His breath smells of cold tobacco and sour charcuterie. He tries to listen to my heart. I cough in his face. \"Very bad. Bronchitis, chronic.\"\n\n\"I'm allergic,\" I whisper. To you, I want to say.\n\n\"To what? Asia?\" The doctor slaps his knee as if he's just invented the most clever diagnosis. \"You'll need X-rays.\" He scribbles something on a pad of paper, lights a cigarette. \"And don't be surprised if you have scars on your lungs.\"\n\nI spend the day taking in the rich sounds of Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations. I drink honey and lemon, a few sips of cognac minus the dried scorpion powder. Olivier stays with me all day. He keeps busy but is never far, drawing soap labels for a new line of products or designing furniture for another house, inventing ways to help the poor. His latest project is a sewing circle in western Africa. Nuns teach young girls to sew and the proper and useful ways of the condom.\n\n_\"Il faut que tu manges,\"_ he says, leading me into the kitchen. He's always telling me I have to eat. I lean against the counter, watching as he expertly peels and chops leeks and potatoes.\n\n_\"J'ai r\u00eav\u00e9 d'elle.\"_ I start to tell him the dream about my mother, about the darkness and getting lost at the market. He sets the knife on the chopping board and listens carefully, as if for the first time. When I'm finished, he rinses the vegetables thoroughly, fills the pot with water, and then turns to me, checking my forehead for fever.\n\n_\"Et ton p\u00e8re? Tu ne r\u00eaves jamais de ton p\u00e8re cor\u00e9en.\"_\n\n_\"Non,\"_ I whisper. He's right. I never dream of my Korean father. I have no recollection of him. It's as if he never existed. \"I guess I lost him, too.\"\n\nThe steam rises from the pot. Olivier stirs, adds salt, cheesecloth filled with parsley, bay leaf, and thyme, covers the soup with the lid. He takes my hand and pulls me toward him. He opens my robe and fits his arms backward through the sleeves so we're wrapped together. He smells like citrus and sandalwood, his country, not mine. We stand like this for a long time.\n\nThe soup's hot and thick. The fever's gone, but my throat is still swollen. I ache all over, inside and out. It feels as though my lungs are swelling. My bones are ripe and about to explode.\n\nDominique drops Laure off later in the afternoon. Laure rushes into the house and squeezes me hard. She takes off her jacket to reveal my sweater, the one she wanted to wear while we were away. From the sofa, in a feverish half dream, I listen as Olivier corrects Laure's homework, and I wonder if my Korean father likes math or music. I want to know his favorite words. I wonder if he remembers me, if he has ever touched or seen my face. I wonder, sometimes, which hereditary illnesses my parents have passed on to me. I pray that they are healthy. I wonder how tall my mother is, what is the shape of her tears, the scent of her landscape.\n\nSometimes, when I step out into the night, I wonder how long it takes for their eyes to adjust to the same hollow darkness. Sometimes I compose letters in my head: We are nearing the end of the century, and I know that neither one of you is ever coming back for me. Wherever you are, I'm still a part of you. I'm the one whispering in your ear, wondering how we've let all this water come between us.\n\nKIMCHI SOUP\n\nThe success of this soup depends on the quality of the kimchi and stock, so use the best. You can make a vegetarian version by using good-quality vegetable broth in place of stock and adding tofu and a poached egg for protein. It's best made a day ahead to remove all fat.\n\n_1 teaspoon peanut or vegetable oil_\n\n_1\u00bd to 2 pounds boneless pork butt or shoulder, trimmed of fat and cut into chunks_\n\n_\u00bd to \u00be teaspoon salt_\n\n_3 to 4 garlic cloves, smashed and chopped_\n\n_2 teaspoons fresh-grated ginger_\n\n_6 cups chicken or pork stock_\n\n_2 to 3 cups cabbage kimchi (store-bought or homemade), divided_\n\n_4 green onions, sliced_\n\n_Garnishes: fried ginger, fresh green peas, sliced rice cakes, Korean red chili paste or_ sambal oelek, _sliced nori, a drizzle of sesame oil_\n\nHeat oil in a large Dutch oven or soup pot over medium high heat. Season pork with \u00bd teaspoon salt and add to pot. Let pork brown about 8 minutes. Add garlic and ginger and stir. Add stock, stir, bring to a boil; reduce heat to medium low. Skim fat as it starts to simmer and froth. Add 1 to 2 cups kimchi, stir, and let simmer about 1\u00bd to 2 hours or until pork is fork tender. Stir in green onions and remaining kimchi (if desired). Taste and add more salt, as needed. Serve with garnishes, if desired. \nXII\n\nA Tire d'Ailes\n\nIt has been months since returning to France from Asia, and although my lungs and throat are slowly healing, there are signs of something much more elusive, more acute, that punctures from deep inside. I keep hearing Olivier's words: _Your home is with me._ It was definitive, no questions asked, no room for discussion, as with everything he decides. Over the years, this has been both comforting and disquieting.\n\nBecause I can no longer drive long stretches without fearing an accident, I find myself breathless, pulled over on the shoulder of the road, on my way back from Flora's clinic in Marseille. I am more and more afraid of everything. My own scarred shadow. Fear of waking up with blood in my mouth where someone has cut out my tongue because I have wasted the gift of words.\n\nThe kitchen is the only place where I am not fearful, which seems fine with everyone. I buy more piles of French and American epicurean magazines, cookbooks, not that I'm able to follow the recipes, but they make me feel useful, efficient. The one book I always turn to, though, is Reboul's _La Cuisini\u00e8re Proven\u00e7ale,_ my bible to this day.\n\nWhenever I'm in Paris, I take Saturday morning classes at Le Cordon Bleu in the fifteenth arrondissement, practice the coveted recipes on eager dinner guests. And although I'm not a chef, I have been given the power to decide the culinary fates of twenty or sometimes thirty guests in a single evening at our various dinner parties. I may fear highways and trains and tunnels, but I am fearless in the face of whole rabbits and wild boar, _cabri,_ goats, that I roast with young garlic and wild herbs. I take on kilos of potatoes, slow-bake them with cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and a saut\u00e9 of fragrant girolles. I think of _Omma_ as I whisk up the mother sauces, experimenting with new variations on the theme.\n\nEvery once in a while, Olivier or one of our friends will request a New Orleans dish Poppy taught me to make: jambalaya, seafood gumbo, bread pudding with drunken sauce. I am secretly triumphant when every now and then Laure and her friends want American pancakes with \"the maple syrup that pours out of the tin cabin\" and cookies over cr\u00eapes and madeleines. They like to help stir batter or count chips so they will each have the same amount of chocolate in their individual batches. These are the times I miss my adoptive family the most, especially my grandfather. I, like Poppy, take pride in the number of strangers who show up for impromptu dinners. But it seems that I can tackle the most esoteric of recipes, the most elusive puff pastry, as long as I do not have to count the empty layers of loneliness building up inside.\n\nEvery morning that I wake up now in the azure blue of our bedroom in Provence, or the pied-\u00e0-terre tucked safely between the boulevard Raspail and the boulevard Saint-Germain, I am more acutely aware that this life of ease and comfort was not made for someone like me\u2014a stranger, an unwanted child, a divided woman with no claim to happiness.\n\nWhen I talk to my mother back in New Orleans, we are polite, never dipping below the surface: \"Yes, we're going to Corsica for the summer.\" \"No, we'll be in for Thanksgiving, not Christmas.\" My mother, at first skeptical of the age difference and the fact that someone like Olivier could love someone like me, has come to adore him, especially after her visit. But even thousands of miles away, she is able to distance herself more, make me feel inadequate, useless, second-guess my happiness. She somehow always reminds me how at my age she was already a mother of two orphaned children, how she never traveled. \"What do you _do_ all day long?\" she asks, hanging up before I can begin to answer. Writing is not a legitimate answer; neither is cooking or being the full-time companion of someone as commanding as Olivier.\n\nTo make matters more difficult, Laure has started taking my clothes and jewelry before weekends with her mother. I find my belongings in her half-zipped bags. She takes things from Lulu, too, small gifts I have given her. Laure keeps everything\u2014she reminds me of myself\u2014a souvenir of a time that existed. She keeps it all within touching distance. I know I will find the flowered Kenzo top and American kids' cookbooks I will give her for her upcoming tenth birthday in her bed, stuffed under the pillow. And Laure has been throwing uncontrollable tantrums, testing Olivier, asking him to choose\u2014her or \"Keem.\"\n\nDespite all this, I love her, mainly because she is the daughter of the man I love, but I wonder how it is that I have become a makeshift mother, this clueless substitute. Do I have the right to discipline her? What can I possibly teach her besides the comfort of food, the gifts of the table, the importance of language, and the unique strangeness of being a foreigner?\n\nOlivier makes more and more concessions, changing last-minute plans to accommodate Dominique, sending her money at the slightest suggestion of custody changes. Dominique keeps changing her demands, prolonging the finalization of the divorce. In France, Olivier explains to me one day, five years after the filing, it becomes automatic. He's willing to wait in order not to have to pay more or lose Laure. Then he and I can be official, legal. I don't know how much longer I can wait to be \"official.\" My social status is currently questionable, my resident visa renewable with stipulations. Although Olivier says I have nothing to worry about, I am, once again, in between countries. And Olivier's decision to wait it out with Dominique also reminds me of other things, including the fact that Laure is his family and I am not and that my biological father never fought so much for me. All of this is proving to be too much, the reason I am sinking further, slipping away into my own deep quagmire of doubt and panic.\n\nOlivier always knows how to solve a problem, but my panic attacks, he assures me, are not a problem. So we are on last-minute trips to Cadaqu\u00e9s, a weekend at the Grand Hotel de Cala Rossa on Corsica, wine shopping in Condrieu, anywhere in Italy. While eating chunks of Parmigiano-Reggiano and _frizzante_ in a ch\u00e2teau in Piacenza, he tells me that we are finally going to open _my_ very own bookshop.\n\n\"Where?\" I ask him, a bit hesitant, savoring the salty grains of cheese. I thought he had forgotten about this project, so I never let myself hope for it.\n\n\"In Paris, of course. It's something you've always dreamed of. Or I have, for you. We even came up with a name, remember? Don't think I don't remember these things. Besides, you insist on being _so_ American, having to work, have a career.\" I can't tell if he is making fun or not, and before I start to object, he adds, \"Plus, we'll be closer to Laure during the school year.\" Before I say anything about the real reason he wants the shop, for the sake of Laure, he says there's property he saw on one of the two islands in the heart of the city.\n\n\"You know,\" he whispers between the pasta and meat courses, \"you really need to have a child . . . I think it will make you feel better.\"\n\n\" _I_ need to have a child? What about you?\"\n\n\"I don't _need_ to have one. I don't have that _besoin._ But I would have one with you, _for_ you, because I want to, not because I need one\u2014\"\n\n\"I know, I know,\" I say, holding up my hand to pause him. \"You did it with Dominique because _you wanted_ a daughter, but you would have one with me because I _need_ one, not because you want one\u2014\"\n\n\"That's not what I mean. I just think it would help you, help us. Complete the circle.\"\n\nI want to say so much, that maybe I do want to have children, but only with a man who wants one, not out of duty for what he feels is best for me. But he's always got it all figured out\u2014this life he has created for us, so comfortable and perfect.\n\n\"And then we'll have my brother build the shelves for the books,\" he says, referring back to the bookshop. \"Just like in all the L'Occitane stores . . . I can see it already. It will be stunning, and the whole city will know this is the place to come for poetry . . .\"\n\nI hold up my glass to drink more _frizzante_ and watch Olivier dissipate through the bubbles. I'm not really listening now. I wish I could be so sure about someone, much less an entire city like Paris wanting to come to my shop to buy poetry. Before I can say thank you, he tells me that after dinner maybe I should write a poem or two, write it out of my system, this slow-spreading panic. A prescription from Dr. Baussan.\n\n\" _Panna cotta_ and gelato will soothe all our worries.\"\n\nI nod. If cooked cream in northern Italy will make me wonder less about what I will do with the rest of my life and my patient womb, then yes, bring me bowls of it, scoops and scoops of iced hazelnut and pale green pistachio, too.\n\nAfter one of our morning runs through the Luxembourg Garden, Olivier and I shower, dress, and ride about the city on the purple scooter. It's a sticky Indian-summer morning. The sun shines brilliantly on the market vendors at Maubert-Mutualit\u00e9. We zip up the tiny rue de Bi\u00e8vre and across the quay by Notre Dame. We stop at the tip of \u00cele Saint-Louis where Olivier likes to come. It's on this island where we spent our first night together, when I was still living in Stockholm. He parks the scooter, pulls off his helmet, and starts to unstrap mine.\n\n\"What are you smiling like that for?\" I ask him.\n\n\"Come.\" He takes my hand, walks me past the L'Occitane shop to the next block. \"I want to show you something.\" He stops at number 81.\n\nI shrug and peek into the window. \"It's a dirty, abandoned _cr\u00eaperie._ \"\n\n\"Not for long. I'm going to buy it.\"\n\nI peek in again. \"It's small. What do you want to do with it?\"\n\n\"Books, _mon amour._ Tons and tons of books. All yours.\"\n\n\"Mine?\" I ask, a bit skeptical. \"Really?\"\n\n\"Yes . . . see in there\"\u2014he points\u2014\"we'll have to tear it all down, the blond stone walls are great, but everything else will have to go.\" He loves the promise of large-scale demolitions, wiping out the old and re-creating his version of the new.\n\nWe lunch at Le Vieux Bistro, tucked across the street from Notre Dame, watching unwitting tourists pass right by one of the best places for _b\u0153uf bourguignon, tarte tatin_ with a big chilled canister of cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche. Olivier begins to draw on the back of a pad of paper. \"You see here . . .\" He draws furiously. \"Bookshelves all along this wall, and then we'll go look at tiles for the floor, similar to the ones we have at L'Occitane but maybe just slightly different. We'll have Ariane come and color-wash the walls, and . . . it's ready to go.\" He bites into his slow-cooked beef, pours some sauce over the individual copper pot of boiled noodles.\n\n\"Oh, and then we'll hang one of Louis's pieces right above the desk in the entrance. The one with the three birds that you like so much, perfect for A Tire d'Ailes.\" In the end, the drawing resembles all the other L'Occitane shops in the city, with its iron and wood, glass and tile, hand-rubbed ocher walls.\n\nThere isn't much else to add, so Olivier, pleased with himself, suggests dessert. I think I want the _tarte tatin,_ but he says I should order the profiteroles. I do love the cold ice cream against the hot bittersweet chocolate, the way they struggle and finally balance on the tongue.\n\nNegotiations for the _cr\u00eaperie_ take a while, longer than Olivier would have liked, but once the papers are signed, it takes only a few months to redo the entire space\u2014Olivier made all the final drawings and decided everything the first two days, then hired an entire work crew to tear down some walls and rip up floors\u2014and turn it into the most exquisite shop on the island.\n\nSince he can't get the exact flooring like L'Occitane as quickly as he wants, he lets me choose a terra-cotta tile from a shop in the Marais and which books will go on which shelves. But everything else is without dispute or discussion: He commissions an artisan to engrave \"A Tire d'Ailes\" into the wooden bar that will serve as the main counter. He has ordered invitations from his printer in Tuscany for the grand opening and hires Custodia, the young woman from one of our favorite hotels on the rue Sainte Beuve, to help run the shop. She doesn't know much about poetry, but Olivier thinks she will be good, organized; she won't upstage me, he said. When I tell him I was hoping to hire a young aspiring poet, at least a bookworm, he says, \"You have a mind for poetry, not for business. I can appreciate both.\"\n\nThe day before the opening, Custodia and I spend time dusting shelves, shelving books. Aside from French and English poetry, there's poetry in Greek, Portuguese, Russian, Turkish, Korean, Lebanese, and even in the Parmesan dialect.\n\nI arrange peonies, anemones, and roses in glass vases from Maison de Famille and Asiatides.\n\n\"Is this a new store?\" a French woman calls in off the street.\n\n\"Yes,\" Custodia answers. \"We're opening tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Poetry,\" she says, walking into the shop. \"Who would ever buy so much poetry? Who's the owner?\"\n\nCustodia gestures to me. \"No, dear,\" she says to Custodia. \"I know you both work here, but _whose_ shop is it?\"\n\nI answer that it's mine, but my words sound hollow, unconvincing. I'm sure she thinks me an impostor. I begin to explain that my companion opened it with me, for me. The woman smirks.\n\n\"Do you have anything by . . . Mayakovsky?\"\n\nCustodia pulls out both Russian and English editions of his poetry. The woman flips through the books, tosses them back onto the counter, and stomps out.\n\nCustodia and I look at each other and shrug. I wonder if she was a spy for Dominique, but throughout the day many people come in and out, curious about who would open up an all-poetry bookshop, who has that much money to lose? Some comment it's noble, others affirm that it's purely frivolous, surely a rich man's caprice.\n\nLater in the afternoon, I take a break for a quick espresso across the street. I notice a couple sitting at a window table, staring at the shop. They're both petite, in their late forties, she slightly older than the man.\n\n\"The shop is very beautiful,\" the man says. He nods my way, his unkempt hair falling into his thick glasses. \"Are you a poet?\"\n\n\"I love poetry,\" I answer.\n\n\"My wife,\" he says, gesturing for me to join them, \"she is a poet. My name is Herv\u00e9. Maybe you will sell some of her books.\" His suggestion seems without hidden motives, purely an attempt to honor his wife's work.\n\nShe shoots him a look. \"No,\" she says. \"Don't mind him.\"\n\n\"I'd love to read your poetry,\" I say, introducing myself.\n\n\"Brigitte is very, not shy, but doesn't know how to promote herself.\"\n\n\"She's a poet,\" I say. Brigitte smiles, promising to come by with some of her books. Conversation is easy, and it feels good to establish my own relationships outside of Olivier.\n\n\"I wasn't always a poet,\" Brigitte says, almost apologetically. \"I was an attorney, and then I did legal translations. I realized at some point that I wasn't doing what I really loved . . . so I gave it all up . . . allowed myself to choose writing, poetry, and prose, which was impossible before\u2014\"\n\n\"That's great,\" I say. \"What made it possible?\"\n\nShe and Herv\u00e9 both respond, \"Grignon,\" and then laugh. I look at them, puzzled, not familiar with the word.\n\n\"In English, you say 'shrink-wrapped,' no?\" Herv\u00e9 says.\n\nI nod, smiling but not wanting to correct him. \"Tell me more.\"\n\n\"Grignon's amazing. _Tr\u00e8s humain. Rigoureux_ . . . drives me crazy sometimes, but . . .\" Brigitte hesitates. \"He has helped me . . . _avec l'\u00e9criture, la vie._ \"\n\nHelped her with writing and life. I need someone like him, I think. For some reason, my eyes start to water. _\"Je m'excuse,\"_ I say. \"I think I'm coming down with something.\"\n\nBrigitte looks at Herv\u00e9 and then leans across the table and whispers, \"I would be happy to give you his number, he only takes patients now on referral. But, I must warn you, I've sent other people there, and . . . it hasn't worked out with everyone. He works with lots of artists . . . other than that, I don't know much about him, which is the way it should be, right? He's a medical doctor as well.\" Brigitte scribbles down a phone number on a paper napkin, and I fold it carefully before placing it in my pocket.\n\n\"Thank you,\" I say. \"You'll come to the opening tomorrow, yes?\"\n\n\"We wouldn't miss it.\"\n\nAt 6:00 p.m. the following day, the shop starts to fill up. There are editors and writers I have only heard of or read about. Charlotte and Milton have flown in from Stockholm. Charlotte's first book of poetry is just being published, and she's also helped me with the selection of Swedish poets. Flora is here, too, radiant in her new Yves Saint Laurent pale violet skirt and matching suede round-toed _escarpins._\n\n\"It's amazing what love does,\" she tells me. She is svelte and hasn't needed chemotherapy in months. She tries on several shades of lipstick before choosing the deep rose, which highlights the rise of her cheekbones. Her hair has grown back fuller and thicker. She is ravishing. Jean-Marie takes her hand, kisses her neck. It has been months since we have seen him, and I am grateful for his presence.\n\nLouis and Nelly arrive. _\"Ma ch\u00e9rie, c'est magnifique,\"_ Nelly declares, introducing me to her friends as _\"la femme d'Olivier Baussan.\"_ People, tourists and locals, come in off the streets, some even buy books. There are poets who live on and around the island. Bernard Heidsieck, founder of the _po\u00e9sie sonore, po\u00e9sie action_ movement, offers to do a reading at some point. Paolo, an Italian poet from Florence, introduces himself and congratulates me. He is handsome and dramatic, precious in his posture and diction, but I like him for his passion of Dante and Goethe and Rilke. He also loves Jean Rhys and Emily Dickinson.\n\n\"Yes, we will be very good friends,\" Paolo assures me as he and his friend Giuseppe leave after buying a pile of books.\n\nI am pleased and thankful that Brigitte and Herv\u00e9 show up. I feel in my pocket for the napkin with the doctor's name on it. Olivier hands me a glass of Champagne.\n\n\"I've decided which poet I will ask to do the first reading,\" I tell him.\n\n\"I've already taken care of that,\" he says. \"There's a poet friend of Pierre Magnan's, also from Provence\u2014\"\n\n\"I was thinking about Andr\u00e9 du Bouchet. He's older and I've heard not doing too well physically, but I would love to ask him. Oh, and see that woman over there\u2014\" I gesture excitedly. \"She says she's a friend of Gary Snyder's and that he would be happy to do a reading. Can you imagine . . .\" I sound like a schoolgirl with a crush and start to explain to Olivier who Gary Snyder is.\n\n\"Why don't we talk about this later. I've already told Pierre that we would let his friend do the first reading.\"\n\nOlivier orders Custodia to open another bottle of Champagne, a sign that this conversation is finished. He slips his arm around my waist, smiles for the photographer that Olivier's press agent has hired for the event. This is a moment to remember. Summer 1995. An island. I'm looking not at the camera, but beyond, panicked suddenly by my shameless public display of my once secret love of words. \nXIII\n\nSome Enchanted Life\n\n_Je est un autre._\n\n\u2014Rimbaud\n\nI'm living an enchanted life. A desirable life. I hear it all the time. My mother, who hasn't contacted me in months, sends letters written in her tidy, perfect handwriting: \"Have you found a job yet? Who do you think you _are_?\" Nelly tells me the same thing, when Louis isn't listening, in her own words: _la vie privil\u00e9gi\u00e9e._\n\n\"When I was your age,\" she always whispers, \"I had my men give me the biggest jewels and entire wardrobes from Chanel, Balenciaga.\" Then she shows me her bare arthritic fingers with thick, grayish veins running like shriveled waterways across her hands.\n\nDespite this privileged life everyone seems to think I am living, or because of it, panic has begun to strike more and more, like lightning. I hold my breath between bolts, counting the diminishing seconds in between. I panic on the drive to Italy via the Riviera. I've counted up to 346 tunnels so far, each one a possible collapse, like a failing lung. I gorge myself on the evening news and discover that earthquakes are possible in the South of France, a fault line not far enough from our house. Radiation from Chernobyl is still present in the crops in Provence. Tornadoes in Europe. Train derailments. Sarin gas in the Japanese underground system. Strange viruses that invade the lungs and penetrate the skin. Panic is the sound of a full jet in the bankrupt sky, flying lower and lower until I'm sure it will crash into our kitchen.\n\nI drop hints to Olivier that I need help, but my words are too indistinct, inaudible. Instead, I fall asleep at odd hours of the day. When the maid arrives at our Paris apartment, I turn off the lights in the bedroom until she has finished. She taps softly on the door, and I pay her quickly, silently, like some underground madame. After she's left, I walk into the hallway with all the lights off and just the evening streetlights filtering through.\n\nThe rhythmic turning of the dryer and hum of the refrigerator remind me that I'm in the domestic world. I open the refrigerator, close it, open it again. Nothing smells familiar as I scan the shelves. Iranian caviar, a ripe Saint-Marcellin cheese, lamb's lettuce, _riz au lait \u00e0 l'ancienne._ A spoonful of the cold thick rice pudding, one of Flora's favorite sweets, along with cr\u00e8me caramel, feels good gliding down my throat. I greedily devour the sweetened grains and throw away the container. Feeling guilty, I try to cook\u2014practice a perfect beurre blanc for Olivier and bake madeleines for Laure's after-school snack. But Olivier calls to tell me there has been a change of plans, Laure is going to be with her mother this week, so he has made reservations for us at Apicius to have dinner with his best friend, Jean Lenoir, and a host of several Saudi moneymen.\n\nMy heart's no longer in it. I dump it all in the garbage, the broken eggshells and lumpy batter. I can't make anyone happy with sugar and eggs, butter and wine. Olivier can't help. He insists that he loves me too much, he needs me in excess.\n\n\"I'm going to get professional help,\" I announce one night in bed as he's reading the Amnesty International newsletter.\n\n\"I can help you, what do you want?\"\n\nI don't know what I want, I want to say. And not knowing . . . \"Loneliness. I'm lonely,\" I blurt out, not really finding the words I'm looking for, feeling ridiculous now as he continues to read about the poor in Africa.\n\n\"Oh, Keem. Petite Keem.\" He tucks me under one arm while still reading. \"I was thinking we could set up something in Mali or India.\" He kisses me on my cheek and eyes. \"To help the women. When I was in Burkina . . .\"\n\nI drift off into a false hope of sleep, thick layers of _sommeil_ to make me forget the heaviness of my limbs and organs, the pounding of my heart that resonates louder and more hollow every day. I dream there's an explosion in Gandhi's tomb. I'm summoned to investigate the site and identify the body. My father's burning incense at the mouth of the river. My mother and sister are measuring cups of water, hanging linens to dry in the wet heat of the city. My job is to read from the hot, singed map.\n\nThe next morning, while Olivier's meeting with journalists who want to interview him for French _Elle,_ I pull out the Pages Jaunes. I keep checking over my shoulder, my finger shaking as I glide it up and down the columns. M for _M\u00e9decin,_ P for _Psychanalyste, Psychiatre._ I don't know the difference among the three. But I want to call someone, anyone, a woman preferably in the fifth, sixth, seventh, or fourteenth arrondissement.\n\nI open the front door, check to make sure Olivier's not near, then dial the number of a French doctor's name. By the fourth bleep, I'm about to hang up when a Fran\u00e7oise something-or-other answers in a nasal monotone. After a brief exchange of words, she tells me, \" _Rendezvous mardi \u00e0 quatorze heures._ \" She repeats the address slowly and then hangs up.\n\nI arrive at her rue Raymond Losserand address the following Tuesday at exactly 2:00 p.m. A woman opens the door to a second-floor office, which actually turns out to be a two-bedroom apartment. A firm handshake and a half smile; she's wearing a sensible gray suit, pinched neatly at the waist. The color of the fabric matches her silvery hair and eyes. She doesn't say anything else, just turns and starts down the hallway. I have no choice but to follow. She leads me into a room with a king-size bed in the middle of it. She folds herself neatly into an armchair next to the door and gestures for me to sit opposite her.\n\n_\"Quel est votre probl\u00e8me?\"_ What is your problem? she asks sternly, not even looking directly at me. I can hardly hear her as I sit staring at the immense bed between us. Charcoal-colored knotted rug and a pale gray cotton bedspread with darker gray piping.\n\n\"Um . . . ,\" I begin. I don't really know what to say. _\"Il n'y a pas de fen\u00eatre,\"_ I mumble. I could have thought of something more enlightening to say than to point out there's no window. Obviously she knows there's no window. If I knew what my problem was, I wouldn't be here in the first place. It stinks of dusty sheets. I want to ask her what _her_ problem is, what's up with the bed, the bedroom? But I've never done this before, and I think, Maybe this is how it is when you want someone else to help you take out something as deep as the hole inside. I start babbling, and after about ten minutes Madame Grisaille stands up and looks at me.\n\n\" _Tr\u00e8s bien. Vous avez beaucoup de probl\u00e8mes._ You are divided, and that will cost you two hundred fifty francs. Come back next Thursday same time so I can make you whole.\"\n\nI somehow manage to stand up and, with the hollowness knocking in my legs, follow her back down the empty hallway. I pull out a 200-franc bill and a blue 50. She takes the multicolored money in one palm and shakes my hand hard with the other, opens and then closes the door with me on the other side. I stand for a moment with my wadded fist suspended, about to knock. I don't, of course, but there's something left unsaid. I have been summed up and dismissed, abandoned, but how can I tell that to some strange woman?\n\nBack out on the street, day is slipping into the Seine and I make my way to La Grande \u00c9picerie du Bon March\u00e9. Everything in this department store food market is remarkable\u2014the exotic fruit stand promising joy with its array of passion, carambola, crimson cactus. I want to be lost here, swallowed up whole among the endless displays of imported water in colored glass bottles\u2014blue Raml\u00f6sa, sea green Pellegrino\u2014among the cheeses and marble-colored olives, bread baked in their individual baskets. When I return to the apartment, Olivier's waiting, anxious.\n\n\" _Alors?_ \"\n\nI shrug. I hate to admit that he was right.\n\nHe smiles, triumphant, and takes me in his arms. \"When I was your age, I went through analysis, but I was a _baba cool_ . . . it's what we did. Analysis,\" he warns me, \"is the opposite of poetry. You'll lose your entire poetic sensibility.\"\n\n\"Did you?\" I ask.\n\n\"Look,\" he says, ignoring my question, \"we have _everything. Tout._ People go to see people like analysts and psychoanalysts for _happiness._ You don't need to pay a stranger to tell you that we have everything to be happy.\"\n\nI walk to the kitchen and let the water pour out of the faucet full blast. I cup my hands and drink. It's cold and hurts slicing down my throat, caressing the scars from China.\n\n\"You never drink tap water\u2014\"\n\n\"Well, I just feel like it today.\" I sound angry and regret it instantly. Olivier walks over to me and turns the faucet handle so the water falls in slow oval drops into the drain. I lean over to stare into the water until I can't see it any longer. He bends down low to look into my eyes.\n\n\"What?\" I splash water into his face, and we can't help laughing. Soon we're both wet and dripping on the kitchen floor. I make tea and stand next to Olivier, overlooking the courtyard below.\n\n\"I talked to my lawyers today. I'm going to see a notary as soon as possible.\"\n\nI start shaking my head. I don't know why I must object to everything, but I do. I pour more tea and stir in some honey.\n\n\"Kimette, you never sweeten your tea.\"\n\nI glare at him.\n\n\"The notary,\" he continues. \"It's important. In case anything happens to me before . . . I want to protect you, and Laure. I don't want Dominique involved.\"\n\nRight, I want to say, like she's not going to butt her way in. Am I becoming bitter? \"But Dominique isn't going to let you go through with the divorce, you know it.\"\n\n\"Marie-Claire will be there, too, to help you through, if anything happens to me. She's been in business with me since the beginning of L'Occitane . . . since 1976 . . . I'm so old.\"\n\n\"Why don't you just get the divorce over with? You've been officially separated for years now.\"\n\n\"I don't want to jeopardize custody of Laure, you know that.\"\n\nI nod patiently and let him talk about marriage even if we can't discuss it seriously until the divorce is final. And I'm terrified. Maybe it's our age difference. And how do I tell him that I don't want to be another Madame Olivier Baussan; I want to become Kim Sun\u00e9e before becoming anyone else.\n\nI'm relieved that we're having dinner at Louis and Nelly's tonight, even though she will tell me I should have bought the _chouette_ new _sac_ at Yves Saint Laurent, or that my jewelry\u2014bracelets and rings Olivier brought back from West Africa\u2014is all wrong, except for the Cartier watch, or that we haven't spent enough money on art this year.\n\nIn some strange way, I am attached to Nelly. She can be charming and insists I am like the daughter she and Louis would have loved to adopt. Tonight is one of her dinners for the patrons, and I'm always thrilled to talk with Louis, see what he is creating. I tell him my dreams in between courses when no one is listening, and he smiles before interpreting them.\n\nFirst, Olivier and I are to meet and ride with Henri Cartier-Bresson and his wife, Martine, at their rue de Rivoli apartment. Olivier is honored, and even though he has known Henri for several years, he gets excited but tries to remain nonchalant.\n\n\"What's he like?\" I ask.\n\n\"A genius.\" He pauses and then adds, \"Dominique contacted him some time back, told him about the divorce, and I've been waiting for the right moment to introduce you.\"\n\n\"Maybe I shouldn't go,\" I say, thinking that here's one more person from his past that I have to impress. What do I say to Henri Cartier-Bresson?\n\n\"Whatever you do,\" Olivier says, reading my mind, \"don't ask him anything about photography. He doesn't want to speak of it, to anyone . . . he's drawing now.\"\n\nNo photography, I remind myself as Henri greets us outside and we follow him up to his apartment. He stops to greet an American woman with a delightful accent. They are old friends, he tells us nostalgically as he slowly makes his way up the several flights of stairs.\n\nOnce inside, he explains that we are waiting for Martine, his wife, as he offers to fix us a drink. There are drawings everywhere, nudes and airy figures. A photo of Matisse, landscapes, some just strewn about. I try not to stare, try to think of something smart to say. No photography questions, I remind myself.\n\n\"Olivier tells me you're a poet.\" Henri smiles and hands me a glass. His voice is gentle, his words deliberate. \"You've opened a poetry bookshop on the island.\" Before I can correct him, he stands up, searches his bookshelves, and hands me a book. \"My first wife, she was a poet . . . \"\n\nI am grateful for his kindness, for not letting me make a fool of myself in his presence, in front of Olivier, who admires him so.\n\n\"Please,\" he tells me in French, \"I offer you this book of her poetry, in English.\"\n\nI thank him as I flip through the pages. While Henri looks for his coat and gloves, a young woman, elegant, tall, and beautiful, suddenly appears in the doorway, holding out a scarf.\n\n\"Papa. Looking for this?\" Henri introduces his daughter. She looks to be in her early twenties. I try to calculate the age difference. \"How are you feeling?\" she asks in French. He smiles and nods. \"We're having dinner together this weekend, right? Remember? You promised.\"\n\nWhen she leaves with her friend, Henri tells me that she was adopted as a baby. She's a grown woman now, where does the time go? Martine arrives, and we all pile into her car to go to the fifteenth arrondissement. Henri is old and tired, but there is still so much life in the way he looks at the streetlights, listens silently to the undersounds of the city. There's so much I want to ask him, learn from him, but I'm tongue-tied. I clasp the book close to me.\n\nWhen we arrive, Nelly kisses me and whispers in my ear that my dress is lovely. I'm relieved, but she makes a point of saying, \" _Mais, ch\u00e9rie,_ you must have him take you to this fabulous little boutique, rue Bonaparte.\"\n\nShe seats me in between Louis and Henri. Olivier and I have several of his photos at the apartment\u2014scenes from China and Mexico. He's more fragile than I imagined. Martine, quite a bit younger than Henri, a photographer as well, warns him about spices. He turns to me, unscrewing the top from the Tabasco bottle.\n\n_\"D'o\u00f9 viens-tu exactement?\"_\n\nI answer South Korea, more or less, but I don't know exactly where. \" _Nulle part._ \"\n\n\"Everyone comes from somewhere,\" he says sternly. \"You can't be from nowhere.\" He shakes his head, pushes the Tabasco out of the way, and mixes some red hot _harissa_ instead with his couscous grains. I stare at my reflection, upside down in the spoon. The light makes me look swollen, undefined.\n\nIn the hallway, Nelly reproaches me for not being charming and anecdotal. Sullenly, I clear dishes and help her set up the cheese tray.\n\n\"What's wrong, _ch\u00e9rie? \u00c7a ne va pas avec la petite?_ \"\n\nI tell her everything's fine with Laure, _la petite._ I carefully remove the damp paper from the wedge of Roquefort and busy myself with slicing Comice pears, arranging the fresh tiny rounds of Rocamadour cheese on the plate.\n\n\"You have everything,\" she reproaches. \"I've lost it all, except Louis. He drives me crazy, but what a brilliant artist.\" She sighs wistfully. \"I sold everything I had to support us. My jewels, _garde-robe, tout._ Sometimes I think I was foolish giving it all up, never marrying Pierre, especially before he married that other woman, and then the accident.\" Nelly pauses. \"Money is important, and if you can have love, too, _tant mieux._ A woman must have her priorities straight. You're too young to know this now. If Pierre were alive today, I would still be his mistress. I had a rich life, not richer than yours, but . . . \"\n\n\"Nel, do you know of a good . . . psychoanalyst?\"\n\n_\"Pour toi?\"_ She starts fanning herself frantically and stuffs a slice of pear in her mouth.\n\nI nod, the tears welling up.\n\n_\"Mais ce n'est pas possible. Pas toi.\"_ Her voice is shrill, and she starts screaming, out of control now, about how scandalous it is to be unhappy when I have so much.\n\n\"Please,\" I beg her to whisper. \"I just thought you would know of someone.\"\n\n\" _Bien s\u00fbr,_ I know. Who do you want? Moscovici? Dolto's daughter? I know many, but . . .\" She pauses to lower her head and squint at me. \"Does Olivier know?\"\n\n_\"Laisse tomber.\"_ Forget it, I tell her, carrying out the cheese tray. I set it on the table, and Henri pours me a glass of _vin jaune._ I gesture for him to fill it up all the way and then take a big gulp.\n\nNelly's radiant at the other end of the table. Fanning herself wildly, flirting with the young Cuban dancer at her side, she keeps reminding him that she was once a _very_ beautiful woman. \"I don't have youth on my side, like Keem, but,\" she says, catching my gaze, \"I have wisdom.\" \nXIV\n\nLe Divan\n\nBecause I have no wisdom, I've landed here at 248, boulevard Raspail in the fourteenth arrondissement in the city of Paris. This is my last chance. Up the boulevard Montparnasse, past the tables at La Coupole and Le Select, a glance at Baudelaire's tombstone, past the Fondation Cartier, past the corner caf\u00e9 with the faded green-and-white-striped awning. Today, the chalkboard promises a simple menu: the superior _andouilette AAAAA, salade verte, la tarte aux pommes maison._ I'm following the inner compass that has led me out of Seoul, out of Stockholm, but isn't indicating where it is I'm to stop. Time's running out, and the ticking inside tells me that my heart will soon implode.\n\nDr. Olivier Grignon has agreed to meet with me. I whisper his name as I punch in the four digits of the gate code. He said: Walk through the building, through the courtyard to the first door. There are no names, no shiny plaques of distinction, just a doorbell. I take a deep breath and then ring. A buzzer sounds, and I push open the large green door. There's no one waiting for me, not even a lipsticked receptionist. Two doors, one in front and one to the left. I go straight ahead to the one in front. A man rushes to greet me\u2014I've chosen the wrong door. He kindly and efficiently leads me into a small waiting room.\n\nSuddenly, I'm paralyzed, realizing that I've failed the first test. The square window is closed, but spring squeezes through a tiny, bullet-size hole. On one wall is a series of drawings with the caption _\"L'art de parler.\"_ The book lover in me scans the shelves: _L'Album Lacan, Paris, Texas,_ Godard's _L'Histoires du Cin\u00e9ma. Po\u00e9sie Verticale_ by Juarroz, books by Pessoa, H\u00f6lderlin. Breathe. This is my first session with a real analyst. Am I dressed appropriately? How do you dress to talk to someone about your obsessions and nightmares? Do I speak French to him? Does he understand English? Korean? Swedish? What kind of name is Grignon anyway\u2014a tree and a city both. Do we shake hands? Do I use the formal _vous_ form to disclose the most intimate details of myself? Will he have me sent away?\n\nBefore I can think to bolt, the door opens and the same man from earlier welcomes me. I don't dare look straight into his face, but there's a soothing and intriguing air as he gestures for me to sit across from him. He's waiting. Waiting. We're in a back courtyard, so not even the sounds of buses or the rumbling of the underground m\u00e9tro will distract. I look around. If rooms were seasons, this one would certainly be fall. Underlit and smelling of sweet, warm tobacco, freshly sharpened pencils. A weathered teapot sits on the low table next to the doctor, along with newspapers, ashtrays, and small statues\u2014-Giacometti-like figures, elongated and thin, searching. The broken seat of a chair waits in the corner, and unframed lithographs lean against a wall.\n\nI sit and wait.\n\nHe sits and waits.\n\n_\"A-loooors?\"_ he says finally, and then breathes in deeply, lowering his shoulders, settling in as he tilts his head back slightly. _Aloooors._ The word lasts forever, ricochets off the walls and back into my head. How can he be so relaxed? He crosses his leg, one over the other, and I find myself doing the same. When he folds his hands in his lap, I mimic him once again. He nods. I nod. I shrug and raise my eyebrows. A tic. I have none, but if I did, this would be the perfect time for it to manifest itself.\n\n_Alors,_ I repeat in my head. What does he mean? Think, think. The simplest of French words.\n\n_\"Alors,\"_ he repeats, nods, sighs, and smiles.\n\n_\"Je ne sais pas,\"_ I stammer. Basic French. He thinks I'm stupid. Long pause, and then I can't stop. Words come to me, the perfect French r's and verb forms. \"I don't know what's wrong, what you want me to say. I'm twenty-five . . . well, I don't really know when I was born . . .\" Define yourself, I tell myself. \"I can't leave. I can't stay. I can't breathe, and I can't write.\" What an idiot. I stop to catch my breath.\n\n\"I'm like a mother to his child, and she's not mine. Olivier loves me, and I'll never be good enough. I don't know how much longer I can stay. All my life something's been missing. I have a family back in New Orleans, but it feels like I've grown up on my own. No one ever to protect me. And there's catastrophe everywhere. Planes, earthquakes, helicopters. No one to protect us.\" Now I'm on a roll. \"Highways that lead nowhere. Tunnels. Subways . . . Did you know in Japan, there was this gas bomb\u2014\"\n\n\"We're not in Japan.\" Dr. Grignon smiles reassuringly.\n\n\"But I'm Asian, at least on the outside. I'm American, and I've lived in Europe now for so long, but I'm neither here nor there . . .\" I realize how ridiculous I sound and apologize for my stupidity. I stand up, ready to exit because it seems I've overstayed my welcome.\n\nThen he speaks, says something softly I can't quite understand, but it doesn't really matter. I'll never see him again anyway. I glance up at the doctor, but he is out of focus. I clear my throat and shift from one foot to the other. \"I want . . .\" I hesitate, twist my hands, and shrug.\n\nFinally, the doctor stands and waits a moment to see if I have anything else I'd like to say. I walk toward the door. He doesn't ask for money but shakes my hand and, in a voice as dim as the light, says, _\"Appelez-moi, quand vous le d\u00e9sirez.\"_ Call me . . . when you desire. He opens the door gently and waits for me to move toward it, smiles, and then slowly and inaudibly closes it behind me.\n\n_Appelez-moi quand vous le d\u00e9sirez._ Call me when you desire. What a strange turn of phrase. Desire. Need. Want. I want to be in a room full of people and not feel lonely. I want to quit fighting this inner voice that tells me to pack up and keep moving. Constantly in motion so I won't have to stop and think.\n\nWalking back to the apartment, I try to think of things I should tell Olivier. But for some reason, I don't want to share this with him. Even though Dr. Olivier Grignon is the oddest man I've ever encountered, I sense that he is my salvation, mine. And he has nothing to do with Olivier Baussan.\n\nIt starts to rain, a hard rain that blows up sheets of dust and dirt. I feel strangely solid. I feel my flesh and bones as I walk back down the boulevard Raspail, sloshing around as it fills up with water. I stop to telephone Brigitte, the poet, just to talk, tell her I finally met with her analyst, Grignon, but I'm not sure what else to say.\n\n\"I don't get it,\" I complain. \"I ask him things, and he doesn't answer. I don't know anything about him.\"\n\n\"That's exactly how it's supposed to be. Trust me . . . you don't want an analyst who would tell you too much, not just yet.\"\n\nI start to object, but we plan to meet for coffee soon, so maybe she can explain things to me.\n\nAfter several weeks, I see Grignon a few more times. Mostly I apologize for my rambling, my ignorance of how analysis works. I am preoccupied with being the ideal patient, wanting to be clever. I answer like a student: Instead of answering with what I know, what I've lived, I always respond with something general, what others have lived.\n\nI must learn, Grignon tells me, to see things not through the eye of history or someone else's experience. But it's difficult to talk about myself, to allow myself this luxury of asking the questions I need to understand why I am so divided, so unable to allow myself happiness, why everything seems so ephemeral and unsolid. I have been lost my whole life, no one has come to find me, so why now, I wonder, is this stranger going to help? In the beginning, it feels like a farce, a theatrical attempt; I am a complete failure. I vow never to call him again, but somewhere I sense that I will find the desire.\n\nOlivier and I spend most of our time now in Paris, go to Provence for weekends when we have Laure. She is strong-willed and feisty, smart and funny. She asks me more and more questions about Korea, being adopted. She tells me one day that she told her mother about how I was abandoned. She doesn't say much else, and after a pause, she leans into me and says that she's lucky because she has two mothers.\n\nWhen Laure is with Dominique, we hop over to spend a week on Terre-de-Haut in Guadeloupe, where Olivier promises that we will focus on us, time for us. But as soon as we return, he is already promising some starving artist we will buy two more paintings, our attendance at a fund-raising dinner, my translation services for several different organizations, and that I will tag along with him to all his business meetings. I argue that I need to be at the bookstore, running things, organizing readings and signings, but to him this is secondary, not very important compared with what he has planned.\n\nI miss Flora's wisdom and Sophie's companionship\u2014they are the closest I have to another adopted family. Olivier thinks it's an honor to be \"adopted\" by so many people. I don't look at it the same way. It's just a fact of my life, as are the doubts and more frequent panic attacks.\n\nI finally call Grignon several months later. Surprisingly, he gives me an appointment for the following afternoon.\n\n\"I don't know what's going to happen,\" I tell him in a rush, \"but I'm ready.\"\n\nHe looks at me.\n\n\"To be analyzed . . . by you . . . I mean.\" My voice shakes, but this time I don't look away.\n\nHe nods, offering a slight shy smile of recognition. I can't read him, can't tell if he's genuinely pleased or if I've once again said something stupid.\n\n_\"Oui, mais moi, il faut que je sache que je puisse \u00eatre votre analyste.\"_ He has to know if he can be my analyst?\n\nI'm appalled at first, but more than anything, I feel rejected. Aren't you a doctor? I want to scream. You don't choose the sick when they come into the emergency room with a bleeding heart or open wound, or even with something less palpable and silent like cancer or sadness. When I'm not able to say anything else, I get up and leave, furious with myself for needing him, vowing again not to call him.\n\nBut the next time I return because I've finally understood that there's an exchange, perhaps even a healing, to take place on both sides. Grignon, much to my surprise, has finally agreed to work with me. But I somehow still insist on setting the rules.\n\n\"I won't lie down on your couch, and I can't come regularly because I'm never here. We travel a lot. Olivier always plans these last-minute trips, especially when I've organized something at the bookshop.\"\n\nSilence on his part, and finally he nods, a gesture that doesn't say \"I agree\" but rather \"More, go on.\"\n\n\"So,\" I brave, \"I'll just let you know when I can come. Now, how long will this take before I'm better?\" I look at my wrist as if we, the doctor and I, are going to synchronize our watches to time how long happiness will take.\n\nHappiness, of course, I learn has no notion of time, or of me, for that matter. Grignon patiently tries to lay down the fundamentals of analysis for me without being overly didactic. He discourages me from reading too much of Freud or Lacan, too much theory, at this stage. It is mainly through strong suggestion, gestures, and sounds of words I could never allow myself to speak that I learn my place, follow his lead. This is a long, slow dance, and I'm not sure I have the stamina. The only thing we agree on is three times a week to start, 300 francs a session, cash always.\n\nIn the beginning I am resistant, I can't help but censor my thoughts, trying to offer a more palatable version of myself. I often spend the first ten minutes of a session thinking of the first words I will speak, faced with fear of the blank page. But I realize little by little that I'm not a fictional character. I have the unfortunate epiphany that I am real. My life is real, my heart and my pain as well. In the beginning, I look at Grignon as the author of my life, hoping he will write me a really good ending.\n\n\"So how's it going to end?\" I venture one day.\n\n_\"\u00c7a, c'est une jolie question.\"_\n\nIt takes many painful half hours to accept that this man is not going to live my life for me. Olivier, on the other hand, is more than happy to guide me from one undefined place to the next.\n\nAs Grignon and I begin to work together, I learn that this is a two-way street. I am drawn to his deep capacity for empathy and his professionalism, his poetic sensibility. Our sessions begin in French, but he encourages me to speak any words that may come in English, Korean, Swedish. But I continue in French, this language I now speak better than any other and that serves as a mask for feelings I have never been able to articulate before in any other language.\n\nDr. Grignon is a master of the mind, the heart, and keeps notes, reminding me of things I'd rather forget. Words flow, and he amazes me with his memory, his patience, his gentle coaxing. It is thanks to sessions with him that I can start to give shape to the pain caused by this constant need for departure. This crazy idea that I must keep running in order to survive, in order to not be loved too much or not enough. Running so I will never have to deal with someone not wanting to keep me.\n\nI talk about my sister, about her own adoption\u2014I do not even know if she has ever tried or wondered about her past; my adopted mother, who insinuates that I do not deserve my life, that I am just plain lucky.\n\n_\"Freud a dit que nous m\u00e9ritons la chance.\"_ We deserve our luck, he assures me. The sessions always go back to Olivier, how he is smothering me, offering me too much, shaping my identity\u2014both my past and my present\u2014into something he can better understand and better control.\n\nBut Olivier, who feels powerless as I seek outside help, hints that he will forbid me to continue analysis. \"It will be the end of us!\" he shouts. He never shouts at me. \"And did you have to pick a doctor with the same name?\"\n\n\"Grignon?\" I ask.\n\n\"Olivier,\" he says, as if about to pound on his chest.\n\nHe returns to our Paris apartment one afternoon with handwritten documents, notarized and signed by him and a witness, our good friend Jean Lenoir.\n\n\"In case something happens to me.\" He shows me the will. \"You'll be a rich widow, shares of L'Occitane, use of the properties until . . . France has terrible inheritance laws, and the divorce . . .\"\n\n\"She's not signing the divorce papers, is she?\" I ask.\n\n\"It doesn't matter now,\" he says, shaking the will. \"Plus, we're legally separated. Besides, I'm old. You're so young. I'm almost forty-five. And my father died at _fifty-two_ . . . I might not have much time.\" He laughs.\n\nWe've been through this so many times. I'm tired of him giving in to Dominique for the sake of Laure, tired of his obsession with age, tired of hearing that he may not be around much longer. Suddenly I yearn for youth and the promise of a long, stable future, something permanent, something I have never dared want for myself. The more restless I become, the more Olivier tries to tie me down. The more he gives, the less I want.\n\nAfter several months, Olivier announces that my sessions with the analyst will soon be over. \" _\u00c7a suffit._ I refuse to pay for you to talk to another man about our problems.\"\n\n\"I thought we didn't have any problems.\"\n\n\"You know what I mean. You talk about us with a perfect stranger, _un homme en plus,_ and I won't have it.\"\n\n\"Fine,\" I say. \"I'll get a real job. You don't want me at the bookshop anyway.\"\n\n\"You can't make a tenth of what I make in a month,\" he tells me.\n\nI open the latest copy of _FUSAC_ and flip to the classified ads for Anglophones, circling possibilities\u2014\"English Teacher,\" \"Translator.\" When Olivier peeks over my shoulder, I boldly underline \"Artist's Model,\" \"Escort.\"\n\n\"Don't be ridiculous. You don't need to work. We won't have the freedom to leave whenever we want, to go to wherever, Provence, the islands, be with Laure.\"\n\n\"What about the bookshop, then?\"\n\n\"Well, that's what employees are for. That's why we hired Custodia\u2014\"\n\n\"Why _you_ hired Custodia,\" I correct him. \"I think . . . I'm going to go away for a few days, maybe go visit my family in New Orleans or back to Brittany and do some writing.\"\n\n\"Great idea . . . we'll go tomorrow. I'll make reservations at \u00c0 la Duchesse Anne in Saint-Malo.\"\n\n\"I mean go away . . . by myself. Alone.\"\n\nHe pauses, and the look of disappointment on his face makes me regret my words, but why must I always succumb to his wishes? \" _D'accord._ If you must. Wouldn't it be preferable to go to Brittany . . . it's closer?\" Olivier lies down next to me on the Turkish kilim rug, stroking my shoulder. \"And if you need to see someone, fine, but can't you find a woman analyst instead?\"\n\nI shake my head, nod . . . practicing the art of gesture.\n\nAnd then he whispers gently, _\"J'ai envie de toi.\"_ He slides his hand between my legs. As he enters, I'm suddenly a floating island, a hollow echo of myself. I want him to stay as long as possible until I'm asleep and dreaming. When I do finally fall into restless sleep\u2014dreams of architecture and stone, blueprints of the body, clocks and an hourglass, my face fading in a pile of sand. \nXV\n\nL'\u00cele Flottante\n\nI give Custodia the week off and work in the bookshop, which has become a haven for American tourists waiting in endless lines for Berthillon ice cream, French poets who chat with other writers, and lots of young, sullen students of literature, mainly young men. They come in with huge book bags or oversize jackets and steal the Gallimard pocket series. I don't know why they go to all the trouble and then not take the more expensive, beautiful editions from the series La Pl\u00e9iade.\n\nOne day, a young man I know only as Pierre sheepishly returns one of the stolen books. _\"Je vous le rends,\"_ he says, handing back the book. The cover is clean.\n\n_\"Merci.\"_ I can't believe I'm thanking him for the book he stole from me.\n\n_\"Je ne l'ai pas aim\u00e9. Trop herm\u00e9tique.\"_ He finds the poetry impenetrable and therefore pretentious, he explains. \"That's why I'm returning it.\"\n\nI nod. On his way out, he asks if I will read a manuscript of his. Before I can say no thank you, he opens up his bag and hands me three hundred pages of illegible handwritten poetry. \"There's an ode to you in there,\" he says somewhat earnestly.\n\nI tell him I don't have much time, but come back in a day or two.\n\nI actually read some of the poems and discover mismatched lines from Verlaine and Baudelaire. The next morning, I find a box of beautifully wrapped books, all from my shelves, sitting on the threshold. Placed on top is a small mint-green-and-gold box of multiflavored _macarons_ from Ladur\u00e9e. Olivier says I don't know anything about business, but this seems to me to be fair trade\u2014tart lemon curd and salted caramel cookies for illegible manuscripts and stolen books.\n\nOlivier calls every few hours, wanting to know how it's going, when I'll be taking the train to meet him in Provence.\n\n\"In a week,\" I tell him, taping up a NO ICE CREAM sign in the window. \"That's what we agreed on.\" I watch as a man stops in front of the shop, tosses out his ice-cream cone, and walks in with a cigarette and his drooling pug.\n\n\"That's too long. I wish I didn't have all these meetings. I can postpone a few and fly up there\u2014\"\n\n\"I'm fine. I need to be here.\"\n\nI am finally planning the poetry reading. I have asked Andr\u00e9 du Bouchet, and after several setbacks, he is able to come. Over the next week, book publicists stop by, and editors with small independent publishing houses come in to leave artist-illustrated first editions on consignment. Brigitte and Herv\u00e9 come to visit and leave some of her books as well. They are beautiful, hand-printed, some with pages still uncut. I have never seen such care taken to craft books.\n\nI also buy poetry from various small publishers and bookshops, including La Librairie Espagnole, a Saint-Germain institution founded in the early fifties by Antonio Soriano, a Spaniard who fled Franco. Antonio's son, Antoine, who now runs the shop, leaves me books by Gamoneda, Zo\u00eb Valdez, Jimenez, Juarroz, and more. He tells me he's married to an American woman named Jan and that we should meet. I really don't have any American friends here, so I make a note to get in touch with his wife soon.\n\nThere is a lull one late afternoon, when not a single customer comes in for several hours. Just as I'm about to close the shop, a man in his late thirties walks in and introduces himself in French as Gilles du Bouchet.\n\n\"Any relation to the poet?\" I ask.\n\nHe nods and smiles. His teeth are big, white, and perfectly aligned. \"My father told me to come and say hello. He thought this was a jewel of a shop that I should definitely come and see.\" Gilles's khaki pants are frayed at the cuffs, his wool sweater and oxford shirt half tucked into his pants. He's tall and sturdy, with the good looks of an Ivy League grad student. He shakes my hand, and I notice the streaks of green and deep blue on his thick knuckles. \"I've been working,\" he apologizes. \"Paints, not words, like my father.\" There's an awkward shift in his eyes. \"Anyway, I'm looking for some books, by Philippe Denis . . . a poet. He's a friend of mine, and I thought it would be good if you carried some of his books.\"\n\nWhile I look up Denis on the Minitel electronic system, Gilles asks, \"Would you like to maybe have tea one day, come see my work? I've set up an atelier at my father's in the sixth.\" He stares for a moment, as if about to say something else.\n\n\"Sure, maybe,\" I answer. \"And maybe I'll see you at his reading?\"\n\n\"Depends on when it is. I'm going to Cambodia for ten days. But I'll be back.\" He thanks me for looking up the books by Denis and waves good-bye. \"And don't forget you promised to come and have tea.\"\n\nBy the time I walk back to the apartment in the evenings, I'm not really tired but satisfied with having worked full days at the shop, decided things on my own. Just as I am relishing staking out a claim on this little island in the big city of Paris, making poetry available to as many as possible, Olivier calls to remind me of several dinner engagements, a trip to somewhere we need to take soon.\n\n\"I thought I'd invite Brigitte, the lawyer-turned-poet I introduced you to at the opening, and her husband to come to Provence sometime this summer.\"\n\n\" _D'accord._ If they're poets, okay, even though I don't really know them.\"\n\n\"Herv\u00e9's an artist,\" I add.\n\n\"But wasn't _she_ the one who gave you that analyst's number?\"\n\nI don't answer. \"And I've scheduled Andr\u00e9 du Bouchet for a reading in two weeks; it's the only time he can do it. I'm so excited. His son came by, Gilles, he's an artist\u2014\"\n\n\"Have you forgotten? I promised Hamad we would meet him in Lausanne, with his financial adviser. They're really close to opening L'Occitane in Saudi Arabia.\"\n\n\"Do I have to go?\" I venture. There's silence. \"Maybe I can reschedule, but I've already ordered the invitations.\"\n\n\"Well, you could have asked me first. Already I let you go ahead with du Bouchet and not Pierre's friend. I didn't give you this shop so you could be away from me.\"\n\nBefore I can ask why he did \"give me this shop,\" I hang up. I still can't really put my finger on why Olivier has to control everything.\n\nThe phone rings again. This time, it's my mother calling to say that Poppy has had a stroke. He's in the hospital. Is he okay? I ask, panicked. Is he in pain? He's doing fine, she assures me, but suggests I come home, quit wasting time in France. The conversation is cut short, as always. My mother, as hard as she tries not to, always finds the most inappropriate things to say, the deepest cutting words to protect herself from feeling too much.\n\nI open the windows wide. The wind whips around the city. It's starting to rain. I wonder if I should call her back. I try calling my grandmother but realize she's probably at the hospital.\n\nOlivier calls back to tell me that we need to talk about fitting my schedule into his plans, but I interrupt him to tell him about Poppy.\n\n\"I feel guilty for not being there,\" I tell Olivier. \"My mother says I should get back.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" he says. And after a few words about getting me a flight, he says that I will definitely have to reschedule du Bouchet. \"It's a good thing Pierre's friend is still available for the reading,\" he adds quickly, not letting me object. \"I'll have Marie-Claire book your flight to New Orleans.\"\n\nI stick my head out the window, let a few drops wash down my face, flush away any trace of tears. I look around the apartment\u2014this house, so strange and foreign\u2014the clean white sofa and beautiful sculptures from Mali, Cartier-Bresson's photos of men in China eating from steaming bowls. I want to be like Samantha from _Bewitched,_ twitch my nose and suddenly be back in Louisiana. I want to smell a pot of red beans and rice cooking in my grandfather's kitchen, open up the lid and let the steam dampen my face and lips. I miss the way Poppy would stand at the stove for hours, cooking and anticipating the joy he knew would nourish his family well beyond the table. This is something I'm afraid I will never know again.\n\nI start packing a suitcase, wondering if Poppy will hold out until I get there. I make a list of things to tell Custodia while I'm gone. Suddenly, I am nostalgic for a time before the bookstore, before the stroke. I miss the Olivier who used to fly to Stockholm every weekend, who didn't have to order and control everything into his idea of a perfect world. But there are many new people to know, and I remind myself of the possibility of these friendships\u2014Jan, the American wife of the Spanish publisher, Gilles, Paolo, the Florentine poet. And Brigitte and Herv\u00e9. Why, then, I wonder, do I feel so alone?\n\nIt's late, and no one's waiting for me when I arrive at Moisant Airport, but it feels better this way. No one in my family knows I'm here this soon. The air's thick and hot, like walking into an oven. Riding in the cab, I roll down the windows to breathe in the hot wind and the scent of jasmine and magnolia in the air.\n\n\"Can we take St. Charles Avenue down to the French Quarter? I'll stop on Governor Nicholls.\" I'll stop to visit my great-aunt and ride with her to see my grandfather.\n\n\"You from here, dahlin', or what?\"\n\n\"In a way,\" I tell the cabdriver, who takes a puff of his cigarette, then flicks the ashes out the window. Some blow into the backseat, into my hair and eyes. He looks at me curiously in the rearview mirror.\n\nI roll down my window all the way to take in the sweet olive tree, ordinary with tiny white yellow blossoms but luxuriant, shameless in its intoxicating sweetness. We stop behind St. Louis Cathedral so I can get out and break off a tiny branch of this tree. I think of the sweet olives and bubblegum trees that burst yellow every spring in my grandfather's garden, how he used to sit, before the stroke, in the coolest part of the shade, enjoying the subtropical breeze as my young cousins played hide-and-seek, trying not to scratch the poison ivy trampling up his arms.\n\nAfter leaving the hospital, Poppy spends the week in his blue cotton bathrobe, balancing himself with one hand against the kitchen counter, teaching me certain things, mainly how to finely chop the celery and onion for his chicken salad, which spices to use for his oyster dressing. So much emphasis on recipes, but he refuses to eat. I watch him at the head of the table, pushing around morsels of colorless food over his sad plate. But for the short time I'm here, he insists I learn how to make crawfish bisque. I've watched him a million times, but he insists.\n\n\"First take the crawfish that's been cooked in that spicy crab boil. Then you pick the tail meat and clean the heads.\" Poppy watches as I squeeze the liquid out of the stale French bread, saut\u00e9 the trinity of green bell pepper, onion, and chopped celery. After he has watched me stuff about fifty heads and once they are simmering in a spicy tomato sauce, he wants to make sure I know about the stuffed cabbage leaves and his famous artichokes bursting with garlic and herbs. He tells me this as my grandmother sets a plate of eggs sunny-side up and grits on the table for his lunch. He waves it away like a foul odor.\n\nMy mother and I argue about everything. She wants to know why I didn't bring Olivier and Laure with me this time, why Olivier would give me a shop. What did I do to deserve my very own bookshop? She doesn't understand my choices, this life I have forged for myself, why I choose to stay so far away.\n\nPoppy interrupts to say he wants to play Spades, watch the chefs on PBS.\n\n\"Remember . . . remember . . .\" He struggles with his words as he throws down a king of hearts. \"Use only Binder's French bread.\"\n\nOne day, I tell him I will cook only if he eats, something, anything. \"Come on, Pops. You have to. How about some rice or pasta?\"\n\nHe shakes his head.\n\n\"Sweet potatoes? Fried potatoes with mayonnaise on French bread?\" This was always one of his favorite sandwiches, sometimes dressed with shredded lettuce and sliced Creole tomatoes.\n\nHe nods and smiles and then shakes his head, pulls the bathrobe tight around his waist.\n\n\"Soup? Split pea.\"\n\nHe nods slowly. \"Okay, a little bit of soup. Kimmy,\" he whispers as I'm running to the store, \"I'll eat the soup . . . if you make some chocolate pudding.\"\n\nHe has always loved sweets. Even though he has been diagnosed with adult diabetes, just within the last year or two, he refuses to give up his Hershey's Kisses or pastry cream\u2013filled doughnuts dipped in chocolate. Ice cold milk with crushed ice, vanilla, and sugar. My grandmother calls my sister to have her pick up some beignets from Caf\u00e9 du Monde on her way to the house.\n\nWhen my sister arrives, she stiffens as I go to hug her. She has never been good at tragedy or the mildest sadness. She keeps to herself. She is so different from the child who would wail at the top of her lungs, throw herself onto the floor to get her way. She stands close to Poppy, anticipating his every need, but doesn't say much else except that she's surprised to see me here.\n\nWhen my grandfather is resting in his favorite chair and my mother and grandmother sit at the table to talk, Sue and I get up to wash dishes.\n\n\"Did I tell you my accounting professor is Korean?\" she tells me suddenly, filling the sink with hot soapy water. \"I asked him about Korea, showed him my adoption papers.\"\n\nI turn off the faucet, wanting to hear more, so much more. We've never talked about this before, even when I went back to Korea. \"Do you want to go back to Korea one day?\" I look up. She is taller than me, strong boned and pretty.\n\n\"Maybe, yeah . . . I'd like to know.\"\n\nShe goes on to tell me that her name was made up. Han Sun Ae. A Korean judge named her. \"Dr. Jin told me it meant 'little girl,' how generic.\"\n\n\"But we've always been told Sun\u00e9e means 'soft love.' \" Suzy rolls her eyes at this signification, pulls her thick black hair into a ponytail. \"I thought you wanted to be an archaeologist.\"\n\nShe shrugs. She is obsessed with history, excavations. She wants to go to Pompeii, she gorges herself on books about queens and kings of centuries ago. But now she studies numbers, weighs and manages risk. Her lips start to tremble.\n\n\"Are you crying?\" I ask her.\n\n\"I cried for two days after talking to Dr. Jin,\" she assures me. \"Because of my birthplace, my name. Dr. Jin said that we can tell a lot about where we're from, which region, just by our name.\" Her eyes tear up. \"And my name just means 'little girl' . . . what kind of birthplace is that?\"\n\nI go to hug her, but she leans down to turn on the dishwasher, letting the noise drown out any words.\n\nLater that afternoon, she sits next to me and says she wants to talk.\n\n\"I know it seems weird, after all these years, but I'm growing up, I'm an adult, and I don't want any hard feelings.\"\n\n\"I don't have any,\" I assure her.\n\n\"I do. I did. You know you were always the favorite in the family\u2014\"\n\n\"Not with Mom and Dad.\"\n\nShe nods but goes on to talk about my grandparents and my great-aunt. \"You were older, smarter. The day you went away to college, I thought things would be better, but they just talked about you even more. 'When's Kim coming home?' everyone wanted to know. Look, this is hard for me, but I just want to be friends. It might take awhile. But I realize it's not your fault. We were little kids.\"\n\nThis is the most we've said to each other in years. I want to hug her, thank her, tell her how much I love her and am sorry for being so far away all these years, that I didn't mean to abandon her. But she cuts the conversation short; she is still distant\u2014closer, but distant.\n\nMy last morning, Poppy has dressed in tan pants and a freshly ironed shirt, a white cardigan sweater. He is clean-shaven and smells of Old Spice. He walks me out to the car, carrying binoculars to watch the comet he read about in the morning paper. He kisses me good-bye and points to the sky.\n\n\"Come back soon, Kimmy. I don't know how much longer I'll be around. I'm getting old, you know.\"\n\nYes, over eighty, but my grandfather is ageless to me. I hesitate, then wrap my arms around him one last time. He tells me to go now, that he'll be fine, waving to me from up there; he manages to point to the sky again as if he can already spot his place up in the clouds.\n\nFRENCH-FRY PO-BOY WITH HORSERADISH CR\u00c8ME FRA\u00ceCHE\n\nWe do not fear carbs in Louisiana. We embrace them, introduce them to other carbs whenever possible. My grandfather used to pan-fry potatoes in a skillet, slather them with mayonnaise and lots of black pepper, and serve them with warm French bread. Verti Marte, a corner grocer on Governor Nicholls in New Orleans, used to deliver a version of these fried potato sandwiches late into the night, to any French Quarter home or, better yet, local bar. With extra wow sauce (horseradish mayonnaise), it was truly a perfect after-midnight snack. Here's my version.\n\n_2 large russet or Yukon gold potatoes_\n\n_1 cup canola or olive oil_\n\nFleur de sel, _or sea salt_\n\n_Fresh-ground black pepper_\n\n_\u00bd cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche (or thick sour cream)_\n\n_1 tablespoon mayonnaise_\n\n_1 teaspoon lemon juice_\n\n_1 tablespoon prepared horseradish (or fresh grated)_\n\n_Hot sauce (optional)_\n\n_1 loaf French bread_\n\n_Garnishes: shredded lettuce, tomato, sliced onion, Dijon mustard_\n\nPeel potatoes, then cut lengthwise into quarter-inch-thick sticks. Rinse potatoes in several changes of cold water. Drain in a colander, spread cut potatoes in a single layer on several paper towels, and pat very dry. (It's important to remove all moisture so potatoes won't spatter when frying.)\n\nHeat oil in a large heavy skillet over moderate heat until it begins to shimmer (and deep-fat thermometer registers 375 degrees). Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 200 degrees. Once oil is ready, fry potatoes (in 2 batches if necessary), turning occasionally, about 6 to 7 minutes per batch or until golden. Transfer fries with a slotted spoon to a baking sheet lined with several layers of dry paper towels. Sprinkle hot fries with salt and pepper. Keep fries warm in oven if frying in 2 batches. Combine cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, mayonnaise, lemon juice, and horseradish in a small bowl. Season with salt, to taste. Add a few dashes of hot sauce, if desired. Pile onto French bread and garnish, if desired. \nXVI\n\nHome, Again\n\nOlivier's waiting for me at the train station in Marseille. If it were up to me, I would have taken the train to Avignon as I usually do, since it's shorter from Paris, but he prefers I come into Marseille because the drive to Pierrerue is easier for him.\n\n\"You've got to get over your fear of flying,\" he says, kissing me hello. \"I thought you were over that after I sent you to the fear of flying seminars at Air France, you know, with the simulator and all.\"\n\n\"I was, but it comes back . . . I can't explain it.\" I'm still jet-lagged even though I stopped in Paris for a few days to check on the bookstore and see Grignon before taking the train to meet Olivier.\n\n\"It would be so much easier for you to fly back and forth rather than take the train. That's what the classes were for,\" he insists, taking my bags and loading them into the car. \"That's how you solve the problem.\"\n\n\"Well, it didn't work. Obviously the fear is much deeper. It can't be resolved in five hours in a simulator. Besides, I like the TGV. And I was already on such a long flight from New Orleans.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter anymore.\"\n\nIt doesn't to him, because he has meetings in Provence and has strongly requested, practically ordered, me not to stay in Paris anymore without him. I won't be flying alone again anytime soon. He doesn't understand how I could be away from him, how I'm able to do anything without him.\n\nBut now, just for an instant despite his orders, home actually feels as if it's here, even though I don't tell him this or how good it is to be in his arms.\n\n_\"Tu ne pars plus sans moi,\"_ he whispers into the top of my head, hugging me. No more leaving without him.\n\nMy eyes burn from lack of sleep. I nod, squeeze his hand. If I speak, the words will come crashing out.\n\n_\"Tu es avec moi, maintenant.\"_ You're with me now.\n\nI feel weightless in Olivier's arms, and he grasps me tighter, feeling, I hope, my wish to be anchored, my need to be moored.\n\nI whisper that Poppy's not going to make it much longer. His heart is swelling with liquid; the doctors explained the risk of congestive heart failure. The stroke is just the beginning, and his diabetes doesn't help.\n\nWe stop for bottles of water and gas, and when we get back in the car, Olivier tells me that he's going to go ahead with the launch of the new company involving olive oils. The bottle I gave him was just the beginning. \"We need to find a name . . . something that works in French and English. _Oliviers,_ olive tree.\"\n\n\"How about Oliviers and Co.?\" I suggest, tired and not making any sense. \"You know, with the ampersand symbol.\"\n\nHe repeats after me, first in English and then in French. He nods. \"Of course, Oliviers & Co., _c'est g\u00e9nial._ It works in both languages. Yes, I'll call it that. When we get to Provence, I want to show you the prototype for the first bottles.\"\n\nI'm surprised he actually liked my suggestion. For a moment, I allow myself to be absorbed back into Midas's world.\n\nThe drive down to Provence is lovely, with signs of spring everywhere. Luminous golden fields of rapeseed, fragrant lavender blooms on the horizon. The air smells of rosemary and fresh thyme blossoms. Another chance at a new life. I search for my favorite flowers, but there are fewer and fewer fields of bright red poppy.\n\nOlivier sings along with L\u00e9o Ferr\u00e9 on the radio, mouthing the words and holding my hand so tightly that it's starting to sweat. I doze on and off, feeling floaty with the time difference. He asks me if I want to stop along the way or continue driving.\n\n\"Whatever you want,\" I answer, meaning what I say.\n\n_\"Vraiment?\"_ he asks, surprised. I will agree to anything as long as he doesn't disappear.\n\nIt's dusk when we arrive at the house. I have souvenirs for the kids and toys for the dogs. Sophie stands in the dimly lit kitchen trying to decipher my crumpled, handwritten recipe for Poppy's shrimp Creole. I wave at her through the glass-and-iron door while Olivier unpacks the car. She doesn't see me at first, but when she looks up, I hardly recognize her face, drawn with deep circles under her eyes.\n\n\"It smells strange in here . . . something's burning,\" I say, rushing into the kitchen. \"Sophie, are you okay?\" I forget the custom of kissing hello and go to touch the bruises on her shoulders and arms, but she pulls away from me and cowers into herself, continuing to peel raw shrimp as garlic and onions burn on the stovetop. I shut off the gas.\n\n\"I didn't even hear you come in.\" She lifts her arm and with the back of her wrist tries to move long strands of hair over her eyes. \"I fell again.\" She smiles. \"I'm such a klutz.\"\n\nShe tells me this before I've even asked, and she won't look at me now. I brush her hand away to reveal a green-and-blue mark the size of a small plum just under her hairline.\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"Keem. Come back.\"\n\nI'm already down the hill, screaming for Serge. I run into him near the fig trees between their house and ours, and we're both shocked to see each other so suddenly.\n\n\" _Salut, Keem._ Welcome back.\" He leans in to kiss me hello, and I resist the urge to shake him.\n\n\"Serge, listen\u2014\"\n\n\"You listen . . . I have some bad news.\"\n\n\"Really?\" I ask, one hand on my hip, ready to forbid him from touching Sophie again.\n\n\"Flora's back in the hospital,\" he says, his voice thick and resigned, his eyes moist. \"She's lost sight in one eye. Spots all over her lungs. CAT scan tomorrow. Where's Olivier?\" I point to the driveway, covering my mouth with both hands before the cries can be heard.\n\nSophie runs to me. \"Did you say anything?\"\n\nI shake my head. \"It's Flora.\"\n\nShe takes my hand and walks with me back to our part of the property. \"You didn't give me a chance to tell you. We all know that this is her last chance. The doctors have always said it. They don't know how she resists, but her body can't hold out anymore.\"\n\nSophie and I pack our bags and plan to drive to Marseille while Olivier and Serge contact doctors in Paris and Switzerland. The phone rings.\n\n\" _Ch\u00e9rie,_ you're back. How's your family, your grandfather?\"\n\n\"Okay . . . not really. Nelly . . . I can't talk . . . Flora's in the hospital.\"\n\n\" _Mon Dieu._ It never stops. I told her to call my doctor in Eygali\u00e8res, he's the best . . . why doesn't anyone ever listen to me\u2014\"\n\n\"Sophie and I are driving to the clinic first thing in the morning,\" I say dryly.\n\n\"Will Olivier be at the house? Louis and I are about to drive through Avignon. We're coming tonight. Did you forget?\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry, Nel, with my trip back home and now Flora\u2014I haven't slept in . . . I don't know how long . . .\"\n\n\" _Tr\u00e8s bien._ We can stay here, but it will be difficult to find a room and so expensive. _Non, Louis,_ \" she whispers, \"we've already driven seven hundred kilometers, and we can't afford to stay anywhere else.\"\n\n\"Just come. We'll work it out. Olivier will be here.\" I hang up the phone, exhausted.\n\nI stretch out on the daybed in one of the upstairs rooms and fall into a half sleep, thinking of Poppy, Grignon, Suzy's tears over her birth name, Sophie's bruised face. _Que reste-t-il de ceux qui sont absents?_ What remains of those who have disappeared? What kinds of marks do they leave? _Que laissent-ils comme d\u00e9p\u00f4t, comme trace, comme marque? Ou m\u00eame comme cicatrice?_ My last session with Grignon just an hour before I got on the train was about sickness and health. The ways in which we touch others, the marks we leave behind. His last words were _\"Cicatrice signifie gu\u00e9rison, n'est-ce pas?\"_ Scars indicate healing, _n'est-ce pas?_\n\nThere is not much healing going on at the Clinique la Ti-mone, in the third-floor room where Flora lies in bed, silent, staring through a tiny window that faces out to the Mediterranean too far away. Her body is bandaged after the surgery, and her face is swollen with chemicals.\n\n_\"Il est l\u00e0, Jean-Marie?\"_ She tries to raise herself up on the bed, searching for signs of her lover in the dark. I sit close to her, tell her to relax. \"Keem? It's you.\" She's out of breath and grasps my hand, holding it close to her cheek, hot and damp with fever.\n\n\"Are you in pain?\" Sophie asks, distractedly rubbing her thumb over her bruised forehead. \"Shall I call the nurse?\"\n\nFlora shakes her head. \"Kimette, did you call him? When's he coming?\"\n\nI can't decide if I should lie or not. Flora senses everything. She makes a sound I've never heard before, soft muffled cries, until her body is shaking, casting wild shadows on the bare walls of the sterile room. Sophie and I sit silently and wait, let her cry it out.\n\n\"He loves you so much,\" Sophie says, stroking her arm.\n\n\"I know that. It's difficult for him. But I just want to see Jean-Marie one more time.\" She allows herself a few tears, and when the nurse comes to give her painkillers, she throws a pillow at her and yells for her to leave.\n\nSophie and I take turns monitoring her. Finally, I fall asleep on the foldout cot. Every time I turn, the thick plastic-covered mattress crunches beneath me. I drift in and out of sleep, dreaming of Flora high up on a hill, her eyes closed, arms open to the wind. People are there, with erased faces, but I know that they're watching, ready to tell us things we've been wanting to know, things we've been afraid to ask, because we already know the answer. Poppy's on a ship, whispering something important, but the wind eats his words, water fills his face, rust corrodes his heart. I know he will soon be one of the disappeared, another one of the missing.\n\nDr. Eskandari has decided that Flora will be better off with friends or family than in a hospital bed. The home care nurse will have to come every day to administer medicine. I want to take her home with us, care for her as long as possible. Olivier agrees, and he and Serge set up the main downstairs room for her. When we arrive, Flora limping, grasping my arm, the children greet us with joy. Laure hugs me and kisses me madly.\n\n\"Lulu and I blew up ten whole balloons and taped big drawings for Flora all over her room.\" I whisper that she's an angel. Her smile turns quickly into a frown when she asks, _\"Tu restes ici maintenant?\"_\n\nI reassure her no more hospitals, that we're all here to stay. We're the living, not the dead.\n\nOver the next few weeks, Flora seems to be doing better, although she is constantly cold. She spends days sitting out by the pool, wrapped in layers of blankets, watching the kids play tag and Marco Polo. Even though she doesn't have much of an appetite, she helps me crush garlic with olive oil for aioli, peel and rinse the slime off salsify that I wrap in ham and bake into a rich gratin. She likes the Mornay sauce. She kneads pizza dough for the kids and helps arrange flowers in tiny glass vases to place all over the house. In the afternoons, I read her stories by M\u00e1rquez and Borges, then Tolstoy and Chekhov. Librettos of _Tosca, Carmen, La Boh\u00e8me._ She wants to hear all the stories of tragic heroines.\n\n\" _Toutes folles. Mon Dieu,_ when will they wake up?\"\n\n\"That's enough tragedy for the day,\" Sophie announces, just back from the market one morning, as she spreads out the goods on the table on the back veranda. An array of fresh beans, cheeses, tiny fennel-infused sausages, and breads.\n\nFlora sits in the hot sun, her thick legs sticking out under a bright blue sari, a hunter green stole wrapped around her shoulders. She motions for me to give her the basket, she wants to help shell the peas.\n\n\"Jean-Marie is never coming back,\" she tells me, plucking a pod, inhaling the sharp green scent. \"Gloria will never let him go . . . all those televisions out the window finally paid off.\" She makes a crashing noise with her mouth and cheeks. It knocks the wind out of her. \"If you're going to get me to work, I'll need some Champagne,\" she says, trying to wink at Laure.\n\n\"Me too,\" Laure says, then turns to me and asks if it's any good, Champagne.\n\nWithout the smallest bit of commentary, I go to the cellar and bring out a bottle of vintage Dom Ruinart and a tray of our most expensive flutes. Laure and Lulu gather at the table.\n\n\"What are we celebrating?\" Lulu asks, licking her lips as the bubbles dance up to the rim of the glass and tickle her nose.\n\n_\"La vie,\"_ Flora answers. _\"Toujours la vie, la vie toujours.\"_\n\nFlora's days are spent in a state of drowsiness and constant pain. She can hardly speak because the tumors are crouching in her throat, crowding out her words. They fill up her brain and lungs, closing in on the regions closest to the heart. She holds on until the last moment, waiting for Jean-Marie\u2014he saved her once. But it has been too many months since he has called or tried to see her. Flora's fired the home care nurse and has me come to her room every morning now. I bring her her medicine, and she makes me sit on the bed, tell her how Olivier and I met. She wants every detail, how it felt to be apart. She wants to feel the cold of Stockholm, taste the salt of the herring and the wicked wind from the Baltic Sea. Everything we shared in our early months together.\n\n\"He loves you so much,\" she mouths. I nod, tears filling my throat. \"And love is what keeps us in the world of the living.\" She says this every day, and I wipe her face with a clean towel dipped in lavender essence and springwater, press my lips gently to her forehead.\n\n_\"\u00c0 demain,\"_ she always whispers, about tomorrow, and then tilts her head in place of a wink. \"When does Olivier return?\"\n\nOlivier's in Dubai for three days. I didn't want him to go, but he didn't want me to continue taking care of Flora this way, with all my heart and time invested. \"Let her family take care of her, let her brother come from Normandy,\" he said. I am her family, I told him.\n\nI sleep on the seagrass daybed in Flora's room. Sophie wants to take turns, says I need sleep, but I can't leave. I don't want her to disappear without me. I want to see her go. I want proof. We're here to help one another live and die in a more gentle manner.\n\nFlora's not afraid anymore. But she still waits every day for Jean-Marie to call. I try to reach him several times. Once, when he answered, he asked how she was and then hung up when I asked him to come to her.\n\nOlivier calls every few hours. I take his calls sitting out on the back veranda overlooking the barren fields. Sometimes I watch the hunters until they disappear into the valley. Beyond are the Italian Alps. Olivier's talking about Hamad and the Bedouins.\n\n\"I'll be back tomorrow,\" he says.\n\n\"Tomorrow may be too late.\" I hang up the phone and walk barefoot to the edge of the property and close my eyes. There's a slight evening breeze. I want to flap my arms and be lifted up. But instead I go to make tea for Flora, slice some bread and cheese for myself, feeling almost nothing, empty, no tears. I spread crushed olives on the bread. Anchovies. I'm not hungry, but I want salt. I crave it so much these days.\n\nSophie and I sit with Flora, cursing Jean-Marie, as if he could save her. Later, when she is finally asleep, we sit out on the terrace. Sophie lights a cigarette, pours me a glass of wine.\n\n\"I've been meaning to ask you . . .\" She hesitates. \"What's going on with you and Olivier? I know it's not my place, but . . . things don't seem right.\"\n\nI try to explain something, try to speak, but can only shake my head instead. Sophie takes my hand. \"I know,\" she says, tears in her eyes. \"It's different with Serge, but it's the same.\"\n\nGRATIN DE SALSIFY\n\nThis is a twist on a Belgian dish of endives wrapped in ham and baked with cheese. Try plump white asparagus instead of salsify or endives. Salsify gets sticky when peeling and oxidizes quickly, like a peeled apple, hence the lemon juice in the cooking liquid. Substitute good-quality deli ham, such as Rosemary or other Italian ham, for the prosciutto. If ham is very salty, reduce amount of salt in cooking liquid and in the Mornay sauce.\n\n_4 to 5 stalks salsify, trimmed, peeled, and rinsed (about 3\/4pound)_\n\n_2 to 3 lemon slices_\n\n_2 to 3 bay leaves_\n\n_\u00bc to \u00bd teaspooon salt_\n\n_6 to 8 cups low-sodium chicken broth or water_\n\n_1\u00bd to 2 cups Mornay sauce (see page 40)_\n\n_12 slices prosciutto or good-quality cooked ham_\n\n_Fresh white or fresh-ground black pepper, to taste_\n\n_Garnish: grated Gruy\u00e8re or Comt\u00e9, and chopped fresh parsley or fresh chervil_\n\nPreheat oven to 350 degrees. Cut salsify into 4-inch pieces. Combine salsify and next 3 ingredients in a large pot. Add enough chicken broth or water to cover. Bring to a boil and let cook about 8 minutes or until salsify is tender but not mushy. Gently remove salsify with a slotted spoon and let cool.\n\nSpoon a third of the Mornay sauce in bottom of a baking dish. Wrap each salsify with a ham slice and place seam-side down on top of sauce in baking dish. Cover with remaining Mornay sauce. Top with grated cheese and a crack of fresh white or black pepper. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes or until top is golden and bubbly. Garnish, if desired. _Serves 4 to 6._\nXVII\n\nLe Repas Maigre\n\nThe bitter winter wind whips in from the High Alps. It's the season to be jolly. December 1996, my fourth Christmas here in Provence. Serge started hitting Sophie again. Olivier told me not to get involved, but then he gave Serge an ultimatum: Quit drinking or pack up and leave. I know this was hard for Olivier, mainly because it is an admission of defeat.\n\nSerge left for two weeks, just enough time for Sophie's wounds to soften and for her to start missing him again, and then he returned from Morocco one late afternoon with musk oil and bracelets for Sophie, a rusted bicycle for Lulu, a pocketwatch for Olivier, and a Berber wool coat for me.\n\n\"No\u00ebl is in three days, not today, Papa,\" Lulu exclaimed, tugging on his hand, not letting go. Her lip quivered and the way she mimicked Sophie by keeping her head down, the only way to know that at seven she was ashamed of loving a man so much even though he had already broken her heart.\n\nWe were in the upstairs living room, feeding the fire. Sophie looked at Olivier, whispered that she wanted Serge to come home for Christmas, for the kids.\n\n\"He'll be back,\" I told Sophie, not sure of anything at all.\n\n\"They don't leave for good unless there's another woman involved, or death,\" Flora had said just before Serge showed up, grinning and full of promises from Tangiers. Flora adjusted the patch she now has to wear over her left eye. The tumor has grown so that it impairs her vision. \"Otherwise they stay forever.\"\n\nWe decide not to go away for the holidays in order to be closer to Sophie and Serge as they work things out and to be here for Flora. But while taking care to make sure everyone is happy and comfortable, and planning menus for Christmas, something comes over me, a longing I can't explain, a desire for a home that is on the other side of the world, a place I once knew but where nothing is familiar and where I am not welcome.\n\nAsia appears in smudges of black-and-white images in my dreams at night. During my waking hours, I search for the shapes and flavors of this foreign place, at the market in Forcalquier, in the drawer of my refrigerator here in Provence.\n\nOne afternoon, we make lists and menus, and when Olivier raises his glass in a toast, I know that, once again, every detail has been decided.\n\nLulu rides her bike around and around the billiards table. \"I'm hungry,\" she finally says, smiling at her father. She and Laure have decided they want tiny _ravioles de Royan_ for dinner with lots of Gruy\u00e8re cheese. Everyone seems to have found their appetite, except for me, since Serge's return.\n\n\"We'll have a traditional Proven\u00e7al Christmas this year,\" Olivier announces. Two years ago\u2014luckily before the stroke\u2014my grandparents finally came for a visit. We had pasta with truffles and cream, a stuffed goose, Poppy's oyster dressing, baked sweet potato casserole, _salade verte,_ and cheese. Poppy, Olivier, and his mother, Giselle, and I sat at the table for hours after everyone had gone to bed, talking, Poppy and Giselle going over war stories and drinking lots of red wine.\n\nOlivier chooses some preliminary wines while I pull out my stained and tattered copy of _La Cuisini\u00e8re Proven\u00e7ale._ We decide that for the traditional _repas maigre,_ there will be salt cod steeped in milk for three days, as well as _ancho\u00efade_ \u2014a garlic-rich anchovy sauce to eat with celery and cauliflower\u2014boiled cardoons baked in b\u00e9chamel sauce, and a few wayward offerings: _terrine de foie gras d'oie,_ Iranian caviar, and smoked Scottish salmon. Olivier's sister and mother will take care of the _treize desserts._ Thirteen traditional sweets to represent Christ and the twelve apostles: _la pompe,_ black-and-white nougat, dried figs, raisins, almonds, and hazelnuts. Walnuts, prunes, mandarins, apples, pears, _calissons d'Aix,_ and quince paste.\n\n\"Tomorrow when you go shopping, don't forget to buy milk, we need it for the _brandade,_ \" Olivier reminds me.\n\n\"I'm going with you to the market,\" Flora reminds me. I start shaking my head, but before anyone can speak, she raises her hand and, coughing, says, \"It's my life, what's left of it, and I want to participate in Christmas one last time.\" Breathless, she pulls the blanket up to her neck and adjusts her head on the sofa pillow.\n\n_\"D'accord,\"_ I concede.\n\nThe next morning, Sophie and I buckle up Flora in the backseat of my Saab. It's icy on the streets, the air like sickles in our throats.\n\n\"Are you sure you want to come?\"\n\n\"Keem, of all people you should understand\u2014\"\n\n\"I do, I do,\" I say, shaking my head.\n\n\" _On y va._ Lobsters and goose livers are waiting for us.\" Flora wants to go to the Hypermarch\u00e9 in Manosque or the largest Casino supermarket around. She wants the vast array of things. She hobbles into the store, holding on to the cart as I roll it slowly up and down the aisles. It's too cold for her to go in the refrigerated section, so she sends me with a list: two capons, two whole fresh goose livers, milk and butter, cream and eggs. She wants oysters and smoked trout with apples, celery root, and black truffles fresh from our backyard.\n\n\"Can you make oysters _en Sabayon_ and bread-stuffed truffles?\" she asks me.\n\nI nod, of course, whatever she wants.\n\n_\"C'est bien, ma petite.\"_ She pats my head in a maternal gesture. I hold on to her elbow, gently guiding her down the spice aisle. She touches everything, holds a bottle or bunch, considering the weight of each item.\n\nWhen the baskets have been piled high with more than enough, we stand in line with all the other shoppers. Sophie and I wait in one line, Flora in another, longer one. I watch as she leans against the edge of the checkout counter, weary yet determined to wait her turn.\n\nPreparing Christmas dinner is a disaster. My heart's not really in it, and Olivier senses this. When I burn the baked cardoon gratin, he throws the whole smoking dish into the garbage and decides to take over. I stand behind him as he does the final rinse of the salt cod in the sink and peels potatoes for the _brandade._\n\nPascale and Giselle spread out their confections on the dessert table I've set up with the traditional three white tablecloths for the occasion.\n\n\"My mother used to do it this way. She'd spend days preparing the quince and confectioning the nougat.\" Giselle hands me a piece of the soft white candy filled with almonds and pistachios. _\"Et ta m\u00e8re?\"_\n\nMy mother really was never a good cook, although she tried her best. When she did attempt anything in the kitchen, it was always fast, spaghetti sauce from a jar stirred into thawed ground meats. White bread that stayed soft for weeks at a time, toasted and topped with creamed tuna. Luckily, Poppy was in full charge of holiday meals: a table laden with baked sweet potatoes topped with butter, brown sugar, and pecans, pineapple-crowned roasted ham, creamed green beans with artichoke dressing, turkey and giblet gravy, oyster dressing, soft shiny Hawaiian rolls. We'd finish with bread pudding and hard sauce, my grandmother's ambrosia, Nani's rum cake, and my uncle Eldred's brownie pie with whipped cream.\n\nOlivier pulls me aside. \"What's wrong? You don't care about Christmas dinner. Everyone will take it personally.\"\n\n\"I'm just thinking about Flora, and we always spend Christmas here, we never go to the States.\"\n\n\"You know it's complicated with Laure . . . Dominique insists having her one of the two days.\"\n\n\"I know. I just miss my family sometimes, and there are lots of things I've tried talking to you about . . . I'm just not . . .\"\n\n\"Sure? Happy? Are we going to talk about _that_ again?\" He pours in too much olive oil. _\"Merde.\"_\n\n\"Just add more potatoes.\"\n\n\"I know how to make _brandade._ I've known since before you were even born.\"\n\nI start to walk away, but then he holds out a forkful for me to taste. The potatoes are undercooked and the cod still too salty. I shrug. \"Not bad, it's . . . good,\" I lie.\n\nOlivier takes a bite and spits it out into the sink. _\"J'en ai marre.\"_ I've had enough, he shouts, and dumps it all in the garbage on top of the scorched cardoons. \"You're not helping.\" He stares at me, waiting. \"So I'm just going to call Allo Couscous, and voil\u00e0, we'll have a terrible North African dinner delivered. For Christmas in Provence.\" He washes his hands and shakes them dry, splattering me with the cold water.\n\n\"Papa? Kimette, are you crying?\" Laure comes into the kitchen, takes my hand in hers, and pats it gently. She's got green and gold stars stuck to her chin and hands. \"I was wrapping your gift.\" She smiles. \"It's a big surprise.\"\n\n\"Show me,\" I tell her. I hug Olivier and follow Laure upstairs to the tree. Lulu is down on her stomach, shaking the brightly wrapped boxes to her ear.\n\n\"Lulu, you have to wait.\"\n\n_\"Je sais.\"_ She gets up and sits next to me on the sofa, Laure already on my lap.\n\n\"What are you going to get Papa?\" she wants to know, spreading out my hands to play pattycake.\n\nI haven't the slightest idea. What he wants from me is nothing I can give him. \"I haven't decided yet, but something he'll _really_ like.\"\n\nShe seems relieved and hands me ribbon and tape, colored pens, and I get on the floor with the kids and forget for a moment that I'm not one of them.\n\nLater, Pascale and Annie, Olivier's sister-in-law, knock on my office door, come in before I answer.\n\n_\"\u00c7a va pas?\"_ Pascale asks. \"Annie and I are worried about you.\"\n\n_\"Non, non, tout va bien,\"_ I lie, not wanting to ruin anyone's holiday.\n\n_\"Allez,\"_ Annie says, sitting in a chair next to mine. \"Olivier's not easy, we all know that. But he loves you so much.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"It's the divorce, isn't it,\" Pascale says. \"It's taking too long. We told him not to let Dominique\u2014\" I shake my head, denying anything's wrong, to them and to myself. \"He's my brother, and I know he has his reasons, but sometimes he forgets that he's not the only one who knows how to make decisions.\"\n\n\"Just hang on,\" Annie advises, clasping my hand in hers. \"He can be too much sometimes, but you love each other . . . he needs you.\"\n\n\"It's not just the divorce,\" I offer as an explanation. \"The holidays, something's missing . . . I can't explain it\u2014\"\n\n\"You miss your family,\" Pascale finishes my sentence. \"You know, Olivier says we are your family. American and Korean . . . we're everything you'll ever need.\"\n\nAnnie kisses the top of my head as she and Pascale leave my office. \"Whatever you do . . .\" She pauses. \"Don't leave.\"\n\nI look up at her, frightened. Who talked about leaving? Can they look into my heart and read my deepest thoughts?\n\nWhile the others continue wrapping gifts, I boil a pot of water and stir in some white rice, drain it, and mix in salted butter. _\"Nabi,\"_ I whisper. It's one of the few words I remember from my Korean lessons. Papillon, I translate to myself as I take a deep breath to calm the butterflies in my stomach. I sit on the floor by the tree, amid all the gifts, and balance the warm bowl on my knees. I pick at some of the grains, roll them around my tongue. I close my eyes and with each swallow wish for a taste of home. \nXVIII\n\nEverything, Not You\n\nBack in Paris, there are still signs of Flora everywhere from when she and Jean-Marie stayed with us during the opening of A Tire d'Ailes. I find an earring she must have forgotten and a handwritten note, a message jotted down in her big loopy handwriting about various PR people who called. I think of all these things and the holidays, how they celebrate in other countries, as I'm lying down again at Grignon's.\n\nThe tip of the pencil makes soft scratches on the paper. I have no idea what he's writing, if anything at all, but he won't stop.\n\n\"I don't have anything to say today.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Did you hear me?\" I ask.\n\n_Dites._ Speak, he encourages.\n\n\"What could you possibly be writing when I'm not even talking?\" Long silence. I hate myself for needing to be here. I hate these games where we outwait each other. I want all the answers right away. Is that why I'm here? \"What about hypnosis?\" I finally suggest. \"To remember things about the past.\"\n\n\"The past?\"\n\nIt seems I've gotten his attention. \"Korea. The language, at least.\"\n\n\"The painful part is not remembering.\"\n\n\"Or maybe discovering that I wasn't loved.\"\n\n\"Choosing to leave or to leave behind is also an act of love.\"\n\n\"It's always about love,\" I answer, \"the beginnings and endings\u2014what about the deep, dark middle of it all?\"\n\nMore soft scratches on the paper.\n\n\"You said that asking the right question will also give me the answer. But there are some things, no matter what questions I ask . . . that I'll just never know.\"\n\n\"And sometimes not knowing is the best answer of all.\"\n\nNo matter how frustrating it is to not understand immediately, I follow his lead, remain respectful and gentle as I pay him and leave, confident finally that the answers will come to me one day.\n\nI still can't say the words\u2014am I leaving Olivier or running from myself? I have no choice but to choose this separation. If I leave, I convince myself, it will only be temporary, time enough to shake things up, let Olivier know I'm serious, allow space for me to grow into a whole person. I want him to understand it this way, but Olivier refuses to accept my pain, my lack of roots, my division, that he could be the source of anything but happiness. I have convinced myself that I don't deserve this life he wants so much to give me, this identity that doesn't belong to me because I am so divided, so unsure of who I am.\n\nI schedule extra sessions with Grignon, listening for the subtlest objection to my leaving Olivier, but he doesn't give any indication. I ask him for medicine, \"some kind of painkiller or antidepressant, whatever you doctors dole out these days.\" I am feeling irreverent, restless, and frustrated. He tells me if I feel I need medicine, he will give me a doctor's name, but he won't prescribe them for me.\n\n_Merde._ \"What can I hope for in a man? To be understood?\"\n\n\"Neither desirable nor possible.\"\n\n\"Communication?\"\n\n\"No real communication possible, pure communication, anyway.\"\n\n\"Then what? Is it just one big misunderstanding, then?\"\n\n_\"Il n'y a pas de malentendus, que des malentendants.\"_ There are no misunderstandings, just misunderstanders.\n\nI am tired of these word games. \"All I want is to be loved, simply, for what I am and not for what he thinks I should be. What is the price I have to pay\u2014solitude?\" He doesn't answer, so I push harder. \"I don't want to be a part of it, I'm retreating from the world.\"\n\n\"No, you must live in the world. It's not a question of isolating yourself, but to know what is tolerable for you . . . when to say yes and when to say no. Or no and yes . . . like coming and going . . . they're one and the same.\"\n\nOlivier and I go through the motions, like deep underwater divers without a map or meters. We sink into late night slumbers, breathing in each other's dreams, gasping for air; then we awaken to spend the day packing boxes, drinking wine; we fight and argue, embrace again.\n\nWhen the morning comes, just before the movers arrive, Olivier stands there facing me, unable to speak. Neither of us believes this is real. I look through the cartons of packed books and photos. I try to give him back the Leica, but he shakes his head. I place it on the mantel, next to a photo of us in Stockholm, so close up, so blurred. I don't want to take anything with me, really, just the bare necessities from this life.\n\n\"Kimette.\" He sits on the white sofa, knees pulled close to his chest. \"I'm begging you not to leave.\"\n\n\"I have to go, Olivier.\" Please don't let me go. Like Laure when she was younger, I want him to take me in his arms while I'm still kicking and screaming on the inside.\n\n\"I didn't know how to keep you, and I'll never forgive myself . . .\"\n\nAnd I'll never forgive myself for not knowing what I want, why I don't want what he wants to give me\u2014love and a place in the world I don't have to fight for, an identity that isn't mine.\n\nThe movers, like magical elves, arrive promptly, quickly busy themselves with the task of carrying things out, bringing nothing in. At the sight of this, Olivier jumps from the sofa.\n\n\"I'm going to wake up Laure.\"\n\n\"No,\" I whisper. \"Please don't wake her up.\"\n\nOlivier ignores me, screaming that I should know better than to disappear without a word. I convince myself that this is only temporary. Olivier doesn't believe it's real\u2014how could anyone leave him, rupture the life he has manufactured so carefully, this small empire of the heart he has spent years fortifying?\n\n\"No, don't, please.\"\n\n\"So you're not leaving?\"\n\nI shake my head no, nod yes. \"But I don't want it to be more unbearable than it is.\"\n\n\"Do you think she'd rather wake up and discover that you've just disappeared? That you didn't even say good-bye?\" Olivier starts down the hallway, his body tense and purposeful now.\n\n\"No!\" I scream, running after him. I grab at his shoulder and he turns around, half angry, half sad.\n\n\"You don't get it, do you? Laure loves you like a mother. And you're abandoning us. Do you know what that means?\" he demands. \"You know how you've suffered. Your own mother who left like a thief in the night.\" As the words spill out of him, Olivier reaches in the air as if he could take them back. But he can't stop now. \"You've always said, 'If only she had said good-bye . . .'\"\n\n\"I'm sure she did say good-bye, I just can't remember.\"\n\n\"A proper good-bye before leaving you at the market, on the bench, in the dark.\"\n\nI want to punch him, but I start hitting the air instead. The tears finally well up, and I let them pour out of me, the years of unreported tears. Every time Olivier tries to calm me down, I push him away as hard as I can, harder each time, until I'm down on the floor, sobbing. I don't recognize myself. He straddles my stomach and presses me to the floor, pinning down my arms. I can feel his heart thumping, and his body starts to shake with mine.\n\n\"I'm terrified,\" I whisper. He repeats my words, and we sit for a moment, holding one another, letting the sound of our voices resonate. I'm terrified of choosing this separation. He is frightened of being alone, faced with what failed, what was missing in order for this to work for both of us.\n\nThe bedroom door at the end of the hall opens and Laure appears, morning sun illuminating her like an angel fresh from a dream. She yawns and smiles at us, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. \"What are you two doing?\"\n\nOne of the movers asks, \"This goes, too?\"\n\nOlivier gestures for him to leave immediately, and just then Laure realizes we've both been crying. She runs to us, tears streaming down her face, as she pushes Olivier off me and straddles my stomach.\n\n_\"Ne pars pas, Kimette. Ne nous quitte pas.\"_ Don't go. Don't leave us. Laure's cry echoes through my heart. \"Pa-pa! Do something.\"\n\nI sit up and carry Laure into the living room. As we sit, she clasps on to me, anticipating my letting go. I hold her tight and bury my head in her hair. She smells like sleep and sweat, such sweetness of the night. The three of us sit huddled together, and for a moment I'm convinced that this isn't real, that if I will it, Olivier will turn to me any moment now, caress my cheek, and slowly coax me out of the dream. But something made me go this far; I can't turn back now.\n\nHe's staring, hand suspended, unsure of his next gesture, his next move. Olivier, who owns his world, looks lonelier than I've ever seen him. Lonely because he's touched me. King Midas has touched and turned me into a speechless, precious metal.\n\n_I'm on the bench waiting for_ Omma _to come back. My knuckles are hard and blue from the cold, my fist clenched around the morsel of food, waiting, waiting, waiting. I am so tired of the anticipation. Shipwrecked. I drift ashore, searching for the coastline of a warm body, a place that feels like home._\nXIX\n\nRoom of My Own\n\nI defiantly rent a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Left Bank with a small balcony that looks out onto the Eiffel Tower. It's small, about the size of our steam-room and shower area back in Provence. But I convince myself that this is all I need as I begin to fill the 450-square-foot space. I build shelves out of wine crates and drape Indian cotton throws over the bed. The walls are newly painted white, a clean slate.\n\nOlivier would say it looked like a souk in here, with its labyrinth of empty boxes and mismatched fabrics. If I'm honest, if I take a moment to sit and really look at it, I would agree with him. I miss the grand spaces and empty hallways, the open fields of Provence with its fields of poppy and sunflower. But I stop myself from missing it too much. I have made a choice, and whether or not it proves to be the best choice, it's mine.\n\nOlivier calls and says he wants to come for dinner. Every night he asks and I refuse. He has sold our place on rue de Luynes and moved to the rue du Bac, renting Nelly's friend Gianna's apartment. \"It's not like our space, but not bad.\" My space is definitely not like rue de Luynes, but it's what I can afford. I make my own bread, it's both therapeutic and inexpensive, and eat lots of vegetable curries with rice. I've lost five kilos, and most of my clothes don't fit the way they used to.\n\nI finally agree to meet Olivier for lunch one day. He has me come to the new apartment first. When I recognize our sheets and blankets, our curtains and table, it's comforting, strange, and sad. He asks me to get in bed with him, just one last time.\n\nI find the familiar places of his body that I liked, inhale his scent one last time. It is familiar but awkward, all too fast and desperate. He cries openly when it's over, but I turn away to wipe my tears. After, he insists on a late lunch at a place not too far. At Les Minist\u00e8res, Olivier pours too much wine, orders a thick bloody steak, and I pick at my fish, watching the lumps harden in the cold, thick b\u00e9arnaise sauce.\n\nA week later, Olivier sends me a check for 10,000 francs for no apparent reason. I hold it up to the light, balance it in the palm of my hand as if to weigh it, wondering what he wants in return. I stuff it in the bottom of a drawer, beneath some photos.\n\nOlivier calls, screaming every day, \"I should have never let you go!\" or, \"I didn't know how to keep you!\" The words are unbearable. Why didn't he think about this before\u2014why didn't I?\n\nSeveral days later, he invites me to lunch again, but I know now it is better to refuse. My refusals infuriate him, but I can't stop hurting him, hurting myself. Olivier is the man who knows how to turn everything into gold, but with all his power and money, he is incapable of inventing the formula to make me stay, to ground me, something I wish for so desperately. Part of me did not want to leave, but I did. I repeated my own abandonment, preempting another absence\u2014the fear of being left again, this time by someone I have grown so attached to, a real family. I left to prove that I could be a person, independent of his needs and wishes and idea of what I should be, to find my own place. So if I know this, then why is it that I have never felt so alone and disillusioned by my own desires?\n\nOne early morning, he calls, and I can barely pull myself out of the nightmare. \"Kimette? Are you awake?\"\n\nMy heart races. He hasn't called me Kimette in weeks. \"It's Flora, isn't it.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, _oui, elle est morte._ \" She died in her sleep, back at her house in Forcalquier, he goes on to explain.\n\nI blink several times. It's 6:00 a.m. \"I'm coming down, when's the service? I can leave today\u2014\"\n\n\"No,\" he tells me sharply. \"Her family hasn't decided yet . . . they're coming in from Normandy, and . . . listen . . . I've thought about it, and . . . you can't come.\"\n\n\"You can't decide everything. I have to be there. Tell me.\"\n\n\"How would that make me look? Like such a fool in front of all our friends, who just don't understand how you could have left me . . . and then you show up for this.\"\n\n\"For _this_? You mean Flora's funeral? Is that all you care about? How you'll _look_ to everyone?\"\n\n\"She's dead. She knows you loved her. I know you took care of her. Her family wasn't around, but you don't have to be there anymore.\" He says these last words slowly, sharply. \"It's better, I advise you strongly not to come.\"\n\nFor days, Olivier leaves messages, apologizing, but I don't return his calls. I want to be there, but he's made it very clear that I would not be welcome. Instead, the day of the service, I walk the several kilometers to Notre Dame and light two candles, one for Flora, one for Poppy to get better.\n\nWhen I return, I fast-forward through the messages, catching just the last bit of Olivier's final message: \"I wrote an homage to Flora . . . in fact-you should have been there.\"\n\nHe sends another check for 25,000 francs, money, he says, for me to return to the States. _\"La France est trop petite pour tous les deux,\"_ he claims. France isn't big enough for the two of us. Another 25,000 will come my way once I am back in the States. \"Go back to the States, maybe go to New York. Be a writer.\" I don't want his money, but a week later, I need to deposit it to pay back taxes from the bookstore, pay off publishers for their books left on consignment.\n\nHe calls late in the night to tell me that he is planning on opening L'Occitane in SoHo and one in New Orleans, which street do I think is the best? Oliviers & Co. will open in the States as well. He is like the grand conquerors of past eras. Olivier the Great. First he buys \u00cele Saint-Louis, then rue de Buci. Grand Central Station, Prince Street, Royal Street. He is a champion at this sentimental Monopoly, rolling snake eyes, always passing go, choosing from the treasure chest. I wait for Chance and am forever negotiating bankruptcy. But despite the large sums that appear magically in my account, I stay in Paris, stubborn and more determined to make a life of my own.\n\nHe finally tells me that if the bookstore doesn't start to make money, we will have to sell it. He knows this is how to hurt me, punish me, and I am powerless.\n\n\"But, it's poetry . . . you've always said it's not here to make money . . . it exists because it _is_ poetry.\"\n\n\"That was then. When we were together. I can't support it now.\"\n\nI begin by quietly telling my best customers that I am taking a loss, putting everything up for a bargain, even some of the furnishings. They buy up all the signed editions from poets who have come to do readings\u2014Gary Snyder, Bei Dao, Tomaz Salamun, Octavio Paz from his visit during the March\u00e9 de la Po\u00e9sie\u2014and then armloads of the cheaper pocket editions. A local poet and musician offers to do a fund-raising concert to save the shop. I sit dazed at the counter, sad that this is what my life has become\u2014a vendor of someone else's words on an island in Paris; my last hope to be saved by a French musician playing Tibetan bowls.\n\nPoets come and read as they try to help sell more books. I offer a discount to my loyal customers, and then soon it is a blown-out clearance sale.\n\nI try to find Custodia a job with a small publisher in central France, but she tells me she has decided to move back to Portugal. She's in love, for the first time in her life. She is radiant as she tells me this. She reminds me of Flora, in the good days with Jean-Marie. \"Love . . . it's better than poetry. I'll take sex over all the rhymes anytime,\" Custodia declares.\n\n\"Oh, and there's a message from Madame In\u00e8s Frenier, editor at one of the major French publishing houses.\" Custodia explains that In\u00e8s heard about the closing of the shop and wants to have a book signing with one of her best-known poets, Jean-Pierre Clemenceau, before it's all over. I find this odd since usually the writer or the publicist will contact me, unless it is a small independent house.\n\nIn\u00e8s shows up the next afternoon at the bookstore, almost empty except for a few young university students. Her pale blue Chanel suit and matching kitten heels make her look like a washed-out doll. But she's swift, and her eyes never leave mine.\n\n\"Kim,\" she says, \"it is a pleasure meeting you. I'm so sorry to hear about the bookshop. I can't stay long, I have a rendezvous. . . . You must meet Jean-Pierre before the final reading. He's a good contact to have in the literary world, and for me, he sells quite well, considering it's poetry . . . but you know . . .\" Her eyes drift off momentarily. \"I must, how do you say . . . balance his ego.\"\n\nIn\u00e8s leaves some books for me and disappears almost immediately.\n\nA few days later, as I am reading through Clemenceau's books, a man in his early forties appears at the shop. \"I'm Jean-Pierre Clemenceau?\" he introduces himself as though it's a question, as if maybe I'm supposed to know who he is.\n\nHe's tall, with curly dark hair, graying at the temples. I can't shake hands because of the book I'm holding. He smells of warm fire and strong cologne, Fahrenheit or Ego\u00efste.\n\n\"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd come and introduce myself before the book signing. I'm sorry to hear that you are closing the shop\u2014\"\n\n\"Well, not right away . . . if I can help it.\" I close the book gently, and he smiles at having caught me reading his book.\n\n\"I'm off to a meeting, but I'd like to invite you for a caf\u00e9 sometime . . . soon.\" And he is off, just like In\u00e8s and all the others who stop by to see me on the island to do business before leaving for more important rendezvous.\n\nJust when I am about to close up for the day, a young woman, petite with long dark hair, walks into the bookshop.\n\n\"Hi,\" she says, \"I'm Jan. The American . . . you know Antoine, he owns the Spanish-language bookstore. I'm here to pick up any of our books that didn't sell. I heard you were closing. I'm sorry\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't be sorry. It's a long story.\"\n\n\"You're American, too?\" she asks, sitting on one of the chairs, thumbing through the most recent Paris _Where._ \"I'm from Ohio.\" She's very matter-of-fact and smiles easily, a friendly North American smile with a refreshing lack of Parisian pouting and complaining. \"I've been here a long time.\"\n\n\"With Antoine, your husband, right?\"\n\nShe nods, tilts her head, a bit distracted or worried at the mention of Antoine. \"Maybe I should go ahead and get the check from you, too.\"\n\nI quickly gather the books her husband left on consignment and pay her for the ones sold. We make a promise to have lunch sometime.\n\nJean-Pierre and In\u00e8s have decided that the big event for Jean-Pierre's book needs to be postponed. Which is fine because we are losing money every day, and since no one is eager to buy the shop, Olivier has decided to do something else with it\u2014open the first Oliviers & Co. olive oil store in this space. He will help me renew my work papers, he promises, so I can stay if I insist, \"but the shop has got to make money.\"\n\nJan comes to help me sell the rest of the books and slowly move things out\u2014a handmade kite from Thibault, some chairs and books, and signed first editions.\n\nSoon the bookshelves are stripped of any trace of poetry but are filled with olive oil jugs, bottles, and tall branches of the ancient peace tree placed throughout the store, signs of Olivier, our travels through the Mediterranean. Because the transformation is so fast, I find it difficult to walk by 81, rue Saint-Louis-en-l'\u00cele. I won't let myself miss the bookshop, miss Olivier, even if I sometimes wonder if I made the right decision. I wonder, just for a second, if it's time for us to get back together. And then I remember my desire for independence.\n\nSo, I am determined not to be defeated. I buy a baguette and slather it with butter and cheese, drink lots of coffee, as I concentrate on reading employment ads, following up on old contacts, and sending out my CV. Later, I will go to the market and buy beef, red wine, fresh herbs for a daube I haven't made since leaving the heart of Provence. I am determined to stay.\n\nLA DAUBE PROVEN\u00c7ALE\n\nThere are many variations of this dish of beef stewed in red wine. Traditionally, the meat is protected from the heat by a layer of lard and cooked in a _daubi\u00e8re_. Use a heavy-bottom casserole dish, preferably enameled cast-iron. I like to thicken my daube with tapenade for added flavor. This is best made one day in advance.\n\n_3 pounds beef chuck, trimmed of fat and cubed_\n\n_3 medium yellow onions, quartered, divided_\n\n_3 to 4 carrots, cut lengthwise and cut into thirds_\n\n_Bouquet garni_\n\n_3 cups dry red wine_\n\n_2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar_\n\n_2 slices thick-cut smoked bacon, diced_\n\n_1\/3 cup all-purpose flour_\n\n_1 teaspoon_ fleur de sel, _or sea salt (plus more for flour)_\n\n_\u00bc teaspoon fresh-ground pepper (plus more for flour)_\n\n_3 to 4 garlic cloves, smashed and coarsely chopped_\n\n_1 orange_\n\n_1\u00bd to 2 cups beef stock_\n\n_2 to 3 tablespoons black olive tapenade_\n\n_Garnishes: black olives (such as Ni\u00e7oise), fresh parsley_\n\nCombine beef and 2 of the onions and next 3 ingredients in a large nonreactive bowl. Let marinate 5 to 6 hours. (You can let marinate overnight, but note that the wine flavor will be much stronger.)\n\nHeat bacon on medium high in a large heavy-bottom pot or Dutch oven until fat begins to render, about 5 minutes. Place flour in a shallow bowl or plate; season with a pinch of salt and a crack of pepper. Remove beef with a slotted spoon and drain well. Lightly dredge beef chunks in flour, adding a little more flour, as needed. Add beef to pot and let brown, turning occasionally, about 8 minutes. Add remaining onion and let cook about 5 minutes. Add salt, pepper, garlic and a strip of orange rind, and stir. Add reserved wine marinade (reserve onions, carrots, and bouquet garni). Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium high and let wine reduce, skimming fat, about 15 minutes. Add 1\u00bd to 2 cups beef stock or water (just to cover meat), stir, and add reserved onion, carrot, and bouquet garni. Stir and cover pot and let cook on low heat on stovetop about 3\u00bd to 4 hours (or bake at 325 degrees for same amount of time), or until meat is tender. Remove any fat with a spoon. Remove orange rind and bouquet garni and discard. Zest remaining orange and add to pot. Squeeze juice from the orange, add to pot and stir. Let cool, cover and refrigerate overnight.\n\n_To Serve_ : Skim fat from surface of stew. Heat on medium until warm. Stir tapenade into sauce. Taste and add more salt and pepper, if needed. Garnish, if desired, with black olives and fresh chopped parsley. Serve with large pasta shells or polenta. _Serves 6._\nXX\n\nIsle of Misfits\n\nI have my first job interview with Yves Borrel, the CEO of a financial firm that invests in IPOs and other small businesses on the French stock market. After speaking with me a few minutes, Yves tells me that I will get paid 14,000 francs a month net, plus benefits, to be their in-house translator. As we shake hands good-bye, he leans in close to me. Despite very blue eyes that make him almost attractive in an odd way, he has repulsive breath, with hints of cold, wet tobacco mixed with garlic.\n\n_\"Et, Keem,\"_ he says before I leave. \"I must improve my English. One to one.\" He raises his eyebrows and makes some strange sound.\n\n\"I'll be busy enough with translating\u2014\"\n\n\"I pay you three hundred francs a lesson, nothing to do with your salary as translator.\" He's not much taller than I am, so I can see the large wet pores on his chin and nose. But 300 francs an hour for the lessons . . . 300 francs will pay one session with Grignon. I accept.\n\n_\"Tr\u00e8s bien, on commence demain.\"_\n\nOne morning, when Yves shows up late for his lesson, he announces that he's had a restless night of sleep and has forgotten his homework so we'll have breakfast instead before his meeting in the first arrondissement. We walk to a caf\u00e9 along the rue de Rivoli. I'm hungry, so I'm glad that I don't have to go over the present progressive and conditionals on an empty stomach.\n\n_\"Deux petits d\u00e9jeuners complets,\"_ Yves orders. He takes my hand in his and starts kissing my fingers. I pull away. \" _Non, Keem._ You do not understand. I cannot stand it anymore, cramped in zee little room with you pronouncing English words, and zee way you look at me with your black eyes and\u2014\"\n\n\"Yves, I'm your English teacher.\"\n\n\"Not anymore. I fire you. So now you can be my mistress.\" He slides his chair to my side of the table, puts his hand on my thigh. \" _Allez,_ don't be so _am\u00e9ricaine,_ my little Asian flower.\"\n\nThe waiter arrives with a beautiful platter of steaming coffee and a basket of croissants, _pain aux raisins,_ toasted brioche, jewel-colored jams, and sweetened butter.\n\n\"You eat and zen we go to my offeece and lock zee door.\"\n\n\"Yves . . .\" I laugh nervously, pushing his flushed face out of mine. This is like the worst scenario from a French movie. Any minute now, the director will show up in his beret and, crushing his mustache into the mouth of the megaphone, order: _Arr\u00eatez, arr\u00eatez. She's not the girl for this scene._ I will be fired and whisked off the set, fade to black, then back to my old self, back in my old skin, with Olivier and the house in Provence, roasting pheasants, reading stories to Laure and Lulu, lying in a hammock listening to the mistral whip in and out of the poppy fields . . .\n\nYves's lip is dripping red. _\"Keeeem!\"_ he yells. _\"Je saigne, arr\u00eat.\"_\n\nI meant to bite his cold tongue that he slipped inside my mouth but caught only the lip instead.\n\n\" _Merde,_ you bite me.\"\n\n\"I _bit_ you,\" I correct him, gathering my books and tapes. \"Bite, bit, bitten.\" I take one last look at the basket of pastries, regretting the buttery dough, then rush out of the caf\u00e9, my heart pounding, past the place de la Concorde, past the golden Jeanne d'Arc, through the m\u00e9tro entrance, down, down, down deep into the rumbling stomach of the city.\n\nAfter the episode with Yves, I am more cautious about job offers, not to mention men. I realize, too, that meeting them is easy, especially when you're not looking. They're everywhere, although I'm not ready for any of them. Most are semiavailable, and all of them are perfectly and wholly destructive. They are my illusory attempts at freedom and independence.\n\nBecause I never go back to Yves and his company, I respond to an ad in the paper for an English teacher. I teach three times a week in various companies\u2014mostly ad agencies with young French executives and small businesses. The rest of the time I spend doing freelance translations for a lawyer and a literary magazine editor. I'm far from rich but am making enough to survive comfortably. Mostly I keep to myself, reading in caf\u00e9s and escaping in movie theaters. I try to stay away from the phone. Olivier calls several times a day.\n\nPaolo, the Italian poet I met at the opening of the bookshop and head of an Italian theater troupe in Paris, invites me to a concert and dinner after at his favorite trattoria hidden away near the Buttes-Chaumont. I like getting out of the neighborhood.\n\nPaolo's friend Giuseppe is standing in the middle of the small dining room, his hair wild like that of an underpaid musician, juggling plates of antipasti, handing a glass of this to one woman, blowing kisses to another, and turning up the volume of \"La donna \u00e8 mobile.\"\n\n_\"Ciao, bella.\"_ He kisses me, then Paolo, lingering on his cheek.\n\n_\"Signorina.\"_ He bows ceremoniously, then fingers the fabric of my skirt. \" _Bellissimo,_ but,\" he asks, looking at Paolo, \"your friend, does she know how to eat?\" He puts his hands around my waistline, squinching his nose, deciding how much he should fatten me up.\n\nGiuseppe makes another grand gesture, and an enthusiastic Italian leads us to a round table in the front of the room. Immediately, waiters bring us bottles of San Pellegrino, glasses of _frizzante,_ and tiny round pizzas with herbs that burst like the sun in the mouth. When things have calmed down, Giuseppe glides over to our table carrying a huge bowl of steaming pasta.\n\n\" _All'arrabbiata. Des p\u00e2t\u00e9s enrag\u00e9es._ Kim, you look like you like spicy food, yes?\"\n\nI nod. Paolo pours us red wine and serves a heaping pile of the angry pasta into my bowl. The steam is fragrant and spicy. He watches as I fork the penne. It's perfectly al dente, with a little sweetness from the tomatoes and salt from the olives, then fire just on the back of my tongue. I close my eyes.\n\n\"I like you.\" He nods to me. Then his eyebrows brighten up, following a tall young man walking to the back of the room. \"I like him, too. _Che bello._ \"\n\nAfter pasta, Paolo comes back from the kitchen with a plate of cheese. \"From Parma, my country.\" The Parmigiano-Reggiano is grainy, with just the right amount of salt. I close my eyes and remember Tuscany. Olivier and me in Arezzo. The restoration of Fra Angelico's frescoes, the Duomo in Parma, with Correggio's swirling figures being sucked into the sky. One black point of light. The immense wheels of cheese kept in the banks in Parma. Siena and the tower, the racing of the horses.\n\n\"Kim, you are far away. In Italy, I hope.\"\n\nI nod. One of the waiters pours us each a shot of grappa, and we toast.\n\n\"Tonight, it is on the house,\" Giuseppe announces, sitting close to Paolo. When we try to object, Giuseppe adds, \"Friends are more important. Keem, you come next week or whenever, even without Paolo. I make you my _zia_ 's hot _arancini_ \u2014the best way to eat leftover rice.\"\n\nThe money I earn teaching and translating covers my rent and most of my bills, but no more than one session a week with Grignon. It does not cover shopping sprees at Issey Miyake and Kenzo, stacks of poetry from La Hune. I miss my own books, dinners at my favorite bistros, last-minute trips to a summer coastline. I've given up so much, I wonder then why Grignon won't at least have the courtesy to tell me what to do with my life. Couldn't he just wave his magic wand and bestow some semblance of happiness on me? I want to ask him.\n\nOn the way home from an evening session, I buy a baguette, some Camembert, and a container of grated carrot salad. I have 30 francs left over for a cheap bottle of Beaujolais. It's freezing, and my stomach is hollow. I could take the m\u00e9tro to the trattoria; Paolo and Giuseppe would feed me.\n\nInstead, I walk past La Coupole, where well-dressed men and women are lingering over steaks, dipping _pommes frites_ into warm b\u00e9arnaise, a large platter of shellfish. I stop and peer in. For an instant, I tell myself that I must hurry; I have to get home, where the kitchen will be warm and Olivier and Laure will be waiting for me. I'll open the door and Laure will wrap her arms around my neck. Then she'll lead me to the table where she's got her homework spread out and Olivier next to her, deciphering English phrases from her _Hello, How Are You?_ textbook.\n\n_\"Comment dire 'demain' en anglais?\"_ Laure will ask.\n\n_Demain_ means tomorrow.\n\nTomorrow, tomorrow, _toujours demain._\n\nSomeone spills a bottle of wine on the table. The crash of the glass takes me out of the reverie and into the reality of having just missed the bus.\n\nWhen I get home, the house is empty. I flick the light switch, but the electricity won't come on. It has been cut off. _\"Merde,\"_ I curse as I search for candles in the dark. I forgot to mail the check. I've never learned to balance a checkbook. In the dimly lit room, I search for the ringing phone. It's Olivier calling from Singapore. I light a match and watch it burn down to my fingertips before blowing it out.\n\n\"It sounds like you're just next door,\" I say to the darkness.\n\n\"I'm not,\" he says wistfully. Then he tells me he saw some silk dresses that he thought I'd look good in, and he was reading Whitman on the plane and wondered if I was happy.\n\n\"You know better than to ask me that.\" The sky has started raining again. \"It's June,\" I complain, \"and I'm cold.\"\n\n\"I'm going to call the new L'Occitane perfume Feuilles d'Herbe, after Whitman, you know the book . . . from Stockholm . . .\"\n\nI nod as we hang up. The phone rings again. It's my sister calling, wanting to know if I'm ever coming home.\n\n\"I am home.\"\n\n\"But you left Olivier. You can't be in France if he is.\"\n\n\"This isn't Monopoly. You sound just like him. How's Poppy?\"\n\n\"He has good and bad days. This week, mostly good.\"\n\nI open the windows and look up into the night; I wonder if Poppy is pointing to his place in the sky. The city spreads out like an old map, illegible and worn at the creases. My Paris has never been just the Paris of American tour books with their miniature Eiffel Towers and one-day excursions to Monet's garden in Giverny. But since I've left Olivier, it has become dimmer. My Paris is now the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and the Canal St. Martin, the _bateaux lavoirs,_ P\u00e8re Lachaise. It's gray and colder with every day nearing the solstice.\n\nI go through the mail, stacks of unopened bills, unread books. France T\u00e9l\u00e9com wants money to facilitate my _communication,_ EDF wants money to light my house. I live in one of the darkest cities in the world. A city of economy, coins, and savings. A big fat piggy bank of a city. Courgettes for 5 francs a kilo at the Sunday market, and if I want to splurge, perhaps half a Camembert _au lait cru_ and cornmeal bread for 15 francs from the Portuguese stand. It lasts a week and can be sliced thin and toasted until the very last crumb.\n\nI close the window, carefully open a letter from Laure. She sends me messages with drawings of jets and stars and lots of little lips for kisses. She fills the margins with hundreds of tiny hearts painstakingly drawn with a blue Marks-A-Lot. Laure ends her letter with different versions of her signature: LB, LBaussan. Laure, _tout simplement._ Which one do I like best? she wants to know.\n\nThe phone rings again, and I let the answering machine pick up. If Olivier's not in Spain or Singapore, he phones from Taiwan. \"I bought you a very high-grade oolong, from Formosa,\" he announces proudly. \"Very broad leaves. It smells like the sea. Better than what we used to buy at Mariage Fr\u00e8res.\" Olivier sighs, and for a moment I'm back at the Marais teahouse where tea guides in fitted white linen suits offer harvests according to mood, color of the sky, or what you plan on eating. Exquisite tea _gel\u00e9es_ with citron and vanilla from the Bourbon islands, all too expensive now for my modest income.\n\nBut I've never been good with money or directions, and sometimes I find myself back on the rue Bonaparte, rue de Grenelle, or Place Vend\u00f4me at the _soldes,_ not resisting a Jean-Paul Gaultier skirt at a bargain price of 2,000 francs\u2014the cost, I calculate quickly, of 6.6 sessions with Grignon.\n\nSometimes I meet Louis for dinner when Nelly is out of town having her colon cleansed or her body rehydrated in Vichy or visiting some count in Venice. Neither of us has much money, but we splurge on _terrine de foie gras_ with sweet onion compote and glasses of chilled Sauternes. We feel sinful and decadent, like little kids behind Nelly's and Olivier's backs.\n\n\"How is Olivier?\" he asks, lowering his voice, hunched over into his plate of jiggling _blanc-manger._ Louis has always had a sweet tooth.\n\n\"He only yells at me every other day now.\" I try to laugh, swallowing a section of my grilled grapefruit, crunch one of the fried basil leaves. \"Have you seen him? Is Nelly still mad at me? You know she wrote me a devastating letter, telling me I'd never be happy with a man, that I didn't deserve it, and . . .\" I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. \"I'm sorry, Louis.\" I catch my breath. \"Have you been able to work much?\"\n\nHe pulls at his arthritic fingers. \"I'm no spring chicken, but I have to take advantage of the time while Nelly's not here. And no, I haven't seen much of Olivier. He's not seeing any of his friends right now.\" He pours the rest of the bottle of Cheval Blanc into our glasses.\n\n\"To absence,\" I propose.\n\n\"To the Banque de France and overdraft protection,\" Louis toasts, pulling out his debit card to pay the check.\n\nI show up to a session one day and hesitate to go toward the couch. \"I can't pay you today,\" I tell Grignon, head bowed.\n\n\"Well, you can just pay me next time\u2014\"\n\n\"I won't be able to then, either.\"\n\n\"Hmm,\" he says, and stops to think. \"Will you be able to pay me one day?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" I nod and lift my head.\n\nHe ushers me in, and somehow we end up talking of debts, what I owe my parents who didn't leave me behind, what I owe Olivier, what I will owe Grignon. I leave the session understanding that it's not about owing _money,_ it's about respect, not only of my family and those around me, but respect for myself, _my_ life.\n\nSummer in Paris is an echo\u2014hollow sun beats down on empty streets. Everything is closed. Parisians have packed up their cars and filled their trunks with goods, off to the coast or the islands for the month. Even Grignon is leaving me. I panicked during my most recent session when he said he would be leaving for the summer, most of July and into August. I sat paralyzed on the divan as he stood after our time was up.\n\nUnexpectedly, he quietly wrote down his address on a piece of paper, told me I could write him in his absence. Then he made sure to give me an appointment the week of his return. I was grateful but also wondered about my own state of emotional health, why he would give me his address if he didn't think I might need to contact him in case of some emergency. I looked down at the piece of paper\u2014an address in Switzerland and one in the South of France, the only clues that he has a real life.\n\nJan, the wife of the Spanish publisher and the only American I know here, and I meet at Od\u00e9on to walk together to the thirteenth arrondissement to swim at the outdoor municipal pool. It's been a few weeks since we last saw each other. She's been having problems with Antoine, details about the bookshop and marital strains that she's not quite ready to discuss, but soon, she promises.\n\nIt's miserably hot, and the leftover summer people all cram next to one another, the men ogling the women. I close my eyes and remember the pool in Provence, overlooking the hills. Olivier hasn't called in three days, and he won't answer any of my calls. I leave messages, send him notes.\n\nI distract myself by reading the headlines of _Lib\u00e9ration, Le Monde._ The Dutroux affair captures headlines in all the papers\u2014a horrifying story of a Belgian man and his wife, owners of a day school, accused of abusing the children. Just as I'm about to speak, Jan looks over and, spreading out her towel, says softly, \"I have to tell you something.\"\n\nI fold up the newspaper.\n\n\"I've asked Antoine for a divorce.\"\n\nI look at her, not surprised, really, but still not quite understanding. I try to think of the last time I saw him, them together . . . it's been months. Antoine roasted red peppers and eggplant, showed me the latest manuscript of a Guatemalan writer he was going to publish.\n\n\"I know you were just at the house. We put on a good front. I'm taking his lead, acting like nothing's wrong.\"\n\nI try to think of what to say. Maybe they just need some time apart, something to spice up the routine.\n\n\"You can't possibly begin to imagine.\" She stares at me and takes a deep breath. She puts on her sunglasses, rubs in some lotion to protect her skin. \"I haven't told you anything about the trial\u2014\"\n\n\"The trial? What trial?\" I immediately think it's about the bookstore, maybe a legal matter with a writer. \"Do you have a good attorney?\"\n\nHer lip starts to quiver, and then she buries her face in the towel. \"I think he's going to have to do some time.\" Finally, after a long pause, she takes the newspaper from me, folds it over and over again, while telling me about Antoine's past relationship with a woman from Spain. \"Antoine and this woman had a common bond. Their parents had fought against the regime of Franco, and they, Antoine and Juana, I guess they thought they were fighting their own revolution. For socialism or communism.\"\n\n\"So it's political,\" I answer, trying to make sense of it all.\n\nShe nods, then shakes her head. \"When we met, I thought it was romantic. I was a young American from Ohio . . . what did I know about revolutions and political oppression? We grew up on cheese balls and buckeyes.\" She laughs, revealing the smart, self-deprecating sense of self I treasure about her. \"Antoine grew up on anti-Fascist brochures and _tortillas espagnoles._ His mother makes one with chorizo and peppers that I've finally learned to make. It's soo good.\" Her voice drifts off.\n\nI offer her a bottle of water. She swallows, and I stretch out on my towel.\n\n\"I'm confused about it all myself,\" she finally says. \"He hasn't been very clear, but what I understand is that he's done something and I'm not sure he's innocent. I don't understand any of it, actually . . .\" She hesitates, not sure if she knows me well enough. \"We had already discussed divorce, back when all this came to light, when he realized how serious it was, about a year ago. Maybe I was in denial. . . . There's no evidence, none . . . but . . .\" She leans back, lifts her rib cage high in the air, gulping for breath. \"The marriage hasn't been working, and it won't get better if he has to do time. I can't talk about it anymore. I need to sort things out for myself. I'm going to take a plunge,\" she says.\n\n\"Yes,\" I whisper as she stands at the edge of the pool. I watch her dive into the deep end. I realize she will tell me more if and when she is ready. For now, I must be the buoy, my friendship the flotation device.\n\nA few weeks later, Antoine writes me from La Sant\u00e9 prison in the fourteenth arrondissement, mainly to repeat that he's innocent and to request that I take care of Jan, treat her like a sister, like a relative, care for her well-being and her future as if she were my own blood. So I arrive at her Montfaucon apartment with my books and bags. I get up early to shop at the open-air markets, buy food, cook, do laundry, make sure she opens the shutters every day and doesn't forget to breathe.\n\nAfter her weekly prison visits, I meet her at a caf\u00e9 for tiny cups of coffee. Sometimes Brigitte, the poet, joins us and distracts us with galleys of her new books. She is writing a play that will be produced at a theater in the Marais. Sometimes Jan and I get into bed with piles of cookbooks and magazines. We read French _Saveurs_ and _C\u00f4t\u00e9 Sud, Cuisines du Bout du Monde,_ out loud, showing each other the beautifully photographed terrines and delicate _tartes sucr\u00e9es_ we want to emulate, the port city cuisines of Marseille, San Sebasti\u00e1n, Bordeaux. We memorize the secrets to perfect layers of rich pastry and tender roasted meats trussed with kitchen string. We drift off to sleep, she dreaming of distant bars and cages, I of wanting to be tied down.\n\nWe dream of comfort food, sometimes of American things, just because we can't get them here. Nachos and cheese with pickled jalape\u00f1os, peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches on soft white bread.\n\n\"Remember Wonder Bread?\" Jan swoons one early morning, drifting in and out of sleep.\n\n\"Bunny Bread,\" I whisper.\n\nJan's mother sends a cookbook from the States, one of those Junior League publications from a town in Ohio. We laugh hysterically as we flip through the plastic wire-bound collection, reading off the recipes to each other.\n\n\"Here's one for holiday ham balls.\" She says it with a midwestern twang that makes my heart ache with longing.\n\n\"Cheese balls, whiskey weeeners,\" I read. \"And how about those odd-colored congealed salads with canned fruit and marshmallows?\" We both jiggle in disgust.\n\nFor our next dinner party, we end up pooling our money to buy pumpkins and fresh langoustines, instead, whole pheasant to roast with dried pears and apricots, cheeses and glazed chestnuts. Our group of friends\u2014Erik, a Canadian expat I met at a poetry workshop at the British Institute; Eric-Marie, an expelled Franciscan monk who used to come to the bookshop\u2014and a handful of others\u2014Alain, a handsome French actor; a rotund Polish gourmand\u2014arrive at Jan's impromptu, often between 7:00 and 8:00 p.m., _\u00e0 l'heure de l'ap\u00e9ritif._ When Gilles isn't painting he comes, too. Along with Paolo and Giuseppe, when he can get away from the restaurant. They know that we'll be cooking and arrive offering wine, some market flowers, a tattered book or two. They sit at the table as Jan and I serve up comfort\u2014creamy pumpkin or black bean soup, cheese polenta, veal stews, and soft baked custards.\n\nThere's always a moment of shared silence as we eat, each swallowing his or her own sorrows. We gather to refurbish the soul in a _pot au feu,_ or Indian curry, Jan's lamb tagine with prunes and nuts. They particularly like the dishes from New Orleans, my grandfather's recipes for gumbo and red beans and rice. I make huge pots of osso bucco and a fresh farm chicken stewed in cream and wine from the Jura. Sometimes we make spicy pasta dishes late at night, just for the two of us, with garlic and anchovies or onions and cream, or long-simmered soups of pumpkin and chestnut.\n\nBut in reality, we're nothing but a group of misfits, _margi-naux,_ who have chosen not to take the easy way to our heart's desires. We're enthusiastic and naively hopeful; we talk of projects, ideas that won't change the world but may help us help one another. We attend Gilles's gallery openings, Brigitte's readings, celebrate when Erik publishes an article on the Roma Gypsies for the UN, when Alain lands a well-paying role in a film to be shot in New Orleans, of all places. We drink cheap bottles of red while concocting prison escape plans for Antoine. We scoop out roasted bone marrow while someone reads an article about a loving wife who had a helicopter swoop into the courtyard of La Sant\u00e9 and extract her murderer husband out of the prison courtyard.\n\nAntoine stays in prison while Jan slowly takes herself out of it. I continue to long for Olivier and try to busy myself with teaching, writing, friends in general, and men in particular. Aside from dinners with Jan & Co., I have an odd schedule of men for a while.\n\nSome Monday mornings, a translator of Portuguese poetry rides through the dusky streets on an orange bicycle, the basket filled with hot puffed croissants and a chilled bottle of Deutz Champagne. He seduces me first with breakfast and then with lines from his favorite books by Pessoa, always hoping for something less melancholy. Sometimes it works, but for me it's more about the immediate intimacy and not his whispered promises afterward of a long, stable relationship. On Wednesdays, I meet a French American artist for lunch, listen to him talk of his relationships with various French actresses. Sometimes I ride back with him to his studio on the outskirts of the city in Montreuil, let him paint my face on a canvas using hideous bright colors before trying to get me into bed. An Indian book editor I meet at a caf\u00e9 invites me for drinks at his Saint-Michel nest and offers to take me to Goa for the holidays. Of course, I won't go, I remind myself. I hardly know him, but I like his energy, especially because I have none these days, and more than anything, I am lonely and tired and forever hungry. I am blas\u00e9 with these men who are not Olivier. I am not sufficiently needy. Sometimes yes, often no. I have become the worst clich\u00e9 of the Latin lover. I have no time to think about any of these men. They are just filling a space, temporary and insatiable. I want to be weighted down; I am shameless in my longing for gravity and wholeness\u2014ashamed of my old ragged heart.\n\nPaolo calls at 7:00 a.m. from Giuseppe's restaurant one morning and says he'll be by to see me in a few minutes. And he does: He shows up at my door, dressed in linen and sandals. I can barely get out of bed on this hot summer morning.\n\n\"Come, we go to the sea,\" Paolo says, a little too brightly for such an early hour, a Panama hat on his head. \"Giuseppe and I close the _ristorante_ for two weeks. Business has been very good at the trattoria. It's amazing how much pasta tiny Parisian women can wolf down when the men are not looking. So Giuseppe is off to Bologna to see his mama, and I invite you, my very good friend, to the coast for a weekend. It is not Sicily or Capri, but it is the sea,\" Paolo announces.\n\nI don't care if it's not Sicily or Corsica or Venice, at least it's not Paris or Provence. I jump out of bed, grab a straw market basket, and load it up with bathing suit, sundresses, and sandals. A big floppy hat. My camera and film, and we're off. We climb into Paolo's rented Twingo and drive the three hours to the Gold Coast. The windows rolled down and the heat blowing in distract me.\n\nWe get to Cancale just in time for lunch. Cold raw oysters from the bay\u2014delicious, although milkier this time of year\u2014and Riesling, a bitter green salad, Camembert de Normandie and _tarte \u00e0 la fraise_ for dessert. Driving up the coast in a tipsy breeze, we arrive at the walled-in city of Saint-Malo. There's still enough sunlight to highlight the fortress. The air's salty and nourishing, the coastline rugged. There are signs everywhere advertising _moules frites_ and buckwheat cr\u00eapes filled with andouille or onions and cream. We stop for a sweet Breton pastry and a glass of hard farmhouse cider before checking into the H\u00f4tel Chateaubriand.\n\nLater, dining at the restaurant \u00c0 la Duchesse Anne, I tell Paolo distractedly, \"Olivier and I used to love to come here. That's how I knew about the hotel. We like the one in Cancale, too, but this one is so close to the water.\"\n\n\"Are you going to get back together?\" Paolo asks suddenly.\n\nI've never really allowed myself to admit that maybe yes, I would like to. We've flirted with the idea over the phone, but one of us always retreats.\n\nPaolo waits for me, anticipating whether I will cry or not. When he sees that I am not going to, he orders chilled langoustines and mayonnaise. Whole turbot grilled and served with a divine beurre blanc. \"Why does he have to be gay?\" I wonder aloud. Somehow we manage profiteroles with dark chocolate sauce that the waiter spoons at the table. After, we take a late-night stroll along the beach. I feel restored, whole for just a brief moment.\n\nPaolo and I share a room at the hotel. Our twin beds overlook Chateaubriand's tomb. _\"Romantico,\"_ Paolo whispers. We fall asleep with the windows open and a light sea breeze salting our lips and face. In the middle of the night, I feel a hand sliding up my leg. I turn over and Paolo is staring at me.\n\n_\"Paolo, arr\u00eate avec tes conneries.\"_ I slap his hand away. _\"Je veux dormir.\"_\n\n\"Kim, let me touch your body.\"\n\nI prop my head up on one elbow. The lighthouse from nearby Dinan shines every few seconds on his face. \"What are you doing in my bed?\"\n\n\"I want to be with a . . . woman. I love you, _mi amore._ \"\n\nI blink several times. His eyes are so black, I can't tell if he's asleep or drunk.\n\n\"We can have beautiful _bambini_ together. Little almonds for the eyes, _frizzante_ for the hair. _Bellissimo._ \" He pulls down the covers and starts rubbing up against me. I'm surprised to feel how hard he actually is.\n\n\"Paolo!\" I can't help myself and start to laugh. At first he's angry, rubbing his crotch, and then he sees that behind the laughter I'm actually a bit scared.\n\nHe apologizes, then sits up. \"It is impossible for me to, you know, with a woman, anyway, but I just thought, maybe.\" He starts laughing, too, at the absurdity of it.\n\nWe lie still in bed, imagine how goofy our children would look with his curly mop and my slanted eyes. We giggle like two kids, kicking each other gently with our toes, pulling the covers off each other, telling jokes until sleep creeps in bed with us. I dream of babies, tons of them. Newborns who speak several languages, who pull at me like the tides. I lose them one by one, in the sea, on land, in the air, floating like kites up into the sky.\n\nThe next morning, after large bowls of _caf\u00e9 cr\u00e8me_ and buttered _tartines,_ we walk along the ramparts. In the distance, we notice a tall man and a little boy attached to strings. I recognize one of them. He waves and limps over to us. It's Thibault. I introduce him to Paolo.\n\n\"I've heard a lot about you,\" Paolo says, shaking his hand.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\" I ask Thibault, taking in his pungent odor mixed with the salt air. We walk together, Paolo falling in step behind us.\n\n\"You look . . . so . . . _mon Dieu . . . si belle._ How long has it been?\"\n\nI shrug. I want to ask him so many questions\u2014about Olivier, about Flora's funeral . . . I want to explain about my not being there, how Olivier forbade me\u2014but we walk silently.\n\n\"Olivier and I aren't friends . . . I just want you to know,\" he says, almost reading my mind. I say nothing, waiting for more. \"And we all know that he told you you couldn't come to Flora's funeral. I know you were there for her.\"\n\nI start to explain, but he raises his hand to silence me. \"It's the anniversary of my sister's death. My brother and I came to get away. That's his son.\" He points to the little boy, holding the kite. \"I'm doing okay. And you?\"\n\n\"I'm alive.\" I smile.\n\nPaolo and Thibault's nephew start trying to get the kite up in the air. \"Flora was born not far from here,\" I remind Thibault. He takes my hand, leads me to the edge of the water. It's cold. We walk a bit more, not needing to say anything at all, understanding there is so much in silence that can keep people afloat.\n\nCHICKEN IN VIN JAUNE WITH MORELS AND CR\u00c8ME FRA\u00ceCHE\n\nThis golden wine of the Jura region of France, also known for its superb cheeses, offers a delicate, nutty richness. If you must, substitute a dry sherry such as fino or amontillado.\n\n_2 cups dried morel mushrooms (or dried c\u00e8pes)_\n\n_1 (3- to 4-pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces_\n\n_Sea salt and fresh-ground black or white pepper, to taste_\n\n_Fresh-grated nutmeg, to taste_\n\n_1 tablespoon butter_\n\n_2 tablespoons olive oil_\n\n_2 to 3 shallots, sliced_\n\n_2 cups of_ vin jaune _from the Jura (or dry sherry)_\n\n_8 ounces cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche or heavy cream_\n\nRinse morels in cold water, then place in a bowl and pour hot water over. Let soak and plump, about 15 minutes.\n\nSeason chicken pieces evenly with salt, pepper, and a grate of fresh nutmeg. Heat butter and oil in a large heavy-bottom pot on medium high heat. Add chicken and let brown, turning once, about 10 minutes. Remove chicken to a plate and reserve. Add shallots to pan and cook 1 minute. Add wine and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-high and let cook, uncovered, scraping bottom of pan with a spoon, about 10 minutes or until liquid is reduced by half.\n\nRemove morels from liquid, being careful to leave behind any grit. Add morels to pot, stir in cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, and add reserved chicken. Cover and let cook another 20 minutes. Spoon sauce over chicken, cover and let cook another 5 minutes or until chicken is cooked through. Taste sauce and add more salt and pepper, as needed. Serve warm over rice or with roasted potatoes and accompany with _vin jaune_ or an oaky Chardonnay. _Serves 4 to 6._\n\nCREAM OF CHESTNUT SOUP\n\nWhen fresh chestnuts are in season, roast and peel them first. Make sure to use the best quality chicken broth\u2014if you don't have homemade, buy a high-quality free-range, organic broth and note that the amount of salt you add will vary depending on the level of sodium in your broth. The _cr\u00e8me de marrons_ adds just a hint of sweet richness to the soup.\n\n_1 teaspoon olive oil (or bacon fat)_\n\n_2 shallots (or 1 small baby leek, whites only), chopped_\n\n_1 sweet-tart apple (or pear), peeled, cored, and chopped_\n\n_14 ounces roasted whole chestnuts (about 2\u00bd cups)_\n\n_\u00bd teaspoon salt (plus more to taste)_\n\n_\u00bc teaspoon pepper (plus more to taste)_\n\n_3 to 4 sprigs fresh thyme_\n\n_1 quart good quality chicken broth_\n\n_\u00bc cup heavy cream_\n\n_1 to 2 teaspoons_ cr\u00e8me de marrons _(chestnut spread) (optional)_\n\n_Garnishes: cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, fresh celery leaves, foie gras, gingerbread croutons, saut\u00e9ed wild mushrooms, crispy bacon, or a drizzle of walnut or almond oil_\n\nHeat olive oil in large soup pot over medium high heat. Add shallots and apple and cook, stirring occasionally, about 5 minutes. Add chestnuts, salt, pepper, and thyme. Stir and let cook about 1 minute. Add broth and bring to a boil, skimming fat as it rises. Reduce heat to medium low and let cook about 25 minutes or until chestnut and apple are tender. Remove from heat. Remove thyme sprigs and discard. Using a slotted spoon, transfer chestnut, apple, and shallot to blender and puree until smooth. (If pureeing while hot, do not cover tightly with lid; instead, hold a dish towel over small feed tube before blending.) Add a little broth if too thick. Pour back into soup pot. Heat to low. Stir in cream. Stir in _cr\u00e8me de marrons,_ if desired. Serve warm with a drizzle of cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and garnish, if desired. _Serves 4._\nXXI\n\nTrail of Men\n\nBack in Paris, the RATP is on strike again, so the whole city is back on its well-heeled feet. I miss the coastal breezes of Brittany already. The air here is stagnant, and I can't wait for autumn. Grignon has finally returned from his summer vacation, and I've just walked the ten blocks from a session with him back to my place in the unbearable heat. I pour myself a glass of sparkling water, stir in _sirop d'orgeat,_ sweet almond syrup that reminds me of summers elsewhere. Jan calls to invite me to a conference at the Maison des \u00c9crivains. _Po\u00e9sie et le Corps._ Poetry and the Body, with Jean-Pierre Clemenceau. I'm exhausted, I tell her.\n\n\"But it's _the_ Jean-Pierre Clemenceau,\" she exclaims over the phone. \"Have you read any of his work? He's _so_ melancholic,\" she swoons. \"Juan-Carlos can't stand him. He finds him pretentious.\"\n\nJuan-Carlos is the new man in Jan's life. \"He's the dancer,\" she whispered when she introduced us last week. A handsome Peruvian with long black hair and strong legs. I don't trust him, but Jan is taken by him. He's a good distraction.\n\nIt's still over ninety degrees at 8:00 p.m., so I put on a black linen dress and gold strappy sandals. I don't really know who I'm dressing for, but I want to impress In\u00e8s if she's there. Or maybe it's Clemenceau I'm thinking of. He has called twice since we met just before the closing of the bookstore. I call Louis and invite him to come along.\n\nAfter the conference, we're gathered, Jan and Louis (minus Nelly) and I, around the bar in the courtyard.\n\n\"Henri Michaux he's not,\" Louis says. \"But very interesting _quand m\u00eame._ \" Before I realize it, Jan has Jean-Pierre Clemenceau, the poet, pouring her a glass of Champagne, staring at her. His laughter is deep and hearty. Nothing serious or poetic about it, and that puts me oddly at ease.\n\n\"This is Kim. She's American, but speaks French fluently.\"\n\nThe writer takes my hand and tells me he's _enchant\u00e9._ \"We've met,\" he says. Jan turns to me, and I shrug. \"In\u00e8s is my editor; she arranged the reading at her bookshop, months ago,\" he explains. \"We met, but . . . never really got to talk.\"\n\nI step outside to hail a cab for Louis. \"Are you sure you won't join us for dinner?\" I ask him one last time.\n\n\"No, you go on. I have my tin of beans in the studio. I'm an old bird, you know. Nelly's in Brittany recovering for the week.\"\n\nWe kiss good night, and when I get back to the lobby, Jan and the writer are chatting about Ren\u00e9 Char and Verlaine. When they see me, Jean-Pierre hands me a glass of Champagne.\n\nJan whispers, \"Juan-Carlos is furious with me. I've got to go. Call me tomorrow.\"\n\n\"What about dinner?\"\n\n\"Jean-Pierre, I'm sure, will be happy to join you,\" she says, rushing out.\n\nI can feel him, the writer, staring. \"Do you like cuisine from the Jura?\" he asks, taking my arm and leading me out to the street.\n\nIt's too hot for mountain cuisine. \"In a different time,\" I answer, \"any other season, but I'll be happy to accompany you.\"\n\n\"I'm from the region. Right up this street.\" He points. \"There's this wonderful bistro that serves specialties from Montb\u00e9liard.\"\n\nI don't really know where his region is, and we never quite make it to the bistro. Instead, we walk along the Seine, talking of homes and leaving homes, animated by our common need for anchors and buoys. Jean-Pierre rambles on about voyages and lack of roots in such a way that it's as if he has been eavesdropping on my life. At an outdoor caf\u00e9, we linger over smoky Scotch, but suddenly everything seems urgent, this brief moment I have with the poet.\n\n\"You're married,\" I say after my first empty glass. This is not really a question, but he answers anyway.\n\n\"Yes. Technically, but not really. Separated. My wife lives in the suburbs, and I have a studio on the Left Bank. It's an arrangement . . . while we discuss . . . divorce.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sorry.\" I sound so provincial.\n\n\"We've lived like this for years. She waits for me to come back. Sometimes I do. Then I always leave. It's my _\u00e9tat._ And you? You must have men circling around you, _non_?\"\n\n\"Not the one I want,\" I say, surprising myself. Is Olivier the one I've wanted all along? I wonder. Could he have been the one person to make me happy? Or am I just lonely? I look out into the street, wanting silence as we take in the sounds of the river lapping up against the two islands of Paris. There are so many bridges in this city, so many paths to cross.\n\n\"People are lonely here,\" Jean-Pierre says, finishing my thought, but not really talking to me. The wind blows, and the sound of a tugboat bleats ahead of us.\n\n\"It's getting late. I think I should get home.\" Before he can say anything, I stop an Alpha taxi and open the car door.\n\nJean-Pierre kisses my cheek quickly and clumsily. \"I'll call you,\" he says. The rain starts, and from the window he's blurred. I can't quite see if he's looking at me or already beyond.\n\nWhen I get back to the apartment, there's a message for me to call Paolo. I agree to go to the Italian film festival with him next Sunday. Dinner even, anything to not think about the writer.\n\nWe watch a Pasolini film and a Fellini cycle at the rue Saint-Andr\u00e9-des-Arts cinema. Paolo breaks his pasta-every-day rule and takes me to the Korean restaurant across the street from the Korean embassy in the seventeenth arrondissement. The _salade de m\u00e9duse_ is cold and silky on my tongue, the grilled stuffed tripe surprisingly delicious and perfect with the ros\u00e9 from Bandol.\n\n\"You are so far away, _bella Keem._ In Korea, I hope.\"\n\nI nod gratefully and dip my steamed dumpling into the thick, garlicky red sauce, trying not to think of the poet; but nothing helps. Jean-Pierre pulls at me like the evening tide. He writes what I wish I had written. Words to give life and capture the restlessness inside.\n\n\"You are thinking of that horrible writer. Jan told me you met with him.\"\n\nI look down at my plate.\n\n\"Kim, he came to the trattoria, Giuseppe saw\u2014\"\n\n\"Paolo, I don't want to know.\"\n\n\"He is famous in some circles and a _very_ infamously married man\"\u2014he raises his hand to my objection\u2014\"even if he says he is getting divorced.\"\n\n\"You've been with married men,\" I point out to him. \"And you even believed them when they said they were divorcing.\"\n\nPaolo nods touch\u00e9 as he knocks the green onion out of my chopstick playfully. \"I'm just saying I do not trust him. He is no _bene_ for you.\"\n\n_\"Mangia!\"_ I order. I know he's right, but I refuse to admit it to him. Paolo's jealousy is sweet, protective, but I am drawn to Jean-Pierre, his drifting ways. Maybe he is just a continuation, as Flora told me long ago. But he is nothing like Olivier, except for his age. And I can't figure out the knotted relations with his estranged wife. I avoid bookshops because they carry J-P's books, literary centers planning lectures by him, but I'm still captivated by him.\n\nOne evening, late November, coming out of the library at the Centre Pompidou, I see Jean-Pierre at the Caf\u00e9 Beaubourg, writing furiously in a green notebook, smoking a cigarette. I slip into the flow of people to go the opposite way, but he recognizes me and gestures for me to come and join him.\n\n_\"Bonsoir.\"_ He looks happy to see me. \"I've tried calling you several times, but you never answer.\" As I sit next to him, his knees brush against my leg. _\"Caf\u00e9 ou ap\u00e9ritif?\"_\n\nIt's almost 6:00 p.m., so I order a porto.\n\n\"I wrote you a poem,\" he says softly, so quietly that I'm not sure I've heard him. He blushes like a young student. I don't say anything but am smiling inside as I swallow the plum-colored liquid. \"Do you know Italy?\"\n\nI nod, not daring to spill out everything I love about the country, my many road trips with Olivier to Alba, Lugano, Venice, Tuscany . . . the gas stations filled with wheels of cheese and aged vinegars.\n\n\"I'm giving a conference in Aoste next month, on Malraux.\"\n\n\"Sadness?\" I ask in English, leaning forward.\n\n\" _Malraux._ Not _malheureux._ \"\n\n\"Hmmm . . .\" I lean back. \"I don't really know Aoste.\"\n\n\"Why don't you join me. I will be happy to get you a ticket.\" He says this so casually. He orders another round for us. We drink almost in silence, as if we have been together for years. There's a heaviness I feel in his presence, a deep, necessary weight about him that reminds me of my own searching ways. \"Shall we have dinner this time? There's a great little bistro next to my place.\"\n\nI don't know why I'm here, but when he leans close to me, his warmth and darkness mixed together keep me adrift. I want to ask him what state he's currently in, single or suburban. But I know better than that and order a third porto before going with him out into the city.\n\nWe dine at Le M\u00e2chon and afterward walk for hours along the quays of the Seine, talking, whispering promises. We drift in and out of caf\u00e9s. People recognize him and nod or tell him how much they enjoyed his latest book or a recent lecture. We run into women he knows, young, stunning women, students of his who seem to blossom in his presence. I don't feel I'm with him or not, but he holds my hand as if I were his, as if we belonged to each other, and for the time I tell myself it might be true.\n\n_Olivier and my father are on a bus in Seoul. They're searching for Charlie, a young Asian soldier who has kidnapped my sister. My mother is driving the bus. We pass through brightly lit streets, windows filled with prostitutes dressed in blue. Mother covers my eyes. The police stop us and tell us we have to change routes and go through North Korea. Suzy and I are forced off the bus._\n\n_Then we're back on the bus, and Olivier has to urinate. He does, profusely, flooding everything and the streets of Seoul. Helicopters above. He can't stop urinating. Then we're in a castle with a group of retired German tourists. The queen is lounging on a red velvet divan, crushed velvet cushions in purples and golds._\n\n_\"What time is it?\" I ask her. She's fat and hates me._\n\n_\"I will burn the bus,\" she says, and cackles loudly, \"in exactly twenty-three hours.\"_\n\nIt smells like smoke, and the windows are open with the streetlights and rain pouring in. I hear a man's voice rise out of the dark.\n\n_\"Non, je ne reviens pas ce soir.\"_ Not tonight. _\"Tu n'es pas malade.\"_ You're not sick. The voice has a body. Jean-Pierre's standing naked with the hall light illuminating him from behind. He looks like a ghost with the smoke swirling around him.\n\n_\"Tu veux de l'eau?\"_\n\nYes. Water would be good. \"Did someone call?\" I realize we're back at my place and can't remember if I dreamed him on the phone.\n\n\"I just called Claire to tell her I'd be in the city this weekend.\" He gets back in bed with me.\n\n\"What time is it?\"\n\n\"Two in the morning. Are you okay?\"\n\n\"I thought I dreamed\u2014\" He takes me in his arms and whispers that dreams don't mean anything if we don't want them to. It feels good to have him in my bed. Safe. I start to doze off.\n\n\"Claire thinks she has pneumonia.\" He rolls over and strokes my back. \"But last time I left, years ago, she broke her hip.\"\n\n\"And the time before that, you said she had cancer of the uterus\u2014\"\n\n\"False alarm.\"\n\n\"How did she get my number, anyway?\"\n\n\"I called her while you were asleep. She left me a message.\"\n\n\"Look, maybe you should leave,\" I tell him, wanting him to and not.\n\n\"I'm staying.\" He sits up and looks at me. \"I feel good here, Kim. It's been a long time since I've felt good with a woman.\"\n\n\"Since the last,\" I say skeptically. My heart's pounding so hard, I can feel it in my ears.\n\n\"I've seen a lawyer about the divorce.\" He says this like a present he's been waiting to give me. I hold my breath and start shaking my head. \"I should have done it years ago . . . but . . . I can't tell her now.\"\n\n\"Jean-Pierre, it really is time for you to go.\"\n\nAnd to my surprise, he does. He climbs out of bed and pulls on his clothes and goes out into the 2:00 a.m. streets. After he's slammed the door, I crack it open quietly so I can hear his footsteps all the way to the end. I want to listen for the very last step.\n\nJan and I are sitting at the bar of the Havana Caf\u00e9 on the boulevard Saint-Germain, making lists, something we've promised not to do anymore. \"Okay,\" she says, and reads out loud, pencil in the air. \"No ex-cons, _pas d'hommes_ who 'freelance.' \" She laughs. \"How do you say that _en fran\u00e7ais?\"_\n\nWe have our own strange language, Jan and I, a combination of French and English with some Louisiana and Ohio, a bit of Spanish thrown in for good measure. We don't even realize it until someone else, like Brigitte or Paolo, reminds us that we're not making any sense.\n\nIt's girls' night out. She's wearing dark chocolate pants and a mint-colored silk sweater. She's pulled her long hair up into a thick chignon, which renders her big brown eyes more relevant. I'm in black, already mourning Jean-Pierre's disappearance\u2014tonight he is dining with his wife to discuss the divorce proceedings. Jan's own divorce is finalized. The judges didn't hesitate owing to Antoine's trial.\n\n\"And no men in relationships with other women,\" I say emphatically.\n\n\"Or in relationships with other men.\"\n\n\"No men who eat congealed salads,\" I add, sipping the last sugary mouthful of a fresh mint mojito. _\"Plus d'\u00e9crivains.\"_ No more writers.\n\n\"Has he called?\" she asks, ordering two special rum cocktails from Ernesto, the bartender.\n\nI wish I smoked cigars. I need one now, but I shake my head instead, rolling and unrolling the damp paper napkin. Ernesto flashes a big, bright Cuban-exile-in-Paris bartender smile. He has a crush on Jan.\n\n\"Well, you'll find out everything when he gets back later.\" Jan turns to look at me. \" _Tu le vois,_ you're seeing J-P later?\"\n\n\"He's staying over there tonight. In the suburbs.\"\n\n\"Kim\u2014\"\n\n\"It'll be easier for him to meet with his parents tomorrow morning, he won't have to drive out there again.\"\n\nI take a sip of my drink, feel the sting of soda on my tongue. Maybe I should go sit in the humidor and chill out. \"Please don't say anything. I trust him,\" I whisper halfheartedly. \"He's always come back to the city, and just this once, _je comprends._ \"\n\nJan scribbles something on our list, and I wonder if I'm convincing myself or just her.\n\nWhen Jean-Pierre hasn't called the next morning, I panic and start emptying out the refrigerator and pantry\u2014throwing out everything furiously, wilted m\u00e2che lettuce and two-week-old yellow Portuguese bread from the market, rounds of cheese that have taken on a pale blue tint and matching fuzz. I won't call, I've promised myself. He's having lunch with his parents, I remind myself. I start alphabetizing books, leaving out the C's in poetry. But I flip through some of his books and remember what it is about him that caught my attention in the beginning. He writes about what's missing, left behind, and searching always for the one love you'll never have. At twenty-seven, am I still so naive to imagine that I could be the one love he wants, that anyone wants? This is what he's told me and made me believe. I stack the books together and slide them to the bottom shelf. At 4:00 p.m., the phone finally rings.\n\n_\"Salut, toi.\"_\n\n\"Oh, hi. It's you,\" I answer. \"No offense.\"\n\n\"He hasn't called?\" Jan asks. \"I'll be right over.\"\n\nAbout fifteen minutes later, I open the door, unable to speak.\n\n_\"Pauvre petite.\"_ Jan hugs me, taking the cigarette from me and crushing it in the ashtray. \"His cigarettes, _en plus._ You don't even smoke. I've brought food, Paolo's stopping over. And Gilles is coming after he drops some paintings off at the gallery for his new exhibit.\"\n\nThe phone rings, and we both jump. \"Don't answer. Let him suffer.\" It rings two more times, and then the answering machine clicks on. I hear my voice, too high and cheerful for the occasion, asking the caller to leave a message. Two beeps and nothing.\n\nFinally, I call him. J-P answers right away. I was just about to call, he lies. It's 7:00 p.m., aren't we having dinner? I ask. Then he tells me that Claire is sick and he's going to stay another night. I hang up and hate myself for it.\n\nJan starts sweating onions and carrots and celery, tosses in ground veal and lamb. \"I can't cook in the state I'm in,\" I whine. She ignores me and starts washing herbs. Gilles slices a baguette for crostini. Paolo's brought baby violet artichokes and a whole _jambon de San Daniele_ from Giuseppe's restaurant. Gilles is tender and has sensed the missteps of the writer, but he is kind and nonjudgmental.\n\nAt the table, Gilles tells Paolo and Jan how we met at the bookshop. \"I didn't make it to my father's reading, but Kim did come to see my work at the atelier, we had tea . . . she actually liked it. My work, I mean.\"\n\nI nod, a bit sullen.\n\n\"Besides, you don't want to be with a writer,\" he jokes. \"They're all screwed up, a poet no less. I should know . . . my mother married two of them.\"\n\n\"Who was the second?\" Paolo asks.\n\n\"Char. My mother left Andr\u00e9 to live with Char.\" Gilles doesn't offer much more than this, but Paolo is excited to be sitting with the stepson of such a passionate poet. There is a certain volatile aspect to Gilles's nature, and to have his mother leave his father for another raging poet was always a great source of pain. \"Now artists, on the other hand . . . We're much less complicated.\" Gilles winks.\n\nBy the time we've finished two bottles of red, I'm almost ready to forget J-P. I excuse myself to go in the other room and lie down. My head is spinning, Jean-Pierre and Claire's broken bones, her bloated uterus. I call his apartment to leave a message. After two rings he answers. I drop the phone.\n\n\"Are you okay, Kim?\" Jan sits on the bed next to me, scowling at the receiver as she hangs it up.\n\n\"He's there. He's not in the suburbs with Claire. He's in Paris, and I\u2014\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"Jan, we have to go over there. I need to talk to him.\" I start grabbing my keys and a sweater, some money off the dresser.\n\n\"Okay, let's take the m\u00e9tro. It'll be faster.\" Jan's running after me as she yells to Gilles and Paolo to clean up while we're gone.\n\n\"This is crazy,\" Jan says.\n\n\"He lied,\" I tell her.\n\n\"Of course he did. Even if he hadn't lied. Why do you want to go and\u2014\"\n\nThe green line of the underground courses through the belly of the city, rushes like the blood in my veins. We run up the steps and out of the underground. It's cold and damp. His place is just three blocks from the station. Jan waits for me across the street. The shutters to his first-floor apartment are open, but the lights are off.\n\n\"What time is it?\" I ask Jan, running up alongside of me.\n\n\"It's almost one in the morning.\"\n\nWe enter the building, and I take a deep breath. Just before I knock, we hear a woman's voice. Jan and I both press our ears to the door, but I can hear only a soft lilt and then Jean-Pierre's laughter, hearty and promising.\n\n\" _Allez_ . . . let's get out of here. This is so beneath you.\"\n\n\"He told me he was with Claire. _Qu'elle \u00e9tait malade._ \"\n\n\"Well, either Claire's not sick or that's another woman.\"\n\n_\"Gracias, Jan,\"_ I mutter as she grabs my arm and leads me back out into the street. Just as we are about to leave, someone bumps into the window from the other side. I catch a glimpse of an ankle, a strappy high heel, positioned awkwardly against the wall. Jan covers my mouth and leads me promptly into the back of a cab.\n\nAs we ride around the city, my heart in my throat, the last thing I want is Jan to be her rare but exact and practical self. I ask the cabbie to turn up the radio; I want to drown out the voices\u2014that woman's, so familiar yet too healthy to be Claire's, too confident to be mine. I have the cabbie drive around the periphery of the city.\n\n\"What an idiot!\" I scream. Jan bursts out in laughter, apologizing simultaneously. \"What a total idiot,\" I repeat. We are both trying to catch our breath from laughing so hard.\n\nAnd then silence settles in as I roll down the window and imagine myself a stranger, that I'm seeing Paris for the first time\u2014its sparkling towers and bridges, monuments and gardens. I pretend I have no history and can start again. We cross over the Pont d'Alma, pass the mini Statue of Liberty. The lights of the Eiffel Tower flash out, as always, at exactly 1:00 a.m. I sit back and sigh\u2014at least there are still some things you can count on.\n\nJan squeezes my hand. _\"Quelle belle ville.\"_ What an amazing city, she says, reading my mind.\n\nOne late spring morning, I wake up after an unsettling dream about Jean-Pierre. He has been in a train wreck on his way to a small town in South Korea to give a poetry reading. I'm the only one who knows about the wreck. I try to call him, but the numbers are all wrong . . . the digits no longer in pairs like a regular French telephone number. I keep dialing, but no one answers.\n\nI try to recall J-P's phone numbers as I rush to my meetings\u2014I'm late for one of my classes, and I also have a rendezvous later with In\u00e8s, the editor. I hope maybe she wants to hire me. When I arrive at the Left Bank publishing house, the receptionist offers hot black coffee while I wait.\n\nIn\u00e8s barges into the room and throws down a manuscript on the table. \"Have you read this?\" she says in rushed French, showing me a blank cover page.\n\n_\"Bonjour,\"_ I offer.\n\n_\"Bonjour,\"_ she says distractedly, pointing to the manuscript.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"You don't know what it is? I'll tell you. A story that includes _une Am\u00e9ricaine_ living in Paris. A relationship\"\u2014she hesitates, focusing her big brown eyes on me\u2014\"that goes nowhere. Sound familiar?\"\n\n\"Is it that bad, In\u00e8s? Why are you so upset about an unpublished novel? There're tons of them.\" I gesture to the piles stacked in the office.\n\n\"This is _not_ fiction. This is Jean-Pierre Clemenceau _\u00e0 nu._ Remember, I'm the one who told you about him in the first place.\" She slides the manuscript closer to me, then on second thought flips through it and closes it again. I can't tell if she's mad or trying to warn me.\n\nI had no idea he was writing this; he said he was writing a book of prose poetry. I don't tell her this, but before leaving, I manage the courage to tell In\u00e8s that I really don't want her to publish my name in the book.\n\n\"Any woman would be honored,\" she responds, narrowing her smoky eyes. She pauses a moment and then says, \"I'm going to publish it.\"\n\nGilles, the artist, calls one evening and asks me to go away with him. I haven't seen him since I left him and Paolo at my place as Jan and I ran out to Jean-Pierre's in the middle of the night.\n\n\"I'm sorry about running out like that,\" I say, a bit embarrassed.\n\n\"That's not important.\" Our friendship has blossomed despite all the ambiguities of two restless single people in Paris. \"I just need you to come.\"\n\n\"I don't know if it's a good idea . . . I'm taking a break from\u2014\"\n\n\"It's not what you think,\" he says, his voice tired and worn. \"Tina's dying.\"\n\nI've never met his mother. I just know Tina's American, and Gilles loves her immensely. Gilles is an honest _revolt\u00e9,_ someone who takes every day as a serious affront to the struggles of the artist's vision, his place in the world. He frightens me at times. Even when we first met that day he came into the shop, I saw something that I longed to be\u2014pure and truly passionate even about the smallest things I could never change about the world. \"Do you want to come over now?\"\n\n\"I'm at her house . . . in the Drome. There's a train this afternoon.\"\n\nHe knows I love traveling by train and that his friendship is important to me. On the way down, I think about Gilles. Timing is everything, and instead of each of us spending time trying to disentangle ourselves from other half relationships, we'd meet for thick veal chops and wild mushrooms, cheap red wine. We'd often meet for coffee on some Left Bank terrace before heading to see a Godard film. We'd return to his atelier to cook and feed some unresolved hunger. Gilles cooked the way southerners do, dump cooking. Throwing in a little bit of this and some of yesterday's that into a big seasoned skillet. We talked about his art, our missed opportunities, loves like half-moons waiting for fullness and clarity. He is like Thibault to me, a tall, misplaced brother of sorts.\n\nWhen I arrive at the train station, Gilles kisses me sloppily on both cheeks. I've forgotten how massive he is, a solid block. He apologizes for not having been to the market, for the day-old bread and almost empty bottle of wine he has back at the house.\n\n\"It's Monday,\" I respond, trying to make him feel better. \"Almost everything's closed, especially in a village this tiny.\"\n\nWe find a small shop that's still open. We choose dried sausage, baguette, and a bottle of _vin de table._ The store owner tells us that she has some tomatoes in her garden across the street. We follow her, and she also pulls up some perpetual celery and butter lettuce.\n\n\"How's your mother?\" she asks Gilles, handing him the vegetables. \"I knew her,\" she tells me. \"A beautiful woman, tall and golden, like her son . . . with a grand need to love.\"\n\nWhen Gilles is not at the hospital, we take long walks in the woods, through the arid hills of the region. He talks about his stepfather, Char, and his father, Andr\u00e9. He shows me photos of his mother. Mostly, though, he talks about trees, the names and colors of their leaves, the forms in all their splendor. Have I ever really _looked_ at a tree? he wants to know. Have I ever tried to understand its secret underground system of growth? Truly appreciated its branches and the fruit they bear? His voice trembles with a newfound fear.\n\nI remember then his capacity to frighten me. His rage pierces the forest, and I secretly wish I hadn't come, wish selfishly that I had stayed in Paris, dining on some terrace bistro instead. But then I realize how unbearable it must be for him to notice such things of the living world when his mother is passing on to the world of the dead.\n\nOn what ends up being Tina's last day, I wait for Gilles in his dented gray Volvo, at the foot of the village. It's late afternoon, and in silence we drive around to nowhere in particular, Gilles telling me he will find a way to resolve certain things with his father before he dies, which he will, soon. In a sudden need for escape, he suggests crossing the ocean to the States, in a naive wish for anonymity, to New York City, where he could get lost in the vast new world.\n\nI drive his car, listen to his rage silently. I roll down the windows to catch the last light and air of the evening and stop the car alongside an apricot orchard, drawn in by the overpowering fragrance, heady with the last days of summer.\n\n\"Are you still with that writer?\" he asks.\n\nI shrug my shoulder, leaning out the window.\n\n\"I don't know what you see in him. He's a poet, pretty good even, I get that, but the rest . . . he treats you like shit.\"\n\n\"He reminds me of what's missing. He's lost, too, in his own way. It's over, anyway,\" I tell him, not sure if I'm ready to let go.\n\n\"Why are you attracted to him being 'lost'?\" Gilles shakes his head. \"Look, I won't let him break your heart.\"\n\nIt's already broken, I want to say, so what do I have to lose? But I get out of the car instead. Gilles follows me into the orchard. We gorge ourselves on the golden fruit, tossing the pits, leaving a small trail behind as we venture deeper in.\n\nWe find a cool patch of earth and lie there on our backs, our arms and mouths open, waiting for a gift of fallen fruit. Quiet as Hansel and Gretel, we listen as the wind picks up strength and the sky darkens above us. When I start to worry that we may not find our way back out, the branches shift in the breeze, opening up points of light along the path.\n\nGilles turns on his side, props his head in one hand, and in the half-light, I see tears form on his cheeks, slip into his mouth. It's all right, he nods. I turn to avert my eyes so he can wipe dry his cheeks, and I take in the air, deep gulps of it, fragrant with the scent of ripe fruit and the promise of finding our way back. \nXXII\n\nTunisia, Amnesia\n\nIt's been five weeks since I've sworn off Jean-Pierre, but when he calls and we meet again at his Paris studio, I'm drawn in like draining water. Moving piles of student papers and manuscripts off the bed, he whispers that this takes time, he can't just leave his wife of twenty years.\n\n\"I've never asked you to,\" I tell him, slipping on one of his T-shirts and a pair of his jogging pants. They feel soft and warm against my skin, still tingling. \"You're the one who said from the beginning that you were separated, divorcing.\"\n\n\"She's lonely. I just have to call her once in a while and let her know that I'm not far.\"\n\nI shake my head, partly at him but mostly at myself. He lights candles and whistles softly, stopping to kiss me on the cheek before asking me to cook something for dinner. I like the distraction and start making jambalaya with leftover roast chicken and a flimsy green bell pepper and some garlic I find in the bottom drawer of his refrigerator.\n\n\"I'm hungry, but nothing too spicy . . . my stomach's a little upset, nervous.\"\n\n\"Hmm . . . I wonder why,\" I say, shredding the chicken.\n\n\"I know we've been through this . . . I told you we were separated and she wants a divorce as much as I do . . . if I continue to be so distant, though, it'll be more difficult.\"\n\nI want to tell him to quit justifying his behavior, but he's already in the other room, opening a bottle of wine. I add another pinch of cayenne, a few extra dashes of hot sauce, to the dish.\n\nTwo days later, Jean-Pierre tells me that In\u00e8s is planning on publishing his book in the fall. He starts to tell me about the manuscript. I don't tell him that In\u00e8s has already told me about it. It's on the table when we get to his place. There's also a message from Claire. _\"\u00c7a va mieux depuis ta derni\u00e8re visite. Beaucoup mieux. J'accepte de te voir un peu de temps en temps. M\u00eame si on se rend malheureux. Je t'attendrai.\"_ I'll wait for you. It's better since your last visit. He plays Claire's voice twice with me sitting right next to him. He likes me to hear it. He wants me to suffer, too.\n\nI want to leave, but J-P reproaches me for being so childlike, so provincial, so American and puritanical. \"When we met, you told me you were getting a divorce, that you had been separated for months.\"\n\nHe stands above me, pulls back his shoulders, rendering himself taller than he already is, and says, _\"J'ai le devoir devant Dieu et la loi de faire l'amour avec ma femme.\"_ He claims it is his duty before God and the law to make love to his wife.\n\n_\"Va-t'en!\"_ I scream. \"Leave. Go fulfill your duty.\" Liar, I want to scream, but he would only like the drama. I realize then that I'm the one who's supposed to leave. I gather my few belongings\u2014towels and sandals, candles, some magazines and books\u2014stuff them into a shopping bag, and storm out of the apartment. I hail a cab back to my place.\n\nWhen I arrive, J-P has already left me two messages. I erase them both without listening. About twenty minutes later, he shows up at the door, smoking furiously, with a big blue suitcase and a pith helmet on his head.\n\n\"What are you doing here?\"\n\nHe storms in and starts packing up a suitcase for me. \"It's four-thirty. If we take a cab to Orly, we can get the next flight out to . . . wherever.\"\n\n\"Are you nuts?\" I ask, following his lead, making piles of shoes and cotton sundresses, shampoo, and creams on the bed for him to throw into a carry-on. I want to hate him, but actually I hate myself more because this gives me such a rush, this dashing off to nowhere in particular. I have convinced myself that I am living someone else's life, and this is simply what this someone else does.\n\nAt Orly, Terminal Sud, J-P and I stand side by side, studying the flashing screen of imminent departures. The last flights out today are for Casablanca, Ile Maurice, and Tunis. We confer: The flight to Casablanca is full, and we don't have our vaccination cards, so our only option is to go to Tunisia. Neither of us has ever been.\n\n\"North Africa will be good for us,\" Jean-Pierre assures me, squeezing my hand as the plane finally takes off. \"It's just far enough.\"\n\nI'm exhausted, tired of fighting with him, against him, and fighting myself. This is our last chance. We're running away. I'm running away again. I should have left him months ago, but he claims to love me. And that's all I really want. Love, Flora told me so many times, is what keeps us with the living. And that's where I want to be, not among the dead. And if all we are is just a continuation, as she assured me, then let it go on.\n\nI'm not making any sense, I tell myself as I press my cheek against his shoulder, trying to remember Olivier's scent, longing for the simplicity and wholeness of his love. Jean-Pierre strokes my damp hair and forehead. I concentrate on the moment, try to push away the deep realization that I am punishing myself for leaving Olivier by being with such a destructive person.\n\n\"Sleep,\" Jean-Pierre whispers. \"I told Claire we were leaving.\" I pretend not to hear the last part and fall into the deepest sleep, thick and hot in my bones.\n\n\"Tunisia, amnesia,\" Jean-Pierre whispers to me at the Caf\u00e9 des Nattes in Sidi Bou Said, a village painted in blues and white perched high above the Bay of Tunis. He can't help smiling at his clever rhyme in both French and English. Months ago, I would have smiled, too, but I can't pretend anymore. Instead I take another puff from the long twisted pipe of the narghile, a type of hookah. The water bubbles, and every once in a while a dark-skinned boy with smooth hands mounds charcoal mixed with apple or rose-scented chips onto the top of the pipe. The aftertaste is like burnt barbecue, but for the moment it seems so much more palatable than arguing with Jean-Pierre, who sits across from me, an exact mirror image of my cross-legged self. I lean back ever so slightly and exhale, slowly letting the smoke cloud up the space between us.\n\nJean-Pierre Clemenceau, who looks no longer like the swarthy hero from a vintage spy movie, but rather like the faded poster version, pulls out a large Kraft paper envelope from his worn leather backpack. His rhythm and gestures are precise and dramatic from years of teaching in the most prestigious European institutions. J-P\u2014the James Bond of letters\u2014flashes his perfect smile as he rubs the envelope enticingly between his hands. He loves this suspense, and I can't help thinking how much Olivier would dislike him. J-P waves the envelope again to catch my attention.\n\n\"Do you have no interest in a story about _you_?\" he asks me in English, shifting positions subtly so we are no longer alike. I let the smoke fill the air again before taking the envelope from him.\n\n\"Me? Or a story disguised about you?\" I answer in French. He won't look at me now. Instead, he pretends to be writing something in his green leather notebook, orders a pot of mint tea, anything to avoid me.\n\n\"Here,\" he finally says. I notice that his hands are trembling slightly, so I wait a second more before taking it from him. From the weight of the envelope, I know that inside is the story. The paper is thick and gritty like dried salt or sand. I smell it, the sharp citrus scent of his cologne, Chanel's Platinum Ego\u00efste. I've been smelling everything since we've arrived\u2014the warm flat rounds of bread, our torn bus tickets, the hazy water served in tiny glasses that automatically accompanies the strong coffee. It drives Jean-Pierre crazy\u2014\"zis sniffing like a dog for police\"\u2014and I think that's partly why I can't help myself. I want to make him crazy, I want him to suffer in any way possible.\n\nOn the first page of the manuscript is a charcoal sketch of me. Jean-Pierre has caricatured what attracts and disturbs him the most, my \"impenetrable black eyes and slightly dented round-shaped face.\" And the title: _L'Histoire d'Elle. The Story of Her,_ crossed out with a big red X.\n\n\"What is it?\" I ask, scratching my left shoulder, which I notice now is no longer smooth and tan, but peeling from too much Tunisian sun. J-P reaches over to press his thumb hard on the roundest part, fascinated as the white print pulses away.\n\n\"I can't mark you anymore,\" he says tauntingly.\n\n\"So what is it?\" I know exactly what it is, what it's worth.\n\n\" _Tu le sais._ In\u00e8s is ready to publish it when we are, when we return to Paris.\"\n\n\"Now you and _I_ are we?\" I correct him. \"What happened to you and your ailing wife?\" He winces. I relish this rare and fleeting moment of power over him. Before, I could never have said the words _your wife._ \"I wonder what ailment _ta femme_ will come up with during this trip. Pneumonia, MS?\"\n\nJ-P clears his throat. \"Claire's decided she's willing to share. Weekends with her and the rest of the time\u2014\"\n\n\"What are you now, _a pie_?\" I ask, scanning the margins, which I now realize are littered with perfectly horizontal letters, small curves like half-bloomed flowers. I stop at the words _pas assez_ written carefully in French on the third page. Not enough? \"Who wrote these?\" Silence. \"You let _her_ edit the manuscript?\"\n\nI want to be absolute, like the heroine in one of the spy movies, toss his latest oeuvre over the cliff into the Mediterranean. But even though I'm stronger than months ago, I'm still not convincing in the outbursts of passion J-P considers quintessentially feminine and what he ultimately thrives on. Instead, I place it gently on the _table basse._\n\nHe nods, shrugs, blows more smoke between us. \"She likes it, but wants more sex, graphic details.\" He says this as if he's told me that the bus leaves at 5:00 p.m. or that we're having couscous royale instead of fish tagine and not that his estranged wife wants more details of our affair in black and white. \"And she wants me to use your real name. Kim.\" He says \"Kim\" like an afterthought, as if he'd almost forgotten.\n\n\"I told you I don't want you to publish this.\" I think of Olivier staring at the window display of his neighborhood bookstore.\n\n\"But it will be a bestsail _or,_ \" he assures me. \"And when it is all over, it is important to have proof.\"\n\n\"Poetry never makes it to the bestsail _or_ list, not even in prose.\" Not even yours, I want to add. Instead, I focus on a young man as he brings over a tray of pastries and a metal pot of steaming tea. He fills two green-and-gold glasses, nods, and walks away. \"What do you mean by proof?\"\n\n\"That we, you and I, existed, _non?_ \"\n\n\"No.\" I shake my head, handing the manuscript back to him and accidentally knocking over the plate of pastries. An orange swirled one lands on my sandaled feet. \"I don't even know why we're here,\" I lie, raising my voice. My hands are starting to shake. I take a deep breath, concentrating on scraping the sugar from between my toes with a corner of the envelope. \"I'm still leaving if you stay, and I'm staying if you leave.\"\n\nJean-Pierre knows I'm not making any sense and probably thinks I'm going to cry now, but I'm not. Teary-eyed women always makes him nervous, along with the sexy La Perla underwear ads in the Paris m\u00e9tro, improper use of the subjunctive, and uneven exchange rates.\n\n\"Kim, you can't stay here. _Mon Dieu._ It's North Africa. You think you can just come into people's lives and, how do you say, be part of their lives until you are ready to leave again? Besides, my editor said any woman would be honored.\"\n\nI stretch my arms and torso so that my chest is high and visible and I'm sitting eye level with him. \"If you've forgotten,\" I say, deepening my voice, \"your editor is a woman.\" I stand up and, towering above him, continue. \"Who knows, you probably slept with her, too.\"\n\nThis is neither a question nor a statement, just a cheap shot, but J-P is already trying to get someone's attention so he can pay what he owes and forget this whole conversation. But then he continues.\n\n\"You're jealous. Not of her, but because you know you'll never be like me. You just play with words, write a few lines now and then. I'm a poet. I'm the published one.\"\n\nI turn my back on him and stride over to the balcony perched high above the sea. I bite my lip and the inside of my cheek. Yes, he's the published one. He's much older as well, I try to justify. But how is it that whole books come so easily to him while I struggle, rewriting constantly to find _le mot juste,_ to give shape and definition to the emptiness inside? Jean-Pierre somehow lets go much easier; I was hoping maybe to learn to be so cavalier.\n\nI can feel him behind me now, and any minute he'll apologize or mutter something only he will find charming, something to mask that he's not what he's always said he was and that no matter what, I will always remember.\n\nNo matter what, tonight is our last night together. We will take the bus from Tabarka back to Tunis. When we arrive, the souks will slowly be quieting down with a blanket of burnt musk. At the outdoor caf\u00e9s, where there are only men, we'll sit at a table near them, and I'll wonder where all the women are. I've spotted them along the seawall. They dance among themselves, gyrating their hips to a _hallah, hallah_ rhythm. I want to lose myself among them, their sheaths and clothes, hypnotizing scent, lose Jean-Pierre, but he is solid and steady, guiding us through the labyrinth of our last sleepless night together.\n\nBack in my apartment, as I begin to unpack, everything reminds me of J-P\u2014greasy waxed paper from sticky pastries, dented tubes of _harissa,_ and hotel flyers. At the bottom of my carry-on is the envelope. He must have slipped the manuscript inside before leaving Tunis. I open it up. Paper-clipped to the manuscript is a note: _\"I'm not a pie. If you won't share, Claire will always take me back.\"_\n\nThe phone rings, and I answer quickly, suddenly hoping it's Olivier.\n\n_\"C'est moi.\"_ The voice on the end of the line is hollow and smoky, as if rising from a burning tunnel.\n\n_\"Pardon? Qui?\"_\n\n\"Jean-Pierre. Have you forgotten already?\"\n\n\"Tunisia, amnesia,\" I reply, instantly regretting repeating his words. \"Why are you calling me?\"\n\n\"I want to see you.\"\n\n\"Is Claire no longer playing the saint? Has she suddenly come to her senses after all these years?\"\n\n\" _Elle ne joue pas._ She _is_ a saint. And I'm killing her being with you.\"\n\n\"You're not with me, J-P. Let's make this clear. I'm alone and you're not. You're the poet. I'm not. You're\u2014\"\n\n\"After all that, _fini_? You are many things Claire is not.\"\n\n\"Don't waste your breath. Yes. And I'm happy that she's so many things I'll never be.\"\n\n\"You. You want everything. Claire's patient, understanding, willing\u2014\"\n\n\"I know, willing to share. I'm not.\"\n\nI hang up the phone. It feels good. I pick up the receiver and bang it down again and again. How could I have been so broken to think he was going to love me? To think he could take away the loneliness? He was a distraction from writing, from missing Olivier. A glimpse of a successful writer, something he told me I could never be. I realize that I have to free myself. I skip around the room barefoot with all the lights on and the windows open. I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. My face is flushed. If Jean-Pierre wants to be in prison, he doesn't have to lock me with him.\n\nIn the bedroom, I open all the drawers and closets, emptying them of anything of Jean-Pierre's\u2014one of his favorite shirts, a pair of socks, a notebook. No, not the notebook. A pack of Camels and a baby blue sweater. I gather them up and shove everything into a plastic Champion grocery bag. I slip on my sandals and walk down to the m\u00e9tro entrance. I stop in front of a Paris Propre trash can but can't bring myself to throw it all away. The light flickers from the gas station across the street. An SDF, a homeless man, is at the door counting his change. _\"T'as une petite pi\u00e8ce pour moi?\"_ Anything for me? he asks.\n\n\"It's really not the best time,\" I tell him, feeling ridiculous.\n\n\"Okay, how 'bout next Monday?\" he jokes.\n\nI hand him the bag. _\"\u00c7a, alors.\"_\n\nHe looks in and pulls out the Manrico cashmere sweater that I paid too much money for, the color of J-P's eyes. \"A little out of season, _non?_ \"\n\nI shrug, and we both laugh.\n\n\"You are not from here. _Merci._ \"\n\nI walk into the station market, shaking my head. I buy a slice of lemon tart and a bottle of water, go out and sit on the bench at the bus stop, trying to remember the last time I felt so freed.\n\nWhen I get back to the apartment, I listen to a message Olivier has left. A message that he would like to meet tomorrow afternoon or sometime soon. I play it over and over again. I can't sleep, haven't slept since I got off the plane from Tunis. I pace back and forth, thinking of all the things I will tell Olivier tomorrow if we do meet. I step into a hot shower, and the steam rises off me. I smell like musk and cardamom, North African dust. Later, I toss and turn, dream of Olivier over and over again.\n\nOnce again, the city is dead. Jan and Juan-Carlos are in Spain. Paolo is touring with his theater troupe in Italy. I make myself sit down and write, go through mail, and pay bills. I find a letter from Sophie, a brief note that she's forgiven me for leaving and is now worried that we'll never see each other again. I've spoken to her only once since I left, and she cried on the phone, saying she wished we could have spent more time together before I left. In the letter, she explains that she has finally left Serge. When I call her, she says she was inspired by my own leaving. \"I had on that pearl gray sweater you gave me and thought of you as I waved good-bye to Serge. I felt empowered. I figured if you could do it\u2014leave, I mean\u2014I could do it.\"\n\nI am embarrassed to be the inspiration behind her separation, but she says that she and Lulu are living in a town not far from Forcalquier, struggling but free of Serge's violence and dominance. When I try to say something about how sorry I am, how much I miss her and Lulu, our time in Provence, she cuts me off.\n\n\"It's difficult,\" she says. \"But I want to look to the future, not the past. That's all I really want.\"\n\nWhen Paolo returns from Lucca, he calls to tell me he wants me to go to all the hot clubs with him and meet a nice single, straight man with no baggage. Instead, I go with Gilles to the annual Bergman film festival, something I usually enjoy going to alone every summer.\n\nThe singsong sounds of Swedish come back to me. I find myself bobbing along with Bibi Andersson, and I'm reconciled with the language, my father's family's cadences. Bergman brings back the world. We sit through _Wild Strawberries_ two sessions in a row and whisper the lines with the actresses from _Persona. Jag vill ocksa att n\u00e5gon ska t\u00e5la med mig. Jag vet att levet \u00e4r inte sa kult och sa fint._ I too want someone to talk to me. I want to count in someone's life, and I want that someone to be Olivier, but he has cut me off.\n\nWe hung up on each other simultaneously last night. It wasn't the call I was expecting after his message that he wanted to talk. He called at 2:00 a.m. from his cell phone to tell me he had met a _real_ woman. I could hear the traffic and the sound of the river down on the quay. With every word, he kicked an invisible stone into the Seine. Every word a beat of my pulse. _\"Putain! Merde! On ne quitte pas un homme comme moi!\"_\n\n\"What kind of man does one leave, then?\"\n\n\"Not one like me.\"\n\nI bit my lip, concentrating on the sounds of the tugboats and the crashing of the river, Olivier's pride echoing off the quays.\n\n\"What's a real woman?\" I ask Grignon at the next session. He doesn't answer. Somehow I knew he wouldn't. He waits patiently for me to answer my own questions. I sigh excessively, stretch my limbs, wiggle a little on the couch, count the number of books on the shelf across the room from me.\n\n\"He's found a lover, not an _amante,_ but he loves her, he says. And it's my fault. I forced him into it.\"\n\n_\"Quand un homme se trouve dans le lit d'une femme, il y est pour quelque chose.\"_ When a man is with a woman, he has something to do with it.\n\n\"So, it's not my fault. But will she really count, mean as much as I did, if she's just a lover?\" Maybe I am talking about myself.\n\n_\"Avez-vous oubli\u00e9 la bo\u00eete?\"_ Have I forgotten the box?\n\nI ask Grignon which one, but I know exactly what he's talking about. It was another dream from weeks back about a beautiful Korean box made of dark beautiful polished wood. Inside are scratches and dents in the grain. There are photos\u2014tiny, tiny faces of people I know, some I don't remember. Olivier and I are at the Bon March\u00e9. A woman shows us the box but says we never knew how to count, never understood what really counted. In the end I know, _ils ont tous compt\u00e9 pour moi._ Yes, we all count in one way or another. \nXXIII\n\nBelow Sea Level\n\nMy mother calls to say that Poppy is not going to get any better. Before I can respond, she asks if Olivier and I are doing all right, why he never answers the phone at the new number I've given her. I make up an excuse because I can't bear to tell her that I've left him. Can't bear to hear her accusations that I've ruined my life, or worse, to hear her confirm that maybe I didn't deserve it\u2014that I have spit in the face of luck.\n\nI buy a ticket back to New Orleans to visit my family. I spend the first few nights at my grandparents' house. Poppy has taken a turn for the worse; he's eighty-five years old, but he is aware that I am near him. I decide to sleep on the couch across the living room from his chair where he sleeps now sitting up.\n\nIt's late when I finally convince my grandmother to go to bed. \"Don't forget to give him his medicine,\" she tells me. \"And if you can't help him when he needs to get up and go to the bathroom . . . make sure you wake me up.\"\n\nI assure her that I'll be fine. That I can get him water. Late into the night, I tell Poppy stories about France, and he asks me too many questions: How's Laure? Is Olivier doing okay? He doesn't go so far as to ask me why I left him\u2014he knows without my having to tell him. In his drug-induced state (medicine for his congestive heart failure), he tells me how much he liked Olivier, even if he understands the sadness that seemed to weigh heavily on me the last few times I was home.\n\n\"I just want you to be happy. I've had a good life, and that's all I want for my kids and grandkids. Happiness. How do you say that in French?\" he asks.\n\nPoppy finally dozes off, but the heavy wheezing keeps him from sleeping soundly. Every hour, I raise my head and open my eyes, trying to focus in on something familiar. I forget where I am, and then I make out my grandfather's shape in his chair, wait to make sure he's breathing, and then fall back asleep.\n\nIt's strange being back, and I try to make up for lost time with my family, so I make the rounds, visit my great-aunt in the French Quarter, other aunts and uncles scattered throughout the city and beyond. And when my mother's sister asks me to fly to Arkansas to house-sit and take care of my two teenage cousins, I don't hesitate, even though I want to be by Poppy as much as possible.\n\nIt's early evening when I arrive in Little Rock, so my aunt and uncle have already packed and are dressed, ready to go to my uncle's medical fund-raising event. So they kiss me hello and good-bye and tell me the boys have eaten and are finishing homework. I take a tour of the grand house, a rambling five-thousand-plus-square-foot home at the end of Foxcroft Road. The guest bedroom has huge floor-to-ceiling windows that face the bed, so in the morning you wake to the trees pressed to the glass and the sound of the river just beyond. Wishing for a more intimate space, I go into the kitchen and make myself a sandwich, call my grandmother, who says Poppy's asleep, not to worry.\n\nLate in the evening, I take out my laptop and sit at the kitchen table and start writing, first a few lines of a poem and then longer paragraphs about Korea and Provence, recent conversations with Olivier. Pages and pages come to me. I write it all down, trying to make sense of some of it.\n\nBefore going to bed, I double-check all the locks, go upstairs and make sure the boys are in their beds, turn off the lights in my aunt and uncle's bedroom. I have never slept well alone in new homes, even in familiar ones. I get a glass of water to take with me and see myself in the kitchen window, rippled from the reflection of the outdoor pool. I look exhausted. I check the locks again and lead Ben, the big Akita, to sleep on the floor next to my bed. I climb in and turn off the lights and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.\n\nSomewhere between a dream of Olivier's voice and the memory of South Korea, the phone rings. I answer in French, _\"Allo, oui?\"_\n\n\"Kim Sun\u00e9e? It's Aunt Kim.\" Her voice is calm and determined. She is my mother's second youngest sister and my godmother.\n\n\"What time is it?\" I ask.\n\n\"It's one in the morning. I need the hotel where Aunt Patty is.\" I know what she's going to say, but my silence and hesitation make her speak. \"Poppy died a few hours ago. In his sleep.\"\n\nI start to ask her a million questions: Are you sure? Where's Grammy? Was he in pain? Where is everyone? But she wants me to concentrate on finding the hotel info so she can contact my other aunt.\n\nAfter I give her the information and hang up, I am suddenly terrified of the silence and strangeness of my surroundings. I wrap the covers tightly around my body to keep myself grounded, but it seems that I am floating, suspended. I imagine my grandfather watching over me, and I see myself, alone in a strange bed in a city I don't belong in, but mainly alone.\n\nI want to talk to Olivier. I want to be in the safety of his world, where everything is planned and taken care of efficiently, the world effortlessly at his beck and call. Naively, I imagine that maybe he could have changed this moment, somehow helped my grandfather stay with us a bit longer. I get up and turn on all the lights, Ben following me as I go upstairs and make sure the boys are safe. I sit outside their bedroom door and, listening to the soft breathing, drift off to sleep in the hallway until morning comes.\n\nThe eight-hour drive from Little Rock to New Orleans with my aunt and uncle and cousins is mostly veiled in silence. We stop for a roadside lunch of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, but no one really wants to eat. I think of the time I visited Poppy, right after his stroke, and what I remember most is this: his untended garden and, later, his lost appetite. It should have been a clue, a sure sign that he was giving up.\n\nAt the funeral home, my sister seems confused at our arriving so soon, but she hugs me a little longer than usual. She looks professional in her black skirt and jacket, slim bare legs. She's even taller in wedge heels, and her acute way of summing things up, adding and subtracting with such precision, still makes me feel inadequate and frivolous in her presence. Suddenly, I wish I had worn something less expensive, pulled my hair back into a tight neat ponytail.\n\nMy mother takes me in her arms. She's pale and red-eyed. But as if realizing who I am again, she quickly disentangles herself from me, crosses her arms tightly across her chest, and looks through me with a gaze that's older, weary. I spot my grandmother at the altar. She's thin and pale, and her hair is dyed a terrific shade of gray violet.\n\n\"Oh, Grams,\" I say with my hand clasped over my mouth before any other words slip out. I take her in my arms. She tries to smile, but two invisible strings tug down the corners of her lips.\n\n\"You must be tired.\" She pushes me away but takes my hand firmly in hers. She seems disoriented as she tilts her head as if to make sure the words have come from her and not someone else. She leads me closer to the coffin, and there he is, her husband of fifty years, my grandfather of half that time, dressed in a blue suit with too much makeup on, lying peacefully in a box.\n\nI had no idea this would be open casket. This is the first dead body I've ever seen. My grandmother keeps touching Poppy's hand, arranging his tie, expecting him to respond. But he doesn't, and I tell her that this is not my grandfather, it's just a shell of his body. She pats his head, looks at him as if he is responding, telling her something only she can hear.\n\nFamily and friends take turns to pay their respects. People from my childhood. My mother nods at them, then twists her hands nervously. After several hours, we go back to my grandmother's house, then to my parents' home on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. My mother and sister and I gather on the big porch with the ceiling fan on high.\n\n\"Did you see him in the casket?\" Suzy repeats over and over, taking my hand unexpectedly.\n\nI want to talk about him, our Poppy. \"I can't believe he's gone,\" I blurt out.\n\n\"I know it's hard, but you really weren't here during most of the time he was sick,\" my mother says. \"If you had been, this wouldn't be such a shock.\"\n\n\"I know, but it's still\u2014\"\n\nIt feels as though I've never left. I scoot down low in my chair, fan myself with the Living section of the _Times._ It's so easy to be accused. So much easier than explaining things we don't know how to articulate.\n\n\"Your grandmother was here, your sister . . . your father . . . I was here,\" she continues, taking the paper from me and folding it precisely. \"I've always been here.\" She sounds as if she's underwater now, her voice coming in thick waves.\n\nMy sister gets up, shaking her head. My mother starts sobbing, silently at first. I go to her, but she's afraid to let me touch her, to take me in her arms. I'm so sorry for all of it, sorry for her father's death, my grandfather. I'm sorry for Grammy, for not coming home sooner, for always being too much, and never enough.\n\nThe next day, my aunts and uncles and all of us gather together, and somehow we've managed to make food, a seafood mirliton casserole and a baking sheet of custard-thick bread pudding for my grandmother and visitors. The kitchen is filled with stale loaves of French bread, platters of dried-out finger sandwiches. I toss out the remaining crab shells, knowing this would break my grandfather's heart.\n\n\"Oh, Kim Sun\u00e9e,\" Grammy says, and sighs, scooping out some pudding. She hugs me tightly, rocks me in her arms as if I were five again. \"My little Kim. You were always older than your years.\" I love my grandmother's embrace, but my mother asks me to help out, so I go to pour glasses of wine, fruit punch for the younger cousins; I want to be useful.\n\nAll the familiar faces I haven't seen in years make me dizzy with sadness. My grandmother's friends asking if I'm engaged, why I haven't been home in so long. They look at me as if I'm guilty, an impostor. I panic, regretting for an instant having left Olivier, the security of his world. I want him here, alive, touching me, guiding me gently through the questions. Proof that I have a life, a good life. I call him but get only the answering machine.\n\nWhen all the guests have left, I find my mother and grandmother among the candles burnt to the wick, dried-out bread crusts, and a mass of arranged flowers. They're sitting in the dark, at the kitchen table. My mother is drinking coffee from a doll set that Suzy and I used to play with. But the pieces are chipped and her thumb and forefinger too big. All around her are boxes, photos, and papers. Worn slippers, a broken music box, a tiny multistriped Korean kimono.\n\nShe pours me a cup of coffee. It's tepid and bitter.\n\n\"There are some things you might want. Photos of your grandfather, some of your drawings, clothes, books. I'm getting rid of everything that weighs me down.\"\n\nI pick up a few pictures. There's a photo dated 1975.\n\n_I'm sitting on my mother's lap as Poppy scrutinizes my foot. He's got a strange look on his face, tweezers in his hand. He keeps trying to take out the pieces, metal, glass, and needles. Everyone is staring at the foot except me. I'm staring straight at the camera, beyond, watching as they all look for something they can't see. Do they want me to speak? Strange creature. They won't ask me any more questions for now. \"Just bootiful,\" I always answer. And they smile, waiting anxiously for Poppy to dig it out\u2014something tangible, proof, some sort of clue as to who I am._\n\nI set it all down, the papers and folders, sweaters, and old dresses. My grandmother pulls out a stack of photos from when my grandparents came to visit me in France. \"Here's your grandfather toasting with Giselle; he loved Olivier's mother,\" she jokes.\n\n\"And here we are at Notre Dame.\"\n\nIt was December in Paris, and my grandmother and great-aunt were shopping on the other bank. Poppy and I were on \u00cele Saint-Louis, sitting behind Notre Dame, watching the river float away from us, commenting on the passersby.\n\nMy grandfather turned to me and said in all earnestness, \"People are dying who have never died before. And,\" he continued, looking at his crusty banded watch still set on a distant time zone, \"all this time we've been sitting here and only two pregnant women.\" He hoisted himself up from the bench, shaking his head. He held on to my arm as we crossed the bridge to the other island. \"All this movement, all this life. I need something sweet.\"\n\nWe walked a bit more and stopped at a _confiserie,_ my grandfather tipping his hat as he crossed the threshold. _\"Bonjour, se\u00f1or.\"_\n\nWe bought a box of dark chocolates, and with each bite of bitter sweetness, I knew this would be the last trip my grandfather would make to visit me across the ocean. The last time we'd take a high-speed train to the High Alps, where he'd wake up early in the Proven\u00e7al morning and pick fresh figs, enjoying the coolness of the large stone house, waiting for the rest of us to wrest ourselves from sleep and dreams. It was the last time we'd walk together, laughing and crossing foreign streets, watching people, all the life that made him so hungry.\n\nMy sister offers to drive my grandmother home. We want her to stay with us, but she's tired, she says, and needs some time alone.\n\nI take a moment to call Olivier again.\n\n\"Are you all right? I've been waiting for you to call back. Are you at your mother's? I don't have her number anymore.\"\n\n\"No, yes.\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry. Laure sends her best, too.\"\n\n\"Is she there? Can I talk to her?\"\n\n\"She's at her mother's, but I talked to her earlier.\" He hesitates. He has told me that Laure has good memories of me, and one day maybe we can see each other again, but not now. Not for a long time. \"What can I do?\"\n\nTake me home, I want to say. Take me back. But I don't. I bite my lip instead.\n\n\"Let's talk when you get back. Call me or I'll call you . . .\"\n\n\"Maybe we could try to . . . I don't know.\" The tears come softly and fill up my mouth and throat. My mother's not standing far, so I tell Olivier I'll call him back.\n\n\"Yes, maybe we could . . . ,\" I hear him say back. _\"Je t'embrasse.\"_\n\nMy mother blinks as if trying to focus. She pours more coffee, and I sit down and wait, mimic her gestures as we drink from china-doll cups, so fragile, in this quiet kitchen of the night. I need air, so I suggest that we go outside, sit on the back porch.\n\n\"There's a nice breeze.\" She nods, following me out. I pull up a rocking chair for her and sit on the swing.\n\n\"They're evil,\" she says, slapping her legs. \"The mosquitoes this time of year.\" She hums a tune that I vaguely remember from when we were children. And then she sets down her cup, leans urgently toward me. There's something she's thinking but hesitates to share.\n\n\"Kim, are you happy? So far away, from us, from me?\" She sits back in her chair, a bit breathless. She closes her mouth, and I notice her skin falling in soft folds around her chin and cheeks. I nod. She smoothes her hand along her neck and face. \"You'll never have wrinkles like me. Asian skin doesn't age like ours.\"\n\nI want to tell her so much, about leaving Olivier, my life in France, how difficult it is, that I'm not sure I made the right decision. I want to tell her about Flora and my friends Paolo and Gilles, Jan. Even about the unexpected desire I have to fall in love with someone my age, maybe think about a more stable future, words that I think she would want me to say. I want to reassure her, maybe reassure myself. But I don't know where to start, if she can hear me.\n\n\"I worry,\" she says timidly. \"You may not believe it, but I do.\"\n\n\"You don't have to worry about me.\"\n\nThere is a long silence, and then she asks, \"Why don't you and I go to counseling together?\"\n\nI try to explain to her about my sessions with Grignon, but she uses the words _therapy_ and _counseling_ as though they're over-the-counter remedies for headache, muscle pain.\n\n\"You were so poised and calm,\" she continues as if I weren't even there. \"When your father and I first saw you, we didn't know we were going to take you with us. But you smiled and climbed in our laps, every day for a week.\" My mother turns away, and I can see her body starting to shake, years and years of unsaid words, of unshed tears. \"I just want to be friends,\" she manages to whisper.\n\nI shake my head. \"Mom . . .\"\n\nShe scoots down low in the rocker. She looks so small and frightened, I am suddenly filled with pity. The Spanish moss tosses in the breeze, and I remember that it's a natural disease, the moss spreading in silence. I tell her this for no reason at all.\n\n\"I'm leaving tomorrow,\" I tell her when she doesn't answer. \"And I don't want to fly back across the ocean with hard feelings between us\u2014\"\n\nShe rocks back and forth abruptly, her face wet, flushed with sorrow. I want to go to her, take her in my arms, but she's stiff and silent now except for the muffled tears.\n\n\"You should go now. It's getting late,\" she whispers, walking to the edge of the darkened porch. She lets me hug her. She's brittle in my arms. I want to invite her to come and visit again, tell her something reassuring. \"Your grandfather was happy you came home,\" she whispers.\n\nShe is not really looking at me, but to the wind. I try to focus in on what she sees, eucalyptus and sycamore trees, Spanish moss bending gently in the breeze.\n\n\"It _is_ a disease, you know . . . that Spanish moss,\" she confirms. She reaches out for me after all these years, and I squeeze her trembling arm.\n\nYes, I nod, not knowing what else to say.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" she says, talking no longer to me, but to the night, her hand reaching out as if she were losing sight, as if only the dark and intangible parts of the world could help us now.\n\nFor an instant, I realize how in some ways I do resemble her. I turn my face to the wind, try to see what she sees. Trees bending graciously in the breeze. Fractured light casting strange shadows on our hands and bodies. There are no more words for now, just little leaves inside of us, these good-bye branches.\n\nOn the flight back from New Orleans, all I can think of is how I wish I had spent more time with Poppy. I think of Flora and those I've left behind. Olivier. I want to see him, ask for forgiveness for leaving him. More than anything, I'm ready to find a place to call home. I want so much to talk to Olivier, to see him again.\n\nThe phone rings before I've even unlocked the door.\n\n\"Keem?\"\n\n\"I was just about to call you. I have so much I want to talk to you about.\"\n\n\"Me too. This is really important.\" There's a moment of hesitation, so unlike Olivier. \"Have you been running?\"\n\n\"Just got in from the airport.\"\n\n\"How's your family? Your grandmother? How are you?\"\n\n\"Okay. Not really. I guess we're as well as we can be. Poppy talked a lot about you right before . . . Listen, Olivier, can we meet? Soon?\" Long pause.\n\n\"Of course. You need me right now, I know, but things are different.\"\n\n\"I'm okay. I just need to see you . . . When I was in New Orleans, you said maybe . . . we could . . . try to see if maybe we could work things out. Remember?\" There is silence. \"Remember?\"\n\n\" _\u00c9coute._ You left,\" he says, raising his voice. \"I gave you everything I thought you wanted, and now\u2014\"\n\n\"That _you_ wanted,\" I correct him, and regret it instantly. It seems later than it is. Six p.m. or a.m., I don't know which, and my stomach is empty. I'm thirsty, too. I slip off my sandals and stretch my feet along the cold hardwood floor. \"Let's not have this same conversation. I want to start over, Olivier. You know I've always loved you. I didn't know how to\u2014\"\n\n\"Keem, you just don't live in this world, do you.\"\n\n\"I hate when you tell me that\u2014\"\n\n\"Poetry. Images. Frozen forever. That's what I love about you, even if . . .\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter. We've been separated long enough. If we still love\u2014\"\n\n\"I've met someone.\" He pauses again. I don't believe him. \"A simple, sweet woman who's not a threat to my heart.\"\n\nI hold the phone away from my ear.\n\n\"She's an art teacher from Strasbourg.\" He pauses, waiting for me to object, but I want to hear it all. \"She knows everything,\" he continues. \"About how we met, how much I loved you, how much you hurt me, your need to leave . . . she accepts it all\u2014\"\n\n\"Olivier, stop it.\"\n\n\"She's my age. She understands what that means. Doesn't want kids.\" He pauses. \"She's not complicated. She knows where she comes from. I'm just asking that you free me.\" I shake my head and cover my mouth to silence the tears. \"So I can love someone else, just a little bit. Just a fraction of how much I loved you. Because you always said I loved you too much.\"\n\n\"I can't. During the whole flight back, I was thinking about how we'd get back\u2014\"\n\n\"She just wants to be happy\u2014\"\n\n\"Does she sleep in our bed, Olivier?\" I really don't want to know, but I'm suddenly angry and can't help myself. \"In _our_ bed?\"\n\n\" _Merde._ \"\n\nI know this is our last chance. \"Olivier, I just want to see you, in person. I've never asked you for anything.\"\n\n\"That's the problem. No, she never stays over here. I always meet her in Strasbourg . . . or elsewhere. _\u00c7a ne te regarde pas._ \" It's none of your business.\n\n\"Please. Let's meet tomorrow. Just this once.\"\n\n\"It's late. I've got to go now.\"\n\n\"Will you call me later?\"\n\n\"I can't. I have a dinner.\"\n\n\"With _her_?\"\n\n\"I'll try to call you from the mobile . . . to see when we can meet.\"\n\n\"Tomorrow. Let's say tomorrow. It's important.\"\n\n\"Okay. We'll see. _D'accord._ \"\n\nI go to Jan's to tell her the news that Olivier and I are going to see each other, maybe work things out. I try to sound hopeful and not desperate, even though I'm a bit of both and, more than anything, exhausted, disoriented.\n\n\"You haven't slept, and you've just buried your grandfather; maybe you should just take some time . . . to take it all in.\" She pours boiling water into a pot of daisylike blossoms of chamomile and leads me into the living room. She sets out two bowls and a pot of honey and motions for me to sit.\n\n\"I don't have time,\" I answer, not able to sit. \"I've wasted so much of it already. I wish you could have met Olivier. You will . . . soon.\"\n\nShe doesn't say it. She doesn't have to, but I know she doesn't think it's a good idea, this running over to meet him. But I have an adrenaline rush like never before. I pace around her apartment, trying not to think of Poppy, my family. Keep moving, I tell myself, keep moving, don't stop, and maybe the world won't come crashing down.\n\n\"I think you should get a good night's sleep. I'll make us some pasta. We'll go for a swim in the morning, get back into this time zone before making any rash decisions.\"\n\nI want to tell her that maybe I should go back to my place, but the last thing I can bear is being alone.\n\nAt 8:30 a.m. Paris time, I'm still at Jan's and it has been at least twenty-four hours since I've slept or eaten, even though Jan tried to tempt me with her homemade pumpkin soup. I'm shaky with jet lag and the excitement of reconciling with Olivier.\n\n\"Maybe you should wait to talk to Olivier again until you've slept,\" Jan suggests.\n\n\"I have to go. He told me last night he'd meet with me.\"\n\n\"He told you he'd call to set up a time,\" she reminds me. \"Let's have some tea and baguette and think this through.\"\n\nBut I'm already at the door, twisting my hands, running a brush through my hair one last time. \"Wish me luck.\"\n\nI walk the twelve blocks or so from Mabillon to 40, rue du Bac. I spot the purple scooter immediately in the courtyard, and my heart fills, so happy to see that he's home, just as he said he would be. I recognize the heavy linen curtains from our old apartment hanging from the third-floor windows. He's home, alone, as promised. I let out a sigh. I am here to ask his forgiveness.\n\nSince I forgot to bring the door code with me, I can't enter the building. I wait: 8:45, 9:00, 9:15. The clock in the entrance clicks away. Finally, a woman comes out of the building, and I enter. I find the initials _OB_ and ring. I hear a bell sound several floors up, followed by a dog bark. I ring again. Barking. Ring, bark, ring, bark. Could it be coming from his place? Our dogs are in Provence.\n\nThere's a second door that leads into the building, so I must wait. I wait. Suddenly I wish I had slept, but this rush of adrenaline keeps me going. Twenty minutes pass, and a woman finally exits. I slip in. My heart races. I feel like a bank robber, a jewel thief. I am filled with anticipation. I can't remember now if he's on the third floor, French, or fourth floor. I've been here only twice, and all the doors are the same.\n\nI knock softly on the first door, and a small, toothless man opens, wearing a golden Herm\u00e8s bathrobe. I excuse myself and knock on the door across the way. For some reason, I hold my palm over the keyhole. Why? In case that woman from Strasbourg or, worse, some one-night stand appears? No woman comes. Olivier flings open the door, furious. I have never seen such rage in his eyes. His hair is sticking up, and his face is puffy with sleep. He's wearing a pair of navy Gap shorts and a New Orleans Jazz Fest T-shirt. I know immediately that he's not alone. I try to force my way in. He grabs a cocker spaniel that barks at me.\n\n\"Whose dog is that?\" I ask.\n\nHe grabs it and shoves it back into the apartment. He slams the door and starts making his way down the stairs, forcing me to go down backward.\n\n\"You lied!\" I scream. \"You lied! I knew it. You said she never sleeps here. I knew you weren't alone. I only came to find out the truth!\"\n\nAll I want is for him to hold me. We stand there staring at each other.\n\n\"You have no right to come here, no matter what I tell you . . . no right.\"\n\n\"But you said we could see each other today, talk, maybe . . . maybe get back together,\" I whisper.\n\n\"I said that last night. But you have no right.\"\n\n\"Liar!\" I scream. I can't help but shout, then a sound I don't recognize comes from deep inside, as if someone is gutting me.\n\nHe grabs my shoulders and shoves me hard toward the entrance, surprised by his own force. \"You haven't slept, have you,\" he says, stopping for a moment, about to caress my head. He leans so close, I think he's going to take me in his arms. \"And I know you miss your Poppy. You're not in a good state right now.\" Then, just in case I might have misunderstood these words or his gestures for anything else, he adds, \"You really need to leave.\"\n\n\"I'm gone,\" I tell him. \"You'll never see me again.\"\n\n_\"Vas-y!\"_ he screams back, gesturing with his hands as if pushing me away. \"I'll never have to think about you again. _Plus jamais.\"_\n\nI try to touch him, go for his heart. I want to puncture it. He grabs my wrists, squeezes them as hard as he can. He looks down at his hands. \"What am I doing?\"\n\nWe have lost control of everything. Someone rushes past us and up into the stairway, reprimanding us in French. Olivier throws us out into the first building and stands there sobbing, shaking his head. The dog barks in the distance. I want to kill the dog, kill myself. I pound the glass as he rushes to the stairs and disappears into the dark stairwell.\n\nI don't really know where I am. I try to see what time it is. The vintage Cartier watch Olivier gave me years ago is dangling off my wrist, he ripped the band, and this makes me smile for some stupid reason. We have just battled it out, and I am the loser. What if Poppy could see me? Is this the happiness he wished for his kids and grandchildren? I start laughing, then sobbing so hard that my body begins to shake.\n\nI start to walk, slowly, trying to figure out what time it is. My watch reads 2:20 a.m. What time is it in Tunisia, New Orleans, six feet under? I don't remember the last time I ate or slept. I stumble into a caf\u00e9 and ask for napkins and some change. My wrists are scratched and bleeding. I go down by the toilettes and dial Grignon's phone number. The instant I hear his voice, I start crying again. I start to hyperventilate.\n\n\"You're twenty minutes late for your session.\"\n\nThis makes me cry even harder, and he tells me to come at 2:00 in the afternoon.\n\nI order some coffee and ask the time again, but every answer seems like a lie. I'm exhausted, hungry, but I can't eat. I keep touching my arms and wrists, the exact places where Olivier touched me, amazed at the bruises and wounds already beginning to form.\n\nAt 1:55 p.m. when I arrive at Grignon's office, I've been walking around the city for five hours with swollen eyes, crying on and off. What will I tell him? I don't think I'm depressed\u2014nothing matters when you're depressed. I am immeasurably sad; and in sadness, everything seems to matter.\n\n\"I don't want to lie down on the couch,\" I tell him when I arrive. \"I'm scared.\" But I can't face Grignon, so I lie down. It feels good to stretch out. I close my eyes. I hold my breath, knowing that if I were to die, this would be the best thing, the best place, the best time. I don't know how many minutes pass. Three or fifteen or two hours. I start to breathe normally, realize I'm alive, and slowly begin to cry again.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he says softly.\n\nI can't catch my breath, and every time I try to speak, only sobs. I can't stop myself. \"I\u2014I went to see him,\" I say finally. \"He told me we could see each other this afternoon, and I went early. I know I shouldn't have. And he was enraged, came flying down the steps like a madman . . . he was furious. But he lied. He said she never stayed there.\" I recount the whole bloody scene, the vulgar names he called me, and the fury . . . the moment we almost embraced, but how he grabbed my wrists instead. I lift my arms above my head so he can see the bruises.\n\n\"Why did you go?\" Grignon asks.\n\nI shake my head, and tears stream down my cheeks. \"The men. I've made such a fool of myself. _Je suis ridicule._ \"\n\n_\"Est-ce que vous vous \u00eates respect\u00e9e?\"_ The question is, did you respect yourself?\n\nI shake my head. _Bien s\u00fbr que non._ Self-respect has not been on my agenda lately.\n\nI make another hasty decision to no longer see Grignon, because unjustly, secretly, I want to blame him for letting me leave Olivier, stumble into relationships with men like Jean-Pierre, for not telling me how to live my life, for not giving me the secret ingredient for happiness.\n\nBut one day I wake up, panicked. I pull on yoga pants, running shoes, and an oversize sweater, and pull my hair into a sloppy ponytail. I call Grignon, not knowing what time or day it is.\n\n\"I need to see you,\" I tell him. His voice is slow and soft, so I know he's in a session. \"It's urgent,\" I say, wanting to shake him out of the trance.\n\n_\"Tr\u00e8s bien, venez \u00e0 neuf heures.\"_\n\nAt 8:44 a.m., I'm standing at 248, boulevard Raspail, counting down the minutes before my time.\n\nWhen Grignon opens the door, he makes a point to look down at my shoes, up at my hair. I nod, as if to say \"I know I never go out looking like this.\" I pace back and forth a couple of times before making my way toward the divan, but Grignon gestures for me to sit across from him. It's the first time we will sit face-to-face.\n\n_\"Dites. Racontez-moi.\"_ Tell me, he says gently.\n\nIt has been years, and here I am face-to-face with myself, this voice that won't give me the simple recipe to a nice life, write me the happy ending. I'm breathless. I stand up again, ready to bolt.\n\n_\"Mais o\u00f9 allez-vous?\"_ he asks, wanting to know where I'm going. I go toward him and throw 300 francs in his lap, ready to storm out. Any other time, he would have let me, but he stops me, repeating softly, _\"Mais o\u00f9 allez-vous?\"_\n\nI turn around. \"Why don't you tell me. Tell me where it is I'm going.\"\n\nHe gestures for me to sit again. I stand for a moment, looking down at my tightly laced running shoes. A standstill. Why am I so stubborn? Where _do_ I think I'm going? I look up, and he is standing now, still, arms by his side, a smile, not mocking or laughing, just the gentlest look in his eyes to tell me everything's going to be okay.\n\nI realize I have no idea where it is I think I'm running to, not now, not all these years. My voice is crowded out with tears, years and years of tears that have built up. I hate myself for this weakness, this indulgence, but it feels good, primal. Grignon gestures to a box of Kleenex, and I take a handful, thankful and obedient.\n\nI am grateful that he knows, unlike other men in my life, that I want to be stopped from leaving. Even though I am always ready for a fight, so stubborn that I will shoot myself in the foot, my pride will make me go away to nowhere in particular just to make a statement\u2014to say that I'm strong, independent. In another language, these words would mean something else, convey what I truly am: a loner, lonesome, and irreversibly heartbroken.\n\n\"I'll see you on Wednesday,\" Grignon says slowly, cheerfully, making sure I hear him. \"Wednesday.\"\n\nI nod, whisper, _\"Mercredi,\"_ and, _\"Merci,\"_ before I rush out into the street, back into the world. I will be back, but it is only a matter of time before I am ready to leave France, leave behind ten years in a country where I have mastered another language of survival. \nXXIV\n\nThen, Again\n\nThibault sends me a large square envelope from Provence. Inside, I find a small kite to assemble. Chiseled bamboo sticks and thin sheets of violet-streaked paper the color of Indonesia sky in the spring, he describes. Included is a note written in his indecipherable handwriting\u2014like plucked feathers: \"I made this for Flora, but never had a chance to give it to her.\" I turn it over for more, but there's nothing.\n\nA week later, Jan and I go to the Caf\u00e9 Charbon in M\u00e9nil-montant in the eleventh arrondissement. It's the place everyone's talking about. Outside, September fills the sky with its rich colors of pink and gray. As we descend deep into the underground, I recall my first autumn in Provence years ago. Soon it will be Laure's birthday. Another year without seeing her. Olivier thinks we need more time. I make a note on my ticket stub before exiting to send her a card, a CD, some flowers, any sign that I haven't forgotten her.\n\nAt the long wooden counter of the caf\u00e9, a man sits next to me, waiting. Months before, I would have made myself available, smiled, cocked my head in that certain Parisienne way. But random men, no matter how intelligent or beautiful, no longer excite me as potential lovers. The closer this one scoots to my side, the more I am repulsed by his overgrown hair and very smooth voice.\n\n_\"Je devine,\"_ he says, squinting into my eyes. _\"Tu es thailandaise?\"_ Because I ignore him, he continues. _\"Eurasienne?\"_ I shake my head. _\"Japonaise. C'est \u00e7a.\"_ I roll my eyes dramatically at the bartender. \"I give up.\"\n\nJan returns from the restroom and answers, \"She's American from New Orleans.\"\n\nThe bartender smiles and asks us what we want. I shrug. \"Mojitos,\" he decides.\n\nThe soda and mint mix easily with the rum; the liquor slips through me. Before I realize it, the man has ordered us another round, promising he'll be back. The place is packed. I look around to find Jan talking to a group of people, mainly a beautiful licorice-colored man with long dreadlocks. The music's loud now, so I don't mind sitting by myself, not having to talk to anyone. The air's filled with some repeated rhythm that puts one in a trance. But all I hear are Olivier's words: _So I can love someone else. Just a little bit._\n\nIt's been two weeks since we've really talked. Olivier leaves messages, begs me to call him back, he's worried about me, but I won't call him. I need to move on, be strong, let him love someone else, just a little bit.\n\nI overhear shreds and pieces of conversation, mostly young men talking about things I no longer care about. After a third mojito, though, I can join in on anything.\n\n\"Are you finished talking about cars?\" I ask in my slurred French, addressing two men about my age, in their late twenties, standing next to me.\n\n\"As a matter of fact, we are.\" One of them I hadn't noticed earlier comes into focus. His eyes are like the sea, all wavy and lit from another source.\n\n\"I'm Kim,\" I say, swallowing the last drop of liquid sugar from my glass. I'm more than tipsy. My limbs feel separated from my body. The faces and voices are spinning, but there's something liberating about it all.\n\n\"I'm Val\u00e9ry.\"\n\n\"That's a woman's name . . . in English,\" I tell him.\n\n\"Paul Val\u00e9ry was not a woman.\" He smiles. \"My friends call me Val. This is Thomas.\"\n\nI stand up and sway until Val catches me by the wrist.\n\n\"Thibault?\" I ask, squinting at him. \"You know my brother?\"\n\n\"Tho-mas.\" His friend smiles.\n\nVal laughs, shaking his head.\n\n\"It's not funny. They're all gone. Everyone I've ever loved. Thibault, Poppy, Olivier, Flora, poof! Just disappeared.\"\n\nVal introduces another friend of theirs, and after a few banal exchanges, I start making my way to the door, barely balancing myself along the bar counter.\n\nOutside, it's cold and dark. My head is killing me, and I can't find my purse or my keys. I just want a cab to take me and drop me off at the end of the world. When I turn around, Val's there in a taxi with the back door open, gesturing for me to get in the backseat with him.\n\n\"I don't want to talk to you,\" I tell him, scooting to the opposite side. \"I don't want to take care of you, and I definitely don't want to care _about_ you, because I'll just leave or make you go away, or\u2014\"\n\n_\"Vers la rue Goncourt,\"_ I hear him tell the driver. He fastens my seat belt around my waist and stops to stare at me. His eyes, at first dark green, are now bluish with gold flecks.\n\n_\"Je suis d\u00e9sol\u00e9e.\"_ I truly am sorry. I feel queasy.\n\n\"Look, I don't need taking care of,\" Val says calmly. \"You, however\u2014\"\n\n\"Me neither. I don't need anybody,\" I say, staring out the window. The city is a blur, and I hate myself for wanting to be so self-sufficient.\n\nOnce in the apartment\u2014Val's, I assume\u2014he pours me a large glass of water and hands me a bathrobe. It's soft and oversize and smells good.\n\n\"I'll be in the other room.\" Val kisses me on the forehead and shuts the door gently behind him. The bed is warm. There are photos on every wall\u2014black-and-white urbanscapes, a barber's chair, a lunch counter, a single promising shoot of golden jonquil. I need air. I want sleep, love. I want Olivier so much, it aches. My heart is beating fast, and my tongue is thick with rum. I open the window and trip back into bed, pulling the covers over my head, counting the beats of my heart until I'm deep in sleep.\n\nIn the morning, my head feels like a half-cracked coconut. I'm able to brush my teeth with a new toothbrush I find laid out on the counter, but the bristles against my gums make the pounding in my head even stronger. In the other room, Val has set up a tray with big bowls of coffee with cream and thick slices of bread with cold salted butter. He sits there with the windows wide open, the light illuminating him as he reads _Photo_ magazine.\n\n_\"Bonjour.\"_\n\n_\"Du caf\u00e9?\"_ Val's dressed in a white sweater and faded blue jeans and smiles at me, openly, gently.\n\n\"Aspirin,\" I beg.\n\nHe nods and points to two Doliprane and a glass of water on the tray before me. I must have made a fool of myself last night. I start to apologize but don't really want to and suddenly realize that I don't know what I'm doing here. I grab my coat.\n\n\"Thank you for everything, but I have to go.\"\n\n\"So soon? I thought we\u2014\"\n\n\"No, I'm sorry. I've got to go.\" I dress hurriedly. Before I leave, Val hands me my purse and keys.\n\n\"You left them on the bar last night.\"\n\nHe kisses me on the cheek as I thank him. He asks me to write down my phone number. I take the elevator down to the street. I'm in a neighborhood I'm not familiar with. September fills the air with the cries of schoolchildren and crisscrossed light, signs of fall. I forgot to call Laure to wish her happy birthday again this year. I stop to call my answering machine. Olivier has left three more messages. For an instant, I tell myself that I will finally call back, but I can't bear to talk to him, not just yet. Grignon. I have to speak with him, too, but he's away at some conference. As I walk down the boulevard, a cyclist swishes by, and then I remember the dream.\n\nGrignon has had an accident, broken his leg, and he limps to my grandfather's house. I feed him a bowl of hot oatmeal and assure him that tomorrow he'll be fine for the Tour de France. Every time I try to spoon the oatmeal into his mouth, the crowd cheers. Olivier steps up to the home plate, playing to the spectators, but it's not his turn to bat. Grignon reminds me that I have the list of players, the order of things, and that I must read it carefully before calling the shots.\n\nA few weeks later, Val and I plan to meet for dinner. Dinner turns into a weekend, and soon we are spending as much time together as possible, photographing the city, the urban landscapes of its outskirts. I realize that I am much more random and spontaneous in what I shoot. I want whimsy and chance. Val is more meticulous, much more painstakingly exact, than I'll ever be. But I like this about him. Even in the kitchen, he trims all the vegetables to the same size, takes the exact temperature of meats and sauces. I throw in whatever I can find, tasting and rectifying as I go along. Val makes a simple but delicious _croque-monsieur,_ with warm b\u00e9chamel thick with cheese. He teaches me about Sancerre and other wines of his region.\n\nHis physical beauty is abundant\u2014a strong swimmer's body, dark, curly hair, and deep blue green eyes\u2014overwhelming sometimes. He is thoughtful and measured. And although he is a bit too careful at times with his emotions, I am attracted to him, but I will not fall for him.\n\nVal's mother calls one day to talk. She wants to meet me ever since Val told her how important I am to him. \"He doesn't say that often,\" she informs me. She wants us to come and stay in Blois, visit Tours. Before we hang up, she warns me that Val's fiercely independent, feels constrained in France, and is considering a job offer in French Guiana.\n\n\"I know he's sent r\u00e9sum\u00e9s to all the French territories\u2014New Guinea, Guadeloupe, Tahiti,\" I tell her. \"He's waiting to hear back from someone in French Guiana. I know he really wants that job with the tourist commission. He's planning on going there anyway, I think.\"\n\n\"He's usually so reserved, so quiet,\" she answers.\n\nVal is anything but quiet. We talk all night, as though time's running out. We listen to music, read passages from our favorite books to each other, spend happy moments in the kitchen. We roll out fresh pastry, taste Jack Daniel's, dream of places we want to visit in the world. We take turns critiquing photos.\n\nI tell myself not to fall in love with him, but I am drawn to his fiercely independent spirit, his desire for a new start in a new country. And the sheer pleasure of his youthfulness. We are the same age, and for once, age matters. Although sometimes, because of my life with Olivier, I feel so much older. We also talk about the future, a month, a year from now, but none of it seems possible because I sense the same restlessness in Val that was inside of me.\n\nHe shows up one evening with an armful of long-stemmed sunflowers and a bottle of Sancerre blanc. \"I've been offered the job in Cayenne.\"\n\nI congratulate him. I'm actually happy for him until he tells me that he's leaving in less than a month. I'm surprised by my own sudden desire to beg him not to leave, something I would never have imagined ever telling anyone.\n\n\"I have something else for you,\" he says before I can answer. He presents me with a battered Patrick Cox-WillBe shoebox.\n\n\"Shoes? What's wrong with these?\" I point to my new Stephane K\u00e9lian boots I bought at the sales.\n\n\"Open it. I went to Montreuil today to the flea market.\"\n\nInside are photos. Tinted browns and faded colors, odd-looking faces, children who look grave and wise beyond their years.\n\n\"Who are these people? You didn't take these,\" I say, handing the box back to him.\n\nHe pulls them out one by one and starts spreading them out on the kitchen table. \"Aren't they beautiful?\"\n\nThey are, in a strange way. Fragments of mismatched lives. An old man lying in bed, staring straight at the camera. Twins dressed in white, playing with a wheel and a stick. Portraits of dogs and women in simple frocks lounging by a lake. \"They were all there together, and I thought they were interesting, sort of already their own family album.\"\n\nVal looks for a notebook through the pile of mail sitting on my desk. He finds one under some unopened letters from Olivier, letters I can't bring myself to read yet. Val takes the notebook Louis gave me before my trip to Asia and flips through the photos of Laure and Madame Song and starts arranging the new faces in some creative chronological order. He starts pasting them in, writing invented names and dates for each. \"This one here, what do you think?\" He holds up a square five-by-five black-and-white. Five girls, various ages and sizes but the same face, the same cotton dress, each girl a little taller, lankier, wiser, more adventurous, than the previous.\n\n\"Val, let's go, we're going to be late. Jan wants you to meet Roberto and Eggle, her Italian friends who live in French Guiana. We're meeting them at Giuseppe's restaurant. Paolo's waiting for us.\"\n\nWhen we arrive, Paolo smells of sweet tomato sauce and garlic as he hugs me warmly while kissing Val hello. Even though he thinks Val is handsome and sweet, he doesn't approve. \"A bit too floating,\" Paolo told me once. \"He is so talented. What could he possibly photograph in the jungle? Trees and leaves and roots and ants, pesky mosquitoes. No people. He is no Italiano. Without people, Kim, we are nothing.\"\n\nHe takes us to where Jan is seated at a table for six. \"We're meeting Jan's friends, no? The Italians?\"\n\n\"Yes, especially now that he's been offered the job, it will be nice for him to know someone in French Guiana.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" Jan says, kissing us hello. \"Roberto called right before I left to say that he and Eggle have to go back to Kourou immediately. His wife is a little hypochondriac,\" she explains to Val. \"She always has something.\"\n\n\"I don't know how anyone can live in that part of the world,\" Paolo adds. \"No Prosecco, no pasta, no cheese.\" I shoot him a look, to stop being so negative.\n\n\"She's an archaeologist, right?\" Val asks, pulling out my chair for me before Paolo does.\n\n\"I'll give you their info before you leave,\" Jan tells him.\n\n\"Well, Kim will meet them, too, when she comes.\"\n\nJan and Paolo look at me, and I look at Val. This is the first I'm hearing of it. Paolo says, \"You are not going to South America.\"\n\nI shrug, not sure what to answer. Val smiles. \"Of course she'll come, as soon as I can figure out where I'll be.\"\n\n\"Everybody's leaving.\" Paolo throws up his arms. \"Gilles in Switzerland for an exhibit. Giuseppe in Italia\u2014\"\n\n\"They're coming back,\" I tell Paolo, convincing myself as well. \"We're all coming back. Val's leaving in about three weeks, though. The French Guiana tourist industry has offered him a full-time position.\"\n\n\"Good, we still have time.\" Paolo calls over a waiter to bring us food, drink. Later, he pulls me aside. \"At least he is more your age. But tell me, what is it that you see in him? Yes, he is _bello,_ very _bello,_ but he will break your heart.\"\n\n\"You think everyone will break my heart. It's too late. My heart's already broken,\" I say matter-of-factly. \"I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I'm not afraid.\"\n\nVal winks at me from across the room. I am drawn to his sense of adventure and his own doubts of wanting to stay in his birth country of France. This is something familiar to me.\n\nI tell Paolo about his mother, how Val took me to meet his family in the Loire Valley. They greeted me as though I were already part of the family. Amid ch\u00e2teaus and rivers, they told me stories of how Val, at the age of twelve, would be in the kitchen at 5:00 a.m., rolling and baking fresh croissants for break-fast. His mother kissed him on the top of the head and whispered to me how sad she was now about him leaving so soon. \"Can't you do anything to stop him from going?\" she asked.\n\nSomeone brings over plates of colorful antipasti, fried zucchini, and clams in tomato sauce to start. \" _Mangia, mangia._ I have ordered you such a wonderful meal, tomorrow you will be crying to come back.\" Paolo takes my hand, looks at Val straight in the eyes. \"Some of us, we know the _importance_ of food and friends.\"\n\nAfter dinner and a long walk back to Val's place, we get into bed and talk about when I will join him in French Guiana. \"As soon as you can,\" he says hopefully. \"But I don't really even know where I'm going to be living . . . and this job with the tourist board doesn't pay a whole lot . . . but it will give me my start.\"\n\nI can hear the anxiety in his voice and tell him that it's okay, I won't join him until he says it's time to come. Then he says softly that he thinks he loves me. I'm not sure I've heard him correctly, but he goes on to whisper something about the timing not being right. Timing is everything in relationships, and if things were different, he says, maybe we could have had a future.\n\nVal falls asleep closer to me than ever before. I am almost off the bed, my bare foot rubbing back and forth against the cold hard locks on his half-packed suitcase. I look over at his beautiful face. His eyelids move rapidly, darting back and forth, a sign of a dream at once familiar and long forgotten. His restlessness worries me. I have been here before. \nXXV\n\nHearts of Palm\n\n_The untold want, by life and land ne'er granted, Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find._\n\n\u2014Walt Whitman\n\nEver since I returned to Paris from my grandfather's funeral, my presence in this city feels more and more unfounded. Olivier and I have started calling each other regularly again, never really mentioning the violent incident that morning after my return from the States. He wants to know if I've read his letters. No, I tell him, not yet. I try to busy myself with work, but teaching English to young, cool French advertising execs is wholly unsatisfying, and now that Val is gone, there is a new emptiness; I miss what my life might have been with him.\n\nHe keeps asking me to come and visit him in French Guiana. It seems like the perfect place to run to\u2014a former penal colony. I want to go because, more than anything, I want to know if Val is happy where he is, if he misses me at all, and most important, if he has found peace. If he is happy there, maybe I will be, too. I also want to know this new place, the taste of the rain in the forest, the shape of the houses in Cayenne, the depth of the shadows on the streets at night, the names of the trees outside his window.\n\nBut he has been able to call only a few times. Sometimes the phones don't work at all, and I sit and wait for him to call, telegram, or fax. A sign that I'm still with him. He does write long letters from places called Kourou, Surinam, Cayenne. He writes that he loves me but doesn't know if he can offer me a stable life. Slowly I start to pack boxes, give away things that matter to me\u2014maps of certain cities, a few menus with notes, first editions signed by visiting poets, and a poster of Hopper's _Hotel Room_ from a trip to Spain. Soon I will be leaving again, and it seems that this is one way I've learned to say good-bye.\n\nSometimes I want to be selfish and tell Val to come back, that I'm ready to be with him. But perhaps he is more lost than I am. I know that I must go to South America to see him one more time, lay to rest any notions of regret in not having pursued our relationship. So I buy a round-trip ticket, Air France direct Paris\u2013Cayenne, and on my way to the bookstore, I stop at the Institut Pasteur for my yellow fever vaccination.\n\nI look up French Guiana in the atlas. I want to be able to locate myself on the map: 52.18\u00b0 W, 4.49\u00b0 N. Humid. Tropical. So close to the equator, to the heart of the earth. _Guiana,_ Native American meaning \"Land of Many Waters.\" I've been reading up on the jungles and rivers of the Amazon, noting which creatures are able to outlive others. I'm fascinated by stories of people surviving for days in the darkness of unfamiliar territories, lost and hopeful, drinking and eating only what's on their path.\n\nOlivier calls late one night, in a wine-induced state of nostalgia. He is driving along some road and tells me that we'll always be connected. \"Like two sturdy mountains with peaks that never touch but rise together from the same earth. I'm not a poet,\" he says, \"but that's the way it is.\"\n\n\"I don't want to be a mountain,\" I tell him.\n\n\"Then you're the moon that rises and sets behind the mountain.\" In the background, I hear a woman's voice. \"Are you there? Sorry, we almost swerved off the road.\"\n\n\"You'd better hang up. You don't want to be distracted.\"\n\n\"Ah, Keem\u2014\"\n\nI hang up the phone before any more of Olivier's drunken words come between him and the woman in the passenger seat.\n\nHe calls again several nights later while Jan, Paolo, and Gilles, Brigitte, and Herv\u00e9 are having a bon voyage dinner for me.\n\n\"Where are you?\" I ask Olivier, sneaking a peek in the kitchen. Jan is torturing me by not letting me in.\n\n\"In Venice, on business.\"\n\nI want to ask him if he's alone but bite my lip instead. \"Is it foggy?\"\n\nPaolo hands me a glass of _frizzante_ and a wedge of Parmigiano-Reggiano.\n\n\"Very. And cold. Just like you like Venice.\"\n\n\"Olivier, I'm going someplace . . . warm. Tropical.\"\n\n\"When are you coming back?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I may not for a long time. I'm leaving in a few days.\"\n\n\"So soon?\"\n\n\"Isn't this what you've always wanted? 'France is too small for both of us,' you've always said.\"\n\n\"You'll be back.\"\n\nI wish I could be as sure as Olivier. Before I have time to imagine him accompanied by another woman, dining at Harry's Bar, I hang up the phone. Paolo passes around a huge platter of crostini and the thinnest miniature pizzas. I take a bite. The white and blue basil blossoms burst in my mouth.\n\n\"Paolo. _Grazie._ \" He brings out a large round platter of plump figs and paper-thin slices of San Daniele. \"Where do you get these products?\" I ask. The ham is sweet, creamy, and salty at the same time.\n\n\"You know I have my sources,\" he says, beaming, thrilled that I appreciate his resourcefulness. \"You'll miss me when you're eating iguana belly and mosquito salad.\"\n\n\"Val says there's wonderful fish and game.\"\n\n\"It's savage, unruly . . . rural, and so unlike you, Keem,\" Paolo yells.\n\n\"It's not rural. It's jungle,\" I correct him.\n\nWe finish the crostini as Jan brings out her roast duck with dried pears and prunes. We finish with salad and a platter of my favorite cheeses, Roquefort, Rocamadour, Perail de Brebis, and a fruited Comt\u00e9. Brigitte scoops out her favorite rum raisin ice cream into bowls for everyone.\n\nGathered on the floor, sharing food, I feel that we're a family, an accidental gathering of beings, nourishing one another. I unearth my camera from the top of one of the packed boxes and take one last photo of this family.\n\nOn the Air France flight from Paris to Cayenne, as we lift into the sky, I hold my breath but remind myself that I'm not afraid. Bridges and tunnels no longer frighten me; I don't panic as I used to, even though I am still geographically divided. But I know that there's peace to be found, not in Val or the continent, but in some remote region of myself. I will no longer bury my sadness in the Jean-Pierres of the world or other random and inappropriate men. I want closure and a peaceful good-bye, not another disappearing act.\n\nSipping a glass of red wine, I slip off my sandals and finally open the letter, one of several Olivier sent weeks ago, the weight of which alone made me set it aside. The paper is predictably beautiful, thick and textured, a cream-colored heavy vellum. His handwriting is legible, though airy, rounded, and contained equally in the space. I reread the words several times before I'm able to understand what he really wants to tell me.\n\nOlivier writes how sorry he is that he didn't know how to keep me, that he wasn't equipped with the instruments necessary in measuring the level of sadness that had grown inside me. He knows now that my sadness stemmed from my own self-doubt, the hole inside of me that he couldn't fill.\n\nI also know that every day was a stone in the solid erection of our private Babel. His, an ancient construction of architecture, patriarchy, and love. Mine, a strange dialect of good-byes and unknowns. He insisted on making me believe that I had come into his life to complete his universe, without ever acknowledging my own.\n\nHe writes that he thought of me as an angel sent down to save his heart from shriveling up. I was barely twenty-two when we met, and lost in Stockholm. I didn't know what it was to be a woman, much less all the roles I played\u2014lover, chatelaine, confidante, stepmother. I wasn't good at any of these roles because I was only half there. Twenty-three when I finally left one adopted country to live with Olivier in another. I tried so desperately not to fall in love with the world he kept promising was mine\u2014an instant family of caretakers, children, friends, a grand old house in Provence, the travels. I wanted everything under the condition that I didn't have to admit it to myself, or to anyone, for that matter.\n\nI fold the letter up and lean back into the cushioned airplane seat. I slide into a thin sleep scented with fig trees, quince, and apricot. I'm holding a wild peach up to the light as the juice runs down my arms like fresh blood. Images of Laure folded into my lap, Olivier watching from across the room, his eyes wide with fear and love and longing.\n\nWhen I get off the plane, Val's waiting at the airport in R\u00e9mire-Montjoly, a huge smile across his tanned face. He offers me a wide red hibiscus. His whole body is tanned and lean with South American sun. I take off my white linen sweater\u2014I'm already beginning to perspire. He takes my bags and hugs me close to him, touching my hair and face as if I might not really exist.\n\n_\"Tu es l\u00e0.\"_ He kisses me again, and as he waves to the immigration officers and guides me gently to a waiting cab, I am reminded of his tenderness, the beauty he possesses inside and out. He snaps a photo of me, my eyes shaded from the brightness of the light.\n\nThe small communal taxi van to the city of Cayenne is filled with workers, their bodies a rich coffee color gleaming with perspiration. _\"\u00c7a va, ch\u00e9rie?\"_ they ask me in a patois that's both rhythmic and hard to understand. I smile and nod, sincere when I respond, _Oui, \u00e7a va, \u00e7a va tr\u00e8s bien._\n\nThe roads on either side are dense with trees and flowers I don't know the names of, scents I've never smelled before. Early afternoon heat dances off the macadam.\n\nCayenne is such a strange city. A noncity, it seems. The houses are dilapidated and leaning, folding in on themselves, their colors faded and scraped from sun and tired palm branches. Fresh fish and halved iguana stink in the open-air markets. People smile, such different faces. Arawak Indians and Noir-Marron, a large Asian population. Cayenne, the spice of my New Orleans childhood, and humid just like the Crescent City, but here at the edge of the map, the sun is brighter, harsher on the eyes and skin. The streets are hot and mostly vacant. The stoops of the Creole cottages are filled with old black men and women, gazing at the passersby, the whirl of a fan in the background the only movement.\n\nWe spend the first night drinking and dancing at a Brazilian restaurant. Eating _feijoada_ , spicy beans and pork, mistakenly swallowing hot peppers the size of tiny marbles, spicier than anything I've ever tasted. My mouth is burning, and I love it. We're drunk with heat and happy. Soon with jet lag and _ti'punch,_ Val's body next to mine out on the hotel balcony, I am slowly adrift in my own South American dream.\n\n_\"Bient\u00f4t, je te pr\u00e9senterai Tarzan,\"_ Val whispers, rocking me back and forth in the hammock. \"Tarzan will take us upriver with Jan's friends Roberto and Eggle and some others.\"\n\nI'm floating but restless. Even though I fantasize for a moment that I could stay here, I'm worried about Val. Somehow, I know that we will be together only the length of a river. On the ride from the airport, he told me that he can no longer read the papers, what's happening in his own country\u2014random police controls, political corruption, the ever-present military police. But I know that his criticism is superficial. It's his restlessness that goes much deeper and is so painfully familiar. He will stay in the jungle because something is keeping him from feeling at home in the world. I promised I wouldn't care about him, but I do. Somehow, though, I know I won't suffer for it as I have with others. Because of the distance, I am starting to care for him like a treasured friend, a fractured image of myself.\n\nIn the nine months or so that I've known him, Val hasn't photographed me that often, which is fine with me, but since I've arrived, he won't stop. Photo of me in the forest, on the boat to the Salvation Islands as we approached Devil's Island\u2014pointing to the shack where Dreyfus was held prisoner for four years. Photo of me drinking with the French Legionnaires on St. Joseph's Island, where no tourists are allowed. Standing along the potholed road from Sinnamary to Kourou, waiting for a van to take us up to the famous Chutes Voltaire.\n\nHere I am leaning into the wind, standing tall among branches of the gigantic bamboo forest. The rain had just started, a thick, rich pour that I started to dance around in, while Val instantly began chopping leaves for shelter. When that didn't work, he ran to a gathering of canopied trees, shivering. He told me to hold the camera, to protect it, while he looked around for something. I sat down butterfly style with the rain running down my face and limbs and took photos of the leaves and roots. There were noises I hadn't paid attention to earlier, cackles and screeches, but I wasn't afraid, even in the heart of the jungle.\n\nI wanted a photo of it all. Val started screaming at me to stop taking pictures, that the camera was unprotected. He gathered our belongings and headed back to the beginning of the trail, screaming that I was ruining his camera, his career, his future. I gathered some moss and leaves and tried to wrap the camera, but it was too late. I stayed a few steps behind him as we walked the trail back, tripping over roots and suddenly aware of the snakes.\n\nThe rain finally started to dissipate as we reached the road. My heart was pounding, and I had blisters on my feet, bare in running shoes. I bent over to rub my legs, which were gleaming with the tropical moisture. I wanted to say something to Val, but he wasn't paying any attention to me. He grabbed the camera away and started rubbing it, checking the apertures, wiping water from his eyes.\n\n\"This is all that I own,\" he insisted, shaking the camera high in the air away from me. \"It's all I have to prove that I was ever anywhere.\" Then he turned away and started walking down the road. I wanted to run after him, shake him up, and tell him that I understood what he meant but that I no longer felt the same way.\n\nJan's friends Roberto, a financial adviser for the French space program, and his wife, Eggle, an archaeologist, are both from the outskirts of the city of Milano. According to Roberto, he is the space program. I don't trust him when he greets me hello for the first time and whispers that he \"enjoys many extracurricular activities with Asian women.\" Eggle overhears and nods and smiles in a knowing way. I want to say something to let them know that whatever it is they're insinuating, I'm not interested. But they have been kind to Val and have agreed to drive us to meet a man named Tarzan.\n\nRoberto speeds through pitch-black roads while briefing us on Tarzan, whose real name is Alain. \"He comes from the Paris suburbs. He left the continent twenty years ago to settle in the Amazon.\"\n\nApparently, like many of those who have settled here, he has lost or broken something vital to his heart. He leads three- and seven-day survival courses in the jungle, where he sets up camp in a makeshift _carbet_ along the Mana River. He takes tourists past the ruins of crumbling open-air prisons and shows them how to hunt and fish. He teaches how to gather wood and leaves, check for ticks, and mix _ti'punch_ for cocktails.\n\nI make a note to ask him about the courses; I always want to learn more about survival, mostly how to break branches and leave the most visible marks along the path in order to find my way back.\n\nWhen we arrive at Tarzan's house, a creative assemblage of mixed exotic wood sticks and lots of plants, he greets us with dinner. Homemade boar p\u00e2t\u00e9, _machoiran,_ a local fish, cooked with coconut juice and fresh coriander, fried potatoes, and lots of rum with lime. Val hardly eats. I am hungry, but I take a moment to smell the food, wait until we are all seated. I savor the first bites and then eat heartily, savagely.\n\nAfter dinner, we sit outside in the last of the cool darkness and tell stories, hitting away the mosquitoes as fast as we can. Val ignores us most of the evening. He takes photos of all the objects in Tarzan's house\u2014Galibi Indian baskets, stuffed caiman heads, and the large cathedral wood tables.\n\nFinally, after too much rum, we hang our hammocks outside, behind the animal cages, hungry for sleep before our journey up the Mana River with Tarzan.\n\n\"Kim,\" Val whispers, \"I'm sorry for yelling. But this is my survival. You can do it anywhere\u2014\"\n\n\"Shhh. I understand,\" I whisper back. \"It's okay. Go to sleep now.\" I gently rock his hammock with my foot, humming a tune until he falls asleep. I don't sleep well. Instead I watch Val through the thin gauze netting, fast asleep, rocking back and forth with the camera nestled close to his chest.\n\nWhen the pirogue can't go any farther up the Mana River, Tarzan climbs out first. Then we follow carefully in his deep footsteps, up the slope to the top of the riverbank. He gives the women a half hour to hang the hammocks while the men haul up the staples. Eggle clears away a spot for her clothes and towels, her makeup bag, and several bottles of mineral water. She undresses in front of everyone and slips on a bikini too small for her full figure.\n\n\"Do you want to change?\" she asks me. \"I have another bikini. I'm sure Roberto would like to see you in it.\"\n\nI shake my head and go to help finish setting up camp, because here, along the banks of the Mana, the sun will set in one hour. There is also talk of mandatory vaccinations against yellow fever and of the feared _papillonite,_ a dreadful itching brought on by the powder of the wings of certain butterflies specific to French Guiana. I climb into my hammock, wrapped in a thin layer of gauze mosquito netting to protect me. I start taking notes, scratching my skin raw. I've made the tiniest of holes in the net so I can breathe at night. I can see Val through the hole. He's measuring the light, unwrapping rolls of film. He wants to shoot the sky. With every sway of the hammock, he appears and then disappears, but I keep reminding myself that I am the one in motion. The others who have joined our group were sent by their governments or institutions or are here because there was no place else to go. I am the one here by choice, in between houses while searching for a new country or preparing to return to one more familiar.\n\nEggle has asked Tarzan to take us out tomorrow for a ride on the pirogue, guide us briefly through the woods, and take us to the swimming holes. Tarzan agrees and goes on to tell stories of the Brazilian prostitutes. I can hear his booming voice filtered through the gauze net.\n\nTarzan also explains that there are no clocks because time is everywhere. When the sun rises, we will rise, wash ourselves in the river. We will spend the days fishing, swimming in creeks stained with flakes of gold. We will follow him through the tangle of jungle, search out _palmier_ trees, and then chop until we reach the edible heart.\n\nEvery other day, we'll take out the pirogue to gather fresh drinking water from the source. We'll smoke our food in large flat leaves and drink warm rum with sugarcane and limes.\n\nTarzan's helper, Jean, a ten-year-old Noir-Marron boy, shakes my hammock gently. He pops his smooth black head under the white netting to inform me in French that it's time for dinner.\n\nI emerge from the hammock, wrap myself in a silk pareo the color of bruised banana flowers. Jean's uncle is also present. He speaks only Taki-Taki\u2014a m\u00e9lange of Dutch, English, and Portuguese\u2014but seems to understand more than he intimates. He stares at the fire, humming to the trees as he gently wraps wild _pac_ meat in broad flat leaves to smoke for our dinner. He keeps an eye on us from a distance as we drink too much rum, ask predictable questions about the dangers of snakes and caiman. I walk over to him with my tennis shoes soaked from the river in one hand. He takes two sticks and plants them in the sand next to the fire. He places one shoe upside down on a stick and then the other. \"Dry like this.\" He smiles.\n\n\"Thank you.\"\n\nHe then points to an array of mismatched jars he has set out to rub the meat\u2014tiny round yellow peppers and bright orange pastes. I pick up one of the jars, and just then Eggle lets out a cackle as she imitates the Galibi Indian women who accompany her on her digs. Arms flailing and her heavy breasts swinging in the open for all of us to see. In the faltering light, she is grotesque, her attempt to be a native something or other unbearably painful.\n\nJean's uncle shakes his head, mumbles something in Taki-Taki, something that sounds like sorrow or 'morrow. I want to apologize but instead hand him the jar of paste, warm and glistening. He dips his pinky in it, licks it clean, and nods, smiles at me, waiting. I do the same, and immediately my nose begins to moisten, my palate is on fire. It is deliciously hot, but I still grab the rum to wash it down. He winks, then hands me a flat wooden utensil and gestures for me to do as he is doing. I do not want to offend him, so I rub the fiery paste into the meat, pour it lavishly into the _couac_ grains. We even fry fresh pineapple rounds in a honey-thickened pepper sauce for dessert. When dinner is prepared and spread out among us, Jean's uncle sits off to the side, tending the fire.\n\nAfter dinner, Jean's uncle comes to me, rocks the hammock gently. He hands me my dried tennis shoes. They're a bit deformed from the sticks and crack when I put them back on my feet, but I thank him. When the sun starts to set, I lie in the hammock, cover myself with the mosquito netting, and listen to the others tell stories.\n\nVal has set up the tripod. Eggle wants a group photo, but Val prefers the chance details: rum-soaked anecdotes, bleeding mosquito bites, someone taking a leak in the woods, intricate spiderwebs, and rows of _poulet boucan\u00e9_ (flattened whole chickens smoked on sugarcane). I no longer understand this madness for fixity, the desire to stop time, the illusion that, with a camera, we're able to put the pieces back together, make something whole and durable.\n\nWhile finishing an assignment in St. Laurent du Maroni, Val sends me on a bus to Cacao to visit the town. He has promised to join me shortly afterward, after his shoot. While bumping past villages and more jungle and water, I spot the natives earthing out their place, planting and harvesting, excavating ruins of demolished prisons. I watch them speed by as they bend their bodies to the shape of the river, their arms rippling with the heat of the water.\n\nI think about what I've learned in this strange part of the world, about survival and how time has also taught me a lesson\u2014things of the world come when they do, with or without my will.\n\nI realize that I can't rush finding home. And I also know that I'm stronger, somehow, without Olivier. Though at times I miss him so much, it hurts. I feel for him in the middle of the night, like a missing limb. I miss my parents back in New Orleans, my mother and father before them. I think of my brother and sister, my grandfather's ashes somewhere in a garden in New Orleans, and my mother, who will love me from a safe distance, the one she needs. Flora, who wanted so much to be with the living, and what she taught me about life before dying. I miss the High Alps, the beautiful and solid house. Little Laure, who is becoming a woman with her own doubts and questions. I think of Jan and Thibault. Of the men I believed loved me and the ones I know who did. The sharing and giving, the divisions and sacrifices. They all seem part of another life.\n\nIt is here, in this former penal colony of punishment and tangled grace where everyone is doing time, that I am finally able to forgive myself for leaving Olivier, for leaving my family all these years. I'm also able to let go of the obsolete ghosts of my early childhood.\n\nI think I may finally understand what it is I want\u2014to return to the States and reacquaint myself with English, my family, and begin another journey, toward the discovery of myself. I want to be a woman with her own identity, her own story. I must start writing, not just playing with words, as Jean-Pierre\u2014the self-proclaimed successful poet\u2014has always made a point to remind me. I think of the days with Tarzan, and Grignon, who also taught me that I'm a survivor, that the marks and traces are what make us beautiful, and there is joy in knowing that I still have much to live and learn.\n\nThe bus lets us out at the entrance of the village. I find a pay phone and put a call through to Olivier.\n\n\"I'm in South America,\" I shout at him through the crossed telephone wires, swatting at the fat black mosquitoes that dive into my skin.\n\n\"What are you doing all the way over there?\"\n\n\"I told you I was going.\"\n\n\"I didn't think you'd really leave. Are you happy, Kim?\"\n\nI bite my lip. Olivier sounds happy. I nod and then shake my head. \"You know better than to ask me that.\" He laughs a quiet, deep laughter, a very private joke about my haphazard pursuit of happiness. \"That's not why I left.\" The words sound foreign and echo back into my ear. Soon there's too much static, and our voices fade in and out, overlap each other's thoughts. My skin is bleeding now where the fattest mosquito has decided to bite.\n\n\"Call me, call when you return. Or wherever you land.\"\n\n\"I'm losing you,\" I yell, over the static.\n\nWhen I finally arrive in Cacao, Val isn't there waiting for me. I know he's working, but part of me was hoping that he'd be here. I know that he will stay in French Guiana.\n\nI make my way through the village to the marketplace, where a few vendors are setting up fruits and homemade sweets of rice stuffed into leaves, huge bowls of soup with cilantro and hot peppers, fried garlic and shallot garnish. It is so hot here, and I'm suddenly disoriented with the noise and heat and lack of water. Where is Val? I wonder. Where is Olivier? What part of the globe am I on?\n\nA slim, tall woman in a brown sundress is standing next to me at the fruit stand. \"I'm Catherine. You look lost,\" she tells me in French.\n\n\"Pleased to meet you.\" I shake her hand, and she raises it again to shield her pale blue eyes from the sun, trying to beckon to a bunch of children running wild through the market.\n\n\"I'm waiting for someone,\" I explain in French.\n\n\" _Vous \u00eates . . . fran\u00e7aise?_ \"\n\nI explain briefly that I'm not French, but my friend is, and we're here on our last stop before I make my way back to Cayenne, back to Paris.\n\n\"You look like my daughter, who actually looks like her father . . . he's Hmong. There\u2014\" She points and waves. \"There's my little girl. It's lunchtime. Would you like to join us? Come, you must be hungry.\"\n\nCatherine takes my hand and my backpack and leads me to the house near the market where she lives with her Hmong husband, their children, and his family. Catherine's daughter waves to me, and with her friends, they run along beside us up to the house.\n\nI see or imagine a wrinkled-faced woman who peeks out behind the door.\n\n\"My mother-in-law,\" Catherine explains. She beckons to me. Her face fans out like a broad porcelain plate. The old woman's eyes are like silver rivers, glinting with the knowledge of all that has passed through her. In her presence, I feel as if I'm in a long-lost dream. Maybe it's the heat, the smells of this new city, the waiting for an imminent departure. She takes my hands in hers, and I feel linked.\n\nThe old woman smiles, then she and Catherine and the children start preparing the floor, sweeping and laying down straw mats and the low table for lunch. I want to help. I move toward them, wanting to touch them to make sure I haven't imagined this hospitality in such a foreign land. It seems I have seen them before, if only in my dreams.\n\nWhen I walk, I feel the weight of sleeplessness knock in my joints. In a hammock, the body is always curved and never at ease. The only place to lie down flat is on the water itself. Lately, when I rock myself to sleep at night, I can feel the earth and all its waters move inside of me. Whole rivers flow through my bones. Asia pulses through my arteries. My mouth is the Gulf of Mexico. The Red Sea divides my heart. All the continents I've crossed, all the water in between.\n\nThe old woman hands me a heavy, ripe fruit I've never seen before, although its dark pink flesh and pungently sweet odor are familiar. She passes me an earthenware bowl filled with the red juice. It's warm and sweet on my tongue. Sit, she gestures.\n\nThe family is already seated, but I want to wait for Val. I look toward the village, across the water to the horizon. The light is still too rich for him to come now. There will always be another photo to take, another last image to capture. Val is like me in so many ways that it is both exciting and sad to be a witness to his search, his restless energy. But because I am aware that he is just at the beginning of his journey, one similar to my own, I know that my moving to French Guiana would only be running away again.\n\nI take the old woman's hand, grasping it as she leads me to the table. Catherine's daughter sits between her mother and me. She's got large black eyes and smooth brown skin, but the same laughter as Laure, the same precocious way of looking at the world. The closer she scoots to me, the more I realize she doesn't look like Catherine at all.\n\n\"She's got her father's eyes and willpower,\" Catherine whispers as if she's read my mind. The child speaks sounds that could be Korean for all I know, but since I can't answer in her language, I hand her a bowl of rice, gesture with my chopsticks for her to eat. She smiles and hands me a porcelain spoon.\n\n\"Here, spoon for rice,\" the little girl says, giggling into her tiny hand. Then she looks proudly across at her grandmother, who nods and slurps her soup. Catherine looks at her daughter, goes to touch her hair, but the little girl leans toward me instead. She takes my left hand in hers, traces her tiny index finger along the lines and creases.\n\n\"Lots of marks,\" she says. \"This your lifeline.\" She points to the center of my palm. \"And this, your heart.\"\n\nMIDNIGHT PASTA THREE WAYS\n\nJan and I often made bowls of pasta late at night after our ventures in the city. After my trip to French Guiana, I returned with a hot pepper paste that we would stir into almost everything, including these pasta dishes. We would eat, laughing at ourselves and no longer crying for the same reasons.\n\nMIDNIGHT PASTA #1: SPAGHETTI WITH PANCETTA AND CREAM\n\nYou can always rely on pasta, cream, and cured pork to make you feel better. Use only the freshest farm eggs available.\n\n_1 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil_\n\n_5 ounces pancetta, lardoons, or good-quality thick-cut bacon, diced_\n\n_1 small yellow onion or 2 shallots, thinly sliced_\n\n_Fresh-ground black pepper, to taste_\n\n_Hot red pepper flakes (optional)_\n\n_\u00bd pound spaghetti_\n\n_2 to 3 tablespoons cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche or whipping cream_\n\n_2 large egg yolks_\n\n_1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano_\n\n_Garnish: fresh-chopped parsley, basil, or mint_\n\nHeat olive oil in a large skillet on medium heat. Add pancetta and cook, about 6 minutes, until beginning to crisp but not burn. Add onion, black pepper, and hot red pepper flakes, if desired; stir, and cook about 2 minutes.\n\nCook spaghetti in salted boiling water just until al dente. Drain, reserving about \u00bc cup pasta water. Add pasta to skillet with onions and pancetta. Whisk together cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, egg yolks, and \u00bd cup of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Toss into pasta and stir, adding some of reserved pasta water if too dry. Divide pasta into 2 warmed bowls. Serve immediately. Add another crack of pepper and remaining cheese, and garnish, if desired.\n\nMIDNIGHT PASTA #2: SPAGHETTI WITH ZUCCHINI, MINT, AND PINE NUTS\n\nSometimes I add fresh or smoked salmon to this dish.\n\n_1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil_\n\n_1 shallot, sliced_\n\n_2 small firm zucchini, cut lengthwise and sliced_\n\n_Salt and fresh-ground black pepper, to taste_\n\n_1 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes_\n\n_\u00bd pound spaghetti_\n\n_2 tablespoons fresh mint leaves or fresh dill sprigs_\n\n_\u00bd cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano or Pecorino Romano_\n\n_1\/3 cup toasted pine nuts_\n\nHeat olive oil in a large skillet on medium heat. Add shallot and cook, stirring occasionally, about 5 minutes. Add zucchini and cook about 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Add red pepper flakes.\n\nCook spaghetti in salted boiling water just until al dente. Drain, reserving about \u00bc cup pasta water. Add pasta to skillet with shallots and zucchini. Heat about 1 minute, adding some of reserved pasta water if too dry. Remove from heat, add mint, half of Parmigiano-Reggiano, and half of pine nuts. Toss to combine. Divide pasta into 2 warmed bowls. Serve immediately with remaining cheese and pine nuts.\n\nMIDNIGHT PASTA #3: PENNE WITH POPPED TOMATOES, ANCHOVIES, AND ONIONS\n\n_1 to 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil_\n\n_1 pint ripe cherry or grape tomatoes_\n\n_Salt and fresh-ground black pepper, to taste_\n\n_Pinch of sugar (as needed)_\n\n_1 small onion, thinly sliced_\n\n_2 garlic cloves, smashed and chopped_\n\n_Hot red pepper flakes, to taste_\n\n_4 to 5 anchovy filets_\n\n_Handful of black olives (such as Ni\u00e7oise) or 1 teaspoon black olive tapenade_\n\n_\u00bd pound penne_\n\n_Garnish: Parmigiano-Reggiano or Pecorino Romano_\n\nHeat olive oil in a large skillet on medium high to high heat. Add tomatoes and cook, tossing often, about 10 minutes. Cover and let cook about 3 minutes. Uncover, season with salt and pepper and a pinch of sugar. Add onion, toss, and cook about 2 minutes. Add garlic, red pepper flakes, anchovies, and olives. Lower heat.\n\nCook penne in salted boiling water just until al dente. Drain, reserving about \u00bc cup pasta water. Add reserved pasta to skillet with tomatoes. Toss in pasta and heat about 1 minute, adding some of reserved pasta water if too dry. Toss to combine. Divide pasta into 2 warmed bowls. Serve immediately. Add another crack of pepper and garnish, if desired. \nXXVI\n\nHungry After All\n\nWhen I return from Cayenne, adjusting back to city life is difficult. I feel overdressed and underwhelmed, and I wander the streets like a sleepwalker, hesitating through a thick, complicated dream. I pass the _sans abri,_ the shelterless, one I recognize as the African man Laure and I used to bring food to on the corner of rue de Grenelle and boulevard Raspail. He nods and smiles as I walk by. He calls me _Louisiane._ I buy him a sandwich and a Limonade, then make my way up the boulevard and through our old Saint-Germain neighborhood, pressing my face to the darkened windows of Barth\u00e9lemy, my favorite cheese shop, and break my vow not to call Olivier.\n\nHe's the one who calls first, though, two days after my return from South America.\n\n\"So you've landed,\" he says.\n\nI nod yes, at a loss for words. \"I miss you,\" I tell him shamelessly. \"I know I shouldn't say it, but there it is.\"\n\n\"You know, I would never admit it, but I do miss you. I won't allow myself to feel it. It's too late.\"\n\nAnd we continue to talk like this, as we have for years now since our separation. The words are different, sometimes about how so much has happened that perhaps we are beyond the point of being able to reconstruct a life together, but we are always basically saying the same thing: that we loved each other, that I wasn't ready for all the love he had to give me, that his biggest regret was not knowing how to keep me. He calls to tell me that he understands why I had to leave but that we will love each other always. Then, before hanging up, he insists that he needs to get on with his life, forty-six, nearing fifty, and desperately avoiding being alone.\n\nI want to tell him that leaving for me was an act of survival, and as I've learned, one can leave and still love. But as I had promised to be an independent woman, he has promised never to open his heart again, especially to me. When we say these things, it feels as though someone is punching me deep in the gut.\n\nThe next evening, the phone rings, and it's Olivier again.\n\n_\"Bonsoir, Kimette.\"_\n\n_\"Bonsoir, Olive.\"_ Oh, leave.\n\n\"I hope I'm interrupting you.\" He thinks that since I left, I should be spending all my time writing.\n\n\"Are you calling to tell me I broke your heart or that you're getting married?\"\n\n\"I'm never getting married again.\"\n\n\"I'm leaving, Olivier.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"I'm leaving Paris. I know that's what you've wanted since our separation.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Stockholm is where we were the happiest,\" we say almost in unison.\n\n\"And Venice.\"\n\n\"And Baix, and Corsica . . .\"\n\nThere is another long silence as we take in the absurdity of our words. We were happy everywhere, yet here we are nostalgic for each other, baffled by the fact that we are connected by just a tiny host of wires.\n\n\"Do you remember the poem?\" Olivier asks.\n\nOf course I do. A poem by Milosz translated into French I sent him after our very first meeting, about not wanting to know about the past, about the sweetness of ignoring the paths that lead to one another.\n\n\" _Laisse-moi la douceur,_ \" Olivier recites, _\"d'ignorer le chemin qui m'a men\u00e9 jusqu'\u00e0 toi. . . .\"_\n\nHow could I have ever wanted to ignore the trail of what led him to me, ignore the importance of the past? I wait for Olivier to say good night and hang up first. I sit in the dark and doze off with the phone clutched close to my heart.\n\nFor weeks since my return from French Guiana, I have lost my appetite, eating mostly small spoonfuls of yogurt late in the night, a few slices of salted tomatoes, and stale _pain au chocolat._ Sometimes I make myself eat a hot ham-and-Gruy\u00e8re cr\u00eape from an early morning street vendor near Saint-Michel. I crumple up the warm waxed paper tight in my fist and watch the tourists as they emerge from the RER station, looking both weary and lost as they try to juggle luggage, passports, and maps.\n\nI know it is time for me to leave this part of the world, but it seems Olivier is everywhere. I still don't go past 81, rue Saint-Louis-en-l'\u00cele, the first in now a long series of O & Co. stores. In almost every neighborhood, I walk past one of the many L'Occitane shops, take in the clean, sharp scent of fresh milk soap, bright lemon verbena.\n\nOn Delta Airlines international flights now, Olivier's face glides past on the screen to promote a new line of products. Sometimes it is just the scent of rising bread flecked with olives and rosemary, the sharp memory of a meal we shared. It is these moments when I still hunger for him, for a reminder of why I left.\n\nAlthough Olivier and I are still friends, we have not been able to see each other after all these years, just a chance meeting once in a caf\u00e9 on the rue de Buci. _\"C'est trop dangereux,\"_ he tells me over and over again. There is danger in opening up the old wounds, of exposing the raw heart.\n\n_\"Je suis devenu humble.\"_ I taught him humility, he claims. _\"Mais tu m'a quand m\u00eame fait souffrir.\"_ But I caused him to suffer.\n\nNo matter how intelligent a separation can be, there are still traces of the failed relationship\u2014rejection, destruction of the ego, raging jealousy.\n\nWe don't talk much about the other people in our lives. He tells me, though, that he still thinks he and I should have had children, that I _need_ to have a child in order to complete the circle, create the history I have been missing my whole life. He hints that he thinks he has finally met a woman he can love. Not the woman from Strasbourg, another, but she knows all about us. That we'll always be linked. _Et toi?_ he questions hesitantly.\n\nI don't tell him, but I'm still wondering what it will take to make me feel that home is with someone else. At least I'm not as restless as before, although I will never stop looking at maps, tracing another route, packing bags, ready to discover how other people feel at home in the world, taste what it is that grounds and comforts them. I want to one day again brave the South Korean winter in search of a familiar face. I want to go back to a riverside _ginguette_ and squeeze fresh lemon over hot fried _\u00e9perlans._ There are so many flavors to try\u2014street food late at night in Bangkok, jewel-colored moles in Puebla, all the varieties of rice dishes in the world.\n\nFor now, I have learned that home is in my heart\u2014in all the places and people I have left behind. It's in the food that I cook and share with others, in the cities I will come to know, and in the offerings of street vendors around the world\u2014from South Korea to Provence\u2014in the markets I have yet to discover.\n\nAfter I have made arrangements to start packing and ship my things back to the States, I fall into a deep, delicious sleep uninhabited by nightmares. I awake suddenly to the windows wide open, and a warm breeze blows through, the promise of a new season in the air. I rush to get dressed and run out into the city.\n\nThere is a feast of the senses as I walk through one of my favorite markets. This could be any street market in the world, filled with hungry people busy with the daily tasks of picking and choosing. _I want this, yes. I don't want that._\n\nI notice a dark-haired woman from behind, and just for a second, my blood races at the sight of _Omma._ I follow the woman from a safe distance, study her as she goes from vendor to vendor, balancing whole squash blossoms in her palm, pressing wheels of cheese to test for ripeness, tapping fruit, measuring and feeling the weight of it all before carefully making her choices.\n\nFor an instant, as she looks up and out into the crowd, I imagine she is still searching, even a quarter of a century later. I want to tell her that she made the right choice and that I'm still here in the marketplace, but no longer scrawny and scared. I am a woman, carrying my own full basket, freshly baked goods. But I lose her among the bustle as she disappears with an armful of flowers, leaving a trail of soft white petals behind.\n\nI eye fresh apricots and golden plums, small spheres of melons, and shining spears of ivory asparagus. In turn, I weigh and test each for ripeness. This one, I nod, keeping one eye on the dwindling trail. _Un bon choix,_ the farmer confirms. A good choice. It's ready for eating. He hands me a slice of melon, a taste of apricot; another holds out a piece of thick country bread. I let the fruit sweeten my tongue, take the bread in my hand. The crust is fragrant, warm. I break off a piece, a few crumbs scattering to the wind. The inside is soft and dense. I chew and swallow, suddenly aware how alive I am and how hungry, hungrier than I've ever been. \n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nThank you for downloading this Gallery Books\/Jeter Publishing eBook.\n\n* * *\n\nJoin our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Gallery Books\/Jeter Publishing and Simon & Schuster.\n\nCLICK HERE TO SIGN UP\n\nor visit us online to sign up at  \neBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com\n\nDEDICATION\n\nTo make a dream come true, you need a lot of help, and I was lucky enough to get more than my share. Start with a family that has always believed in me and never let me sell myself short on or off the field. Add to that a set of mentors who taught me what it means to wear the pinstripes and be a ballplayer for the greatest franchise in professional sports. There's the two decades' worth of teammates and brothers who played the game with me and left me with a bunch of rings to show for it.\n\nFinally, there's the New York fans. They're as tough a crowd as you'll find anywhere but when they do give you their love, there's nothing else like it. The pictures in this book show a side of me that most of those fans have never seen. I hope you all enjoy it.\n\n## CONTENTS\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nSPRING TRAINING\n\nANNOUNCING MY FINAL SEASON\n\nTHE FANS\n\nOPENING DAY\n\nPRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE\n\nFAMILY FIRST\n\nTHE TEAM\n\nTHE POSTSEASON\n\nA BANNER YEAR, 2009\n\n3,000\n\nTHE BIG 4-0\n\nPERENNIAL ALL-STAR\n\nRE2PECT\n\nTEAM OF RIVALS\n\nLOOKING AHEAD\n\nTHANK YOU, NEW YORK\n\nSPECIAL THANKS\n\nABOUT DEREK JETER AND CHRISTOPHER ANDERSON\n\nPHOTOGRAPHY CREDITS\n\n## INTRODUCTION\n\nI want to start by saying thank you.\n\nI know they say that when you dream you eventually wake up. Well, for some reason, I've never had to wake up. Not just because of my time as a New York Yankee but also because I am living my dream every single day.\n\nLast year was a tough one for me. As I suffered through a bunch of injuries, I realized that some of the things that always came easily to me and were always fun had started to become a struggle. The one thing I always said to myself was that when baseball started to feel more like a job, it would be time to move forward.\n\nSo really it was months ago when I realized that this season would likely be my last. As I came to this conclusion and shared it with my friends and family, they all told me to hold off saying anything until I was absolutely, 100 percent sure.\n\nAnd the thing is, I could not be more sure. I know it in my heart. The 2014 season will be my last year playing professional baseball.\n\nI've experienced so many defining moments in my career: winning the World Series as a rookie shortstop, being named the Yankees captain, closing the old and opening the new Yankee Stadium. Through it all, I've never stopped chasing the next one. I want to finally stop the chase and take in the world.\n\nFor the last twenty years I've been completely focused on two goals: playing my best and helping the Yankees win. That means that for 365 days a year, my every thought and action was geared toward that goal. It's now time for something new.\n\nFrom the time I was a kid, my dream was always very vivid, and it never changed: I was going to be the shortstop for the New York Yankees. It started as an empty canvas more than twenty years ago, and now that I look at it, it's almost complete. In a million years, I wouldn't have believed just how beautiful it would become.\n\nSo many people have traveled along this journey with me and helped me along the way: I want to especially thank the Boss, the Steinbrenner family, the entire Yankees organization, my managers, my coaches, my teammates, my friends, and of course, above all, my family. They taught me incredible life lessons and are the number-one reason I lasted this long. They may not have been on the field, but they feel they played every game with me, and I think they are ready to call it a career as well.\n\nI also couldn't have done it without the people of New York. New York fans always pushed me to be my best. They have embraced me, loved me, respected me, and have always been there for me. This can be a tough, invasive, critical, and demanding environment. The people of this city have high expectations and are anxious to see them met.\n\nBut it's those same people who have challenged me, cheered for me, beat me down, and picked me back up all at the same time. New York made me stronger, kept me more focused, and made me a better, more well-rounded person. For that, I will be forever grateful. I never could have imagined playing anywhere else.\n\nI will remember it all: the cheers, the boos, every win, every loss, all the plane trips, the bus rides, the clubhouses, the walks through the tunnel, and every drive to and from the Bronx. I have achieved almost every personal and professional goal I have set. I have gotten the very most out of my life playing baseball, and I have absolutely no regrets.\n\nNow it is time for the next chapter in my life. I have new dreams and aspirations, and I want new challenges. There are many things I want to do in business and in philanthropic work, in addition to focusing more on my personal life and starting a family of my own. And I want the ability to move at my own pace, see the world, and finally have a summer vacation.\n\nBut before that, I want to soak in every moment of every day this year, so I can remember it for the rest of my life. And most important, I want to help the Yankees reach our goal of winning another championship.\n\nOnce again, thank you.\n\n## SPRING TRAINING\n\nThis spring training was different, because more than ever before, I focused on trying to enjoy it. When everyone shows up for spring training, all they look forward to is the end of it. Most guys just can't wait to get out there on Opening Day and start playing. A countdown begins\u2014thirty days left, twenty days left, and so on\u2014it's all the guys talk about. I've done that, too, in the past, but not this time. I went in and tried to enjoy every day, without thinking about the end of it. The end would come soon enough.\n\nWelcome to the Big Time\n\nI remember showing up for my first spring training at eighteen years old. It used to be held down in Fort Lauderdale, so Doug, who has been my friend since fourth grade, made the long drive with me from Kalamazoo in the first car that I'd bought, a red Mitsubishi 3000. I was nervous, I was intimidated, I was scared. After being a lifelong Yankees fan who had played most of his years with a friend at third base, throwing to another friend at first, and flicking it to a close friend at second, all of a sudden there I am with Don Mattingly at first base and Wade Boggs at third. Those are guys I grew up watching and idolizing, so it was intimidating, to say the very least.\n\nPreemptive Strike\n\nI don't have as much hair as I did when I first started playing professionally, so I like to keep it short now. It cuts down on my time getting ready. But I would just like people to know that this hairstyle is by choice, not necessity, okay?\n\nTo avoid injuries during the season, you have to stay limber during the off-season, and my masseuse, Nicole, makes sure of that. She comes over twice a week, and let me tell you, getting massages isn't as relaxing as one may think.\n\nOld Dog, New Tricks\n\nI started doing yoga about three years ago, and I really enjoy it. When you get a little older, it helps with your flexibility, so I do it once or twice a week with my teacher, Kelly. I really see a difference; I think if I'd done it earlier in my career, the moves and stances would be easier for me now, but it has served its purpose. People think yoga is easy. It's not, it can be quite difficult; but whenever I do it, afterward I feel a whole lot better\u2014and a little sore.\n\nNew Faces\n\nI used to always look for Jorge Posada first when I showed up for spring training because he was my closest friend on the team. He and I had a spring training tradition: on the last day we would order a bunch of Hooters chicken wings, then we'd drive to Baskin-Robbins and get ice cream. Not exactly what a nutritionist would advise, but we weren't telling. Jorge has been retired for a few years now, and there are so many new faces in Tampa, so what I really look forward to when we all show up is getting to know all the new guys. I've always gone out of my way to try to get to know people's personalities, and before the season starts, when you're all there together getting ready, is the best time to do that. With the young guys, the future Yankees, I want to be able to say that I really knew them when.\n\n## ANNOUNCING MY FINAL SEASON\n\nI've never doubted my decision to retire, not once. I used to wonder how I would know when it was time to retire. Older guys would tell me that I'd just know, and that didn't seem like much of an answer at the time\u2014but they were right. I didn't want my teammates to have the distraction of facing questions about my future after every single game, and to be honest I didn't want to be asked about it thousands of times either, so I knew I had to reveal my decision before the start of the season. I spent a considerable amount of time on my letter that was posted on Facebook. There were just so many thoughts and thank-yous I wanted to convey and I wanted to get it right.\n\nTime to Say Goodbye\n\nI knew I was going to retire quite some time before I announced it at the start of the 2014 season, because I felt it in my heart. But family and friends told me to wait until I was completely healthy and sure of my decision. They didn't want an injury to sway me. I always knew deep down that it wasn't the reason, but I took their advice and waited anyway, just to be completely sure. They thought that when I felt good again I might decide that I wanted to play for a few more years, but that feeling never came. I've been playing ball for a long time\u2014twenty years. And playing in New York? That's like dog years.\n\nThis Is the End\n\nI've been asked if I think I'll come back to play the game like other athletes have, and to that, I can most definitely say no. I'm gone. This is it.\n\n## THE FANS\n\nThis year has been incredible\u2014more than I could have ever expected, or dreamed of. Words can't even begin to describe how special this feels. The fans everywhere are treating me so well. In my last game in each stadium, I've been treated to standing ovations and cheering. Opposing teams' fans have pretty much always been respectful to me, but they've taken it to another level\u2014a level I didn't think was possible.\n\nWords to Remember\n\nI certainly didn't expect such a strong reaction from fans across the country. People have said so many memorable things to me during my final season, and some of the best have been the simplest. Some people will just say \"Thank you. Thank you for playing the game the right way. Thank you for the way you handle yourself, playing hard but always with respect.\" A lot of parents have thanked me for being a great role model for their kids. Those are the things that really hit home for me. Those are the things that I'll remember for the rest of my life.\n\nNothing Quite Like It\n\nOur fans are great. When they start chanting your name, and you hear the sound of thousands of people chanting together, there's nothing better. When I was younger and dreamt of playing in the majors, I imagined a lot about what it would be like, but hearing the fans cheer wasn't part of my dream. And even if it was, nothing can prepare you for that when you experience it for the first time. The cheering feels really good.\n\nI've been on the other side of that as well, having a whole stadium boo me. I got that on the road a lot in my career, which makes how I've been received on the road this season all the better. It's been awesome, but I have to say, when Yankee fans cheer for you and chant your name in Yankee Stadium, there's not a single feeling in the whole wide world that can top that.\n\nFan Club\n\nI remember the first time I saw a fan wearing my T-shirt. I was out at a restaurant on the Upper East Side called Cronies that was not too far from my apartment, during my first season, and I saw a girl walking by with my name and number on her T-shirt\u2014I thought that was the coolest thing in the world.\n\nMe Time\n\nI love driving myself to the stadium for home games. I use that time to call family and friends, or just take some quiet time for myself before I get to the ballpark. It's the one hour in the day that's all mine. Once I'm there, I have very little free time, because there's always something going on: batting practice, media interviews, meet and greets, trainer time, you name it. I've gotten rides when I have events I'm going to before or after, but generally I really like driving myself to the stadium and pulling into my spot.\n\n## OPENING DAY\n\nThe one thing that never changes is the butterflies. I've gotten them every Opening Day since my first, and 2014 was no different.\n\nAn Invocation\n\nWhen I kneel down before every game, I say a prayer that I've been saying pretty much the same way since Little League. It's a quick prayer, before every game and every at bat. It's short but important. I pray that I have a good game and that I don't get injured. I pray to play well and stay healthy.\n\nAnd Then There Was One\n\nIt was cool to have Mo, Andy, and Jorge at the stadium with me on Opening Day\u2014those guys are like brothers to me. I wish they were still playing with me; this is the first year where I haven't played with at least one of them. That took some getting used to. For me, Jorge was the toughest one to see go, because we are so close. He was a position player, so he and I were together pretty much every day for eighteen years. We relied on each other and picked each other up when times were tough. Back in 1997, Jorge was sent down to the minors and brought up again four or five times and we dealt with that. He felt like he was being demoted, and I had a hard time losing my best friend on the team every other week. It was frustrating but we talked a lot and I tried my best to help him stay positive and confident. That happened to all of us\u2014I got sent down, Mo did too. It makes you feel like you're not doing your job, and when that happens you need your friends there to pick you up. So Jorge retiring was the most difficult transition for me. Then Andy and Mo retired in 2013, so I got used to it. I didn't like it, but I got used to it.\n\nAn Empty Introduction\n\nThe day I received the 1994 Minor League Player of the Year Award, I went to New York to attend a ceremony at Yankee Stadium. Major League Baseball players were on strike, so there were no MLB games being played, there or anywhere. I was twenty years old and had just two suits and two ties . . . I've gotten a couple more since then. It was strange, no one was there. It was a small event in a ghost stadium.\n\nIt's Go Time\n\nThis is me, warming up on May 29, 1995, about to make my first appearance as a New York Yankee, and I was scared to death. The morning before at like five or six o'clock I got a call from our Triple-A manager. I had no clue what was going on, I thought maybe I'd been traded, but he said, \"Congratulations, you're going up to the Big Leagues.\" I was on a plane to Seattle the next day. The team was traveling up from Anaheim, and I was meeting them in Seattle; I arrived first and grabbed a cab to get to the hotel. The moment the cab got to the top of a hill, I took in a view of the skyline and it took my breath away. I could see the whole city below, and I said to myself, \"Oh, man. This is it.\" Even though my first game wasn't in New York, it was still huge to me.\n\nYou Never Forget the First Time\n\nMy best Opening Day ever was my first one, on April 1 in Cleveland in 1996. I hit my first MLB home run, I played pretty well, and we won. Your memory of the first time you do something always stays with you, so that will always be one of the most special games I've ever played. The guy who caught my home run ball wouldn't turn it in, so I don't have it. Maybe he still has it, maybe he threw it away. I guess we'll never know.\n\n## PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE\n\nMy biggest fear in life, on or off the field, is to be unprepared\u2014for anything. I've always relied on practice, repetition, and discipline, so not being prepared makes me nervous and uncomfortable. In any profession, the more you do things the more they become second nature, and once that happens, you no longer have to think, you just do. That is what practice is for\u2014to think about what you're doing and how it's all working so that when you play, hopefully it all comes together naturally. That is the goal, and the only way to reach it is through dedicated repetition.\n\nThe Flip\n\nNow this is something that no amount of practice can prepare you for. No team or player ever practices flipping the ball home, so I can't say I was prepared for this play. I just was where I was supposed to be on the field, which was the right place at the right time, I guess. I caught the ball running with both hands on a bounce, and flipping it to Jorge was the only way I thought we could get the out. This play is one of those things you'll never see again. I don't think any other teams practice the alignment we had on that play, and we certainly never practiced a situation where the ball was off-line and there was a play at the plate, so everything about that moment was completely improvised. It was the playoffs and we were on the brink of elimination, so it got a lot of attention, and though it's tough for me to rank, I consider it one of the best plays I've ever made.\n\nThe Dive\n\nIt really wasn't difficult to catch the ball. The landing was another story. In our old stadium there was a photographers' pit on the other side of the wall\u2014I'd gotten well acquainted with it a couple of years before this during the playoffs. It was the game after the \"flip play,\" actually. We were playing Oakland, and I caught a pop-up and fell over the wall directly into the photographers' pit, which is nothing but a cement-lined open space. Not a very nice place to land.\n\nSo when I found myself in the same situation, I had the bright idea to jump the pit this time around. I was running full speed and knew I couldn't stop in time, because there wasn't a lot of room in foul territory in the old stadium. In my mind, my best bet was hopping over the pit and running into somebody in the crowd. The only problem with my plan was that I ran right into an empty chair. I missed the cement, but I hit a chair face-first instead. Neither one is a great option, but given the chance again, I'd probably choose the cement. I actually own that chair now\u2014Steiner Sports gave it to me when the old stadium was torn down.\n\nThe Jump Throw\n\nPeople always talk about my jump throw and ask me how I developed it. It was a move I did in the minors, but just in practice, just messing around. I kept working on it and having fun with it until it got to a point where I realized I could pull it off. I didn't try it in a game for quite a while. It's not something you just go out there and do\u2014particularly in a game, because a lot can go wrong with it.\n\nIt's like anything else: I got there through repetition and focus. You continue to work on your skills and improve and refine your game, and some things that really work for you come out of it. If you continue to work on your defense and offense, honing your abilities in every aspect of your game, good things will happen. I like to think that I was an okay athlete growing up, and I think playing other sports helped me to learn different moves, to be able to integrate jumping in my defense maybe more than other guys would.\n\nThe Swing Doctor\n\nI don't want to keep repeating myself, but the truth is baseball is about practice, discipline, and repetition. I'm habitual in what I do. I had a coach by the name of Gary Denbo, who was my first manager in the minor leagues. I was with him throughout the minors and when he was a hitting coach in New York in 2001. He is based in Tampa, and I have worked with him in the off-season ever since. In fact, Gary is responsible for helping me perfect my inside-out swing; some of it is just how I hit, but over the years my swing has improved tremendously, thanks to all of my work with Gary.\n\nIt's Not Just a Numbers Game\n\nIn terms of the mechanics of defense, one of the hardest things to learn, or teach, is acquiring a feel for the game. Nowadays there's too much emphasis placed on the computer science of baseball. Computers say that 72.3 percent of hit balls go to a certain place, so players are taught to stand in those places\u2014and that can limit their thinking. Too scientific of an approach to the game takes the fun out of it, because if you approach all of the action on the field in that way, it's not a game anymore. I think the best way to learn how to play baseball well is to get a feel for the game before you even try to play it. Anticipation and preparation in particular are the keys to being a good fielder.\n\nDefense Wins Championships\n\nI take a lot of pride in my defensive game, so winning the Rawlings Gold Glove for the first time in 2004 meant a lot to me, and it has every time since then, too. The Gold Gloves are voted on by a committee of peers, as opposed to by sportswriters, so winning it comes with a huge degree of respect, because the coaches and managers of the teams you're doing your best to beat all season are the ones who vote for you.\n\nDown But Not Out\n\nI felt it pop. And I knew it was broken. The next thought I had was that I had to get off the field. I did not want to be lying there helpless. Before we even entered the tunnel to the locker room, my initial instinct was: How long until I can play again?\n\nThat's where my mind was. I was more focused on that than the pain. Up until that point I had missed a total of about eighty games due to injury in my entire career. My foot would hit the bag wrong in Tampa or in Boston, and I'd end up with a bone bruise. But with just a month left in the season, we were in a neck-and-neck, back-and-forth battle with Baltimore.\n\nSo I kept playing. Eventually that bone bruise turned into a stress reaction; then, that day, the malleolus, which is the bone that sticks out of your ankle, just snapped in half. I only took two or three steps.\n\nI've been fortunate enough that aside from dislocating my shoulder in 2003, which took me out for six weeks, I'd had no major injuries during my career. This was something different. It was the first serious, major injury I'd ever had. So there was uncertainty about what the doctor was going to say, but I just tried to stay positive. I kept asking when I could come back, not if I could come back.\n\nI broke my ankle in October and was in a boot until January. When I started playing games at the end of February, I ended up breaking it again and landing back in the boot for another six weeks. All of the off-season immobility made the whole process of coming back that much harder. I had to regain my leg strength. I had to do agility and speed work; I wasn't able to run at all, so I had to get my cardio together. It set me back and took a lot of work to get healthy.\n\nComing Back\n\nI pride myself on working extremely hard during the off-season, but I probably worked the hardest that I ever have this past year, 2013\u201314. When I began again it was like starting from square one. I was trying to slim down and rehab my ankle and get the rest of my body in shape all at the same time. All in all, it was a long, hard off-season, the most difficult of my entire career. There are no short cuts when it comes to training; you have to do the work if you want see results. Chef Debbie keeps me disciplined and really helped me this past off-season when I needed to slim down for the sake of my ankle.\n\n## FAMILY FIRST\n\nWithout question my family has been a huge factor in keeping me consistent as a competitor. They have been at quite a few home games, every year. Baseball is a game where failure is inherent. Even batting .333 means you fail two-thirds of the time. The thing you need is people around you who are going to stay positive. The media has a tendency to be negative on most days, so if I didn't have people around me to support me, I wouldn't be able to do what I do.\n\nI think it's even more important that I have people around me who are always going to be honest with me and tell me what they think I'm doing wrong or right. My family and friends are those people for me. It's simple: I wouldn't be who I am today if it wasn't for my family. You have to have a good support group, regardless of your profession. If you have any level of success or any level of failure, you have to have a network of people to lean on and count on.\n\nThe Family Tree\n\nThis past year I participated in the PBS show Finding Your Roots with Professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. because my parents and I wanted to learn about the history of our family. They take a sample of your DNA and trace your ancestors back as far as historical records will allow. It was incredible\u2014they were able to trace both my dad's and mom's sides back to the 1600s. Because of slavery, it isn't common for the roots of an African-American family to be traced back that far. The most interesting thing they found was that our last name came from the slave owner, and they were also able to trace the slave owner's ancestry further back than anyone else they'd ever had on the show.\n\nRe2pect\n\nThis season I went to the Nike campus in Oregon to have my ankle scanned and to have them do other tests and measurements so that they could make a shoe that fit me perfectly and provide extra support to my ankle. The doctor who operated on me, Dr. Robert Andersen, traveled to oversee the design and make sure it was the best it could be. How's that for team effort?\n\nHere, my mom and I are looking at the first pair they sent down. I've been with Jordan Brand since 1999, and it's been such a great thing. I initially met Michael when he was playing baseball in 1994 in the Arizona Fall League. When he asked me to be a part of the brand, I was honored that he would ask me. He's like a brother to me now, because our relationship has grown throughout the years. To be the first baseball player on his brand was flattering, to say the least. And the ad they did in honor of my last season that aired during the All-Star Game was awesome. Now, at every stadium I visit, people tip their caps to me the way everyone did in the commercial. It's really nice, and it's also kind of funny. There was a kid next to the dugout in Boston who did it every single time he caught my eye. I'm happy to do it back\u2014if I have my hat on.\n\nMy Nearest and Dearest\n\nI like to share all of my experiences with family and friends as much as possible. I've been like that ever since I was a kid. I was the one who always wanted everyone around. If I'm going to a movie, I want everybody to go. If I go to eat, I want everybody to come. So it's been fun to share the experiences of this final year with the people who mean the most to me.\n\nMy True Legacy\n\nIt's been pretty amazing to watch the Turn 2 Foundation grow since 1996. We've gotten so much support throughout the community, thanks to our fundraisers and through my partnerships with different brands and companies. To see the growth throughout the years has been awesome, and to work on it as a family has been a special experience. We've always been close, but on new levels it's brought us closer. And the torch is being passed: my dad used to run it, and now my sister is taking it over. I left home when my sister was in seventh grade, so aside from talking on the phone a lot, I missed her growing up. But we've grown a lot closer in our adult lives and I'm happy that we work on the foundation together.\n\nTurn 2 has far surpassed anything I could have imagined when my family and I first discussed creating this foundation during my rookie season, and spending more hands-on time with our programs and participants is a major priority for me in retirement. The high school students in our Jeter's Leaders program are so impressive; they dedicate themselves to mentoring others, modeling healthy lifestyle choices, enacting social change projects, and becoming true leaders. Ultimately I hope they are my most enduring legacy.\n\nThe Host with the Most\n\nI got a chance to know Seth Meyers when I hosted Saturday Night Live back in 2001, so I was thrilled that he came out and moderated this year's Turn 2 Foundation dinner. He did a Q&A with me and I like to think that I gave as well as I got in that exchange. He was a great host and even danced with my mom.\n\nHeeding Dad's Advice\n\nI played everything when I was young, but baseball and basketball were my two favorites by the time I got to high school. Soccer lasted only a couple of years, and I can tell you why: too much running. In baseball, most of the time you run ninety feet, then take a break. Maybe you'll leg out a triple and that's two hundred seventy feet. But soccer? That's nonstop.\n\nI played third, I pitched, but I always wanted to be a shortstop, because my dad had played shortstop. As a pitcher, I wasn't bad, but I wasn't made to be a pitcher. I got out on the mound and threw as hard as I could, but I didn't really have it in me. I mostly played short, aside from the time my dad, who was my coach, wanted to teach me a lesson. He kept telling me to only worry about the things I could control. Apparently I wasn't getting the message. He made his point by putting me at second. If you have no control of it, don't worry about it.\n\n## THE TEAM\n\nI had always dreamed of playing for the Yankees and playing in a World Series, but I never dreamed that one day I might end up in Monument Park. That was never part of it and I don't allow myself to think about it now, even in my last season. That would be getting way ahead of myself and I could never do that. But once the season is over and I've had some time to reflect, maybe I'll let myself think about it. And who knows, one day, maybe they will make a space for me there.\n\nMy Hero\n\nI remember the first time I saw Dave Winfield on TV: he was larger than life. He was six foot six, just huge, much bigger than everyone else. He hit the ball harder, he threw the ball harder, and it seemed like he ran faster. He was a hero of mine. To this day I think he's still the only athlete to be drafted in all three sports\u2014football, baseball, basketball\u2014and he'd never even played football.\n\nDave was the epitome of the all-around athlete, and in my mind, as I was growing up, he could do no wrong. He also inspired me to start Turn 2, because he was one of the first athletes to have a personal foundation. I met Dave for the first time during my rookie season in 1996, and that was a thrill for me. He never gave me any baseball advice; he just congratulated me and told me to always enjoy the game. I now pass that same tidbit along\n\nDave is as well known for his colorful relationship with the Boss, but he never gave me advice on handling him\u2014that's because with the Boss, you just had to live and learn. You can say the same thing about playing in New York. People can give you all the advice in the world, but you just have to experience it.\n\nThe Core Four\n\nJorge and Andy were the first two guys I played with back in 1992. I got called up to Greensboro, but I only played with them for a couple of weeks. I didn't know them well, and they were older than me. I was just eighteen and the new guy showing up for the last couple of weeks of the season. And then Mo and I played together the next year.\n\nBut of the three of them, Jorge became my best friend. I was the best man at his wedding. He is truly like a brother. We've spoken a few times this season, and I saw him at spring training. Other than that, Jorge is enjoying the retired life now and pretty much stays away.\n\nWe were all disappointed when Andy went to Houston, because we all wanted to keep playing together. We wanted Andy to come back, and we were very glad when he did. One thing you learn very quickly is that MLB is a business, and it can be a cruel one\u2014you have to get used to that. People always talk about players not being loyal to teams, though I don't think that applies in Andy's situation, but people do come and go. In any case, we played together a long, long time.\n\nI was amazed to find out at one point that Mo, Jorge, and I had played together for seventeen years. We were the first trio in any professional sport to play together that long. In this era of free agency, I have a feeling that our record is going to be around for a while.\n\nThere Is No \"I\" in Team\n\nThe thing I'll miss the most when I hang it up is my teammates. I've played with some of the best players and some of the best guys I've ever met. Robinson Cano is a fun guy. He always has a smile on his face and loves playing the game. He makes it look easy when he's on the field. Robby was the longest-tenured second baseman that I played with in my career, and I was sad to see him go. I do miss Robby a lot this year. For selfish reasons I wish he were still on the team. He's going to have a long, successful career, and I look forward to watching him.\n\nCC Sabathia is a gamer. He wants the ball, and he wants to be out there pitching in all the big games, regardless of how he's feeling. He works hard and I've always gravitated toward players like that. He's not afraid to fail; he just wants to be out there, playing his part, being in the big games.\n\nHideki Matsui was a great teammate and a true competitor. One spring training, Matsui, another teammate, and I were at the batting cage talking about who would get married first. So we decided to bet on it. Two days later, Matsui wasn't at spring training, because he'd flown to New York to get married. Then he flew back and collected his money from us. The whole time he was making the bet, he knew he was getting married in two days. That's a competitor.\n\nMy Boy Gerald\n\nGerald Williams took care of me when I first signed with the Yankees in the minors, and we were teammates when I was called up to the majors. He's still one of my best friends. He lives down in Tampa as well, so we spend a lot of time together, and as you can see in this picture, I've got him laughing. People tend to think I don't have a funny side, but trust me, I do.\n\nScooter\n\nI loved listening to Phil Rizzuto broadcast when I was growing up, just all the funny things he would say and his amazing voice. That's how I got to know him, but once I joined the organization I quickly learned how great a player he was. Whenever Phil came to visit, he would seek me out and take the time to talk. He was always very complimentary and asked me me how I was doing. We never sat down and talked about the intricacies of playing short shop because Phil was about five foot seven and I'm a completely different size, so we played the game differently. But he always treated me great when I was a young player, and those are things you remember\u2014how people treated you when you were coming up. It's the example players like Phil set that inspire me to help the younger guys now.\n\nPopeye\n\nThe best thing about Don Zimmer was the depth of his knowledge. This man spent sixty years in and around the game, and since I've always been a sponge for knowledge, I enjoyed hearing about it all. Whether it had to do with playing shortstop or hitting, my ears were open to whatever bits of wisdom Zim had to share. He was a hard-nosed player and he was like that as a coach as well.\n\nZim was the kind of guy, who, at seventy-two, would go out on the field and get into an altercation, which is exactly what happened in the 2003 ALCS when Pedro Martinez threw him to the ground after Zim got in his face. Zim had a fiery attitude and demeanor, so to think that he would do that didn't surprise me. Still . . . seeing it actually happen? Now that surprised me.\n\nThe Core Five\n\nBernie was the first player to come up through the Yankees organization in my era to have great success. The Yankees were known for trading the younger players, but Bernie changed that and paved the way for the rest of us to have that opportunity. Without him, the Core Four might not have been allowed to happen.\n\nHe doesn't get grouped in with the rest of us, and there are a few reasons for that. First of all, our first year was when the team started winning, and Bernie had already been there. Also, he retired before we won our fifth championship. But even though he doesn't get mentioned when people talk about the Core Four, Bernie is without a doubt the reason why we had the opportunity to take Yankees baseball to the highest level of play.\n\nMr. October\n\nWhen I was growing up, everybody knew Reggie Jackson: Mr. October. I've been lucky enough to know him personally since I was eighteen. Reggie is one of the best storytellers I've ever met. He is fun to be around. He's very honest. He's very open, and he knows how to relate stories from his own life when he's talking to people about their lives. I always enjoy being around him, because Reggie is one of those players with a lot of knowledge, and I like to take his wisdom and apply it to my own life. He really has been a mentor to me.\n\nReggie played the game for a long time and with a lot of success, and obviously he's in the Hall of Fame. But Reggie is great to learn from, because along with his success he also had failures. Some people assume that if you were a great player and are in the Hall of Fame, you never failed. Reggie will be the first to point out that he had plenty of failures but he never let them hold him back. When he failed, he just kept pushing through. Reggie hit home runs, but Reggie also struck out.\n\nBrother Tino\n\nTino was playing first base when I got my first major-league hit in Seattle. I didn't know him at all, and he came up to me and said, \"Congratulations, it's just the first of many.\" He and I have grown extremely close. He lives in Tampa as well, so we hang out a lot. Tino is like family to me. I've watched his children grow up. He lives a few houses down from me, so we will take the boat out, go out to dinner, or he and his wife and kids will come over.\n\nTino is the kind of guy I admire. He played hard, he's intense, he was part of those championship teams. He's like a brother to me\u2014we won four championships together and that lends itself to a relationship you can't have with just anybody.\n\nMr. November\n\nI told President Bush to make sure he threw the first pitch from the mound and didn't bounce it before it crossed home plate, because if it did, people would boo him. They don't care who you are or what the situation is. If you don't throw a strike, you're going to hear about it.\n\nIt was cool to be named Mr. November, but it was a unique set of circumstances that came from unfortunate circumstances. We were only playing in November because of the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. The World Series had never been played in November, and I don't think it ever will be again.\n\nThe One and Only\n\nYogi is like a cartoon character. I've never met anyone like him, and I doubt I ever will. He always finds his way to my locker when he comes in. Ever positive, he always has good things to say. I love asking him questions about ex-players and situations. Yogi would always brag about having ten rings and me only having five. To which I liked to point out that there were no playoffs when he played\u2014the best teams went straight to the World Series. So the way I figured it, he really had only five rings himself. To that he always said, \"Well, you can come count them if you want.\"\n\nA History of Tradition\n\nWe get spoiled in our organization, because so many of the greats come back. That's what makes Old Timers' Day so special. Other teams may invite back former players, but Old Timers' Day really is a Yankees tradition. The fans learn the history and the tradition not only of the team but of the sport itself. It's great for players like me, too, because we get the chance to meet these guys\u2014one of the many privileges that come with being a New York Yankee. I haven't even thought whether or not I'll ever play in an Old Timers' Game. I can't even imagine that at the moment.\n\nThere Will Never Be Another\n\nThe day George Steinbrenner died was a rough one for Yankee fans, particularly because the Boss and public address announcer Bob Sheppard passed away one right after the other. Bob played as big a part in the experience at Yankee Stadium as any player ever did. I was so happy that I'd thought to have Bob's voice recorded so that he would always introduce me at the plate. His was the only voice I'd ever heard at Yankee Stadium, and I wanted to preserve that as best I could.\n\nThe first time I met the Boss, I was eighteen and I had just signed with the team. He was intimidating\u2014he'd walk around with his turtleneck and his sport coat, hands in his pockets, in hundred-degree Florida heat. He knew everything about the organization from the ground up, and when we met he kept saying, \"We expect big things from you.\" All I could do was nod and say, \"Okay, okay.\" Our relationship grew into a friendship, because we had the same goals. The Boss expected perfection, he wanted to win, and he was a fierce competitor\u2014in that sense our attitudes aligned. I wanted the same things and cared about them as much as he did, so I never had a problem with his expectations.\n\nWe would get together during the off-season, and all I can say about him is that he was unique. He was tough, and if you couldn't take it he would beat you down. Like Yogi, he was one of a kind\u2014there was no one like him, and I don't think there ever will be.\n\nThe Greatest Stage in Professional Sports, or What I Like to Call \"The Office\"\n\nThe night before the last game at the old stadium, the Yankees organization asked me if I would speak afterward. I'm not one for prepared speeches, because if I prepare a speech and practice it and then forget something when I recite it, that one mistake will throw the whole thing off. So I always speak off the top of my head. I came out of the game with one or two outs in the top of the ninth, and that's when I realized I had to figure out what I was going to say, and do it pretty quickly.\n\nIt wasn't hard. I just thought about both stadiums and what they meant to me, but most of all to the fans, with all their memories and baseball history. When I was younger I dreaded speaking in front of people. I really hated it, to the point that I nearly couldn't do it. For weeks I'd be nervous when I knew I had an oral report to do in class. For me, to end up standing there on the pitcher's mound in Yankee Stadium speaking to fifty-six-thousand-plus people, I'd say I've come a long way.\n\n## THE POSTSEASON\n\nI had butterfiles going into my first postseason but I was more excited than nervous. I really like those times when I know there are more eyes on us. And that's what the postseason is. I tell the younger guys heading into their first one to treat every game the same way they would in the regular season. It's the same game, there are just more people watching.\n\nMr. T\n\nJoe Torre, or Mr. T, was a father figure to me. I learned a lot from him but, most important, I learned how to deal with people and how to treat people. You have to take the time to get to know everybody's personalities\u2014I learned that from Joe Torre. He was a wonderful people person.\n\nThere's an old adage that says you should always treat everyone the same: I don't necessarily agree with that. I think you should treat everyone fairly but not the same. He was tremendous at dealing with people's personalities, and that is one of the reasons why he was a great leader. If you're going to lead a group, you have to get to know everyone you're leading.\n\nI Earned It\n\nI hit my first postseason home run in the eighth inning of Game 1 of the American League Championship Series versus Baltimore in 1996. There was some controversy about it because of the kid pictured here, who leaned over the wall and caught it. The kid may have reached, but I played with Tony Tarasco and told him that he should have jumped\u2014and that he would have missed it anyway.\n\nWe Are the Champions\n\nThe team hadn't won a World Series since 1978, so it was wild in Yankee Stadium when we won in 1996\u2014you can feel it just by looking at this image. The old stadium was much louder because of the way it was designed\u2014more stacked and less spread out, with several thousand more seats than the new one. It felt as though the fans were always right on top of you, closer to the field. The new stadium has underground restaurants and bars and tunnels to occupy fans while they're watching the game, whereas in the old stadium, you had to be in your seat to see the game. It was intimidating to play there, believe me\u2014even as a member of the home team.\n\nParty Time\n\nThese photos were taken after we beat the Braves in 1999, our third Series win in four years. I was always the one who poured champagne on the Boss. He was a very stern, intimidating leader, but he and I had a great relationship, so I'd always look for him and be the guy who poured champagne on him. I'm lucky to say that we were pretty close. I think it all started with that age-old Ohio State\/Michigan rivalry\u2014the Boss was a big Ohio State guy.\n\nHe was a perfectionist in every single way. When he and I filmed a Visa commercial in 2003, he wanted it to be perfect. He didn't want them to edit at all, he wanted to do it until he delivered his lines perfectly. So we did it until he was satisfied. If you've seen the commercial, you'll know that I'm one of the few people on this earth who can say that they danced in a conga line with George Steinbrenner. That was the only part of the commercial he wasn't concerned about getting right. After two takes, he said, \"Okay, that's it, I'm only doing this one more time!\"\n\nSubway Series\n\nWhen I think of the five World Series we won, the Subway Series in 2000 was the one we had to win. If we hadn't, I don't think I would have stayed in New York City. I was living in Manhattan, and everywhere you went for two or three weeks before we even got into the Series, the Yankees-Mets rivalry was all that anyone talked about\u2014I think most Yankee fans felt that if we didn't win, we could have thrown those three rings that came before out the window. So that was a big showdown for us, and a very important victory.\n\nDon't Let Defeat Beat You\n\nLosing to the Diamondbacks in the 2001 World Series was one of the toughest losses of my career. We were three outs away from our fourth championship in a row. We'd won in situations like that ninety-nine times out of a hundred, but this was the one time that it wasn't meant to be. To get that far in the season and have it be so close made it so tough to take. All you can do after something like that is pick yourself up and use it as motivation to work harder next year.\n\nI believe that it's important to remember the tough times, as it makes experiencing the good times better; it also makes you work harder for them. Every year you have to assess how you played\u2014especially when you win. That's when you should take the time to look in the mirror and figure out how to do better and what you can improve.\n\nMind Over Matter\n\nI have fun in clutch situations\u2014I really enjoy them. The key to achieving in a clutch situation is to not be afraid to fail. I've always thought to myself, \"What's the worst I can do? Strikeout?\" Then I try to think about the times that I've had success in similar situations. It's a case of mind over matter. Baseball is a game of failure\u2014and I've failed a lot\u2014but I think the biggest key is remembering success. A lot of guys get so excited and amped up in clutch situations that the game speeds up for them, but I try to slow it down as much as I can and enjoy it. I'll say to myself, \"You've done it before. Do it again.\"\n\nBoyhood Dreams\n\nThis was the moment I dreamed of when I was playing ball in the backyard as a boy. Every kid who plays baseball dreams of hitting a home run in the World Series. But for that home run to be a walk-off to win the game? This photo is of a childhood dream exceeded.\n\nI was so happy, I jumped as high as I could when I came into home\u2014so high that I almost broke my ankle landing on the plate. I'm not kidding. If you watch highlights from the last two games of that World Series you'll notice that I can't run at all. I was lucky\u2014a guy playing for the Los Angeles Angels did the same thing in 2010 and broke his leg. If I got the chance to do it over I wouldn't have jumped, but I was living out that backyard dream. What can I say?\n\nIf You Can Make It Here . . .\n\nBeing the toast of the town when that town is New York City\u2014it doesn't get any better than that. I wouldn't know, but I can't imagine that there's a better place to win than New York.\n\n## A BANNER YEAR, 2009\n\nWe were in four Series during my first five years in Major League Baseball, and six in my first eight years. Then we didn't go back for eight years. So the Series in 2009 felt really good. And it was our first year in the new stadium, so it was really gratifying. I felt we were going to win that year, I really did!\n\nPassing the Iron Horse\n\nHit number 2,722: Passing Lou Gehrig's record was incredible for me, because any time you're mentioned in the same breath as Gehrig it's very special. A few years before, I'd noticed that no player had reached 3,000 hits with the Yankees. I almost didn't believe it, given the history of the team and all the great players who have worn the pinstripes.\n\nI was well aware that Gehrig had the most hits, but I tried to keep all of that \"history-making\" stuff out of my mind. If you play long enough, if you're consistent, and if you stay healthy, good things may happen. I never set out to pass Gehrig in hits; it was never a goal of mine. I must say, though, that as soon as I got close I was reminded of it constantly, because that was all that anyone wanted to talk to me about.\n\nI'm very grateful that it happened at home, because you want moments like those in your career to happen before your hometown crowd. I'm not saying other cities wouldn't have appreciated that achievement with me, but the Yankees are big on tradition and history, so it was all the more special for me to do it in New York.\n\nHello, Mr. President\n\nIt's always shocking when you meet someone and they know who you are, let alone call you by name\u2014even more so when it's the President of the United States. When I first met President Obama and he spoke to me and knew all about me, it was hard for me to grasp what was happening.\n\nSportsman of the Year\n\nWhen I was recognized as Sports Illustrated's Sportsman of the Year in 2009, I learned that I was the first Yankee to be granted the honor, which was hard to believe because there have been so many Yankees legends who have made major impacts on and off the field. My parents have always stressed the importance of teamwork, character, and leadership, so this felt like an honor we all shared. It was a huge one, and I'm glad my family was able to go to the ceremony.\n\nYou've Got to Be Hot\n\nThe best teams make the playoffs, but the hottest team wins. That's just how it is. All the teams that go to the playoffs can win the World Series, but you have to be hot to win it. And that's not something you can plan or teach.\n\nThere were a lot of years I felt we should have won. I felt we should have beaten Arizona, and the Marlins, too. I felt we should have won the pennant against Boston the year we blew a 3\u20130 lead. Then again, every team says that when they lose: \"We had a better team than they did, we just didn't play well enough.\" I'm not so sure it's that simple, because I don't believe in chemistry as much as other people do. When you win, they say your team has good chemistry, and when you lose, they say something is wrong with your chemistry. I don't think chemistry has anything to do with it. I think good fortune plays a bigger role in winning it all than people are willing to admit.\n\nA Jeter Tradition\n\nAfter we won the World Series in 2009, I sought out the Boss's son\u2014who now runs the team\u2014and daughter and poured champagne on them. \"This is what I used to do to your father,\" I said. \"So now I'm going to do it to you!\"\n\n## 3,000\n\nIf you go back through the history of the game, you'll notice that the number of players getting 200 or more hits remains about the same each year\u2014it's always just a handful of guys putting up those numbers. To make it to 3,000 hits in your career, you have to get 200 hits for fifteen straight years. The key to that is simple: consistency and longevity. You can't do it if you don't stay healthy.\n\n#3000\n\nMy 3000th hit, I just wanted to hit the ball hard. I was joking around with one of my teammates before the game, saying I was going to hit a home run. I was just joking because at that point in the year, I only had two home runs. I wasn't really trying for one, but I did hit it hard. I knew it was going to be a milestone, replayed for years to come, especially with the way the Yankees keep tradition and history alive, so I didn't want it to be an average or boring hit. That was a special day; everything seemed to go right. I didn't give it much thought at the time, even after I hit it; I wasn't thinking that I had to get that ball. It was only afterward that I heard that Christian Lopez wanted to give it back, and I really appreciated it.\n\nThere's Always Tomorrow\n\nBaseball is a game of ups and downs, good days and bad days. I always tell my teammates, \"We've got another one tomorrow.\" I think it's that way with life, too. There are going to be bumps along the way, but you've got to pick yourself up and move on. That's why I like the sport most of all. My dad taught me that lesson early, as my coach and ever since. He should know, he's watched every single game of my career.\n\nSame Game, New Rules\n\nThere's more player movement than there ever was in the past, so the camaraderie of guys playing on one team for their entire career of fifteen to twenty years is going to be few and far between from here on out. With free agency what it is, teams are constantly trading and it's all become more of a business in the past few years. I can't think of one team's roster that has had the same guys for five years, let alone ten.\n\nMo Knows\n\nMariano Rivera is quiet but he's probably the most confident player I've ever played with. He avoided the spotlight for most of his career, until last year of course, when the attention was on him for the entire season. What you see is what you get with Mo. He took a lot of pride in doing his job\u2014he worked hard and played hard. Although he's quiet, he has a pretty good sense of humor, which is something people might not realize about him.\n\nDrive\n\nI think everyone wants to win\u2014that's universal. But I don't think losing affects everyone the same way. Some people accept it and are fine with it. Only some are willing to make all of the sacrifices necessary to win. Some people are easily satisfied, while others continue to strive for what's next. And that desire for perfection is something else. To me, it can't be taught. You either have it or you don't.\n\n## THE BIG 4-0\n\nI've heard for men forty is the new twenty. It was like every other birthday\u2014inside I really didn't feel any different. Then again I play a kid's game for a living. In my head I still feel like I'm young.\n\nSurprise!\n\nI turned forty midway through my final season. We went to dinner before my party and I thought it was just going to be my parents, my sister, my girlfriend, and my nephew. But when we showed up, all of my closest friends were there. Gifts are great, don't get me wrong, but having all of those people present meant a lot to me, even more so because I didn't expect it. Former teammates, friends, and my agent\u2014I've got a really small group of close friends and they were all there.\n\n24\/7\n\nYou know The Truman Show, the Jim Carrey movie where he grows up on television? That's what my year has been like so far. The difference between baseball and other sports is that we play every day, so I've been on TV every single day. It's funny, I feel like so many people have been coming out and paying their respects, which is something I don't like to hear because it sounds like I'm going to be dying at the end of the season. Fans will say, \"It was great seeing you,\" and I always reply, \"I'm not dying, you'll be seeing me; I'm just not going to be playing baseball anymore.\"\n\n## PERENNIAL ALL-STAR\n\nI was scared to death when I played my first All-Star Game. It was 1998, I was twenty-four, and playing against guys that I grew up watching. I felt out of place and in awe. My last one was special because I knew I wouldn't get the opportunity to do that again.\n\nCatching Up\n\nEverything surrounding the game is overwhelming, because from the moment we land, there are things for us to do every minute of the day. But the game itself is always really fun. There are guys you play against who you admire and respect from afar for what they do, and at the All-Star Game you get to be their teammate and get to know their personalities.\n\nFirst But Not Last\n\nI won the All-Star Game MVP award in 2000. At the time, I wasn't aware that no Yankee had ever won it, and it was an incredible honor to be the first. I'm not the only one anymore, though; Mariano Rivera won it in 2013. Playing in the All-Star Game is a treat, a chance to consider rivals as teammates just for a few days, and to compete with the best to put on a show for the fans. My parents have come to every All-Star Game I've played in, since they never took for granted that I would have the opportunity again.\n\n## RE2PECT\n\nMy parents taught me the value of respect at a very young age and that has had a huge impact on the way I've played the game. I've tried to show respect to my managers, my teammates, fans, even opponents, and my desire to earn similar respect has influenced my decisions on and off the field. When the Yankees honored me at the stadium it was truly a special experience. They brought together more people than I expected, and I was moved by their presence and support.\n\nAlways There for Me\n\nMy parents have been involved in my development as a baseball player and a person through every step. They've been an endless source of strength, support, and inspiration. They've encouraged me, stood up for me, challenged me, and set an example I hope to follow. If anything, I feel like this day should have been dedicated to them, as well as me.\n\nWhere It All Began\n\nWhat made this day at the stadium so unique was having my baseball family and my personal family together on the field. I've been fortunate to have a great support system in both. Growing up, it was my grandmother who really fostered my love of the Yankees because she was a Yankee fan. When I would visit her in New Jersey during the summer, at night we'd watch the games, just me and her. And going to a game would be a reward if I had done really well in school the previous year. She's the reason I became a Yankee fan. So to have her on the field with me was a real treat.\n\nFriends and Mentors\n\nCal Ripken Jr. is the reason I was able to stay at shortstop because Cal was the first really big guy to play the position. When I was younger, people would tell me I was too tall to play short and my first line of defense was, \"Well, Cal Ripken is doing it.\" I got to play against him, and after he retired I've run into him over the years. But for him to come out for my final home game, not even being a part of the Yankee organization, meant a lot. Michael Jordan, too. I competed against him when he was playing baseball in the Arizona Fall League in 1994, and I've gotten to know him well since then. He's like a brother now\u2014a big brother who still keeps a few secrets, because I had no clue he was going to be there that day. He was a complete surprise.\n\nGiving Back\n\nThe biggest honor for me that day at the stadium was having so many members of the Jeter's Leaders program present. I saw this as a chance for them to get some recognition, too. I've always felt a strong responsibility to use my career and visibility to do something more. I'm very proud of what my Turn 2 Foundation has done and continues to do for young people, like the great ambassadors who were with me on the field that day.\n\n## TEAM OF RIVALS\n\nWhat Boston did for my final game was unbelievable. The fans were chanting for me at a place where I've heard them chant against me too many times to count. Everything that happened at Fenway that day was pretty outstanding. The entire Red Sox team came out to greet me before the game along with all of these great athletes from Carl Yastrzemski to Bobby Orr, which took a lot of time and planning. I didn't know anything about it and I didn't expect it at all. For the Red Sox organization to put forth that much effort to recognize someone who's been an enemy, for lack of a better way to put it, was something really special.\n\nGood-bye and Good Luck\n\nAfter my second at bat and my last hit, I left the game, and on the way to the dugout, I went over to Clay Buchholz, which probably seemed strange to people watching. The entire Red Sox team came out to greet me before the game, except for the pitcher and catcher because they were warming up. I got a chance to speak to the catcher when I went to the plate, but not pitcher, so I walked over and said, \"I know this is odd, but I didn't get a chance to tell you before that it's been a pleasure competing against you, and good luck in your career.\" I didn't want to leave him out.\n\nHustle to the End\n\nI've really enjoyed getting to know Ichiro. We're talking about a guy who has gotten over 4,000 hits. He's someone I've always admired from afar and I'm glad I got a chance to play with him. Going into that last game, I just wanted my last at bat to be a hit. I was fortunate that it was, but I almost blew out both hamstrings getting it. It was an infield chopper, so I ran it out as fast as I could. It's never taken talent to play hard and hustle, and that's how my last hit was.\n\n## LOOKING AHEAD\n\nAfter the last out in my last game, it will be the first time since middle school that I won't have a schedule or a routine to follow. My life has been structured, because it had to be for me to achieve my dreams. That part of my life will end, but that doesn't mean I'll start doing a whole lot of nothing. My future will be busy and I have big plans, most of which probably won't fall in line with what people expect from me. I'm looking forward to surprising them.\n\nNew Teammates\n\nI've always been interested in the business of sport and I think I have a fairly entrepreneurial spirit. Now I'll have the time to actually pursue some other projects and establish myself in a different way. I've spent twenty years focusing on the team and on winning. Now I'll be able to focus on things that matter to me outside of playing baseball. One thing I've always been concerned about is health and healthy living, which is why I've partnered with Luvo, a company that makes healthy, nutritious meals that also taste good.\n\nSticking with What Works\n\nEven though I'm moving on from my career as a ballplayer, some things will stay the same even in retirement. I'm a creature of habit so I will still get a Red Eye from Starbucks before I go wherever it is I'm going. And I'll continue to work out with my trainer, Jason, the way we have for the past six years.\n\nNew Ventures\n\nOne of the projects I'm most excited about is Jeter Publishing, the imprint I've established with Simon & Schuster. I plan to be hands-on with every book we publish, and I intend to go after great stories and interesting subjects, and not just in sports. I want the imprint to be a place where people can tell their stories their way. And I intend to do the same with my online venture, The Players' Tribune, where athletes from all sports will be able to tell their stories, first person, exactly the way they want to. I want to provide a community where they can connect directly with their fans, no filter.\n\nFree Time!\n\nThe greatest thing about my future is not knowing what every step will be. I have my foundation, I have my business interests and ventures, and I have my goals, like owning a team one day. But there's no schedule, there's no routine, and there's no end date. I'm looking forward to making the most of that flexibility.\n\n## THANK YOU, NEW YORK\n\nI don't even know where my mind was\u2014it was all over the place, from the moment my final game at the stadium started until the moment it ended. I thought I was going to lose it by the eighth inning. I was trying to stay in control, just hoping I wouldn't get emotional out on the field. If the game had ended the way it looked like it was going to, I really would have lost it, I have no doubt about that. But then things changed, and I went from being sad to being really excited.\n\nStill There for Me\n\nMr. T came by before the game to wish me luck, and all of my inner circle was there to support me. It was hard to keep my focus, my mind was literally in a hundred places at once.\n\nSome Things Don't Change\n\nMy trainer, Stevie [Donohue], stretched me before the game the way he's done for years and years. He has been with the organization my whole career. He began as the assistant trainer under Geno [Monahan], who was with the team for decades. Now Stevie is the head trainer. As much as I went through my routine the way I always had, I can't lie, this time it was different knowing it was my final home game, my last time doing all of those things at the stadium.\n\nA Prayer Answered\n\nI began to get really choked up in the eighth and ninth innings, and when the fans started chanting, \"Thank You Derek,\" I wasn't sure I could keep my emotions under control. Then when the game was tied up I got back into it, because I wanted to win. Before I took my last at bat, I kneeled and prayed the way I always have. But this time my prayer was a little different. I said \"God, if I have one more big moment in me, now is the time.\"\n\nLetting Go\n\nCC Sabathia was on the field celebrating before the runner scored. He was the first one out of the dugout, and if our guy had been thrown out at the plate, CC would have been standing there all alone in the middle of the field. He'd just had knee surgery, but he didn't care, he was out there to celebrate. After we won, I took a moment and went to short, knelt down and said, \"Thank you, God. Thank you for twenty years of me being able to live my dreams.\"\n\n### SPECIAL THANKS TO:\n\nAll my friends and family; Chris Anderson, Maureen Cavanagh and Gary Hoenig; Anthony Causi, Tom DiPace, Karen Carpenter and George Amores; Jason Zillo and the entire Yankees Media Relations Department.\nDEREK JETER is a fourteen-time All-Star and five-time World Series winner who has played for one team\u2014the storied New York Yankees\u2014for all twenty seasons of his major league career. His grace and class on and off the field have made him into an icon and role model far beyond the world of baseball.\n\nCHRISTOPHER ANDERSON is an internationally recognized photographer who is a member of Magnum Photos and Photographer in Residence at New York magazine. His numerous awards include the prestigious Robert Capa Gold Medal. Follow him on Instagram or visit www.christopherandersonphoto.com\n\nFOR MORE ON THESE AUTHORS:  \nauthors.simonandschuster.com\/Derek-Jeter  \nauthors.simonandschuster.com\/Christopher-Anderson\n\nMEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT\n\nSimonandSchuster.com\n\n  Facebook.com\/GalleryBooks  \n  @GalleryBooks\nWe hope you enjoyed reading this Gallery Books\/Jeter Publishing eBook.\n\n* * *\n\nJoin our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Gallery Books\/Jeter Publishing and Simon & Schuster.\n\nCLICK HERE TO SIGN UP\n\nor visit us online to sign up at  \neBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com\n\n### PHOTOGRAPHY CREDITS:\n\nChuck Solomon\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nFrank Franklin II\/AP\n\nMaureen Cavanagh (3)\n\nMaureen Cavanagh\n\nChris O'Meara\/AP (top); John Cordes\/ICON SMI\/Corbis (bottom)\n\nNam Y. Huh\/AP\n\nPaul Sancya\/AP (top); Bill Kostroun\/AP (bottom)\n\nGreg M. Cooper\/USA Today Sports\n\nJamie Squire\/Allsport\/Getty Images\n\nMaureen Cavanagh\n\nTim Clayton\/CORBIS\n\nRob Tringali\/MLB Photos\/Getty Images\n\nKyodo\/AP (top); VJ Lovero\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nMark Lennihan\/AP\n\nGary Stewart\/AP\n\nDavid Liam Kyle\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nBarton Silverman\/The New York Times\/Redux\n\nMaureen Cavanagh\n\nMike Segar\/Reuters\/Corbis (top); Frank Franklin II\/AP (bottom)\n\nEzra Shaw\/Getty Images (top); Ed Betz\/AP (bottom)\n\nTomasso DeRosa\/AP\n\nJonathan Daniel\/Getty Images\n\nMike Segar\/Reuters\/Corbis\n\nTom DiPace (top); Bill Kostroun\/AP (bottom)\n\nPaul Sancya\/AP\n\nCharlie Riedel\/AP\n\nMaureen Cavanagh (bottom)\n\nCourtesy of the Jeter Family (3)\n\nRobert Caplan\/The New York Times\/Redux (top); Courtesy of the Jeter Family (bottom)\n\nChuck Solomon\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nKathy Willens\/AP\n\nTom DiPace\n\nWalter Iooss Jr.\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nCary Edmondson\/USA Today Sports (top); Nick Laham\/Getty Images (bottom)\n\nRobert Deutsch\/USA Today Sports\n\nChuck Solomon\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nRich Pilling\/MLB Photos\/Getty Images\n\nLinda Cataffo\/NY Daily News Archive\/Getty Images (2)\n\nEric Draper\/Courtesy of the George W. Bush Presidential Library (top); Chuck Solomon\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images (bottom)\n\nJim McIsaac\/Getty Images\n\nTom DiPace (top); Issei Kato\/Reuters\/Corbis (bottom)\n\nJim McIsaac\/Getty Images\n\nJessica Foster\/MLB Photos\/Getty Images\n\nRich Pilling\/MLB Photos\/Getty Images\n\nAnthony Causi\n\nJohn Mabanglo\/AFP\/Getty Images\n\nBarton Silverman\/The New York Times\/Redux\n\nSimon Bruty\/Getty Images\n\nAl Tielemans\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nVJ Lovero\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nMark Lennihan\/AP\n\nChuck Solomon\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images (top); Adam Hunger\/USA Today Sports (bottom)\n\nDon Emmert\/AFP\/Getty Images (top); Rich Pilling\/MLB Photos\/Getty Images (bottom)\n\nJed Jacobsohn\/Allsport\/Getty Images\n\nKeith Torrie\/NY Daily News Archive\/Getty Images\n\nTim Clayton\/Corbis\n\nAl Tielemans\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nVJ Lovero\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images (top); Ron Vesely\/MLB Photos\/Getty Images\n\nJohn Iacono\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nAnthony Causi (top); Kathy Willens\/AP (bottom)\n\nRichard Drew\/AP\n\nOtto Greule\/Getty Images\n\nBill Kostroun\/AP\n\nAnthony Causi (top); David Bergman (bottom)\n\nAnthony Causi\n\nAndrew H. Walker\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nAnthony Causi (top); Kathy Willens\/AP (bottom)\n\nMike Segar\/Reuters\/Corbis\n\nElise Amendola\/AP\n\nAnthony Causi\n\nKathy Willens\/AP\n\nMary Altaffer\/AP\n\nBill Kostroun\/AP (2)\n\nKathy Kmonicek\/AP\n\nBill Kostroun\/AP\n\nKathy Kmonicek\/AP\n\nPatrick Semansky\/AP\n\nWilliam Perlman\/The Star Ledger\/Corbis\n\nBarton Silverman\/The New York Times\/Redux\n\nLucy Nicholson\/Reuters\/Corbis\n\nJessica Foster\/MLB Photos\/Getty Images (top) Kathy Willens\/AP (bottom)\n\nRick Stewart\/Getty Images\n\nJohn Munson\/The Star Ledger\/USA Today Sports Images\n\nBrace Hemmelgarn\/Minnesota Twins\/Getty Images\n\nScott Rovak\/USA Today Sports\n\nElsa\/Getty Images\n\nScott Rovak\/USA Today Sports\n\nKyodo\/AP Images\n\nChuck Solomon\/Sports Illustrated\/Getty Images\n\nCharles Wenzelberg\/NY Post\n\nMaureen Cavanagh\n\nGallery Books\n\nA Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.\n\n1230 Avenue of the Americas\n\nNew York, NY 10020\n\nwww.SimonandSchuster.com\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2014 by Jeter Publishing, Inc.\n\nAll rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020\n\nFirst Gallery Books hardcover edition October 2014\n\nGALLERY BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.\n\nThe Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.\n\nInterior design by Nate Beale\n\nPhoto editor: Maureen Cavanagh\n\nJacket design by Jon Contino\n\nJacket art by Christopher Anderson\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data\n\nJeter, Derek\n\nDerek Jeter: Jeter unfiltered\/Derek Jeter with Anthony Bozza; photographs by Christopher Anderson.\n\npages cm\n\n1. Jeter, Derek, 1974\u2013 2. Baseball players\u2014United States\u2014Biography. I. Title.\n\nGV865.J48B43 2010\n\n796.357092\u2014dc23 [B] 2014033440\n\nISBN 978-1-4767-8366-6\n\nISBN 978-1-4767-8368-0 (ebook)\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n\n\nProduced by Jeannie Howse and The Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http:\/\/www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive\/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    +-----------------------------------------------------------+\n    | Transcriber's Note:                                       |\n    |                                                           |\n    | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has     |\n    | been preserved.                                           |\n    |                                                           |\n    | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For     |\n    | a complete list, please see the end of this document.     |\n    |                                                           |\n    +-----------------------------------------------------------+\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n    ON THE RIGHT\n    OF THE BRITISH LINE\n\n\n\n\n    [Illustration: Captain Gilbert Nobbs.\n    _From a photograph by Aylett._]\n\n\n\n\n    ON THE RIGHT\n    OF THE BRITISH LINE\n\n\n    BY\n    CAPTAIN GILBERT NOBBS\n    (LATE L.R.B.)\n\n\n    NEW YORK\n    CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS\n    1917\n\n\n\n\n    COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY\n    CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS\n\n    Published September, 1917\n\n\n\n\n                  BESIDES THE MAN WHO FIGHTS\n              THERE IS THE WOMAN WHO WAITS, AND\n           IN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO HER SILENT HEROISM\n                     I DEDICATE THIS BOOK\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThis is my first book. It is also my last. But I have a record to make\nand a duty to perform. I was five weeks on the firing line; four weeks\nmourned as dead; and three months a prisoner of war.\n\nI have attempted to make a true record of all that happened. The names\nalone are fictitious (all except that of Saniez), for those days were\ntoo full of stirring events which will long live in my memory to need\nthe aid of fiction. If I have dwelt at some length upon my experience\nin Germany, it is with the hope that the information may be of\ninterest to those who have relatives and friends still in the hands of\nthe enemy and burn to know the truth.\n\nI do not deplore the loss of my sight, for I can say in all sincerity\nthat I was never happier in my life than I am to-day.\n\n                                                             G.N.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE\n\n      I. FOVANT                                                      1\n         ORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT.\n\n     II. THE SILENT HEROES                                           6\n         THE WOMAN WHO WAITS--AND SUFFERS IN SILENCE.\n\n    III. DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT                                     9\n         WATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. THE BAGGAGE\n         PROBLEM.\n\n     IV. CROSSING THE CHANNEL                                       15\n         THE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET.\n\n      V. GOING UP THE LINE                                          24\n         PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. D'ARCY STRANDED. GUIDES WHO\n         CANNOT GUIDE. A HEATED ARGUMENT.\n\n     VI. RATIONS                                                    33\n         I LEARN TO HATE FOOD. MATHEMATICAL PROBLEMS.\n\n    VII. ST. AMAND                                                  37\n         I REPORT AT HEADQUARTERS. THE PROBLEM OF\n         VENTILATION.\n\n   VIII. EARLY IMPRESSIONS                                          41\n         BILLETS. A STARTLING INCIDENT. REST CAMP.\n\n     IX. DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME                                    48\n         CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH THE GUNS.\n\n      X. ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME                                       57\n         FEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY ARRIVES. A CURIOUS\n         KIT.\n\n     XI. DEATH VALLEY                                               66\n         MOVING OVER BATTLE-FIELDS. ---- BATTALION, LONDON\n         REGIMENT, IN POSSESSION. THE MYSTERY TRENCH.\n         FALFEMONT FARM.\n\n    XII. OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND                                       71\n         SUDDEN ORDERS. THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT ADVENTURE.\n         DIGGING IN.\n\n   XIII. A NIGHT OF ALARM                                           82\n         SEPTIMUS IN A NEW ROLE. SAVING THE AMMUNITION. THE\n         LAST CARTRIDGE.\n\n    XIV. NEXT MORNING                                               87\n         A COUNCIL OF WAR. OPERATION ORDERS. A BITTER\n         DISAPPOINTMENT.\n\n     XV. THE ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD                             91\n         NEW OPERATION ORDERS. \"AT ANY COST.\" LIKE RATS IN\n         A TRAP.\n\n    XVI. THE ATTACK                                                101\n         A DESPERATE SITUATION. BATTLE FORMATION. \"FOR\n         ENGLAND.\"\n\n   XVII. AT ANY COST                                               110\n         OVER THE TOP. MAD, FIGHTING MAD. THE FINAL ASSAULT.\n\n  XVIII. LEFT ON THE FIELD                                         116\n         THE MYSTERY OF DEATH. THE SECRET CODE. TWO TERRIBLE\n         DAYS.\n\n    XIX. THE JAWS OF DEATH                                         123\n         LONELINESS, DARKNESS, AND SILENCE. A LAST EFFORT. I\n         PREPARE FOR DEATH.\n\n     XX. AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN--AND AFTER                        130\n         A BASIN OF SOUP. HOSPITAL AT ST. QUENTIN. THE \"OPEN\n         SESAME.\"\n\n    XXI. ALIVE                                                     143\n\n   XXII. BLINDNESS                                                 147\n\n  XXIII. THE WOMAN WHO WAITS                                       151\n         THE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED IN ACTION. WEEKS\n         OF MOURNING.\n\n   XXIV. WARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5, HANOVER                     156\n         OCCUPANTS OF THE WARD. CHIVALRY OF THE AIR.\n\n    XXV. SANIEZ                                                    160\n\n   XXVI. LIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL                                  166\n         HOSPITAL DIET. INTERVIEWED BY A GERMAN DOCTOR.\n         DISCHARGED FROM HOSPITAL.\n\n  XXVII. OBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS                              176\n         EMPLOYMENT OF PRISONERS. PARCELS. MEN OF MONS.\n\n XXVIII. STORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS                             187\n\n   XXIX. OSNABRUCK                                                 199\n         ARRIVAL IN CAMP. THE CANTEEN. DAILY ROUTINE. RATIONS.\n         PARCELS. NEWS.\n\n    XXX. COMEDY AND DRAMA                                          215\n         I SALUTE THE WALL. THE STORY OF AN EGG. A NOVEL\n         BANQUET. JOY RIDE ON A LORRY. THE SWISS COMMISSION.\n\n   XXXI. FREE                                                      227\n         I BLUFF THE GERMAN SERGEANT. AACHEN. TWO BOTTLES OF\n         WINE. ACROSS THE FRONTIER. GREAT SCOTT! I AM CHARGED\n         FOR MY OWN DEATH EXPENSES.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n  Captain Gilbert Nobbs                                   Frontispiece\n\n  Captain Nobbs after his release from the German\n  prison                                               Facing page 164\n\n\n\n\n    ON THE RIGHT\n    OF THE BRITISH LINE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nFOVANT\n\nORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT\n\n\n\"The C.O. wants to see you.\"\n\n\"What for?\" I asked.\n\n\"I don't know, but he is in the orderly room.\"\n\nIt was the adjutant who was speaking, and his manner led me to think\nthere was something in the wind which he did not like to tell me. I\nleft the mess, and a few moments later I was standing before the C.O.\n\n\"I have just received a telegram from the War Office; you are included\nin the next reinforcements for France.\"\n\n\"I am glad, sir.\"\n\n\"You've only forty-eight hours' notice. You are to report at\nSouthampton at 4. P.M. the day after to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Very good, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, as your time is so short, you had better go home and get things\nready. The adjutant will have your papers ready for you within half\nan hour.\"\n\n\"Very good, sir.\"\n\nThe C.O. stood up, and in his cordial military manner, which seemed to\ntake you straight from the orderly room into the mess, held out his\nhand to bid me good-bye.\n\nThere is quite a difference between a C.O. in the orderly room and a\nC.O. in the mess. I mean those C.O.'s who are made of the right stuff,\nand our C.O. was certainly one of them.\n\nIn the orderly room his presence keeps you at arm's length and makes\nyou feel that you want to keep clicking your heels and coming to the\nsalute. You are conscious of the terrible crime you would commit if\nyou permitted your body to relax from the position of attention; your\nconversational powers are restricted; you fancy you have a voice at\nthe back of your head, saying:\n\n\"Don't argue, listen; digest, and get out.\"\n\nIt's a feeling which does not make the orderly room a very pleasant\nplace to go to; yet you have an instinctive feeling of confidence.\n\nThe same C.O. in the mess, however, is a different man and creates\nquite a different atmosphere. In the orderly room he holds you from\nhim; in the mess he pulls you to him. You have the feeling that you\ncan sit in an armchair, with your feet on the coal-box, and talk to\nhim round the corner of your newspaper, like the very ordinary human\nbeing he really is.\n\n\"Well, good-bye, and good luck.\" We shook hands, I came to the salute,\nand the next moment I found myself once more outside the orderly room\ndoor.\n\nHave you ever experienced the feeling? Yes, thousands have, for the\ndespatch of reinforcing officers to the front in this abrupt manner\nwas taking place daily throughout the empire. You remember the feeling\nquite well; amazement at its suddenness; eagerness for the adventure;\nthe prospect of the home parting; the sudden change in the daily\nroutine; the mystery of the future--all swirling through your brain in\na jumble of thoughts.\n\nThen the hasty despatch of telegrams, the examination of time-tables,\nand the feverish packing of a kit which has grown to enormous\nproportions and hopelessly defies the regulations for weight.\n\nAn hour later and I had made a quick sale of my bicycle, distributed\nodds and ends of hut furniture which I should no longer need, and was\nsitting in a motor-car, outside the mess, grabbing at hands which were\noutstretched in farewell.\n\nThose who lived in camp at Fovant can remember what an uninteresting,\ndreary place it seemed at the time, and how we cursed its monotony.\nRows upon rows of uninteresting and uninviting looking huts; the\nlarge, barren square; the heart-breaking trudge to the station; the\nlittle village with the military policeman, who stood at the fork of\nthe roads, and whose job seemed so easy, while ours seemed so hard;\nand who always seemed so clean and cool, while we seemed so hot and\ndusty.\n\nThe city of Salisbury, our one ray of hope, but which was too far to\nwalk to, and too expensive to ride to--all these things we used to\nlook upon as sufferings which had to be put up with. But we can look\nupon the picture now, and there are few of us who can do so without a\nfeeling of affection, for there was a spirit of comradeship there\nwhich links up the dreariness into pleasant recollections.\n\nNow that I have been through the mill I can look back at that parting\nscene, and as the car whirls away and my brother officers walk back\ninto the mess, I fancy I can hear the comment of those who had not yet\nbeen out and those who had:\n\n\"Lucky brute.\"\n\n\"Poor devil!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE SILENT HEROES\n\nTHE WOMAN WHO WAITS--AND SUFFERS IN SILENCE\n\n\nI was soon comfortably settled in a first-class compartment and\nwhirling towards Waterloo, with the worst ordeal of all still before\nme: the breaking of the news at home and the parting while the shock\nis still fresh.\n\nWho are the true heroes of the war?\n\nOur fighting men are cheered in the streets; every newspaper and\nmagazine sings their praise; every shop-window reflects their needs;\nin theatre, pulpit, and workshop their praises are sung.\n\nBut are they the real heroes of the war?\n\nAsk the fighting man himself. Speak to him of his wife or mother, and\nthe expression on his face will answer your question.\n\nThere is no one to sing her praise, no one to paint the picture of her\ndeeds; no one to tell of that lonely feeling when her hero departs and\nthe door is closed behind him.\n\nThe fighting man looks upon his share of the war with a light heart.\nEvents come too rapidly upon him to feel depressed. He does not feel\nthe gnawing hunger of the lonely wait; the emptiness of the world when\nthe parting is over; the empty chair at the table, and the rooms made\ncheerless by his absence.\n\nThere is no one to describe the terrors of the morning casualty list;\nthe hourly expectation and frozen fear of the telegraph boy's \"rat\ntat,\" bringing some dreadful news.\n\nThere are no crowds to cheer her; no flags or trumpets to rouse her\nenthusiasm and occupy her thoughts. No constant activity, thrilling\nexcitement, desperate encounter.\n\nHers is a silent patriotism. She is the true hero of the war. And in\nhundreds of thousands of homes throughout the empire, her silent\ndeeds, her wonderful fortitude, are making the womanhood of Britain a\nhistory which medals will not reward, nor scars display.\n\nThe fighting men know it, and when you cheer them, they know that\nthere is still one at home who deserves your cheers, yet will not hear\nthem; and who will seek no greater reward than the safe return of her\nown hero amid the applause which greets their homecoming.\n\nFighting men acknowledge it! And when your ears are no longer deafened\nby the cheers of others, take off your caps, fill your lungs, and\ncheer to the echo the real heroes of the war.\n\nAll honour to the woman who waits.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nDEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT\n\nWATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. THE BAGGAGE PROBLEM\n\n\nWaterloo Station in war time presents a picture of unending interest.\nHere it is that a thousand dramas are acted daily. It is one huge\nscene of bustle and excitement. The khaki of the soldier, the blue of\nthe sailor; the mother, the wife, the sweetheart; the sad partings,\nthe joyful greetings. The troops entraining, spick and span in their\nnew war kit; the war-worn soldier home on leave, bespattered with the\nsoil of France; troops from the near-by camps on week-end leave,\ntumbling out of the carriages with the spirits of schoolboys, or\nlooking for standing-room in the overcrowded compartments on the last\ntrain back.\n\nThe scene is inspiring, depressing, historical.\n\nHear the noise and babble of the throng; the sobs and the cheers; the\nlast look, the last hand-shake, the cheery greeting and the boyish\nlaughter--whilst out in the street, London continues its unaltered\nways, indifferent to the greatest war in the world's history reflected\nwithin a stone's throw, in Waterloo Station.\n\nThe Southampton train was rapidly filling, and I just managed to\nsecure a seat and take a last look round. It needed a minute before\nthe train was due to depart. Every window was filled with soldiers,\nand small groups were standing round each carriage door.\n\nPorters were hurrying backward and forward, trying to find seats for\nlate arrivals. Women were sobbing, men were talking earnestly.\nPresently the shrill whistle of the guard; hurried farewells,\nspontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving train gradually left the\nstation, carrying its human freight to an unknown destiny.\n\nI turned from the window and settled myself down in a corner. With me\nwas Lieutenant Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants Jones\nand Bailey of the London Regiment, while between us was a table laid\nfor lunch.\n\n\"Well!\" said Collins, packing his kit which had been dangling in a\nthreatening manner from the rack, \"that's one job over. I'm not sorry\nit's over, either. I wish we were coming back instead of going. I\nwouldn't mind getting a blighty wound in about a month's time. That\nwould suit me down to the ground.\"\n\n\"Looking for trouble already,\" said Jones.\n\n\"You don't call that trouble, a nice little blighty wound, and then\nhome.\"\n\n\"Don't be an idiot,\" I interrupted. \"If every one felt the same way,\nwho do you think is going to carry on the war?\"\n\n\"Don't know. Never thought of it. But all the same a blighty wound in\nabout a month's time will suit me down to the ground.\"\n\nThe conversation drivelled on in this way for a few miles, and finally\nturned into a heated discussion of the wine-list at the back of the\nmenu.\n\nLuncheon was served, and we were soon heavily engaged in a fierce\nattack on chicken and ham, intermingled with joke and arguments. The\ncause of the war and the prospect of its finish.\n\n\"Here's to a safe return,\" said Bailey, when his ginger ale had ceased\nto erupt its displeasure at being released from the bottle.\n\n\"And here's to an early blighty wound,\" said Collins.\n\n\"Hang it all,\" said Jones. \"Can't you forget it?\"\n\nThe conversation was bursting out afresh, and fortunately did not\ndrift into politics or religion; and arguments easily turned to jokes,\nand jokes into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham.\n\nThere are some men who can argue best when armed with a knife and\nfork, and a good meal indisputably in their possession. There are\nothers whose oratorical powers show greater promise when liquid\nrefreshment is within easy grasp. In others yet again, the soothing\ninfluence of the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. And\nbefore we arrived at Southampton town station the gift of each had\nfull play.\n\nWe soon found ourselves scrambling amongst the heap of luggage which\nhad been thrown in confusion on to the platform, and commenced an\nanxious search for our kits.\n\nIt is always the same at English railway stations, and our cousins\nfrom America and Canada scorn our system, or rather lack of system,\nfor those who travel with baggage in England have always the\npossibility in front of them of a free fight to regain their\npossessions.\n\nThere seems to be only one thing to do if you are going to travel with\na trunk, and that is either to paint it in rainbow colours, so that it\nwill stand out in striking contrast to the mountainous heap of baggage\nthrown topsyturvy out of the wagon on arrival at a terminus. Or, if\nnot provided with this forethought of imagination, it is best to\narrive at the starting station some hours ahead of time, and sit down\non the platform and study the peculiarities of your trunk, its\nindentations and scratchings, and other characteristics, and\ncommitting all these details securely to your memory, so that when you\narrive at the other end, and you jostle among the crowd gathered\naround the baggage-car, you can grab the collar of a porter and\nfrantically shout: \"There it is!\" as it tumbles out of the wagon, to\nbe finally submerged at the extreme bottom of the heap.\n\nUnfortunately, all military kit bags are exactly the same. It is true\nyou have your name painted on the outside, but so has everybody, and\nwhen fifty or sixty bags come tumbling out, they all look exactly\nalike.\n\nThat is how it was at Southampton town station, but we were all in\ngood spirits, thanks to the wine-list before mentioned; and as all\nthe owners of the kit bags were carrying an uncomfortable amount of\nordnance stores on their backs, the heap of luggage soon became\nsubmerged beneath a still greater heap of energetic and perspiring\nhumanity, until the scene looked not unlike a very much disturbed\nant-hill.\n\nBut I am exaggerating. Yet, the exaggeration of my words, written in a\ncalm moment of thought is far less vociferous than the exaggerated\nwords used at the time during the frantic endeavour to seek one's\nsolitary kit bag, and extricate it in such a scramble.\n\nBut at last the four of us, bent double by our packs, and freely\nperspiring in the heat of an August day, could be seen rolling,\npushing, kicking, and dragging our worldly belongings off the platform\ntowards the station entrance, to seek the hospitality of an ancient\nhack. And then we drove away, our kit and our equipments stacked high\naround us at precarious angles, and completely submerging the\noccupants, to the delight of the people who stood and watched us in\nopen-mouthed amazement.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nCROSSING THE CHANNEL\n\nTHE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET\n\n\nArriving at the dock we reported to the embarkation officer, and were\ngiven a pass to leave the dock, but bearing the strict injunction that\nwe must embark at 6 P.M.\n\nWhen you cross to France for the first time you are so nervous about\nmissing the boat and running the risk of a court-martial, or some\nother such dreadful suggestion, that you hardly dare to leave the dock\ngates, and you are certainly waiting at the gang-plank a full fifteen\nminutes before the appointed time.\n\nBut those who are no longer novices to the mysterious calculation of\nthose who regulate our army traffic, would, on receiving such\ninstruction, immediately repair to the best hotel, there to regale\nthemselves in a glorified afternoon tea, and afterwards seat\nthemselves in the front row at the local Empire; subsequently rolling\nup at the ship's side shortly after 9 o'clock, to find that the\ntroop-ship is not due to sail for another hour at least.\n\nHaving enjoyed all the pleasure of such disregard to orders, and\narriving in due course at the ship's side, I searched around for my\nbaggage and for means of getting it on board. I had not far to look,\nfor there were a number of soldiers standing about, whose evident duty\nit was to do the necessary fatigue work.\n\nI call them soldiers because they were dressed in khaki; but the\nKing's uniform could not disguise the fact that they were the old-time\ndock porters. There is something about the earnest, anxious look of\nthe dock porter, as he tenders you his services, which even the\nmartial cut of a military uniform cannot hide. His adopted profession\nin peace, inscribed so deeply in his face and bearing, cannot be\nhidden so easily by the curtain of war.\n\nA lance corporal approached me, and, assuring me that nothing would go\nastray that was left in his charge, slung my kit over his shoulder\nwith professional skill and followed me up the gang-plank, placing my\nbelongings carefully down in what may once have been the cabin of the\nship. He crossed his legs, leaned heavily with one arm on my baggage,\nand tipping his cap on the back of his head to enable me to see the\nexact amount of perspiration upon his forehead, and breathing heavily,\nso that I might form an exact estimate of the fatigue he had\nundergone, he waited in hopeful expectancy.\n\nI gave him a tip.\n\nIt is against all regulations to tip a soldier; but it seemed such a\nnatural thing to do, for his khaki uniform could not hide the habit of\nyears.\n\nHe did not salute, but touched his cap. I smiled to myself as I\nwatched him depart. He was a soldier now; but the uniform could not\ndisguise the fact that he was still a dock porter.\n\nWe had a splendid crossing, and I shall not readily forget the\nromantic atmosphere of that night.\n\nThe sea was calm, and a full moon cast a silvery, shimmering pathway\nacross the water.\n\nAll lights on board the troop-ship were extinguished, and with black\nsmoke belching from the funnels, and the vibrations of the engines\ntrembling through the ship, we made our dash across the Channel.\n\nWho but those whose duty it is to perform the arduous task of\nprotecting our troop-ships can understand and appreciate what it means\nto live the life of the sailor on those comfortless-looking\ndestroyers.\n\nNight after night, week after week, throughout the years, tearing\nfrantically up and down, seeking a hidden foe; daring the treacherous\nmines; safeguarding their trust with apparent disregard for their own\nsafety.\n\nThe men who perform such duties are hidden heroes; and the safe\ntransportation of our fighting millions across the seas is a silent\ntribute of their bravery.\n\nThis work goes on, and will go on until the end of the war, and the\nmen who perform this great task do so with the knowledge that only\nfailure can bring their names before the public.\n\nI met many old friends on board, and several new ones. But one man in\nparticular attracted my attention, for his appearance seemed so\nstrangely out of place with the surroundings.\n\nStanding near the companionway, and looking upon the scene with a\nbored expression, was a young man in the thirties, in a brand-new\nuniform, with a single star on his shoulder-strap, which proclaimed\nhim to the world as a second lieutenant.\n\nHe was rather tubby in appearance, with a round, chubby face, which\nwas screwed up in a frantic effort to retain within its grasp a\nmonocle, through which he viewed his fellow beings in mute\nastonishment; and what is more, he wore new kid gloves. It was\nSeptimus D'Arcy, dressed in immaculate neatness, radiating the\natmosphere of Bond Street; indifferent to everybody, yet with a\nhorrified look of discomfort at finding himself in such unusual\nsurroundings.\n\nI had hardly turned from the strange scene when Collins caught hold of\nmy arm.\n\n\"Come over here; I want to introduce you to a friend of mine, who, I\nbelieve, is coming out to be attached to us,\" he said.\n\nWe walked along the deck, and, to my embarrassment, a few moments\nlater I found myself shaking the limp paw of Septimus D'Arcy, glove\nand all.\n\nI am not quite sure that Septimus, on my introduction, did anything\nmore than open his mouth, while I raised and lowered his right\nforearm. Septimus would have spoken, I am quite sure, as the movement\nof his mouth indicated that such was his intention; although the\nexpression, or rather lack of expression, on his face, bore no proof\nthat his remarks, if uttered, would be very interesting. In fact,\nSeptimus needed encouragement.\n\n\"We are having a very pleasant crossing,\" I ventured.\n\n\"Ye-s,\" he drawled, \"but a demned overcrowded one--what?\"\n\n\"I suppose so, but troop-ships are always overcrowded.\"\n\n\"I say, though, where does one sleep?\"\n\nI rather suspected that what Septimus really wanted to know was\nwhether there was such a thing to be had as a private cabin, where he\ncould disrobe his tubby figure in seclusion.\n\n\"There seems to be two places to sleep,\" I replied; \"either in the\nboiler-room or on deck.\"\n\n\"On deck! Rather uncomfortable--what?\"\n\n\"Well not nearly so uncomfortable as it may be later. I am just going\ndown to get my kit and lay it out on deck,\" I said. \"Hadn't you better\nget yours, too?\"\n\nI went down below, leaving Septimus with his mouth still open, and his\nround nose wrinkled up with an expression of discomfort. But he made\nno move to accept my invitation.\n\nI unrolled my kit on the deck by the side of a long row of officers\nwho were already comfortably settled for the night. On either side of\neach officer were his war kit and a life-belt.\n\nI got into my sleeping-bag, and not feeling very sleepy, I lit a\ncigarette and looked upon my surroundings.\n\nThe scene was a very inspiring one, and I could not help dreaming of\nthe future. What had destiny in store for us? Who would return in\nglory? And who would be called upon to pay the great price--to come\nback bleeding and disabled, dependent for future existence upon the\nbenevolence of a nation's gratitude?\n\nThe ship sped onward, carrying its human freight. Greater and greater\ngrew the distance from loved ones left behind. Nearer and nearer we\nsped towards the unknown future.\n\nHow many of those lying around, silent companions of their thoughts,\nwere thinking the same as I?\n\nWhat was the future? Horror, anxiety, success, failure, mutilation,\ndeath; which was it to be? And what a change this was to the times we\nhad had in the past.\n\nWe were all civilian soldiers: lawyers, merchants, bankers, and\ntradesmen. Fighting was not our profession nor desire.\n\nWhose power was it to transform these lives so ruthlessly from the\nhabits of peace to become instruments of war? Whose was the hand which\nplucked us from homes and families, to hurl us into the caldron of\nhell? Was it the ambition of a nation, guided by the despotic\ndirection of a tyrant?\n\nWe knew it and believed it. We could not remain idle to see our homes\nand families suffering the destruction and barbarities inflicted on\nBelgium. The fire of hell blazed by the petrol of German fury must not\nbe wafted in the direction of our beloved country.\n\nThe call had been answered, and these silent forms of England's sons\nwere speeding through the night in the direction of danger, at the\nbidding of a nation in peril.\n\nMy cigarette was finished, and I was becoming sleepy. I turned over to\nsettle myself comfortably, and turning my eyes in the direction of the\ncompanionway, I saw the tubby figure of an officer standing near the\nrail, immaculately dressed, and in strange contrast to his\nsurroundings.\n\nIt was Septimus D'Arcy, immaculate and indifferent. Septimus was at\nwar; but Septimus was still in Bond Street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nGOING UP THE LINE\n\nPERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. D'ARCY STRANDED. GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE. A\nHEATED ARGUMENT\n\n\nNext morning we were disturbed early, and rolled up our kits ready for\ndisembarkation.\n\nAbout 7 A.M. we pulled alongside the wharf, and a light-hearted,\njostling crowd struggled for the gang-plank.\n\nI have not yet been able to find out why gang-planks are made so\nnarrow, so that only one person at a time dare undertake the passage.\n\nChaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly became a struggling mass of\nhumanity, struggling, tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags.\n\nOfficers were manfully shouldering their \"marching order,\" and\nstruggling with their valises, hoping that their turn would come to\nfind a footing on the gang-plank.\n\nThe gang-plank was long and narrow, bending and squeaking under its\nburden. There were two gang-planks: one to go down and one to come\nup.\n\nBut we were not sailors, and did not know the system; the inevitable\nresult being that those going up met those coming down, until they\nbecame an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, protests, and apologies.\n\nGang-planks at the best of times appear structures of absurdity. They\neither appear to be placed at an angle so dangerous that the only safe\nway of getting ashore appears to be to sit down and slide. At other\ntimes the gang-plank has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious\nmanner as you approach the middle, while a couple of sailors hold\ndesperately on to the end to prevent its slipping off the dock.\n\nHere we reported to the landing officer, who was making frantic\nendeavours to create order from chaos.\n\nIn circumstances of this kind the best thing to do with the landing\nofficer is to keep clear of him. So we seized the only hack available\nand drove to one of the leading hotels, which had the reputation of\nbeing popular.\n\nI am not quite sure if these conveyances are called hacks, but the\nname seems very appropriate; for carriage seems too dignified a term\nfor such dilapidated vehicles.\n\nWe were, however, too glad to get away as rapidly as possible from the\ndusty deck, and it was already getting very hot.\n\nTurning into one of the side streets, we beheld the immortal Septimus,\nlooking like one who is hopelessly lost in the middle of the Sahara\nDesert.\n\nNow Septimus was not a born soldier, and he had made no attempt to\ncarry his equipment on his back; neither would it seem right for\nSeptimus to carry any greater burden on his podgy form than his\nwell-polished Sam Brown. So his equipment lay on the pavement beside\nhim. He had evidently dragged it some little distance, and looked upon\nit as a beastly nuisance, and was standing there vainly hoping that a\ntaxi would come to his rescue and help him carry the beastly thing\naway.\n\nWe gave Septimus a lift, as he evidently needed looking after.\n\nArriving at the hotel, we all tumbled into the dining-room for\nbreakfast, all except Septimus D'Arcy, who made straight for the\nnearest bar, and was last heard of that day tapping a coin vigorously\non the counter, and with the perspiration standing in beads on his\nnose, frantically screeching for a whisky and soda.\n\nTwo days later I received a slip of paper which warned me that I was\nto proceed up the line that evening.\n\nI was a senior officer, and would have charge of all the troops\ndeparting that evening. If you have never had that job, take my tip\nand avoid it; for of all the thankless tasks the poor devil who\nsuddenly finds himself O.C. train, has the most difficult one of all.\n\nI reported to the camp adjutant, an awfully decent sort of chap, and\nas a farewell gift he placed in my hands a pile of documents and\nseveral sheets of printed instructions.\n\n\"There you are, old chap, you will find everything there.\"\n\n\"Why, what is all this about?\" said I, holding on to the mysterious\nbundle of papers which he thrust into my hands.\n\n\"That is a complete record, in duplicate, of all the troops in your\ncharge. When you get to the station hand those papers over to the\nR.T.O.\"\n\n\"How many men have I charge of?\"\n\n\"Rather a big crowd going to-night--38 officers and 1,140 other\nranks.\"\n\n\"What regiments do they belong to?\"\n\n\"Well, I think you have got men who belong to nearly every regiment\nserving in France. There are reinforcement draughts going to various\nunits, and numerous men returning from leave. You've got English,\nScotch, Canadians, and Australians. You've got cavalrymen,\nartillerymen, engineers, and infantrymen. Believe me, you've got your\nhands full to-night.\n\n\"You will find a guide at the head of the column who knows the way to\nthe station. It's a good five miles from here.\"\n\nWhen I got outside I found the column nearly a quarter of a mile long,\nformed up ready to march off.\n\nI gave the order to move to all those within reach of my voice, and\ntrusted to the remainder to follow on.\n\nIt was quite dark as the long column moved slowly down the long\nboulevards. I had not the faintest notion where the station was.\nWherever I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly follow me, and\ntrust blindly to my direction. I pinned my faith to the guide, and on\nwe went.\n\nBefore we had got half-way it became evident that the guide had a very\nremote idea which was the direction to take; and he began to make\nanxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right way.\n\nI was beginning to feel anxious and lose patience.\n\n\"What are you fussing about for? Are you taking us the right way?\" I\ndemanded.\n\n\"I think so, sir. I don't know.\"\n\n\"You don't know! But you are the guide, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. But I've never been to the station before.\"\n\n\"But you are supposed to be the guide. Do you mean to tell me that you\nare not sure of the way?\"\n\n\"Not quite, sir. But I am doing my best.\"\n\n\"Well, you are a fine sort of guide! Who detailed you?\"\n\n\"The adjutant, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, did he know you had never been down to the station before?\"\n\n\"He never asked me, sir. I was not doing any other duty, so he\ndetailed me to act as your guide.\"\n\nWhat staff work! But it served me right; and we muddled along, and\nfinally, to my great relief, we entered the station yard.\n\nI walked into the R.T.O.'s office and laid my pile of papers on his\ndesk.\n\nThe railway transport officer is an individual who is prominent in the\nmemory of all those who have passed up the line; and many of us have\nreason to remember at least one of them with indignation.\n\nThere are two kinds of R.T.O.'s, and you have met them both.\n\nThere is the one who has earned his job at the front by hard work. He\nhas been through the thick of the fighting, and after months in the\ntrenches has been sent back to act as R.T.O. at the rail-head or the\nbase, to give him a well-earned rest beyond the sound of the guns. We\nhave no unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he is human; he\ntreats you as a comrade; he is helpful and considerate. And you can\nspot such men in a moment.\n\nBut R.T.O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on his features. He has never\nheard the sound of guns, and never intends to, if he can help it.\n\nLook back upon the time when you left the base, and you find him\nprominent in your memory. When you are huddled up in your dugout, how\nyou wish he could be transferred to you for a tour of duty in the\ntrenches.\n\nWhat a delight it would be to send him in his immaculate uniform; his\nhighly polished leggings and boots, along the muddy communication\ntrenches. You know what the feeling is, for oftentimes you have said\nto yourself in those lonely night-watches: \"How I wish I had him\nhere!\"\n\nIt is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is coming down in torrents;\ndanger lurks in every fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give\nyou the creeps.\n\nHow you wish you could wake him up by digging him in the ribs, and\ntelling him that it is time to go on his tour of duty up and down\nthose clay-sodden trenches at the hour of the night when his courage\n(if he ever had any) would be at its lowest.\n\nWhat a delight it would be if we only had him with us when we take\nover our trenches, to show him that foul-smelling, rat-ridden dugout,\nand tell him to curl himself up to sleep there.\n\nHow sweet would be the joy to see him in his pale- breeches,\nhuddled up in a saphead, trying to get a little comfort on a cold, raw\nDecember morning, from a drop of tea in a tin mug, well smudged with\nthe wet clay of numerous fingers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nRATIONS\n\nI LEARN TO HATE FOOD. MATHEMATICAL PROBLEMS\n\n\nWe arrived at Rouen at 7.30 the following morning. I had to report to\nthe R.T.O. by 9.30, and in the meantime 3,534 rations had to be cut up\nand distributed on the station platform among 1,178 officers and men.\n\nHave you ever had such a problem as that? If not, then avoid it, if it\never comes your way.\n\nThe train was about twice the length of the platform, so on arrival it\nwas broken in half, and the rear half shunted on to another line.\n\nThe rations were contained in two trucks, attached to the rear half of\nthe train, so the contents had to be carried by hand across several\nsets of rails, to the end of the platform.\n\nI had a fatigue party of 60 men at work, and presently a huge quantity\nof provisions began to pile up. There were chests of tea, cases of\nbiscuits, cases of jam, cases of bully beef, sugar, and bacon\nsufficient to fill the warehouse of a wholesale provision merchant.\n\nThree days' rations for 1,178 officers and men, in bulk; and 1,178\nofficers and men began to gather around the stack, in hungry\nexpectancy of breakfast.\n\nNow to issue rations to a battalion straight from bulk is quite\ndifficult enough, but to issue rations from bulk to units of various\nstrengths, belonging to over fifty regiments is enough to drive any\none crazy.\n\nEach man was entitled to two and one-fourth ounces of tea, one-fourth\nounce of mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, three-fourths\npound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one tin of bully beef, nine\nounces of jam.\n\nEach unit had to be dealt with separately, so that each unit presented\na mathematical problem of the most perplexing kind. Each unit sent up\nits fatigue party to draw rations, whilst I and several officers who\nhad volunteered to assist me made a bold attempt at distribution.\n\n\"Come along, first man, what's your regiment?\"\n\n\"Manchester, sir; 59 men.\"\n\nI looked through my volume of papers to check his figures.\n\n\"Quite right! Fifty-nine men.\"\n\nFifty-nine men meant fifty-nine times two and one-fourth ounces of\ntea, one-fourth ounce of mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of\nbiscuits, three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one\ntin of bully beef, and nine ounces of jam. My brain whirls when I\nthink of those problems.\n\nThe next unit consisted of 9 men; the next of 1; then came a long list\nof 2's, 5's, and 7's, and so on; and in each case the mathematical\nproblem had to be worked out; and when the figuring was finished, the\nstuff had to be cut up.\n\nSeventy-nine pounds of cheese for the Manchesters; does any one know\nwhat seventy-nine pounds of cheese looks like? No one did; we had\nnever seen so much cheese before in our lives.\n\n\"Give him a whole cheese and chance it. And now tea; the Manchesters\nwant one hundred and thirty-two and three-fourths ounces of tea. Give\nhim about three handfuls and chance it.\"\n\nThe next party consisted of 2 men.\n\n\"Six ounces of jam for the 19 Canadians; how much is that?\"\n\n\"Nearly half a pot.\"\n\n\"What are you going to put it in?\"\n\n\"Got nothing.\"\n\n\"Can't have any, then?\"\n\n\"Come on, next man.\"\n\nWhen I saw the last of that stack of food it was 11.30. We were hungry\nand tired, and we made our way to the nearest hotel, fervently hoping\nthat we might never see food in bulk again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nST. AMAND\n\nI REPORT AT HEADQUARTERS. THE PROBLEM OF VENTILATION\n\n\nWe made our way back to the station and secured a very luxurious\ncompartment; and to my intense relief on this occasion I found there\nwas an officer senior to me present, who succeeded to the duties of\nO.C. train.\n\nThe duties of O.C. train are a new sensation to most officers; and it\nis particularly difficult to know just what to do, and how to do it,\nwhen you have an unorganised body of men made up of sundries from\nevery part of the British army.\n\nOur new O.C. train evidently felt the difficulties of his position,\nand came to me for assistance.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" he said, \"but were you in charge of the train last\nnight?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. I'm sorry to say I was.\"\n\n\"Well, what does one have to do?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Well, but how does one keep order?\"\n\n\"One doesn't keep order. But they've given me a pile of printed\ninstructions, and I don't see how they can possibly be carried out.\nHow can I keep order in a train half a mile long with men I know\nnothing about?\"\n\nHe was getting worried. I knew the feeling.\n\n\"Do you want a tip,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, if you can give me one.\"\n\n\"Well, just walk along the train until you find a very comfortable\ncompartment marked, 'O.C. train.' Get inside, lock the door, pull down\nthe blinds and go to sleep.\"\n\n\"Thanks, awfully. I think I'll take that tip.\"\n\n\"By the way,\" I shouted after him, \"what is our destination?\"\n\n\"Haven't the faintest idea.\"\n\n\"Does anybody know?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Thanks, awfully.\"\n\nThe train journey was uneventful, save for alternatively eating and\nsleeping, and two days later I reported at battalion headquarters.\n\nThe battalion was in rest billets at St. Amand; and I was posted as\nsecond in command to B Company.\n\nThe officers of B Company were just about to begin their midday meal\nwhen I put in an appearance at the company mess.\n\nCaptain George commanded the company. He was a splendid type of the\nfighting man of the present day--young, active, and clear-cut, boyish,\nyet serious. Captain George was made of the right stuff, and we became\nchums on the spot.\n\nThe other officers of the company were Second Lieutenant Farman, who\nhad just received his commission in the field, Second Lieutenant\nChislehirst, and Second Lieutenant Day.\n\nThey were all splendid fellows, the type you meet and take to at once;\nall as keen as ginger when there is serious work to be done; and when\nwork is over are as light-hearted as schoolboys.\n\nThe mess consisted of a dilapidated kitchen, with a stone floor, and\nventilated by the simple method of broken windows and a door removed\nfrom the hinges.\n\nIn those northern farmhouses of France it is purely a matter of\nopinion as to whether ventilation is really an advantage; for from the\nyard in front of the house the odour from the refuse and manure of\nthe farm, piled up in a heap outside your window, becomes very acute\nwhen the wind is in the wrong direction, as it usually is.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nEARLY IMPRESSIONS\n\nBILLETS. A STARTLING INCIDENT. REST CAMP\n\n\nI shall never forget the day I made my first inspection of billets.\n\nWhile walking through the village street I noticed a structure which\nappeared to be inviting some stray breath of wind to cause it to\nsurrender its last resistance by collapsing into a heap of rubbish.\n\nMany years ago, in days of prosperity, it had served the purpose of a\ncovering for cattle, for I believe cattle are not very particular in\nnorthern France.\n\nIt is quite within reason to suppose that, with a view of misleading\nhis cattle into a false sense of security, the farmer may have called\nit a barn. It had never been an expensive structure, nor did it give\nany evidence of having ever laid claim to architectural beauty.\n\nBut its simplicity of construction was a marvel of ingenuity. Yes, it\nwas a barn, but who but a genius of modern arts would have thought it\npossible to build even a barn by the simple but equally economical\nmethod of erecting a number of props and simply sticking mud between?\n\nBut the stability of the barn was, as might reasonably be supposed,\nsubject to \"wind and weather permitting,\" and was now sorrowfully\ndeploring its advancing years, and anxiously waiting an early\nopportunity to rest its weary limbs in a well-earned rest in a\nshapeless heap on the ground that gave it birth.\n\nHow very strange! Out of the numerous holes in the wall I saw familiar\nfaces, while inside a score of men were laughing and joking, playing\ncards or lounging about in loose attire, as though they were enjoying\nthe freedom and comfort of a West End club.\n\n\"But what are you men doing here?\" I asked.\n\n\"This is our billet, sir,\" answered a lance corporal.\n\n\"Your billet? Do you mean you sleep here?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, this was allotted to half my platoon.\"\n\n\"Comfortable?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Quite a treat after the trenches.\"\n\n\"A bit draughty, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; but, like everything else, we have to get used to it.\"\n\n\"But can't you find a better place than this, and with more room? You\nseem to be almost on top of each other.\"\n\n\"There is no other place available. The men are quite satisfied, sir.\"\n\nI turned away thoughtfully. What magnificent chaps! And yet, when they\nwere in comfortable billets at Haywards Heath, or in well-built huts\nat Fovant, they were far more particular; when they were recruits and\nspent their first night in the army, they looked with dismay at the\nprospect of sleeping on a clean straw mattress in a well-built modern\nEnglish house.\n\nWar makes men, and hardships breed content!\n\nI will pass over our life in the trenches in this part of the line,\nbut an incident worth recording occurred while we were marching back\nafter five days amongst the rats and mud of the trenches facing\nGommecourt Wood.\n\nIt is interesting, by the way, to watch the men leaving the trenches\nfor their rest billets, for, in addition to their packs, they carry\nmany an additional article of private belongings to add to their\ncomfort during these tedious days of duty, and they emerge with all\nkinds of curious packages and extra articles of clothing strapped or\ntied to their equipment. They were covered with mud and clay before\nthey left the front-line trenches, but the long journey along endless\ncommunication trenches on their way out, gathered up an additional\ncovering of clay and mud through their bulky attire, until they\nresembled a curious assembly of moving debris.\n\nBut the incident I have referred to occurred just as we were\napproaching a village.\n\nAn observation balloon was being drawn down, but when within a hundred\nfeet of the ground suddenly broke away and began to rise rapidly and\ndrift towards the German lines.\n\nI halted the men, and we watched in breathless suspense the tragedy\nwhich was about to take place before our eyes. There was some one in\nthe basket of the balloon.\n\nIt rose higher and higher. Nothing could save it! Presently the\noccupant was seen to lean over the side and throw out a quantity of\nbooks and papers.\n\nStill upward it went, and seemed to reach a great height before the\nnext sensation caused us to thrill with amazement.\n\nSomething dropped like a stone from the basket and then, with a sudden\ncheck, a parachute opened, and a man was seen dangling from it. When\nhe dropped, the balloon must have been many thousand feet in the air,\nand both balloon and parachute continued to drift towards the German\nlines.\n\nThen a flight of four or five British aeroplanes went up and soared\naround the balloon, evidently bent on its destruction.\n\nAs we watched we saw a flash and a puff of smoke! A bomb had struck\nthe balloon, but seemed to have no effect.\n\nThe aeroplanes withdrew, and a minute later we heard the boom of the\nanti-aircraft guns.\n\nThe second shot was a dead hit, for we saw a flash of fire clean\nthrough the centre, a volume of blue smoke, and then it buckled in the\nmiddle. The flame spread, and the blue smoke increased in volume until\nthe balloon resembled a curious shapeless mass, twisting and turning\nand shrinking as it quivered and fell to earth; meantime, anxious\neyes were also turned to the parachute, which by this time had\napproached to within a few hundred feet or so of the earth.\n\nBoth armies must have watched the spectacle in silent wonder, for no\nshot was fired at the falling figure from the German lines.\n\nIt was difficult to tell from where we were just where it might fall.\nIt seemed to me from where I stood that the odds were in favour of it\nreaching the ground in No Man's Land.\n\nAs it neared the earth it began to sway to and fro, in ever-increasing\nviolence, and finally disappeared from view behind a clump of trees.\nSo far as I could observe, it did not seem in any way possible for the\nparachute to have delivered its human freight safely to the earth.\n\nNext day we began a three days' march to a village some thirty-eight\nmiles back of the line.\n\nWe were to be rested and fattened for the Somme.\n\nThe mention of rest camps to men at the front generally raises a\nsmile, for if there is one thing more noticeable than anything else\nduring a rest period, it is the hard work which has to be done.\n\nThe long days of training, the unlimited fatigue work, and the\nnever-ending cleaning of tattered uniforms and trench-soiled boots are\nequalled only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nDEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME\n\nCORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH THE GUNS\n\n\nOn Sunday, September 2, our so-called rest came to an abrupt finish,\nand we entrained for an unknown destination. Destinations are always a\nmystery until the train pulls up with a jerk, and peremptory orders\nare given to get out.\n\nThe difference in travelling as a civilian and travelling as a soldier\nis that in the former case you choose your time of departure or\narrival at a convenient hour; while in the latter case the most\nunearthly hour is selected for you.\n\nWe arrived at Corbie at 2 A.M. Not that we knew it was Corbie at the\ntime, or cared; and even if we had known, we should have been little\nthe wiser. Still, I will say this about Corbie, that it is pronounced\nin the way it is spelled, and that relieves one of a sense of\nuneasiness. For, as a general rule, no matter how you pronounce the\nnames of a French town, you will find some one with an air of superior\nknowledge, or gifted with a special twist of the tongue, who will find\na new pronunciation.\n\nHowever, we detrained onto the line. The night was as black as pitch.\nSleepy soldiers, struggling with their equipments, dropped out of the\ncarriages; and after a great deal of shouting we got into some kind of\nformation, and the long column slowly moved off into the night.\n\nI dropped into position in the rear of the column, feeling very tired,\nand wondering where I should find a place to sleep. The long column\nwended its way through narrow streets and along cobbled roads, and\ngradually seemed to melt into mysterious doorways under the guiding\ninfluence of quartermaster sergeants.\n\nThis process went on until I suddenly realised that the whole column\nhad disappeared, and I was left alone in the streets of Corbie at 3\nA.M. in a steady downpour of rain, without the faintest notion of\nwhere I was, or where my billet was. I walked a little farther down\nthe street, and being very tired, wet, and sleepy, had almost decided\nto lie in the street until the morning, when I tumbled across Farman,\nChislehirst, and Day following the faithful quartermaster-sergeant to\nan unknown billet.\n\nThe billet consisted of a bathroom in one of the outbuildings of a\nlarge estate. The door of the bathroom had been locked, and the water\nhad been turned off. However, we scrambled through the window. The\nfloor was hard, but we had a roof above our heads, and we were all\nsoon snoring on the floor, fast asleep.\n\nNext morning I took a walk around the estate and found myself in a\nlovely orchard. It was deserted. An abundance of most delicious fruit\nmet my gaze wherever I went. I wandered up and down, picking the\napples and the pears, biting the fruit and throwing it away. I felt\nlike a bad boy in an orchard; but the orchard was deserted and the\nfruit was going to waste; so if I was looting, I consoled myself with\nthe thought that I was preventing waste.\n\nIt was about 1.30 in the afternoon, and I had just settled myself down\nin a comfortable seat under an apple-tree, and had pulled a Sunday\nnewspaper out of my pocket; it was a hot September day, and I was\nfeeling lazy.\n\nI was bound for the Somme. There was a mysterious air about the place\nthat seemed unnatural. These beautiful gardens were deserted, but the\nsound of the guns could be heard in the distance.\n\nI had settled myself comfortably, trying to imagine with the aid of\nthe Sunday paper and a cigar that I was really sitting in my own\ngardens, when I noticed a man filling his water-bottle.\n\n\"What are you filling your water-bottle for?\" I asked.\n\n\"We have got orders to parade at 2 o'clock, to move off.\"\n\n\"Good Lord! Who told you that?\"\n\n\"Captain Wilkie, sir. The orders have just come down.\"\n\nI never had such a scramble in my life. With an appetite oversatisfied\nwith apples; my kit spread all over the floor; my company half a mile\naway in all sorts of holes and corners--to move out of the village in\ntwenty minutes.\n\nIt's the same old thing in the army; you say to yourself it can't be\ndone; but it is done. And at five minutes past two the whole brigade\nwas moving out of Corbie, and was once more facing towards the Somme.\n\nOur destination was in Death Valley; but before going into the line we\nrested a few days in Happy Valley. Happy Valley and Death\nValley--there is a touch of sarcasm about the names, but they are,\nnevertheless, very appropriate.\n\nHappy Valley is a peaceful spot where we would sit contentedly in the\nafternoon puffing at our pipes, listening to the sound of the guns;\nwatching the shrapnel bursting in the air some two or three miles\naway, and thanking our lucky stars that we were watching it from a\ndistance. But we were resting. It was a lull before the storm, and we\nwere soon to march towards the storm.\n\nDeath Valley was three miles away, and to-morrow the storm would break\nupon us! We were thinking; men everywhere were writing. Why were they\nbiting their pencils and thinking so hard? The padre was a busy man.\nEverything was so quiet and mysterious: there was no joking, no\nlaughing, men were thoughtful and pulled hard at their pipes.\nTo-morrow the storm would break! To-morrow! And what after?\n\nThe following afternoon, after struggling across a sea of shell-holes,\nwe arrived at Death Valley and halted by Trones Wood. Here hundreds of\nour guns of all sizes were massed, wheel to wheel, and row upon row;\nand every gun was being worked as hard as possible.\n\nA bombardment was taking place. And in the midst of all these guns we\nwere halted for two hours until our trenches could be located. The\nsight was wonderful. It was impressive. The might of Britain was\nmassed and belching forth its concentrated fury.\n\nAs darkness came on the roar of the guns was accentuated by the flash\nof the discharge. We did not speak, for speaking was out of the\nquestion; the noise was too terrific; and we lay on the ground\nsilenced by wonder and bewilderment.\n\nWhat was happening over yonder where those shells were dropping? What\nwas that droning, whistling noise far overhead? They were the big\nguns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pounders, 4.9-inch, 6-inch,\n9-inch, 12-inch, and 15-inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere;\nall belching and flashing; all concentrating in a stupendous effort\nto pound some part of the German line into confusion.\n\nAmmunitions workers in England, and those who should be munition\nworkers, come right over here; creep with us along the edge of Trones\nWood, and watch this amazing sight. You miners, you tramway men, you\nboiler-makers! You, who would throw down your tools and strike, look\nupon this sight!\n\nThis is the voice of England. This is the stupendous effort which is\nprotecting you. On your right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is\nTrones Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks showing on the\nsky-line, across the valley. In those woods, churned up in the soil,\nlie the rotting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your sons.\nThey have sacrificed all; they have suffered untold deaths.\n\nThe contrast between that thundering voice of England and the silent\nmystery of those woods causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and\nlet them get a glimpse of this and realise their danger, and the\nhorrors which will come upon them, their wives, their children, their\nhomes, if those guns fail.\n\nWhat is their quarrel to this? Shall we stop those guns for a penny an\nhour? Shall we leave unprotected those desperate men across the\nvalley, who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last trenches\ngained? Shall we do these things for a penny an hour? Shall we do\nthese things so that we can stand up for these so-called rights in\nEngland?\n\nNo! Our mines must be worked; our boilers must be made; and our\nmunition machinery must be run to its utmost capacity, or we are\ntraitors to those guns and our fighting men; our brothers, our own\nsons, who are depending upon the might of England for victory and\ntheir lives.\n\nThrow down your tools, slacken your machinery, and High Wood and\nTrones Wood will become blacker still with the mutilated bodies of a\nthousand men. A penny an hour! You, who are being coddled under the\nprotection of these guns, what is your quarrel to this?\n\nIf those desperate fellows on the other side of the hill were to leave\ntheir tasks, they would be called traitors. Yet, when men in England,\nwhom these fighters are dependent upon, and whose work is just as\nnecessary for the success of the war, throw down their tools, they\nare only called strikers.\n\nThe crime is the same; the punishment should be the same.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nARRIVAL ON THE SOMME\n\nFEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY ARRIVES. A CURIOUS KIT\n\n\nLate that evening orders came to move into the trenches on the far\n<DW72> of the Valley of Death. Trenches here, trenches there, trenches\neverywhere, while we groped around without knowing where the trenches\nled to, or the position of the German lines.\n\nWe spent an anxious night, the uncertainty of our position and mystery\nof those massed guns, thundering their wrath into the darkness of the\nnight, caused a tension which defied any desire to sleep.\n\nWhat was the meaning of it all? What was happening over yonder, where\nthe iron of England's anger was falling, bursting, tearing, killing?\nWhat was happening over there? Would we receive a similar reply? The\nsigns were significant: we were at last on the Somme; we were in for\nit with a vengeance.\n\nThe next morning broke bright and fair, and found us still awake with\neyes peering anxiously through the rising mist. We were evidently not\nin the front line, but were there on the Somme; and that sea of\nshell-holes which everywhere surrounded us told its own story of what\nhad been, and what was yet to be.\n\nAt about 11 o'clock all eyes were turned towards High Wood, on the\ncrest of the hill to the left. A burst of shells from the enemy's guns\ntold that a target had been found. We watched, and presently we could\nfaintly see a column slowly moving along the road through the wood.\n\nThree ammunition wagons moved slowly towards our guns. Crash! A 5.9\nfell in front of the leading horses; a cloud of dense, black smoke\narose and blotted the picture from view. The smoke cleared, and the\nlittle column was still moving slowly forward, undisturbed and\nindifferent. Crash! Crash! Two more shells burst by the side of the\nsecond wagon; the smoke cleared; the horses were startled and giving\ntrouble, but once again the defiant little column moved slowly\nforward, indifferent and undismayed.\n\nWe continued to watch the plucky little column, now obscured by the\nblack smoke of the bursting shells, then again emerging from the\nsmoke, heedless of danger.\n\nThose men were human. How could they stand it with such calm and\ndetermined indifference? The answer was the guns: the guns must be\nfed; and British grit and discipline were unconquerable. The army is\nwonderful.\n\nAt this moment I received a message calling me to headquarters, and I\nat once went to find my C.O.\n\n\"Well, had a good rest?\" he asked.\n\n\"Not much, sir.\"\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense; get your map out.\"\n\nI spread my map out on my knees and took a note-book out of my pocket.\n\nThe C.O. pointed on the map with his pencil:\n\n\"We are here; the ---- Regiment is there.\"\n\n\"Front line, sir?\"\n\n\"Right bang up in the front line.\"\n\n\"What are the trenches like, sir?\"\n\n\"No time to dig trenches; they're hanging on to a few shell-holes,\nthough they may have connected them up by now. See, there's Combles,\nand that's Leuze Wood. We shall be on the extreme right of the British\narmy. B Company will be on the right; C Company in the centre, and A\nCompany on the left with D Company in support. Headquarters will be\nclose by Falfemont Farm.\"\n\n\"Very good, sir.\"\n\n\"You won't find any farm left; been blown to dust. Men are to go in\nbattle order; packs are to be parked just outside here, by companies.\nNo. 5 platoon will move off at 7 P.M., the remainder following in\nsuccession at fifty yards' interval.\"\n\nI understood, and turned to go.\n\n\"By the way, I am not sure whether the Germans are in that trench or\nthe ---- Battalion, London Regiment. Anyhow, that's where we've got to\nbe to-night.\"\n\nHalf an hour later and the men were laying out their packs in long\nrows, by companies. Strange sight, all these packs laid out in neat\nrows. The reason did not need explaining. There was work at the other\nend of that Valley of Death; there lay the pit of the Great Adventure.\nPerhaps to-night we should look into it; but how many would come back\nto claim their packs.\n\nWe are in the soup with a vengeance! Well, who cares?\n\nEarly that afternoon I went to my dugout, and was just trying to get a\nlittle rest, when I was disturbed by a voice outside, which sounded\nstrangely familiar.\n\n\"Sergeant, excuse me, but is this the beastly hole where B Company is\nto be found?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, this is B Company's line.\"\n\n\"'Pon me word, extraordinary place! Demned hot; walked nearly five\nmiles. Where's the captain?\"\n\n\"In his dugout, sir, near that shell-hole.\"\n\n\"I've got to report to him; will you tell him I'm here?\"\n\n\"Hadn't you better go to him, sir?\"\n\n\"Oh! Is that the thing to do?\"\n\nAt that moment, unable to restrain my curiosity, I came out of my\ndugout, and there, sure enough, was none other than the irresistible\npattern of Bond Street, Septimus D'Arcy, by all that was wonderful!\n\nThere he was, with his monocle riveted in his right eye, between the\nfrown of his eyebrow and the chubby fatness of his cheek, with the\nbored expression of one who saw no reason for the necessity of the\nfatigue which caused the undignified beads of perspiration to assemble\non an otherwise unruffled countenance. A pair of kid gloves, buttoned\ntogether, were hanging from the belt of his Sam Brown, and four inches\nof a blue-bordered silk handkerchief dangled from his sleeve. As he\napproached he half carried on his arm and half dragged along the\nground, the burden that was known as his full marching order.\n\n\"Hello, Septimus!\" I said, as he came along, dragging his things\nbehind him.\n\n\"Ah! Hellow! Well, I'm demned! Never expected to find you here;\nawfully glad to meet you again.\"\n\n\"What are you doing here?\"\n\n\"I'll be demned if I know! Uninteresting spot this--what?\"\n\n\"Well, what have you come here for?\"\n\n\"Nothing much. I saw a fellow in that big dugout in the valley, and he\ntold me to report to you. The fact is, you know, you are attached to\nme, or I'm attached to you, or something of that sort.\"\n\n\"Well, you are not in Havre now; there are snipers about, and if you\nstand up there like that, you'll get hit.\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say so; that seems perfectly safe.\"\n\n\"Well, get down, and don't be a fool.\"\n\nHe carefully got down into the trench, leaving his equipment behind,\nprobably hoping it would get lost, and we entered the dugout.\n\n\"I must tell you, captain, I am horribly fatigued. I came through the\nguns; very interesting and all that, but it's made my head ache.\"\n\n\"Have some water. It's rather muddy, but better than nothing these\ndays.\"\n\n\"No, thanks; doctor warned me against drinking dirty water; dysentery\nand all that, don't you know. Any whisky and soda?\"\n\n\"Look here, Septimus, now you are here, you must drop that nonsense.\"\n\n\"All right, old thing. I rather doubted the soda, but thank Heaven\nI've got a flask; a sort of emergency ration. Help yourself and let's\ndrink it neat.\"\n\n\"How long have you been in the army, Septimus?\"\n\n\"Three months. Why?\"\n\n\"Like it?\"\n\n\"Not bad. Saluting seems rather absurd; but it seems to please some. I\nlonged to come out; thought it would be interesting and all that sort\nof thing. But so far I've had nothing to do but get from place to\nplace, carrying a beastly load with me.\"\n\n\"Probably your own fault. I have never seen a pack or haversack\ncrammed so full. What have you brought with you?\"\n\n\"Necessaries; but not half what I shall need. Has my kit arrived?\"\n\n\"My dear chap, you will never see your kit up here; and what is more,\nyou will have to leave most of those things you have brought with you\nbehind, before you go up the front line. Dump your things out here,\nand I will tell you what to take.\"\n\nWe emptied his pack and haversack. I have never in all my life seen\nsuch a lot of rubbish in the war kit of a soldier. There seemed to be\nnothing there he would really need; but a curious mixture of strange\narticles which would fill a fancy bazaar. There were hair-brushes with\nebony backs and silver monograms, silk handkerchiefs with fancy\nborders, a pinky tooth-paste, oozing out of a leaden tube; and crushed\nbetween a comb and a pair of silk socks, a large bottle of reddish\ntooth-wash, sufficient to last him three years; and half of which had\nleaked through the cork to the destruction of about a dozen silk\nhandkerchiefs, spotted and bordered in fanciful shades. There was a\nbox of cigars, a heavy china pot of massage-cream, a pot of\nhair-pomade, a leather writing-case, a large ivory-backed mirror,\nwhich had lost its usefulness for ever, a bottle of fountain-pen ink,\ntwo suits of silk pajamas, one striped with pink and the other blue, a\nhuge bath-towel, a case containing seven razors, one for each day in\nthe week, and a sponge as big as his head. Poor Septimus! in his\nsimplicity and ignorance, for the first time in his life he had packed\nhis own kit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nDEATH VALLEY\n\nMOVING OVER BATTLE-FIELDS. ---- BATTALION, LONDON REGIMENT, IN\nPOSSESSION. THE MYSTERY TRENCH. FALFEMONT FARM\n\n\nThe final preparations completed, the first platoon began to move off;\nother platoons followed at intervals, the column slowly wending its\nway through the Valley of Death to its mysterious destination.\n\nWe seemed to be going into the unknown; the air was full of mystery;\nit was uncanny, unnatural. We were moving over battle-fields. The\nground was a mass of shell-holes; progress could only be made by\nwalking in single file along a narrow footpath, which twisted in\ntortuous persistency between the shell-holes, causing innumerable\nhalts and starts, until the column tailed off into an endless line of\nshadowy figures.\n\nHere and there the men became lost to view in some gun-ridden cavity;\nwhilst there again they appeared silhouetted against the moonlit sky,\nas man by man they appeared and disappeared from view over a rise in\nthe ground.\n\nThose who had fallen in the desperate struggle of the previous week\nlay yet unburied. Friend and foe alike shared the shelter of the\nheavens, clutching at the soil of France in the agonies of death.\nThere are times when the sight of death excuses the quivering step and\nthe irrepressible sob from the hearts of those who pass onward to\nbrave a similar fate.\n\nThe Valley of Death was a silent tomb of the wrath of nations, that\nlong, winding Valley of Death, where the bodies of friend and foe lay\nside by side, or clutched in a desperate embrace, marked the line\nwhere the fury of nations found its expression, like the scar of a\ndevil's vengeance.\n\nAs I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted and mutilated, limbless\nand torn, some half buried in debris--here and there lying doubled in\nunnatural positions, while others yet, seemed to be clutching at some\nmortal wound--I felt like one who fearfully treads into the vortex of\nDante's inferno. Yes, this was the devil's own hell, but a hell far\nmore dreadful than I had ever imagined it to be.\n\nAfter a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found the spot we were to\noccupy, and, to our intense relief, the ---- Battalion, London\nRegiment, were in possession.\n\nAfter the usual formalities of the relieving and taking over of the\nline of shell-holes which marked the position, I stopped for a final\nword with one of the ---- officers:\n\n\"How many casualties?\" I asked.\n\n\"About fifty in two days--bit tough, eh?\"\n\n\"Been attacked, then?\"\n\n\"No; shelled like billyho. They've got the range nicely.\"\n\n\"Where's the Boche?\"\n\n\"Don't quite know; somewhere in front. About eight hundred yards away\nthere's a trench which forms three sides of a square, each side about\nthree hundred yards, with the open side resting on Leuze Wood, and the\nlower end extending into the wood.\"\n\n\"Fritz there?\"\n\n\"In the upper part, yes; but the lower part is a bit of a mystery.\nThe part that extends into the wood the ---- Regiment are holding; but\nthe rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, that's what I think.\nAwkward position! Well, cheer oh!\"\n\nAfter a sleepless night I anxiously waited the rising mist to take a\nview of my surroundings. There, on the right, was a high table-land,\nwith a frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combles, which slowly\nemerged, house by house, from the rising mist.\n\nIn the trench the right man of my company was vigorously shaking the\nhand of a French soldier, who marked the left of the French army.\n\nThere, straight in front, could be faintly seen the trench formed in\nthe shape of a square, and left of it Leuze Wood. But what were those\npeculiar stumps to the left of our trenches? They looked like the\nremains of a copse which had been shelled until only the stumps of a\nfew trees remained. And where was Falfemont Farm? There was no sign of\nit anywhere. I was not sure of my position on the map; it was\npuzzling.\n\nI went over to consult the French officer on my right:\n\n\"Morning, monsieur,\" I said, approaching a smart young officer.\n\n\"Ah! Good morning; you relieve the ---- Battalion, London Regiment,\nalready--yes?\"\n\n\"Yes; last night. I came to ask you what those stumps are over there;\nthey are not marked on the map. Do you happen to know?\"\n\n\"Ah! Oui; zat is Falfemont Farm. Nothing left now; very bad place that\nfarm. Zay say one whole brigade of infantry was lost in storming that\nfarm. Yes, nasty place, that farm, M. le Capitaine.\"\n\nI went back to my trench. I didn't like the look of things. If\nFalfemont Farm got blown to smithereens like that, what chance did I\nstand? Whew! I was getting the wind up.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nOUT IN NO MAN'S LAND\n\nSUDDEN ORDERS. THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT ADVENTURE. DIGGING IN\n\n\nAfter a strenuous day's work, during which I had only time to take a\nmouthful of bread and cheese, which I carried in my pocket, I espied\nan orderly making his way towards me.\n\n\"The C.O. sent me, sir; you're wanted at once.\"\n\n\"Oh! any news?\"\n\n\"I think we are in for a binge, sir.\"\n\n\"Which is the way to headquarters?\"\n\n\"About two hundred yards back. Follow that narrow little track which\nwinds around the shell-holes, and you can't miss it. Don't leave the\ntrack, or you will lose your way.\"\n\nOn arriving at H.Q. I found a small group of officers bending\nanxiously over a map. The C.O. turned to me as I approached:\n\n\"Ah! There you are. Get your books out, and take down your\norders--ready! You are to take command of B Company. Well, now, here's\nour position; there's Combles and there's Leuze Wood. Take your\ncompany out into 'No Man's Land,' and extend along a line facing half\nright to our present position, with your left resting on the wood. C\nCompany will be in the wood on your left; and A Company will be on\nyour right--understand?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"You'll dig in to-night, and to-morrow we are going to take that\ntrench that's formed like a square, to prepare the way for a frontal\nattack on Combles by the French. You'll take the upper portion of that\nperpendicular trench, passing the wood on your left.\"\n\n\"Then, I shall have to cross over the lower trench; isn't that\noccupied, sir?\"\n\n\"The battalion bombers will clear that out for you during the night.\"\n\n\"When is zero hour, sir?\"\n\n\"Don't know; I've told you all I know at present. Take ten flares, and\nsend up two when you arrive at your objective, and send up another two\nat 6 o'clock the following morning.\"\n\n\"What about ammunition and water, sir?\"\n\n\"The water you've already got is supposed to last forty-eight hours. I\ndon't know about ammunition; I think there's an ammunition dump in the\nwood, but I will find that out and let you know. All right; it's dark\nenough now.\"\n\nSch!--Crash!--Zug! A 5.9 burst on the parapet a few yards away. The\nthud of an awky bit was felt in our midst, and the sergeant-major\njumped up, holding his foot. The C.O. looked up without turning a\nhair:\n\n\"Any one hurt?\" he asked.\n\n\"Only my boots, sir,\" replied the sergeant-major, suspiciously feeling\nhis heel.\n\nI took my departure and began to grope around in the dark in search of\nthe narrow track which would guide me back to my company. I searched\nfor about ten minutes, but in vain, and I became for a while\nhopelessly lost in a mass of shell-holes. I knew the direction\nroughly, but direction was of little use in that wild confusion of\nbroken ground and debris.\n\nWhat if I should be lost all night? What would they think? It would be\nput down to funk. A cold perspiration came over me. I felt an\noverwhelming sense of loneliness amidst that gruesome scene of\ndestruction; and to crown it all, a feeling of responsibility and\nanxiety which made the craters seem deeper as I frantically scrambled\nout of one and into another. At last, to my intense relief, I found\nthe little footpath and reached my trench safely.\n\nTime was getting on. I gave orders for the men to dress and lie flat\non the parados, ready for the word to move. When all preparations were\ncompleted, and bombs, picks, and shovels issued to each man, I\nsignalled the advance, and with a few scouts in front and on the\nflanks, we slowly moved in single file into the unknown.\n\nIt was a pitch-black night, intensified by a slight fog, and I took my\ndirection by compass bearing, wondering all the while if it would lead\nme right.\n\nThe men marched in silence. Nothing could be heard but the muffled\nfootsteps over the soft ground, and occasional jingling of a spade or\npick against the butt of a rifle.\n\nDistance became exaggerated, and fifty paces seemed like five hundred,\nuntil I began to get a horrible fear that my compass had misled me,\nand that countless German eyes were watching me leading my men into\nthe midst of their guns. Where were we going? When would we get back,\nand how many of us? Call it funk or what you like, but whatever it is,\nit's a devilishly creepy feeling; and when at last I found myself\nclose to the edge of the wood, I felt as if I were arriving home.\n\nBut the real job had not yet begun. I signalled the halt to the\nleading file, and passed the word to turn to the right and extend two\npaces to the right and lie down. I next ordered a sentry group,\nconsisting of one section to be sent out by each platoon to occupy\nshell-holes fifty yards in front as a protection against surprise.\n\nThe platoon on the left was to bend its flank to face the edge of the\nwood, and get in touch with C Company in the wood; while the platoon\non the right secured connection with A Company. One Lewis-gun section\ntook up position on the left flank at the corner of the wood, whilst\nthe other Lewis gun protected my right.\n\nThese precautions against surprise being completed, I ordered the men\nto dig for all they were worth; rifles with bayonets fixed, and\nmagazines charged to be placed within arm's reach at the back of the\ntrench, the earth to be thrown in front until the parapet became\nbullet-proof.\n\nI spotted one man leaning on his shovel, and looking vacantly into the\ndarkness.\n\n\"Dig, man! Don't stand looking about you,\" I whispered hoarsely.\n\n\"The ground's hard, sir; it's all chalk here.\"\n\n\"Don't be a fool! Dig! I tell you we may be discovered any minute. If\nwe get shelled you'll be glad enough of a hole to lie in.\"\n\nPassing along the line, I overheard two men talking in an undertone:\n\n\"How do you like it, Timmy?\"\n\n\"Fed to the teeth. It's all very well for the skipper to say: 'Dig\nlike hell!'--Seems quiet enough here.\"\n\n\"Heard about Bill? Went balmy just after we started. He began by\nlaughing and crying; he was as mad as a hatter. He nearly put the wind\nup us in the rear. The skipper sent him back with a couple of\nstretcher-bearers.\"\n\n\"Poor old Bill, hard luck. Thought he couldn't stand much. Got any\nwater?\"\n\n\"Not a drop; I'm as dry as a brick.\"\n\n\"Shut up; there's the skipper standing there.\"\n\nThe conversation stopped; but the latter part worried me not a little.\nWater-bottle empty, good Lord! and no more water for forty-eight\nhours.\n\nAll of a sudden the sky was illuminated. Half a dozen Very lights went\nup in rapid succession: we were discovered!\n\nA moment or two later from two different points, three reds and a\ngreen light went up, falling in our direction. Every man stopped work\nand looked up in amazement. We were in for it; we wanted no telling.\n\n\"Dig like hell!\" I whispered hoarsely, hurrying along the line of\nwondering men.\n\nBut they wanted no urging this time, and every man set to work with\nfeverish energy.\n\nThen the bombardment commenced, and in a few minutes the air was\nfilled with whistling shells, screeching through the night and making\nthe darkness hideous.\n\nWe were only a foot below the surface of the ground. Once again I\nhastened along the line:\n\n\"Dig like hell!\"\n\nLights were going up in rapid succession, and the German line whence\nthey came appeared only a couple of hundred yards in front, and seemed\nto form a semicircle around my left flank.\n\nClack! Clack! Clack! What was that?--Rifles! My sentry groups were\nfiring. Again the rattle of rifles, this time all along the line of\nsentry groups.\n\n\"Stand to!\"\n\nEvery man seized his rifle and crouched in the pit he had dug and\nfaced his front. We waited: the bombardment had stopped, and the crack\nof the rifles alone disturbed the night.\n\nI drew my revolver and waited in breathless suspense for the sudden\nrush which seemed imminent.\n\nWere our preparations to be nipped in the bud, after all? Would it be\na sudden rush; a desperate hand-to-hand fight?--and then, what then?\n\nThe minutes passed like hours in an agony of suspense, and then,\nunable to bear the strain any longer, I crept cautiously forward into\nthe inky darkness towards one of the sentry groups to find out what\nwas amiss.\n\n\"Halt! Who is there?\"\n\n\"O.C., B Company.\"\n\n\"Advance!\"\n\n\"What's up?\" I asked, sliding into the shell-hole beside the corporal.\n\n\"There seemed to be a patrol moving about in front; it's all quiet\nnow, sir.\"\n\n\"All right; double the sentries for the next hour.\"\n\nI returned to the line and ordered the men to continue digging.\n\nThe bombardment continued, but by and by we began to grow accustomed\nto the din. Several casualties occurred; but still the work of digging\nin continued.\n\nTime was getting on, and I must make my plans for to-morrow's attack.\n\nA few minutes later I chanced to notice a figure sitting leisurely in\na shell-hole.\n\n\"Why, Septimus, is that you?\"\n\n\"I think so; I say, I think so. Unearthly row; devilishly dangerous\nplace, this--what?\"\n\n\"But what are you doing in there?\"\n\n\"I was just coming to talk to you about ammunition. A shell burst, and\nmy face is simply covered with dust. Has the ammunition arrived yet?\"\n\n\"No; there's an ammunition dump in the wood somewhere.\"\n\n\"Like me to go and find it?\"\n\nI looked at him in amazement. It wasn't funk then, that made him seek\nsafety in that shell-hole. Was it possible that dear old Septimus,\nthis bland, indifferent tubby, blase old thing of Bond Street, was\nanxious to go into that creepy, mysterious wood to look for\nammunition?\n\n\"All right; take a corporal and 12 men, and bring back six boxes.\nDon't take unnecessary risks; we shall need every man to-morrow.\"\n\nSeptimus sprang out of the shell-hole, saluted in the most correct\nmanner--something quite new for him--and disappeared in the darkness.\n\nThis was a new side of Septimus's character which had not shown itself\nbefore. Only the stoutest heart would have chosen to wander about in\nthat wood at midnight, with enemy patrols lurking about. Septimus was\na man, after all.\n\nFive minutes later he passed me, leading his men. He gripped my hand\nas he passed, with the remark: \"Well! Ta-ta, old thing.\"\n\n\"Cheer oh!\"\n\nAnd Septimus was gone. We may call men <DW2>s, simple vacant fools, or\nwhat we like; but the war has proved over and over again that the man\nwithin the man is merely disguised by his outer covering. Many a Bond\nStreet Algy, or ballroom idol has proved amidst the terrors of war\nthat the artificial covering of a peace-time habit is but skin-deep;\nand the real man is underneath.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nA NIGHT OF ALARM\n\nSEPTIMUS IN A NEW ROLE. SAVING THE AMMUNITION. THE LAST CARTRIDGE\n\n\nJust then a movement in the rear of my position attracted my\nattention. A number of men were approaching; then halting, they sat on\nthe ground, while two figures continued on towards me.\n\nThey were Second Lieutenant Wade, the intrepid scout officer, and\nSecond Lieutenant Brady, in command of the battalion bombers. It was\nBrady who spoke first:\n\n\"Hullo! Getting peppered pretty hot, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Rather lively! Where are you off to?\"\n\n\"I've got orders to bomb out that mysterious trench you've heard so\nmuch about, in order to clear the way for your attack to-morrow. I'm\ngoing in front of your line and along the edge of the wood.\"\n\nI despatched a runner to warn the sentry groups, and presently the\nlittle group of bombers disappeared round the edge of the wood into\nthe darkness on their adventurous errand, the success of which would\nmean so much to me on the morrow.\n\nAll this time the work of digging is continued with unabated anxiety,\nshells dropping around unceasingly.\n\nAll of a sudden I was startled by a rattle of musketry in the\ndirection of the wood. There was silence; then several more shots\nfollowed by a rushing, tearing noise, and yells.\n\nAlmost at the same moment the ammunition party emerged breathlessly\nfrom the wood.\n\nI ran forward to where the men were dropping the ammunition boxes on\nthe ground, and falling exhausted. For a moment or two they were too\nbreathless to speak. I counted the men: there were 12 of them, and the\nsix boxes of ammunition had safely arrived.\n\nBut where were Septimus and the corporal? All was silent in the wood.\nI turned to the nearest man who was by this time sitting up, holding\nhis head in his hands.\n\n\"Where is Mr. D'Arcy and Corporal Brown?\" I asked.\n\n\"God knows, sir! They stayed to cover our retirement.\"\n\n\"What happened?\"\n\n\"We found the ammunition dump, sir, and were just beginning to move\nthe boxes when we heard some one moving. We grabbed our rifles and\nwaited. There seemed to be quite a number crawling around us. Mr.\nD'Arcy ordered us to retire at once, and get the ammunition away at\nany cost; he said he would stay behind and cover our retreat, and\nCorporal Brown offered to stay with him. We hadn't got far, sir, when\nthey opened fire; bullets hit the trees and whizzed over our heads.\nThen we heard a rush and some yells. I distinctly heard something in\nGerman, and Mr. D'Arcy's voice shout back: 'Kamarade be damned!' Then\nthere was a scuffle; that's all I know.\"\n\nMy heart beat wildly as I listened to this story. Good God! what did\nthat silence mean? There was no further time to be lost.\n\nI ordered a relief party and led the way into the wood. There was not\na sound to be heard as we crept forward on our hands and knees\ntowards the spot where the ammunition had been found.\n\nWhat was that? We listened breathlessly, and again we heard a low\ngroan almost in our midst. There was a shell-hole just in front, and\ncrawling along on all fours, I found Septimus D'Arcy, wounded and\nhelpless, with his left leg almost blown away, and bleeding from the\nhead.\n\n\"What's up, D'Arcy? What has happened?\" I whispered hoarsely.\n\nA faint smile of recognition came over his pale face as I supported\nhim in my arms. His words came painfully:\n\n\"The ammunition--is it--safe?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite safe.\"\n\n\"But what happened after they left?\"\n\n\"I stayed behind--with the corporal--to protect their retirement. We\nopened rapid fire--to draw German fire on to us. I saw six creeping\nforward. They called to us--to surrender. I refused--demn them! They\nthrew bombs--killed the corporal--dirty dogs! smashed my leg--nothing\nmuch. I picked off three--with my revolver--never used beastly thing\nbefore; two bolted--last one jumped at me--with bayonet. That's him\nthere--just got him--last cartridge.\"\n\nSeptimus was lying heavily on my arms. Nothing could be done for him;\nI saw the end was at hand.\n\n\"Good-bye, captain! Knew you'd come. Don't know much about\nsoldiering--good sport; shan't have to carry that--demned pack again.\"\n\nA placid smile came over his chubby face as he gasped out the last\nwords. His monocle was still firmly fixed between his fat cheek and\nhis eyebrow. Once more he seemed indifferent to his surroundings.\n\nIn front of him, the silent evidence of his plucky stand, were the\ndead bodies of four Germans. By his side lay a revolver. I picked up\nand examined the chamber; the last cartridge had been fired!\n\nThe men had gathered around; their caps were off. Septimus seemed to\nbe looking up smilingly into their faces.\n\nSeptimus was dead! But Septimus was still in Bond Street!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nNEXT MORNING\n\nA COUNCIL OF WAR. OPERATION ORDERS. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT\n\n\nThree A.M. Heavy shell-fire still continues. I have just ordered the\nmen to cease work and take rest. Trench is about two feet deep; men\nare dead beat.\n\n4 A.M. Have just received three pages of operation orders. We are to\nattack at 4.45 P.M. in four ways, starting from the trenches we have\nbeen digging, and advancing diagonally from the corner of the wood\nacross the open; passing over the mystery trench and taking the\ncentral trench.\n\nI have only a vague idea at present where that is. Am fervently hoping\nthat the battalion bombers have solved the mystery trench and cleared\nit. No news from them yet. God knows what has been happening there\nduring the night.\n\n5 A.M. Have just held a council of war with my officers and N.C.O.'s,\nand explained in detail my plans for the attack. Very impressive\nsight, seeing them all crouching around me in a shell-hole, with\nshells bursting around us, while they listened intently to my orders.\n\n\"Each officer is to carry his papers in lower right-hand hip pocket;\nand if he fails, the nearest man is to search the pocket and hand the\ncontents on to the next senior. I intend to attack in the following\norder:\n\n    First wave     No. 5 Platoon\n    Second         No. 6  \"\n    Third          No. 7  \"      and\n    Fourth wave    No. 8  \"\n\nEighty yards interval between each wave. Bombing sections of Nos. 5\nand 7 to be on the right, and Nos. 6 and 8 on the left of their\nrespective platoons.\n\n\"No. 1 Lewis Gun to be on the right of the second wave; No. 2 Lewis\nGun to be on the left of the fourth wave.\n\n\"Two runners from each platoon to report to me five minutes before\nzero hour. My position, accompanied by the runners, will be between\nthe third and fourth wave.\n\n\"On arrival at objective Lewis Gunners to establish strong points,\nassisted by bombers at each end of objective. Each man to carry two\nhundreds rounds of ammunition and three bombs; also three sand-bags in\nhis belt, and a pick or shovel tucked through his belt behind. Bombers\nto carry each a sack, containing twelve bombs, but no tools.\"\n\nStrange warfare this, going into a fight like a navvy.\n\n5.30 A.M. Plans have been explained in detail to every man, and orders\ngiven that if all officers and N.C.O.'s are knocked out, the men are\nto carry on and finish the job themselves.\n\nVery foggy morning; we are able to finish digging trench.\n\n6 A.M. Astounding news. The battalion bombers have failed. A few\nsurvivors, after fighting all night, have been driven into the wood.\nThe mystery trench over which I must cross is in the hands of the\nBoches. Could we hope to accomplish the double task?\n\nThe men heard the news in silence.\n\n7 A.M. Breakfast consists of some dirty bread and cheese, and a little\nwater.\n\n8 A.M. Fog lifted. Our position is correct. Can see objective plainly\nabout four hundred yards off. We can also be seen plainly, and snipers\nare busy trying to pick us off.\n\nHave made a reconnaissance, and find intervening ground a mass of\nshell-holes. Looks like a rough sea. The advance will be difficult;\nthe ground is so churned up. Not a square yard of unbroken ground.\n\n2 P.M. Everything is now in readiness, with nearly three hours to\nspare.\n\nHave ordered men to eat their dinners, which consists of bread and\ncheese at 3 P.M., so that they will go into the fight on full\nstomachs.\n\nI have had no sleep or proper food for nearly two days. Will lie down\nand get an hour's rest before the attack.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nTHE ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD\n\nNEW OPERATION ORDERS. \"AT ANY COST.\" LIKE RATS IN A TRAP\n\n\nI had hardly closed my eyes when a runner from headquarters came\nhurrying along the line, and was directed to where I was dozing at the\nbottom of a trench.\n\n\"Message from the C.O., sir, very urgent.\"\n\nI signed the receipt and tore the envelope open. Good heavens! new\noperation orders! I was astounded. I looked again, hardly daring to\nbelieve my eyes. Sure enough, there was no mistake about it, three\npages of closely written operation orders. The head-line seemed to be\nmocking me:\n\n\"Fresh operation orders, cancelling those issued this morning.\"\n\nI read on: \"You are to advance on through Leuze Wood, and attack from\nthat part of the wood which forms the fourth side of the square-shaped\ntrench, thus attacking the inside of the square; B Company taking the\nlower half, and C Company the upper half; A Company to be in support.\"\n\nA cold shiver ran down my back. What a calamity! and after all the\npains I had taken to work out the details of the attack, and that\ndreadful night spent in digging these trenches to jump off from. Every\nman knew what to do, and now at the eleventh hour the whole plan was\naltered.\n\nI glanced again at the new orders:\n\n\"You are to be at the new place of assembly by 3.30 P.M.; zero hour is\n4.45.\"\n\nI looked at my watch--Great Scott! it was already 2.15; at 3 P.M. I\nmust commence the advance through the wood.\n\nThe men had not yet commenced their dinners. What time was there? and\nhow was it possible to sit down quietly and digest those three pages\nof new orders and understand their meaning? What time had I to make\nnew plans and explain to each man his new task?\n\nThere was not a moment to be lost; I turned to my two runners:\n\n\"Dinners to be eaten at once. Platoon commanders wanted at the\ndouble.\"\n\nI waited, and by and by the platoon commanders, Second Lieutenant\nFarman and Chislehirst, and Sergeants Blackwell and Barnes, came\nrunning along the top, snipers shooting at them as they ran along.\nThey halted on the parados, saluting as they came up, and, still\nstanding up, awaited orders, seemingly indifferent to the excellent\ntarget which they presented.\n\n\"Lie down flat,\" I ordered.\n\nThey did as I directed, their faces turned anxiously toward me,\nwondering what was up.\n\n\"New operation orders just arrived from headquarters; previous orders\ncancelled. We are to advance through the wood and attack from the\ninside of the square.\"\n\nI hurriedly read the whole of the orders over to them, and they\nlistened silently.\n\n\"Go back to your platoons. The men are to be dressed in battle order\nby 2.50--it's now 2.30--by 3 P.M. the platoons are to be closed up\nalong the trench, and the leading platoon will enter the wood in\nsingle file, other platoons following.\"\n\nAs I glanced up I noticed their faces were pale; they were listening\nintently, but uttering no sound. They were receiving orders; they\nrealised their responsibility, and they knew their duty.\n\nThe last paragraph was underlined. I hurriedly read it and looked up\nat them again:\n\n\"Just one more thing,\" I said. \"These are my orders underlined:\n\n\"YOU MUST REACH YOUR OBJECTIVE AT ANY COST. IF DRIVEN BACK, YOU ARE TO\nMAKE A STAND AT THE EDGE OF THE WOOD, AND HOLD OUT TILL THE LAST MAN\nFALLS.\"\n\nIt sounded like a death sentence, a forecast of the hour of trial\nwhich we were to face. Only those who have received such orders on the\nfield of battle can realise what it feels like.\n\nIn those few dramatic moments we counted our lives as lost. We\nrecognised how desperate was our task. Success we might hope for; but\nfailure we must pay the price of. We must fight till the last man\nfalls--and yet we were merely civilian soldiers.\n\nI looked into their faces; our eyes met. I understood; I could trust\nthem; they could trust me.\n\n\"That's all; return to your platoons and prepare to move.\"\n\nThey had not uttered a word through all this; no words were necessary.\nThey jumped to their feet; saluted as though we were back on Salisbury\nPlain, and the next moment ran along the parados to their platoons.\n\nI watched them, and saw them kneel down on the top of their trench,\nindifferent to the snipers' bullets whistling about their heads,\nhurriedly explaining the situation to their men.\n\nBy 3 P.M. the men were ready and had closed along the trench to the\nwood.\n\nThe movement had been seen by the enemy, and a terrific burst of\nfiring commenced; although, at the time I could not see what effect it\nwas having.\n\nI waited several minutes, but there was no further movement along the\ntrench to indicate that the first platoon had entered the wood. I sent\nforward the message, \"Carry on,\" but still no movement resulted.\n\nAt last, feeling something was wrong and unable to restrain my\nimpatience any longer, I jumped out of the trench and ran along the\nparados.\n\nWhat I saw there appalled me for the moment; the wood in front of me\nwas filled with bursting shells; a continuous pr-r-r-r-r seemed to be\nmoving backward and forward, and bullets were whistling in all\ndirections.\n\nGood God! what a hell! No wonder the men hesitated! What was to be\ndone? My orders left me no alternative. I must advance through the\nwood. My brain kept repeating the words, \"At any cost!\" What a cost it\nwould be to enter that hell! It was now, or never!\n\nWe were hesitating; something must be done, and done quickly. I looked\nat Farman, and I knew I could count on him.\n\nThe next moment I leaped into a newly made shell-hole, about five\nyards in the wood; called upon Farman to follow, and a moment later he\ncame jumping after.\n\nThe noise was terrific. We yelled at the top of our voices for the\nnext man to follow.\n\nThe next man to take the leap was the company sergeant-major. A piece\nof shell struck him in the side, and he rolled over on the ground,\nclutching at his tunic.\n\nAgain we yelled for the men to come along; and one by one they took\nthe leap.\n\nWhen six of us were in the shell-hole it was time for us to empty it\nto make room for others. Farman and I took it in turns to lead the\nway, and this process went on through the wood, leaping from hole to\nhole, and yelling at the top of our lungs for the others to follow us.\n\nBy this time the scene inside the wood was indescribable. Machine-gun\nbullets were spraying backward and forward; 6-inch shells were\nexploding in all directions; and the din was intensified by the\ncrashing of trees uprooted by the explosions, and the dull thud of the\nmissiles striking the ground.\n\nThrough the dull light of that filthy wood we frequently cast an\nanxious glance towards the red rockets being sent up from the German\nlines, directing the fire of their artillery towards us.\n\nSometimes, in leaping forward, we would land beside the dead and\nmutilated carcass of a German soldier who had fallen a week before.\nIt was ghastly, terrible; and the millions of flies sucking at his\nopen wounds would swarm about us, seemingly in a buzz of anger at our\ndisturbance. But sickly and ghastly as the scene was, farther and\nfarther into this exaggerated hell we must go.\n\nBy this time the cries of the wounded added to the terrors of the\nscene. Each time we jumped into a shell-hole, we turned to watch the\nmen leap in. Each time it seemed that a new face appeared, and the\nabsence of those who had jumped into the last shell-hole was only too\nsignificant.\n\nBut, undaunted by their falling comrades, each man, in his turn,\nleaped forward and would lie gasping for breath until his turn came\nfor another effort.\n\nFarman was the first to speak. It was his turn to take the next leap:\n\n\"I don't think it really matters. There's a hole about thirty yards\naway; I think I'll go straight for that.\"\n\nHe got up and walked leisurely across, as though inviting the death\nwhich seemed inevitable. He stopped at the shell-hole, and for a\nmoment seemed to be looking down undecided whether to jump in or not.\n\nI shouted at him:\n\n\"Don't be a damned fool; jump!\"\n\nThe next moment a shell burst between us, and I fell back into the\nshell-hole. When I again looked out and my eyes could penetrate the\nsmoke, I saw no sign of Farman. I yelled, and to my intense relief I\nsaw his head appear. He was safe!\n\nAgain and again the last paragraph of my orders seemed to be blazing\nin front of me, and like a hidden hand from that dark inferno of\nhorrors, kept beckoning me forward, \"AT ANY COST! AT ANY COST!\"\n\nYes; this must be the end; but it's hell to die in a wood.\n\nThe men used to call it Lousy Wood. What do they call it now? They\nwere brave fellows; and they were only civilian soldiers, too! They\nused to be volunteers once. People would laugh, and call them Saturday\nafternoon soldiers.\n\nReviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and the comic papers\ncaricatured these men, and used them as material for their jests.\n\nThey were only Territorials! That man, panting hard at the bottom of\nthe shell-hole, and still clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk;\nthat man who fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, was a\nsolicitor's clerk.\n\nLook at the others. Their faces are pale; their eyes are bulging. But\nthey are the same faces one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle\nStreet.\n\nYes, they are only Territorials! But here in this filthy wood they are\ndamned proud of it.\n\nAnd what is taking place in England to-day?\n\nIs it really true that while all this is going on in Leuze Wood,\norchestras are playing sweet music in brilliantly lighted restaurants\nin London--while a gluttonous crowd eat of the fat of the land? Is it\nreally true that women in England are dressing more extravagantly than\never? Is it really true that some men in England are unable or\nunwilling to share the nation's peril--are even threatening to strike?\n\nNo! No! Do not let us think that this is the true picture of England.\nIf it is, then, Territorials, let us die in Leuze Wood!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nTHE ATTACK\n\nA DESPERATE SITUATION. BATTLE FORMATION. \"FOR ENGLAND\"\n\n\nJoy! The last leap I took landed me in a trench, and I found to my\ngreat relief that it was the lower part of the square which ran\nthrough the wood. A few yards along this trench it emerged into the\nopen, where it was in possession of the Germans.\n\nFarman and I sat down, side by side, breathing heavily from our\nexertions.\n\n\"That was hell, Farman,\" I said, hardly daring to trust my voice.\n\n\"Awful!\"\n\n\"I hope the men are still following.\"\n\n\"Those that are left.\"\n\n\"Have a cigarette; it will buck the men up to see us smoking.\"\n\n\"Thanks, I will, though I'm as dry as a bone.\"\n\n\"Save your water; we've still got the attack to do. We've got an hour\nyet; that will give the men time to recover.\"\n\nBy this time, one by one, the men began to jump into the trench. As\nthe men arrived, their faces pale and eyes started, we called them by\nname. They looked up and smiled with relief at seeing us sitting\nthere, side by side. They recognised that the last jump had been made,\nand for the time being, at any rate, they were safe.\n\nWe had started through the wood, about one hundred and thirty strong,\nand barely eighty mustered for the final attack.\n\nSome men of C Company appeared, threading their way along the trench.\nFarther in the wood, the commander, Lieutenant Barton, came up to\narrange details for the attack.\n\n\"You got your new orders in time, then,\" I remarked.\n\n\"Just in time. It's hell, isn't it? I've lost heavily already, and\nwe've still got to go over the top.\"\n\n\"I've got orders to take half the battalion bombers from you; where\nare they?\"\n\n\"I would like to keep them; there are not many left, and they are\nbadly broken up--been fighting all night.\"\n\n\"All right, you keep them. I'm going to form up between here and that\nbroken tree. Will you form up farther to the left?\"\n\n\"All right. Well, I'll be off; cheer oh! old chap.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Barton. Good luck!\"\n\nI never saw Barton again! I heard some months afterwards that he fell,\nriddled with machine-gun bullets whilst leading his men into the\nsubsequent attack.\n\n\"Pass the word for No. 8 Platoon commander,\" I ordered, wishing to\nascertain if the last platoon had arrived.\n\nA young sergeant came up at the double, and saluted.\n\n\"I am in command, sir.\"\n\nHis tone and manner inspired me immensely. Notwithstanding all the\ndanger we had passed through, he seemed to be full of ginger and pride\nat finding himself in command of the platoon.\n\n\"Where is Mr. Chislehirst, then?\" I asked.\n\n\"Wounded, sir, in the wood; shot through the chest. The last I saw of\nhim he was giving another wounded man a drink from his water-bottle.\"\n\n\"All right; do you understand your orders?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, quite.\"\n\n\"Return to your platoon, and await orders to form up.\"\n\nHe saluted and doubled back to his men. I forget his name, but he was\na fine fellow, that sergeant; quite cool, and evidently pleased at his\nnew responsibility.\n\nSo poor old Chislehirst was hit; fine fellow; very young, only about\ntwenty; good company in the mess; reliable in the field. Just like him\nto give his water-bottle to some one else when he could go no farther.\n\nFarman was my only subaltern left. Suddenly he gripped my arm and\npointed into the wood:\n\n\"Look over there. Who are those fellows creeping along that trench?\"\n\nI looked in the direction he was pointing, and there, to my\nastonishment, on the very ground just vacated by C Company, about a\ndozen figures in bluish grey were creeping along a shallow trench. I\nthought at first they were coming in to surrender; but they made no\nsigns, but were evidently making the best of cover.\n\nWhat were they up to? There were only about 12 of them, and I had\nbetween 70 and 80 men. For such a small number to come out alone and\nattack us seemed absurd, and I waited, expecting them to throw up\ntheir hands and come in. Perhaps they thought they had not been seen.\nI picked up a rifle, and taking aim, fired at the last man but one; I\nmissed.\n\nStill they kept creeping on. I fired a second time at the same man,\nand he dropped. The thing didn't seem real, seeing those heads bobbing\nalong a trench; I felt for a moment as though I were shooting rabbits.\n\nThe next moment I realised their object. By this time they had worked\nwell round my flanks. They were evidently a few daring men, who were\ntrying to creep up unnoticed, with the intention of throwing bombs\nwhile we were in a congested area, occupied in forming up for the\nattack. A daring ruse, but a clever one; for a dozen men throwing\nbombs at close quarters could wipe us off the map, or, at any rate,\ncould do enough damage by shock action of this kind to prevent our\nattack starting.\n\nI dared not give any order to fire for fear of hitting the men of C\nCompany. The situation was desperate. I had no time to spare, for zero\nhour was close at hand. The same thoughts were running through\nFarman's mind.\n\n\"Shall I have a go at them?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes; form up your platoon, and stick them with the bayonet; then join\nthe attack as a fourth wave.\"\n\nI watched Farman and his platoon with bayonets fixed, creeping on all\nfours towards the German bombers. That was the last I saw of them, as\nit was within 10 minutes of zero hour, and we were not yet in battle\nformation.\n\nI heard afterwards that they did the job well. But to part with the\nplatoon and my only remaining officer at this critical moment was a\ngreat loss to me; for I could not count upon them in the attack for\nwhich I had now only three platoons left--about sixty men.\n\nHalf my strength had gone, and the real attack had not yet begun. I\nsent for the remaining platoon commanders and explained the\nsituation:\n\n\"No. 6 Platoon will now become the first wave. Form up and extend\nalong the edge of the wood and await my signal to advance into the\nopen. No. 7 Platoon, form up immediately in rear; and No. 8 Platoon,\nassemble in the trench close up. Bombing section of No. 6 will proceed\nalong the trench parallel with the advance, bombing it out as they go\nalong.\"\n\nThe men formed up. The minutes seemed to be like hours. We were facing\nthe inside of the square trench, which was a mass of shell-holes, and\nas though anticipating our intention, shells were bursting and bullets\nwhistling on all sides.\n\nHow peaceful England must be at this moment; how pretty the villages!\nAnd how wicked this hell seemed in front of us! And these were the men\nof England--nice chaps, only Territorials.\n\nOne used to meet them in the city every day. Some were awful nuts. See\nthem at lunch; watch them pouring out of Liverpool Street Station\nbetween 9 and 10 o'clock in the morning, with newspaper and\nwalking-stick; see them in the banks, bending over ledgers. You could\nhardly believe it; but these were the same men.\n\nThey were not very trim just now; their hands are grimy as they clutch\nat their rifles, undaunted by the terrors they have already passed\nthrough and the sight of their fallen comrades left groaning in the\nwood.\n\nThere they are, extended and lying flat on the ground, waiting further\norders. They have come through one hell by the skin of their teeth,\nand are patiently looking into another hell; their lives were counted\nby minutes, these office men. But their eyes were fixed on the far\nside of the square trench which was to be their objective; unless by\nGod's will, and for the sake of England, they found an earlier one.\n\nLondon men! Some may call you \"only Territorials.\" Training has been\nyour hobby; but fighting was never your profession.\n\nWhat will England think of this? England may never know.\n\nWho ever heard of Leuze Wood before? If a man is killed in England\nthere is an inquest. People read about it in the papers.\n\nAre the people left behind in England suffering hardships\nuncomplainingly, and gritting their teeth like you are? You are only\ngetting a bob a day. England needs you; you are masters. Why don't\nyou strike at this critical moment?\n\nNo, my lads; you are made of different stuff. You are men! There are\nthose in England this day who work for England's cause; there are\nothers who are enriching themselves by your absence; there are homes\nwhich will feel your sacrifice.\n\nYou have seen the wasted homes and the ghastly outrages in France; and\nbetween that picture and the green fields of England you must make\nyour stand; those in England will depend upon you this day.\n\nZero hour is at hand. Agonies, mutilation, and death are within a few\nyards of you. There will be no pictures of your deeds; there are no\nflags or trumpets to inspire you; you are lying on the dirty ground on\nthe edge of Leuze Wood, with hell in front of you, and hell behind\nyou--hell in those trenches on the left, hell in those trenches on the\nright.\n\nOne more minute and you will stand up and walk into it. My lads! It's\nfor England!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nAT ANY COST\n\nOVER THE TOP. MAD, FIGHTING MAD. THE FINAL ASSAULT\n\n\nAt last the thunder of our guns towards the German lines confirmed the\nhour. Zero hour had arrived; the barrage had begun.\n\n\"No. 6 Platoon will advance.\"\n\nThe front line jumped up and walked into the open. Wonderful! Steady\nas a rock! The line was perfect.\n\nOn the left the front line of C Company has also emerged from the\nwood; the bombers of No. 6 Platoon disappeared along the mystery\ntrench.\n\nThe tut-ut-ut-ut of machine-guns developed from several parts of the\nsquare, while the crack of rifles increased in intensity.\n\nNo. 7 Platoon jumped up and advanced into the open, followed by the\nthird wave.\n\nI extended my runners and followed.\n\nWhat followed next beggars description. As I write these lines my hand\nhesitates to describe the hell that was let loose upon those men. No\neye but mine could take in the picture so completely.\n\nWill the world ever know what these men faced and fought\nagainst--these men of the City of London? Not unless I tell it, for I\nalone saw all that happened that day; and my hand alone, weak and\nincapable though it feels, is the only one that can do it.\n\nBarely had I emerged from the wood with my ten runners when a perfect\nhurricane of shells were hurled at us, machine-guns from several\npoints spraying their deadly fire backward and forward, dropping men\nlike corn before the reaper. From all three sides of the square a\nhurricane of fire was poured into the centre of the square upon us, as\nwe emerged from the wood.\n\nIn far less time than it takes to record it, the attacking waves\nbecame a mere sprinkling of men. They went on for a yard or two, and\nthen all seemed to vanish; and even my runners, whom I had extended\ninto line, were dropping fast.\n\nThe situation was critical, desperate. Fearful lest the attack should\nfail, I ran forward, and collecting men here and there from\nshell-holes where some had taken refuge, I formed them into a fresh\nfiring-line, and once more we pressed forward.\n\nAgain and again the line was thinned; and again the survivors,\nundaunted and unbeaten, reformed and pressed forward.\n\nMen laughed, men cried in the desperation of the moment. We were\ngrappling with death; we were dodging it, cheating it; we were mad,\nblindly hysterical. What did anything matter? Farther and farther into\nthe inferno we must press, at any cost, at any cost; leaping, jumping,\nrushing, we went from shell-hole to shell-hole; and still the fire\ncontinued with unrelenting fury.\n\nI jumped into a shell-hole, and found myself within ten yards of my\nobjective. My three remaining runners jumped in alongside of me. They\nwere Arnold, Dobson, and Wilkinson.\n\nArnold was done for! He looked up at me with eyes staring and face\nblanched, and panted out that he could go no farther, and I realised\nthat I could count on him no more.\n\nI glanced to the left, just in time to see three Germans not five\nyards away, and one after the other jump from a shell-hole which\nformed a sort of bay to their trench, and run away.\n\nWishing to save the ammunition in my revolver for the hand-to-hand\nscuffle which seemed imminent, I seized the rifle of Arnold and fired.\nI missed all three; my hand was shaky.\n\nWhat was I to do next? The company on my left had disappeared; the\ntrench just in front of me was occupied by the Boches. I had with me\nthree runners, one of whom was helpless, and in the next shell-hole\nabout six men, the sole survivors of my company.\n\nWhere were the supports? Anxiously I glanced back toward the wood; why\ndid they not come?\n\nPoor fellows, I did not know it at the time, but the hand of death had\ndealt with them even more heavily in the wood than it had with us.\n\nMy position was desperate. I could not retire. My orders were\nimperative: \"You must reach your objective at any cost.\" I must get\nthere somehow. But even if we got there, how long could I hope to hold\nout with such a handful of men?\n\nImmediate support I must have; I must take risks. I turned to brave\nDobson and Wilkinson:\n\n\"Message to the supports: 'Send me two platoons quickly; position\ncritical.'\"\n\nWithout a moment's hesitation they jumped up and darted off with the\nmessage which might save the day.\n\nDobson fell before he had gone two yards; three paces farther on I saw\nWilkinson, the pet of the company, turn suddenly round and fall on the\nground, clutching at his breast. All hope for the supports was gone.\n\nAt this moment the bombing section, which by this time had cleared the\nmystery trench, arrived on the right of the objective; and to my\ndelirious joy, I noticed the Germans in the trench in front of me\nrunning away along the trench.\n\nIt was now, or never! We must charge over that strip of land and\nfinish them with the bayonet. A moment's hesitation and the tables\nmight again be turned, and all would be lost. The trench in front must\nbe taken by assault; it must be done. There were six or seven of us\nleft, and we must do it.\n\nI yelled to the men:\n\n\"Get ready to charge, they are running. Come on! Come on!\"\n\nI jumped out of the shell-hole, and they followed me. Once again I was\nmad. I saw nothing, I heard nothing; I wanted to kill! kill!\n\nPf--ung!\n\nOh! My God! I was hit in the head! I was blind!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nLEFT ON THE FIELD\n\nTHE MYSTERY OF DEATH. THE SECRET CODE. TWO TERRIBLE DAYS\n\n\nI was wounded! I was blind! But the moments that followed are clear in\nmy memory. The brain shocked by a blow works quickly and actively in\nits excited effort to hold its own.\n\nI was quite conscious and thinking clearly: I knew what had happened\nand what would happen; I remembered every detail.\n\nMy head at the moment was inclined to the right, for I was shouting to\nthe men. Like a flash I remembered that about fifty yards to the left\nof me there was a \"German strong point\" still occupied by the Germans.\nA bullet had entered my left temple; it must have come from a sniper\nin that strong point. The bullet had passed clean through my head; I\nthought it had emerged through my right temple. I was mistaken on that\npoint, for I found some days later that it had emerged through the\ncentre of my right eye.\n\nI remember distinctly clutching my head and sinking to the ground, and\nall the time I was thinking \"so this is the end--the finish of it all;\nshot through the head, mine is a fatal wound.\"\n\nArnold jumped up, and catching me in his arms, helped me back into the\nshell-hole.\n\nI hesitate to tell what followed. But as I am trying to record the\nsensations experienced at the time of receiving a head wound, I will\ndescribe the next experience simply, and leave the reader to form his\nown conclusions.\n\nI was blind then, as I am now; but the blackness which was then before\nme underwent a change. A voice from somewhere behind me said: \"This is\ndeath; will you come?\"\n\nThen gradually the blackness became more intense. A curtain seemed to\nbe slowly falling; there was space; there was darkness, blacker than\nmy blindness; everything was past. There was a peacefulness, a\nnothingness; but a happiness indescribable.\n\nI seemed for a moment somewhere in the emptiness looking down at my\nbody, lying in the shell-hole, bleeding from the temple. I was dead!\nand that was my body; but I was happy.\n\nBut the voice I had heard seemed to be waiting for an answer. I seemed\nto exert myself by a frantic effort, like one in a dream who is trying\nto awaken.\n\nI said: \"No, not now; I won't die.\" Then the curtain slowly lifted; my\nbody moved and I was moving it. I was alive!\n\nThere, my readers, I have told you, and I have hesitated to tell it\nbefore. More than that, I will tell you that I was not unconscious;\nneither did I lose consciousness until several minutes later, and then\nunconsciousness was quite different.\n\nI have told you how clear was my brain the moment I was hit, and I\ntell you also that after the sensation I have just related, my brain\nwas equally clear, as I will show you, until I became unconscious.\n\nCall it a hallucination, a trick of the brain, or what you will. I\nmake no attempt to influence you; I merely record the incident--but my\nown belief I will keep to myself.\n\nWhatever it was, I no longer feel there is any mystery about death.\nNor do I dread it.\n\nArnold was busy tearing open the field dressing which I carried in a\npocket of my tunic.\n\n\"Use the iodine first, Arnold; it's in the pocket in a glass phial.\"\n\n\"The glass is broken, sir.\"\n\n\"In a piece of paper there are two morphia tablets--quick, better give\nthem to me.\"\n\n\"They are not here, sir.\" And he bound the dressing round my eyes as\nthe blood trickled down my face.\n\n\"Quick, Arnold, my right pocket--feel in it; some papers there--a\nsecret code--take them out--tear them up--quickly; tell me have you\ndone it?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I have done it.\"\n\nI was sinking; I felt myself going; I felt that the end was at hand. I\nclutched his shoulder and pulled him towards me:\n\n\"Arnold, I'm going. If you get back--tell my--wife--\" But the message\nthat was on my lips was not finished; I could speak no more. I was\ndropping into space, dropping, dropping; everything disappeared, I\nremembered no more.\n\nI do not know how long I remained in this condition. I remember\ngaining consciousness and finding Arnold by my side.\n\nSomething terrible was happening. I gradually began to realise that\nanother attack was taking place over my head. This time the fire was\ncoming from both sides. A stream of bullets seemed to be pouring over\nthe shell-hole. The meaning was obvious: a machine-gun had been placed\nin the trench ten yards away, and its deadly fire was pouring over the\nshell-hole in which we lay. Loud explosions were taking place all\nround us, and with each explosion the earth seemed to upheave, and I\nfelt the thug, thug of pieces of metal striking the earth close by;\nwhilst showers of earth kept falling on my body. I couldn't last long.\nThe guns of both sides seemed to be searching for us; we must soon be\nblown to pieces.\n\nHow long this lasted I cannot say. I was weak; my shattered nerves\ncould not stand such a terrible ordeal. I lay huddled and shivering at\nthe bottom of the shell-hole, waiting for the jagged metal to strike\nmy body, or be hurled, mutilated, into the air.\n\nAgain I became unconscious. When I next recovered my senses Arnold\nwas trying to lift me, to carry me away, but his strength was not\nequal to it. He laid me down again.\n\nThe firing had ceased. He seemed to be peering out of the shell-hole\nand talking to me. I think he was planning escape. It must have been\ndark, for he seemed uncertain about the direction.\n\nThen I began to vomit; I seemed to be vomiting my heart out, while\nArnold seemed to be trying to comfort me.\n\nI again became unconscious. When I regained consciousness for the\nthird time it seemed to me that I had been insensible for a great\nlength of time. But I seemed to be much refreshed, although very weak.\n\nEverything was silent, uncanny; I could see nothing, hear nothing.\nYes, I remembered; I was shot blind, and I was still in the\nshell-hole. I felt my head; there was a rough bandage round it,\ncovering my eyes. The bandage over my right eye was hardened with\nblood, and dried blood covered my left cheek. My hair was matted with\nclay and blood; and my clothes seemed to be covered with loose earth.\n\nBut what did this uncanny silence mean?--Arnold, where was he? I\ncalled him by name, but there was no response. I remembered the firing\nI had heard: yes, he must be dead.\n\nIn my blindness and despair I groped on my hands and knees around the\nshell-hole to find his body. He was not there. _I was alone!_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nTHE JAWS OF DEATH\n\nLONELINESS, DARKNESS, AND SILENCE. A LAST EFFORT. I PREPARE FOR DEATH\n\n\nI did not know at the time, of course, what had become of Arnold; but\nI found out later.\n\nFearing I was dying when I lapsed into unconsciousness again, after my\nfit of vomiting, he decided under cover of darkness to try and find\nhis way back to the British lines to bring me aid.\n\nAfter stumbling about in and out of shell-holes, he suddenly saw the\nbarrel of a rifle pointing at him from a trench close by, and\nfollowing him as he moved; and a moment later he was a prisoner.\n\nUnderstanding German, he told his captors that I was lying out in No\nMan's Land, and begged them to send me medical aid; and they answered\nthat stretcher-bearers would be sent to make a search.\n\nWhether the stretcher-bearers were sent or not I do not know; but if\nthey were, they were not successful in finding me; for to the best of\nmy belief it was on the Monday morning that I again regained\nconsciousness, to find myself alone--two days after I had been shot.\n\nIt is difficult for me to describe my feelings when I found myself\nalone. I had no pain, I seemed to feel very small and the world very\nlarge. I sat up and felt my head; my face felt twice its usual size,\nand seemed sticky and clammy with earth and blood.\n\nEverything was so silent.\n\nThere was a great lump of hardened blood where the rough field\ndressing covered my right eye; my left cheek, nose, and lips were\nswollen tremendously.\n\nWhether it was night or day I did not know. But I knew I was blind. I\ntried to collect my thoughts and to reason out my position.\n\nWhere was the German line, and where was the British? I knew that I\nmust be a considerable distance from the British line; but which\ndirection it was in, I could not tell.\n\nIf I were to crawl, which way should I go and where should I find\nmyself? Better to make the attempt and take my chance, than lie where\nI was. On my hands and knees I tried to crawl up the side of the\nshell-hole. But I had not reckoned on my weakness; the world was so\nlarge and I was so small.\n\nBefore I could reach the top my strength gave out, and I slid to the\nbottom. Again and again I tried, and with each attempt I kept slipping\nback, each time, bringing with me a pile of loose earth.\n\nAt last I realised how hopeless it all was, with so little strength.\nAnd unable even to reach to the top of the shell-hole, how could I\nhope ever to reach the British line across the sea of shell-holes\nwhich intervened? I seemed so far from everything; though little did I\ndream at the time that German soldiers were within a few yards of me\nin the trench from which I had driven them by such desperate efforts\ntwo days before--two days! Surely it was two years!\n\nThen my fate dawned upon me. Of course the end was quite logical. This\nwas the end; it could not be otherwise. Had I not made up my mind it\nwould come? Surely I did before I started? Was I not shot through the\nhead and left to die? Well, this was the proper place to die. But\nwhat surprised me was that the thought of dying seemed so comforting.\nI was so weary, and death seemed so peaceful.\n\nI have heard people say that when a person is drowning, after the\nfirst frantic struggles are over, a delightful sensation of\npeacefulness comes over him, and he ceases to desire to help himself.\nThat was how I felt at that moment. This shell-hole was my grave.\nWell, it seemed quite right and proper.\n\nThe idea of getting back to life after suffering so many deaths seemed\nvery unreasonable. My sensations were those of one who had awakened to\nfind himself buried alive. To be alive at all was cheating death,\nwhich held me firmly in its grip. Better to accept it and wait calmly\nfor the end.\n\nThe life of the world seemed so far away from me. My family, my home,\nmy friends and scenes that I used to know so well seemed in a misty\npast, a long, long way away--a different age.\n\nAfter all, it did not matter very much. It was all so very long ago.\nIt had all happened long ago. My absence was an accepted fact; I was\nnow a memory.\n\nNow, I have already said that I awoke refreshed. I will say, further,\nthat I was never so clear-headed in my life. I had little power in my\nlimbs. My brain was never more calm and calculating and indifferent to\nthe death which I knew was at hand.\n\nIt was not nerve, because I had none. It had nothing to do with the\nquestion of pluck or cowardice. It was simply the state of the brain\nbefore its last kick. I had ceased to resist my fate; I accepted it. I\nwas not dead yet--but I was to die there, and that was to be my grave.\n\nI began to think out calmly in what way my life would flicker out, and\nI concluded that it would come as a result of my wound during a period\nof unconsciousness, or by the slower process of thirst, starvation,\nand exposure. In the latter case I should probably have violent spasms\nor struggles. I had better prepare myself.\n\nI was lying in a very uncomfortable position. There was a pile of\nloose earth, which stuck against my body awkwardly. With my hands and\nfeet I scooped it out until my body lay comfortably in a hollow, with\nthe loose earth forming a sort of bed. In doing this I found a\nwater-bottle. Arnold must have left it behind for me. There was only a\ndrain in it, which I drank, and threw the bottle away.\n\nI next searched my pockets for food and found a small crust, the\nremains of what had been my food the day before the attack. I placed\nthis carefully in my pocket for use at the time when I should\nexperience the final pangs of starvation. My own water-bottle still\ncontained about half a pint of water. I placed this on the ground,\nclose to where my face would be, so that I could clutch it readily.\n\nThese preparations over, my brain began to get tired. There was\nnothing else to be done; everything was ready. I would lie down now\nand wait for the end. I laid my head on the ground, using the side of\nthe shell-hole as a pillow.\n\nI was very comfortable, the soft earth seemed almost like a bed. After\nall, I was a lucky fellow to be able to die in a comfortable way like\nthis. I wondered how long it would really be--days more, perhaps, but\nstill I could wait. Yes, the life of the world was a very long way\naway; after all, it did not matter.\n\nHow long I waited in this position I do not know, but it suddenly\noccurred to me that I was passing away, and for a moment all the old\nscenes came closer. They were passing by in a sort of procession.\n\nA sudden impulse caused me to raise myself into a sitting position. I\nwaved my hand above my head and shouted out, \"Good-bye.\" The\nprocession was over. I lay down again and waited for the end.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nAT THE MERCY OF THE HUN--AND AFTER\n\nA BASIN OF SOUP. HOSPITAL AT ST. QUENTIN. THE \"OPEN SESAME\"\n\n\nA moment or two later something occurred which caused my wearied brain\nto be roused again into activity. What could it mean?\n\nI was again thinking hard, listening intently; something undefinable\nhad happened to suddenly revive my mental condition. Had I passed\naway, and was this the next life? I felt like one who had awakened out\nof a dream in the dead of night, conscious that some one or something\nwas moving near him.\n\n\"Englishman! Kamarade!\"\n\nGreat God! I was found!\n\nHad I the strength I should probably have screamed with joy, for that\nwas my impulse at hearing a human voice. A second later and my feeling\nwas to shrink from discovery. Surrender? Was it then to come to this,\nafter all?\n\nI did not answer; it was not necessary.\n\nHe must have heard me shout; he must know where I am. I was unarmed\nand helpless; what need to answer such a call? He would probably seek\nme, and I should be found without need to foul my lips with an answer.\n\nAnd then I felt that it was not my life that was being saved, but a\nlingering death avoided by a murderous, but quick despatch. Well,\nperhaps it was better it should come that way.\n\nPresently I heard some one crawling towards me. A few pebbles rolled\ndown the <DW72>, and there was silence again. I felt that he was\nlooking down at me. Again a shuffle, and a quantity of loose earth\nrolled down the <DW72>, and he was sliding down towards me.\n\nThe supreme moment had arrived. Would it be a bullet or a bayonet\nthrust; and where would it strike me?\n\nI lay perfectly still. He seemed to be bending over me undecidedly. I\nthought he might believe me dead and go away without finishing me off,\nto seek the cause of the shout elsewhere.\n\nI raised myself on my elbow and turned my face towards him. Then, to\nmy astonishment he put his arms around my body and raised me up. What\nstrange wonder was this? He put my arm around his neck, and with his\nown arm around my body, he raised me to my feet. But I could not\nstand. Then, placing both arms firmly around me, he dragged me out of\nthe shell-holes. I felt myself being dragged several yards, and then\nhe stopped.\n\nI heard many voices talking below me. What would happen next. Then\nseveral hands caught hold of me, and I was lifted into a trench.\n\nSome one gave an order, and I was dragged along the trench and around\na corner. More voices seemed to come from still farther below. Some\none picked hold of my feet, and I was carried down several steps. I\nwas in a dugout.\n\nIt seemed warm and cosy. There were officers around me. Here must be\nthe company commander whom I had driven away two days before. Now he\ncould take his revenge. What mercy could I hope from him?\n\nA voice asked me a question in English. But by this time I had\ncollapsed completely. I tried to speak, but no sound would come from\nmy throat. My head seemed to be an enormous size; my jaw would not\nmove. I felt some one examine my tunic and examine my pockets. No,\nthere were no papers there. I heard some one say \"Hauptmann.\" Then\nmore talking.\n\nA cigarette was put in my mouth. I held it between my swollen lips,\nbut could not inhale. A sharp command was given, and once more I was\nlifted up on to some one's back, and was being dragged down a long\ncommunication trench.\n\nI was able presently to realise that I was in a dressing-station, for\nI was laid on a stretcher. Some one bent over me, evidently a medical\nofficer.\n\nMy throat was parched. Oh, how thirsty I was! He was saying something\nto me in English in a very kindly manner. He opened a bottle of\nSeltzer water, and, lifting me up, placed it to my lips. Oh, how\nthirsty I was! I held out my hand for more. Bottle after bottle of\nSeltzer water was opened, and I drank one after the other. In my\nhaziness I seemed to be wondering how they came to be supplied with\nsuch quantities of Seltzer water so close up to the front line.\n\nHe opened up my tunic and rubbed something on my chest. I heard him\nsay, very gently:\n\n\"Injection against tetanus. It won't hurt you\"; and then I felt a very\nslight pin prick. He laid me down again. My head was throbbing.\n\nHow hot and stuffy it was! I heard some groans, voices were speaking\nin a low tone. I again heard the word, \"Hauptmann.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOf the days which followed I have only a hazy recollection. My brain\nand body sustained during the period of danger and strain, collapsed\ncompletely, and during the next six days I had only occasional periods\nof sensibility.\n\nI can, therefore, only recall the facts between the time of my being\npicked up and my arrival at Hanover, six days later, in a disjointed\nmanner.\n\nTelling only of incidents, which stand out here and there in my\nmemory, it must be borne in mind that during the operations of\nSeptember the 8th and 9th I had felt the weight of my responsibility;\nand the great shock caused by my wound and the two days' exposure and\nsuffering that followed, imposed a great strain upon my system, and\nreaction had now set in.\n\nMy wound had received no attention, and my right eye was hopelessly\nmutilated. The optic nerve of my left eye was damaged beyond repair,\nand the eye itself was obscured by an enormous swelling. My sense of\nsmell was gone, and my cheeks, nose, and mouth were swollen and numbed\nto a painful degree.\n\nI had lost power in my lower jaw, which would barely move. My nerves\nwere completely shattered, and the mere touch of a hand would make me\nshrink with fright.\n\nI had lost my voice, and during the occasional periods of sensibility,\nI could only speak in a startled whisper, while my brain in hideous\ndelirium would constantly take me back to the scenes through which I\nhad just passed.\n\nI remember my stretcher being lifted and being placed in a horse-drawn\nambulance with several others. Before leaving, the M.O. gave me a\nbottle of water, and so great was my thirst that for several days I\nkept this tightly gripped in my hand, and would not part with it\nexcept to get it refilled.\n\nI have a hazy idea of being transferred from one ambulance to another,\nand several journeys. The ground was very rough, and the shaking of\nthe wagon seemed to cause great pain to other occupants. The bumping\nto my own head compelled me to raise it from the pillow and resist the\njolts by resting it on my hand.\n\nWhere I spent Monday night I do not know, but on Tuesday night I found\nmyself in what must have been a small hospital in a town I do not\nremember.\n\nIt seemed to me that I was in a sort of basement of a private house,\nand that a man and woman were watching over me, exhibiting very great\nkindness and compassion.\n\nI seemed to awaken from my stupor, and remember some snatches of\nconversation, as they bent over me, for they could both speak a little\nEnglish.\n\nBlood and clay were still caked on my face and hair; and my uniform\nwas sticky with blood and grime. Oh, how I wished I could take it off\nand be put into clean clothes and a bed!\n\nThe man was taking off my boots:\n\n\"Dese very goot boots, yah?\"\n\nI assented in a whisper.\n\n\"You have dem give you, yah?\"\n\n\"No,\" I whispered, \"bought them myself.\"\n\n\"Where do you buy such goot boots?\"\n\n\"London.\"\n\n\"Ah, yah. I thought you would not get such goot boots for nothings.\nLook after dem well; we don't get goot boots like dat here.\"\n\nI whispered to him:\n\n\"What is that noise?\"\n\n\"Ah, it is a pity. Ze English zey have been firing ze long-range guns\nhere, big guns. Zay carry twenty-seven miles. Ve moved dis hospital\ntwo times, yah.\"\n\nThe woman came up to my stretcher with a basin of soup. I shall never\nforget that basin of soup. It was probably very ordinary soup, but\nwhen I tasted the first spoonful I devoured it ravenously, for all\nthis time I had not realised that I was suffering from starvation. For\nthe past three days not an atom of food had passed my lips, and for\ntwo days previous to that an occasional bite of bread and cheese was\nmy only ration. Even now I was not destined to receive the nourishment\nmy body craved for; for one basin of soup per day was all I received\nduring the remainder of that week.\n\nStill grasping my bottle of water under my blanket, I was removed next\nmorning and placed in a freight truck with two others, one a sergeant\nin the Guards, and the other a private in the ----, London Regiment.\nWe were locked in the truck, and kept there for many hours without\nfood or conveniences of any kind, and finally arrived at St. Quentin.\n\nSome one removed the blanket from my face and examined my\nshoulder-straps. I heard him say \"Hauptmann,\" and after that I seemed\nto be treated with some consideration.\n\nI did not understand a single word of German, and the repetition of\nthis word puzzled me. It must have been some connection with my rank.\nI would try it on the next person who came near me and see what\nhappened.\n\nI had not long to wait, for by and by the stretchers were lifted and\nwe were carried into the hospital at St. Quentin. I was placed\nalongside a large number of others, and the place created a very\nunpleasant impression of the attention I was likely to receive.\n\nThe place seemed like Bedlam. All round me I heard the groans and\ncries of the wounded. How long would I be left here unattended? How I\nlonged to have my clothes removed! And what of my wound--how much\nlonger must I go before it was attended to? And what was happening to\nit all this time?\n\nI heard some voices near me speaking in German. Now was the time I\nwould test that magic word, and see what would happen. Removing the\nblankets from my face, and lifting my arm to attract attention, I\nwhispered hoarsely:\n\n\"Hauptmann!\"\n\nSome one stooped down over me, examined my shoulder-strap, and said,\n\"Huhzo!\" He then gave an order, and my stretcher was again picked up,\nand I was carried up-stairs to a room reserved for officers.\n\nThat \"Open Sesame\" served me in good stead on several occasions.\n\nBut the hospital at St. Quentin was a horrible place. There was a\nFrenchman in the ward who was raving mad, and between his yells and\nshrieks of laughter, the moaning of the wounded, and the fitful\nawakenings from my own delirium I spent a most unhappy time. I think I\nmust have been there about two days, and on the morning after my\narrival I was sensible for a while.\n\nAdjoining the ward and only separated by an open doorway was the\noperating-room, where first operations were taking place hurriedly.\nThe scene was something I can never forget. One by one we were being\ntaken in, and the shrieks of pain which followed were too shocking for\ndescription. To hear strong men howl with pain is agonising enough;\nbut to hear them shriek, and for those shrieks to fall upon the ears\nof nerve-broken men awaiting their turn just outside the open door was\nterrifying, appalling.\n\nAs the shrieks subsided into weakened groans the stretcher would come\nback into the ward, and the next man be moved in; and so we waited in\nan agony of suspense, horror, and dread as nearer and nearer we came\nto our turn.\n\nI do not wish to harrow my readers' feelings any more by describing\nhow I felt when my stretcher was at last lifted and I was laid on the\noperating-table. I could not see the bloodiness of my surroundings,\nbut I murmured to myself, as I had occasion to do on subsequent and\nsimilar occasions:\n\n\"Thank God I'm blind.\"\n\nThere was a nurse at St. Quentin whose devotion and humanity will be\nlong remembered by the many British and French wounded officers who\nhave passed through that ward. In my half-dazed condition I seemed to\nhave an idea that she was some sort of angel, whose gentle voice and\ncomforting words were so soothing to the wounded, and inspired us with\nconfidence in our painful conditions and surroundings.\n\nOn Friday, still greedily hugging my bottle of water, I was removed\nfrom St. Quentin and placed in a hospital-train bound for Hanover. I\nwas told it was a splendidly appointed train, with every modern\nappliance.\n\nThe journey to Hanover occupied two days and two nights, but I\nremember nothing of it, as I believe I was unconscious the whole time.\n\nI do remember just before leaving being presented with a haversack\nfrom the French Red Cross Society, and it was full of things which\nwere extremely useful: a sleeping-shirt, handkerchiefs, biscuits, and\nsimilar articles. I have the haversack still. I carried it wherever I\nwent in Germany, and never allowed it to leave my possession.\n\nOn Sunday morning, September 17, the train pulled into Hanover, and\nthe wounded were carried out and left for a time on the platform.\n\nSome girls seemed to be busy giving refreshment to the wounded. A girl\ncame to my stretcher, pulled down the blanket which covered my face,\nand clumsily pushed the spout of a drinking-cup, containing coffee,\ninto my mouth. I thought she was trying to feed me from some kind of\nteapot. The pot fell out of my mouth, and the coffee ran down my neck.\n\nA man picked it up, and holding it to my lips, enabled me to sip it. I\nfelt very grateful to him, for I was badly in need of sustenance. He\nspoke to me very kindly.\n\nI thanked him in a whisper, and asked him if he was an officer.\n\nHe replied in English: \"No, I am a waiter.\"\n\nI think I became unconscious again. Rather unfortunate, for had I been\nstronger the humour of the remark would have amused me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nALIVE\n\n\nIt was the first night after my arrival at Hanover that I really fully\nrecovered a state of consciousness.\n\nAlthough I have recorded several incidents of the week which had just\npassed, they were only occasional glimpses from which I would relapse\nagain into unconsciousness, and it only comes back to me in a hazy\nsort of way, like dreams through a long night of sleep.\n\nBut I remember well the moment when I finally awoke and took in my\nsurroundings. It was early in the morning. I seemed to have had\nfrightful dreams; the horror of what I had passed through had been a\nfrightful nightmare, mocking at me, laughing at me, blowing me to\npieces.\n\nI turned over on my side. Strange place this shell-hole; it seemed\nvery comfortable. What was this I was touching--a pillow, bedclothes.\nGood God! I was in a bed! As my thoughts became clearer I lay\nperfectly still, almost in fear that any movement I might make would\nawaken me from this beautiful dream.\n\nA long, long time ago something frightful had happened from which\nrescue was impossible. Yet, surely this was a bed.\n\nThen I remembered the attack which had taken place over my body while\nI lay out in No Man's Land; of the shells which had burst around me in\nviolent protest to my presence. I could not possibly have escaped; I\nmust be maimed.\n\nCautiously I began to feel my limbs, my arms, my body, my feet, my\nfingers; they were all there, untouched. The whole truth dawned upon\nme: My God! I was alive!\n\nI sat up in my bed; I wanted to shout and dance for joy. There was a\nbandage round my head: I was blind! Yes, I knew that, but there was\nnothing really the matter with me except that. The mere fact of being\nonly blind seemed in comparison a luxury.\n\nI was blind! But joy indescribable--what was that triviality--I was\nalive! alive!\n\nOh, my! I never knew before that life was so wonderful. Did other\npeople understand what life was? No; you must be dead to understand\nwhat life was worth. I must tell every one how wonderful it all is.\n\nBut where was I? I could hear no guns--a bed? There were no beds at\nthe front. I couldn't have dreamed it all; it must have been true;\notherwise I should have been able to see.\n\nWhere then could I be? Oh, God! Yes, I know--I am a prisoner of war!\n\nBut even this knowledge, which for the moment quieted me, could not\nsuppress my exaltation. I was saved! I was alive! No pain racked my\nlimbs; no terror prodded my brain.\n\nBut I was weak and wasted. Oh, how weak I was! How hungry! But what of\nthat, I was alive!\n\nAnd where was England--such a long, long way off. I must go there at\nonce, this minute. No, I can't; I'm a prisoner.\n\nHow miserable some people are who have no right to be. They cannot\nknow how wonderful life is. Oh, how wonderful it is to die, and then\nto come to life again.\n\nI'm only blind! Just imagine it! What is that?--it's nothing at all,\ncompared with life; and when I get well and strong I won't be a blind\nman.\n\nI may not recover my sight, but that doesn't matter a bit, I will\nlaugh at it, defy it. I will carry on as usual; I will overcome it and\nlive the life that has been given back to me.\n\nI will be happy, happier than ever. I'm in a bed alive. Oh, God! I am\ngrateful!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nBLINDNESS\n\n\nHow reckless we are in referring to death! There are many people who\nwould say they would prefer death to blindness; but the nearer the\napproach of death, the greater becomes the comparison between the\nfinality of the one and the affliction of the other.\n\nThose men, however, who have faced death in many frightful forms, and\ndodged it; suffered the horrors of its approach, yet cheated it; who\nhave waited for its inevitable triumph, then slipped from its grasp;\nwho have lived with it for days, parrying its thrust, evading its\nclutch; yet feeling the irresistible force of its power; men who have\nsuffered these horrors and escaped without more than the loss of even\nthe wonderful gift of sight, can afford to treat this affliction in a\nlesser degree, holding the sanctity of life as a thing precious and\nsacred beyond all things.\n\nEven the loss of God's great gift of sight ceases to become a burden\nor affliction in comparison with the indescribable joy of life\nsnatched from death.\n\nThere are men, and we know them by the score, who are constantly\nlooking out on life through the darkened windows of a dissatisfied\nexistence; whose conscience is an enemy to their own happiness; who\nlook only on the dark side of life, made darker by their own\ndisposition.\n\nSuch men, and you can pick them out by their looks and expression, who\nbuild an artificial wall of trouble, to shut out the natural paradise\nof existence; these men who juggle with the joy of life until they\nfeel they would sooner be dead, do not know, and do not realise the\nmeaning of the life and death with which they trifle.\n\nLet us think only of the glory of life; not of the trivial penalties\nwhich may be demanded of us in payment, and which we are so apt to\nmagnify until we wonder whether the great gift of life is really worth\nwhile.\n\nLet us think not of our disadvantages, but of these great gifts which\nwe are fortunate enough to possess; let us school ourselves to a high\nsense of gratitude for the gifts we possess, and even an affliction\nbecomes easy to bear.\n\nHere I am, thirty-six years of age, in the pride of health, strength,\nand energy, and suddenly struck blind!\n\nAnd what are my feelings? Even such a seeming catastrophe does not\nappall me. I can no longer drive, run, or follow any of the vigorous\nsports, the love for which is so insistent in healthy manhood. I shall\nmiss all these things, yet I am not depressed.\n\nAm I not better off, after all, than he who was born blind? With the\nloss of my sight I have become imbued with the gift of appreciation.\nWhat is my inconvenience compared with the affliction of being\nsightless from birth.\n\nFor thirty-six years I had become accustomed to sights of the world,\nand now, though blind, I can walk in the garden in a sunny day; and my\nimagination can see it and take in the picture.\n\nI can talk to my friends, knowing what they look like, and by their\nconversation read the expression on their faces. I can hear the\ntraffic of a busy thoroughfare, and my mind will recognise the scene.\n\nI can even go to the play; hear the jokes and listen to the songs and\nmusic, and understand what is going on without experiencing that\nfeeling of mystery and wonder which must be the lot of him who has\nalways been blind.\n\nAnd the greatest gift of all, my sense of gratitude, that after\npassing through death, I am alive!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nTHE WOMAN WHO WAITS\n\nTHE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED IN ACTION. WEEKS OF MOURNING\n\n\nMeanwhile, what was transpiring at home? What interpretation had been\nput upon my absence?\n\nMany weeks later, after my first letter had reached home like a\nmessage from the dead, a post-card was handed to me from my father,\nwhich seemed to echo the sob of a broken heart. It was the first\nmessage to arrive from the England I loved so much, and my home, which\nI yearned for.\n\nLetters from every member of my family were hastening towards me; but\nall were delayed except the single post-card, which told me only too\nplainly of the tragedy at home which was the result of my absence.\n\nThe message, written in a shaky hand, ran briefly, thus: \"My son, for\nfour weeks we have mourned you as dead; God bless you!\"\n\nIn the despair of my heart my blindness and my bonds of captivity\nseemed to grow greater. In that simple message I realised the terrible\ntruth, the full significance of the tragedy which had followed my\nfall.\n\nWhat had been my suffering to theirs? After all I was a soldier, and\nmine was a duty. But those who wait at home--what of them?\n\nThe letters which followed confirmed my worst fears. I trembled and\ncried like a child.\n\nHow brave they had all been! How unworthy seemed my life to warrant\nthe heroic fortitude and silent suffering which these letters\nunfolded! What were a few bullets compared with the pluck and silent\nself-sacrifice of the women of Britain, who were untrained to bear\nsuch shocks? What physical pain could compare with such anguish as\ntheirs?\n\nThe first intimation reached my home by a letter returned from France,\nundelivered, and bearing a slip containing these words, type-written:\n\"Killed in action September 9.\"\n\nThree days later a knock at the door, and a telegraph boy handed in a\ntelegram which read:\n\n   \"Most deeply regret inform you Cap. H.G. Nobbs ---- London\n   Regiment, Killed in Action Sep. 9.\"\n\nand also another telegram:\n\n   \"The King & Queen deeply regret loss you and the Army have\n   sustained by the death of Cap. Nobbs, in the service of his\n   Country. Their Majestys deeply sympathise with you in your\n   sorrow.\n\n                                \"KEEPER OF THE PRIVY PURSE.\"\n\nNext morning my name appeared in the official casualty list under the\nheading: \"Killed in Action.\"\n\nLetters followed from the front confirming my death, and even\ndescribing the manner of my death.\n\nSuch things are unavoidable in modern warfare; and only those who\nunderstand the conditions and the difficulties can appreciate the\npossibility of avoiding occasional errors. It is surprising to me that\nthe errors in reporting casualties are not more frequent, and it\nspeaks well of the care given by those responsible for this task.\n\nIt is extremely difficult, and occasional mistakes are only too apt to\nbe widely advertised and give a wrong impression. Think of the task of\nthe hundreds and thousands of casualties; and the errors, terrible\nthough the suffering entailed may be, are comparatively insignificant.\n\nBut I have led the reader away from my story.\n\nThey thought me dead. Yes; killed in action. There was no getting away\nfrom it; no need for me to describe the tears and sorrow. Those who\nsuffer must bear their sorrow in silence--more honour to them.\n\nObituary notices appeared in the newspapers, and letters and telegrams\nof condolence poured in.\n\nMy solicitors took possession of my belongings and explained their\ncontents to my family.\n\nA firm of photographers who generously invite officers to have their\nportraits taken free of charge, now offered the plate for a\nconsideration to the illustrated papers; and even as I write these\nlines many months later, my picture is dished up again in this week's\nissue of an illustrated magazine as among the dead.\n\nIn short, during those few weeks which followed my fall, I became as\ndead and completely buried as modern conventions demanded.\n\nIt is expensive to die and not be dead, for clothes of mourning cannot\nafterwards be hidden under any other disguises; and it is a peculiar\nfeeling to be called upon to pay for your own funeral expenses.\n\nAnd when once you are officially dead it is very difficult to come\nofficially to life again. Months have passed, and I am still waiting\nfor the official correction to appear.\n\nAs I walk through the streets of London my friends stare at me as\nthough I were a ghost. I feel as though I am a living apology for the\nmistake of others.\n\nTo the illustrated magazine I have just referred to I wrote assuring\nthe editor that I had every reason to believe he was wrong in his\ncontention. He replied, enclosing my photograph, and asking me if I\nwas sure I was not some other person, as the picture referred to an\nofficer who was surely dead.\n\nPerhaps even now I am wrong. Yet, I ought to know.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nWARD 43, RESERVE LAZARETTE 5, HANOVER\n\nOCCUPANTS OF THE WARD. CHIVALRY OF THE AIR\n\n\nBefore the war Reserve Lazarette 5 at Hanover was a military school.\nIt is now used for wounded military prisoners, and for German soldiers\nsuffering from venereal disease.\n\nThe same operating-room is used for all patients; the wounded\nprisoners receiving treatment in the morning, and the Germans in the\nafternoon.\n\nThere is a fair-sized garden, not unattractive, and the wounded are\npermitted to take the fresh air, and to walk about freely, if they are\nable to do so. So are the German patients, and so are their visitors,\non Tuesdays and Saturdays, from 2 till 4 in the afternoon. There is no\nseparation of the two classes of patients, and honour must share the\ncompany of disgrace in her captivity.\n\nWard 43 was a billiard-room in the old days, and the small-sized\nbilliard-table is pushed against the wall and used as a table. There\nwere nine beds in the ward; and four British and four French officers\nlay side by side in captivity.\n\nThe friendship of the two great nations was reflected in the maimed\nand pain-ridden bodies of these soldiers lying side by side, helpless,\nuncomplaining, but still champions of Anglo-French unity. Their cause\nis the same; their pain is the same; and side by side they lay, as\nside by side they had fallen.\n\nOf the French officers I got to know but little, for they could speak\nno English, and the English could speak no French.\n\nOn my left was an officer of the Royal Flying Corps, Lieutenant\nDonelly. He had been brought to earth after a fight thirteen thousand\nfeet in the air, against five German planes. With his left arm\ndisabled and three fingers shot off his right hand, and his engine out\nof action, he nose-dived to the ground. A German aeroplane nose-dived\nafter him, all the while firing as it dropped.\n\nWith only a finger and thumb to manipulate his machine, he managed to\neffect a landing. The moment earth was struck the firing ceased, and\nthe Germans landing from their machines approached him and treated him\ncourteously.\n\nThere is a spirit of chivalry among those who fight in the air, as\nboth sides can testify. The air alone is their arena, and neither side\nwill continue a combat on terra firma.\n\nOn my right was Lieutenant Rogan of the Royal Irish Regiment, a sturdy\nfellow, who had been in the Guards.\n\nHe was attacking some Germans, who were putting up a stout resistance\nduring the fight for Guinchy; and as he was rushing forward, a German\nthrew a hand-grenade, which exploded in his face. His right eye was\nremoved at St. Quentin, and he was slowly recovering the sight of the\nleft.\n\nIn the bed next to his was another young officer of the Royal Flying\nCorps, a boy about eighteen, very small, and only weighing about eight\nstone. Mabbitt was his name, Second Lieutenant Mabbitt; and he, too,\nhad fought many thousand feet in the air against desperate odds,\nfracturing his leg in the fall.\n\nGerman airmen seem to make a practice of waiting until a single\nEnglish aeroplane appears in sight; then they ascend in a flight of\nfive to attack, and woe betide the English airman who happens to be\nsoaring above in a slow machine.\n\nDeeds of pluck are common on land and sea; but the heroic combats in\nthe air are a new sensation, with unknown terrors realised in a single\ngasp; and the youth of our country defy it. Yet, who is there to tell\ntheir deeds if they fall?\n\nShortly after I arrived two British officers were brought in,\nLieutenant Wishart of the Canadians, who had a bullet wound through\nhis leg; and Second Lieutenant Parker, who had a hole in his leg as\nbig as an apple, and who spent most of the day in declaring that he\nwas as fit as a fiddle.\n\nBut the occupant of the remaining bed was one who endeared himself to\nthe hearts of all. He was SANIEZ (pronounced Sanyea), our orderly. But\nSaniez must have a chapter to himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nSANIEZ\n\n\nReserve Lazarette 5, Hanover, boasted of no hospital nurses. There was\nno tender touch of a feminine hand to administer to the comfort and\nalleviate the distress of the wounded. There was no delicate and\nnourishing diet to strengthen the weak; neither did we expect it. We\nwere prisoners of war, and though our sufferings were great, we were\nstill soldiers.\n\nBut those who have passed through Ward 43 will always look back with\ngratitude and admiration on one whose unselfish devotion, tender care,\nand magnificent spirit was an example and inspiration to all of us.\n\nHis name was Saniez, the orderly in charge of the ward; a Florence\nNightingale, whose unceasing attention day and night, whose tender\nwatchfulness and devoted care and kindness made him loved and\nworshipped by the maimed and helpless prisoners who were placed under\nhis charge.\n\nSaniez was no ordinary man. No reward was his, except the heartfelt\ngratitude of those whom he tended. The wounded who passed through the\nward left behind a debt of gratitude which could never be paid, and\nwith a spirit of fortitude and courage created by his noble example.\n\nThere are compensations for all suffering; and no greater compensation\ncould any wish for than the devotion of Saniez.\n\nSaniez had suffered too, but would never speak of it. He had his\nmoments of anguish and despair. He had a home, too; but his dreams he\nkept to himself, and his care he gave to others.\n\nSaniez was a Frenchman, a big, burly artilleryman, with eyes bright,\nlaughing, and sympathetic.\n\nHe had been captured nearly two years before; and suffered severely\nfrom the effects of frozen feet. Yet, painful as it must have been to\nget about, he seldom sat down.\n\nAll through those long days and nights weak voices would call him: it\nwas always, \"Saniez, Saniez!\" and slop, slop, slop, we would hear him\nin his slippered feet, moving down the ward, attending to one and then\nanother.\n\nSaniez would be quiet and sympathetic, with a voice soft and\nsoothing; and the next moment, cheerful and boisterous. Captivity\ncould not subdue Saniez, or make him anything else than a loyal French\nsoldier.\n\nHe would guard his patients against the clumsy touch of a German\norderly like a tiger guarding its young. He would bribe or steal to\nobtain a little delicacy for his patients.\n\nHe seemed to know but a single German word, which he used on every\npossible occasion to express his disgust of the Germans. It was a\nslang word, but when Saniez used it, its single utterance was a volume\nof expression. It was NIX, and when Saniez said nix, I knew he was\nshaking his woolly head in disgust.\n\nSaniez had a marvellous voice, and when he sang he held us\nspell-bound, and he knew it. I do not speak French, and could not\nunderstand his words, but his expression was wonderful; and he would\nfling his arms about in frantic gesticulation.\n\nWhen Saniez sang he seemed to lift himself into a different\natmosphere; he was back again in France; his songs all seemed about\nhis country and his home. He seemed to rouse himself into a sudden\nspirit of defiance, and then his voice would grow soft and pathetic;\nand then slop, slop, slop, in his slippered feet, he would hurry off\nto a bedside to fix a bandage or administer a drink of water.\n\nEvery morning German soldiers could be heard marching past our\nwindows, singing their national songs. We listened; Saniez would stop\nhis work. What we wanted to say we would leave to Saniez, as broom in\nhand and eyes of fire he would wait until their voices died away in\nthe distance, and then, with a fierce shake of his head he would\nshout: \"Boche! Nix!\" and, flinging his arms about his head, would sing\nthe \"Marseillaise.\"\n\nOne evening, and I remember it well, though no pen of mine can\nadequately describe the soul-stirring picture--we had a concert in\nWard 43. Four British and four French officers--a symbol of the\nEntente Cordiale--lay side by side in their cots, while convalescent\nprisoners from other wards sat in front to cheer them with song and\nmusic.\n\nThe Allies seemed well represented: An English Tommy with a guitar\nsang a comic song; a Russian soldier with a three-cornered string\ninstrument, sang a folk-song of his native land; a Belgian soldier\nplayed the violin; and Saniez sang for France.\n\nThe applause that greeted the finish of each song was of a mixed kind;\nfor those whose arms were maimed would shout, and those who could not\nshout would bang a chair or clap their hands. It was a patriotic and\ninspiring scene, and even the German orderly, coming in to see what\nwas going on, was tempted to stop and listen.\n\nWe felt we were no longer prisoners; the spirit of the Allies was\nunconquerable.\n\nEnthusiasm reached its highest pitch when Saniez brought it to a\ndramatic conclusion. Saniez had just finished a soul-inspiring song of\nhis homeland. His audience could not withhold their applause until he\nfinished, and Saniez could not restrain his spirit until the end of\nthe applause. He suddenly threw up his arms, and at the top of his\nvoice burst forth into the \"Marseillaise,\" and the German orderly\nbolted out of the door.\n\nThen the concert party ran to their dormitories; the lights were\nturned out, and we sought safety in sleep.\n\n    [Illustration: Captain Nobbs after his release from the German\n    prison.]\n\nWe used to ask Saniez about his home; and he seemed to grow quiet and\nconfident. His home, he said, was about three miles behind the German\nline.\n\nSome one suggested that it was in a dangerous place, as the British\nwere advancing, and no house near the line could escape untouched; but\nSaniez was confident.\n\nNo! shells could not possibly harm it. His wife and sister lived\nthere; it was his home. He was a prisoner, but whatever happened to\nhim, the combined fury of the nations could not touch his home.\n\nSaniez! Saniez! May you never awaken from your dream!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nLIFE IN HANOVER HOSPITAL\n\nHOSPITAL DIET. INTERVIEWED BY A GERMAN DOCTOR. DISCHARGED FROM\nHOSPITAL\n\n\nThe diet in hospital can hardly be described as suitable for invalids.\nAt the same time it was substantial as compared with what is received\nin prison camps. For breakfast we received coffee, with two very\nsmall, crusty rolls, each about the size of a tangerine orange; each\nroll cut in half, and a slight suspicion of jam placed between; for\ndejeuner one cup of coffee, one roll, and some very strong cheese,\nquite unfit to eat. The dinner was usually quite good, consisting of\nsoup, a little meat and vegetables, and stewed apples or gooseberries.\nAt 3 o'clock a cup of coffee and a small roll; at 6 o'clock supper,\nconsisting of tea without milk, strong cheese, or German sausage or\nbrawn, and a slice of bread.\n\nFor this diet we paid eighty marks per month.\n\nAn officer receives pay from the German Government on the following\nscale: lieutenant, sixty marks per month; captain, one hundred marks\nper month. The German Government recover the payments from the English\nGovernment, and it is charged against the officers' pay in England.\n\nNo food is supplied free to officers either in hospital or camp; and\nthey cannot purchase anything beyond the regular issue.\n\nWith the exception of the dinner, I found the food of very little use\nto me for the first week or two, as having lost the power in my jaw,\nand being unable to open it more than half an inch, I couldn't tackle\nthe rolls, and what couldn't be eaten had to be left; there was no\nsubstitute.\n\nThere was another diet, in which the coffee was replaced by hot milk,\nwhich would have been very desirable, except that the dinner consisted\nof some filthy substance, which was very unpalatable.\n\nFor the first week, therefore, I had practically only one meal a day,\nthe dinner; but afterwards, by dint of changing from one diet to\nanother I managed to get the dinner of No. 1 diet, and the milk of No.\n2.\n\nThere was a canteen in the hospital where cigarettes, chocolates,\nbiscuits, and eggs were offered for sale.\n\nThe biscuits were never in stock; the chocolate, though high in price,\nwas so thin that there was nothing of it; and the cigarettes were\nunsmokable.\n\nIt was a sorry day when we could get no more eggs. We used to depend\nupon the eggs for supper; for the cheese was uneatable, the brawn\nsuspicious, and the sausage like boiled linoleum. German sausage at\nthe best of time is open to argument; but German sausage in a country\nwhich has been blockaded for two and a half years is worthy of serious\nthought.\n\nThe surgical attention was good, though the Russian prisoners who\nassisted were apt to be rough; and as neither the German doctor nor\nhis Russian assistant could understand each other, and the wounded\ncould understand neither, nor be understood in turn, the situation was\nsometimes difficult.\n\nThe doctor visited each bed at 8 A.M. every morning to inquire the\ncondition of the wounded; but whatever you had to say--which of course\nhe did not understand--the reply was always: \"Goot, Goot.\"\n\nOn one occasion we saw flags flying over the city, and that evening\nfor supper we were given a hard-boiled egg. We were told it was the\nEmpress's birthday. We made anxious inquiries as to when the Kaiser\nand the Crown Prince would have a birthday.\n\nA few days after I arrived at Hanover, my right eye was removed, and\nthe following day the doctor told me, through an interpreter, that I\nshould be sent back to England. I asked when I should be sent, and was\ntold in three or four weeks.\n\nIt was about this time that I began to develop an unsatiable appetite\nfor sweet things. I have found that many have had the same experience,\nafter a period of privation following upon their wounds. I would buy\nup all the jam, chocolate, and toffy I could lay my hands on, which\ncame in parcels to other prisoners. When I wrote home for parcels to\nbe sent to me, I hardly mentioned food, which afterwards became so\nnecessary, but asked for sweet stuff.\n\nBut what I needed more urgently than anything else was money. When I\nwas picked up the only cash I had on me was two francs, and this I\nexchanged for a mark and sixty pfennigs, which, with five marks I was\nable to borrow, kept me going for a while. But it was soon gone, and I\nfound myself without a sou, and no pay due for six weeks.\n\nAbout ten days after I arrived at Hanover I was able to sit out in the\ngarden, and from then on I began to mend.\n\nSaniez used to dress me, and his watchful eye was upon me wherever I\nwent.\n\nSometimes of an afternoon I used to sit by the fire. I used to like\nsitting by the fire, because its warmth misled me into thinking I\ncould distinguish the light. If I happened to be rather quiet Saniez\nwould come to my side, and I would feel that he was watching me. Then\nhe would speak, and each would find some word to make the other\nunderstand:\n\n\"Cigarette, Capitaine?\"\n\n\"Oui, Saniez.\"\n\nHe would take one of his own cigarettes, put it in my mouth and light\nit.\n\nI could neither taste nor smell it; but it pleased Saniez, so I took\nit.\n\n\"Tres bien, Capitaine, puff, puff!\"\n\n\"Oui, Saniez, tres bien.\"\n\n\"Tres bien, good. Monsieur Parker says, 'Trays beens.' Joke, ah, good\njoke!\"\n\nHe would go away, but still watching me from a distance, would\npresently come back again, and placing his large hand on my shoulder,\nwould say:\n\n\"Couche, Capitaine?\" and leading me to my bed would lay me on it, and\ncarefully tuck me in for the night.\n\nThere was a German non-commissioned officer employed in the hospital\nwho was really a good sort. He could speak good English, having worked\nin English hotels before the war.\n\nHe would sometimes sit by my bed for a chat:\n\n\"Where were you wounded, Captain?\" he asked one day.\n\n\"Leuze Wood on the Somme,\" I replied.\n\n\"Somme dreadful place, dreadful war, Captain.\"\n\n\"Very!\"\n\n\"It is not fighting now; it is murder, both sides murder--yah.\"\n\n\"Have you been to the front yet?\"\n\n\"No; don't want to, either; don't like soldiering. German people sick\nof war; but got to do what we are told. Captain, you and I could\nsettle it in five minutes.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure; it's nearly settled me.\"\n\nAs the weeks passed by I began anxiously and earnestly to wait for\nnews of my exchange; but three weeks went, and the fourth and fifth\nweek passed, and still no news. About the seventh week Saniez burst\ninto the ward one morning and rushed up to my bed.\n\n\"Bon jour, Capitaine. Good, good! Office, quick,\" and he began\nhurriedly dressing me.\n\nI was to report to the office at once. I had been waiting for this,\nand dreaming of this moment for weeks.\n\nSaniez knew it too, and as I went through the door I heard him shout:\n\n\"Angleterre, Capitaine; tres bien!\"\n\nI waited outside the office for about half an hour. Wishart of the\nCanadians was inside, and presently he came out to fetch me:\n\n\"They want to see you inside. Who do you think is in there?\"\n\n\"I don't know--who?\"\n\n\"Doctor Pohlmann. He supervises all the prison camps belonging to the\nTenth Army. We've got to go to a prisoners' camp.\"\n\nMy hopes were dashed to the ground.\n\nHo led me in, and I sat down before Doctor Pohlmann, who spoke\nexcellent English, and explained that he was a doctor of languages.\n\nHe filled up a form, taking from me particulars of my name, regiment,\nand the usual details; and then, turning to Wishart, told him to go.\n\nI began to feel that I was in for a rough time. Why did Doctor\nPohlmann wish to speak to me alone.\n\nI sat before him in silence, too disappointed at the turn events had\ntaken to care what happened. But as soon as the door had closed he\nturned towards me, and his remarks surprised me beyond measure. Not a\nsingle question did he put to me to elicit information.\n\n\"Captain, you are quite blind?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite.\"\n\n\"I am sorry; I did not know you were blind.\"\n\nHe seemed quite sympathetic. Not that I wanted it from him, yet so\nrelieved was I to escape cross-examination that I felt quite bucked.\n\nHe continued: \"The hospital people say you are ready to be sent away.\nWhen you leave here you come under my charge. They did not tell me you\nwere blind. I have no proper place to put you; I do not know where to\nsend you.\"\n\n\"If you will allow me, I can suggest a place.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, I know, England. Of course you will be sent there in time,\nbut in the meantime I must take charge of you. I will send you\nwherever you like. You can choose your own camp. What camp would you\nlike to go to?\"\n\n\"What camps have you got?\"\n\n\"I have Gottisleau, Osnabruck, Blenhorst.\"\n\n\"Well, it's very good of you to give me the choice; but they all sound\nalike to me. How can I choose?\"\n\n\"Have you any friends in either of them?\"\n\n\"Well, really the names are unintelligible; I couldn't even repeat\nthem. Lieutenant Rogan was sent away last week. Where did he go?\"\n\n\"Ah, he went to Osnabruck. Good camp! Good commandant! I will send you\nand Wishart there, and I will arrange to put you three in one room\ntogether. If I can do anything for you at any time, let me know.\"\n\nThe interview was over. He was a plausible fellow, and he probably\nknew his job.\n\nWhen I was getting ready to leave the hospital Saniez insisted on\npacking my clothes himself. I thought nothing about it at the time,\nbut when I unpacked my clothes in camp I found concealed inside a\nsmall packet of sugar. Then I understood Saniez.\n\nWishart and I were told we could either walk to the station or pay for\nthe hire of a motor-car. We rode to the station, laughing and talking,\nand smoking cigars which we obtained from the canteen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nOBSERVATIONS AND IMPRESSIONS\n\nEMPLOYMENT OF PRISONERS. PARCELS. MEN OF MONS\n\n\nWhen I first became aware that there was a probability of my being\nexchanged I set to work to gather what information I could.\n\nI came into contact with a good many private soldiers, and in\nconversation with them I became deeply interested in the commercial\nvalue of prisoners of war; for it appeared to me clearly evident that\nin a country where there were over a million prisoners, possibilities\nwere unlimited; and the German authorities appeared, with businesslike\norganisation, to be taking the fullest advantage of their\nopportunities.\n\nThe unprecedented scale upon which prisoners have been made during the\npresent war has opened up a problem unique in the annals of history.\nThe more prisoners you take the more mouths you have to feed; and the\ngreater becomes the man power necessary for their supervision.\n\nWith the ever-increasing number of prisoners the problem grows in\nenormity, and can either develop into embarrassing proportions, or by\nscientific handling can be turned to advantage.\n\nIn England for over two years we have herded our prisoners behind\nbayonets and barbed wire. The financial resources of the country have\nbeen poured out to feed idle hands, supplying food without repayment,\nat a time when the food and labour problems of the nation are becoming\nits most serious problems.\n\nFor over two years we have allowed the question to slide into\nobscurity, until to-day in our own country the only part of the\ncommunity which has no anxiety or participation in the problem of\nliving and daily sustenance is the German prisoner in our midst; and\nyet to-day a large part of what should be our fighting power is kept\nfrom the firing-line to supply the needs of the nation and feed the\nmouths of our idle prisoners.\n\nIt has never occurred to us, or if it has we have ignored it, that\nwithout contravening the law of nations, prisoners can be made to\nfeed themselves, and be employed in any industry, provided they are\nnot put to work connected with the war.\n\nIt has never occurred to us that we have in our midst many of the\ntrade secrets of a country which for generations has been our rival in\ncommerce.\n\nIt has never occurred to us that Germany has in her midst men who hold\nthe trade secrets of our empire, and is learning them day by day by\nthe employment of our men in her industries.\n\nIf we neglect this problem any longer we may find that when the world\nresumes its normal trade activity Germany, on this point at any rate,\nwill have scored a commercial victory.\n\nThe nations of the world are at war. But the armies of to-day are\ncivilian armies, comprising men of industrial and commercial\neducation, and the prisoners of to-day are men of commercial and\nindustrial value.\n\nOur adversaries have been quick to recognise this. We seem to be still\nimbued with the idea that the German soldier in our midst is simply a\nfighting machine!\n\nSo he is. But when the time came for the civilian to take up arms and\nsupplement the professional fighting force, there fell into our hands\nan industrial fighting machine in the guise of a military prisoner.\n\nWe have the impression that a military prisoner is an individual whose\none desire is to escape and jump at our throats; and that the safety\nof the nation compels us to stand over him with a bayonet and regard\nhis every movement with suspicion.\n\nYes, I do not deny that a very large number of prisoners in our midst\nwould be glad to get back to their homeland, especially if there was\nno further prospect of having to face the British in the firing-line.\nBut keep a man idle for months behind barbed wire, like an animal in a\ncage, and you encourage his desire to escape far more than if you\ndiverted his mind by industrial employment.\n\nHave we not a barbed wire supplied by nature completely surrounding\nour country? Are we not on an island?\n\nI had many opportunities of talking with our men in Germany and of\ngaining information as to the manner in which the German authorities\nwere taking advantage of the problem we avoid, or occupy our time in\nidle discussion.\n\nI will take one concrete example. In Hameln Lager the commandant has\ncharge of 50,000 prisoners, of which 30,000 are \"living out\"! They are\nworking out in commandos on the farms, in the factories, in the\nworkshops; in large batches, small batches, and even singly.\n\nI met one man who had been employed alone in a wheelwright's shop. He\nwas a wheelwright by trade. How many wheelwrights' shops are there in\nEngland which could do to-day with one of the wheelwrights we are\nkeeping idle behind barbed wire?\n\nWhat information did that man's employer gain by the way the work was\ndone? How simple the method of obtaining the labour: simply go to the\nlabour bureau attached to the imprisonment camp nearest to your\nworkshop, and ask for a wheelwright. You keep your industry going, and\nthus in the only practical way keep open the job for the man who is\ncalled to the colours.\n\nThe employer pays the man no wages, but the local trade-union rate of\nwage is paid to the commandant who supplies him. Thirty thousand\nprisoners from a single camp contributing to the industry of the\nnation, and the wages of 30,000 prisoners contributing to the cost of\nthe war. The prisoner receives through the commandant 30 pfennigs\n(3d.) per day, and is glad of the employment.\n\nA very large number of prisoners are employed as agricultural\nlabourers, and it is quite reasonable to suppose that all the food\nsupplied to the prisoners, such as it is, is grown by prisoner labour.\n\nI was told by men who had worked on farms that they were compelled to\nwork from 4 in the morning until 9 at night. In some cases only one or\ntwo were employed on small farms.\n\nI asked those men why they did not embrace the opportunity to make\ntheir escape. But they said that while the work was hard they\npreferred it; as they lived with the farmer, who treated them well if\nthey worked well. They ate at the farmer's table, and had no\nnon-commissioned officers to bully them; whereas, if they attempted to\nescape and were caught they would be sent to work in the mines or\nother equally unpopular task.\n\nLarge numbers are employed in the sugar-refineries, coal-mines, and\nsalt-mines, the latter task being the most dreaded; for with the food\nthey were given their health broke down within a few months.\n\nThe English prisoner said that when the party he was with first\narrived at the mine and saw what they had to do they refused to work.\nTheir guard thereupon threatened them, and when they still refused\nthey were taken outside one by one, and the remainder would hear a\nshot fired, and then another would be taken out.\n\nIt was a fake. The men could not be intimidated, and they were sent\nback to the Lager.\n\nIt was on another occasion that the man I am referring to was put to\nwork in the mine.\n\nI was asked by another if I knew anything about 200 German prisoners\nbeing sent back to work in France, because they were not allowed to\nwork in England. He said that when the Germans heard about it they\ntook 200 of our men from Doberitz camp and sent them to work in Poland\nas a reprisal.\n\nThe work there may not have been very much harder, but it was a great\nhardship upon our men, because there would be a considerable delay in\ntheir parcels of food reaching them from England, and meantime they\nhad to subsist on the scanty fare supplied by their captors.\n\nThe men seemed to be getting parcels on a very liberal scale. Some\nwere getting more than others, but they divided up by eating in messes\nof four or six, or some such number.\n\nI did not hear of many complaints of parcels being undelivered, though\nin some cases parcels were missed. But so far as I could ascertain\nthey were not withheld in any deliberate or systematic manner; and\nwhen one comes to consider the enormous number handled and the\nprobability of parcels getting lost through insecure packing, the\nnumber of complaints I heard of seemed comparatively insignificant.\n\nThe Russian prisoners seemed to be the least provided for, and parcels\nfor them were very rare. They lived or rather starved on the German\nrations; and when men have to work or remain in the open air all day\nsuch a ration was a form of torture.\n\nWhen the watery liquid of potato water called soup was issued from the\nkitchens fatigue parties were paraded to draw the issue for each\nmess.\n\nThe British prisoners were not altogether dependent on this ration,\nand would let the Russian prisoners carry the dixy for them, and in\nreturn they would be given a cup of soup by the British Tommies. So\nhungry were the Russians for this little \"extra\" that hundreds of them\nwould wait for hours in the cold on the off-chance of a few getting\nthe job.\n\nOne cannot speak with these British Tommies and hear of their\nhardships without feeling a profound admiration for their indomitable\nspirit. You can take a British soldier prisoner, send him far from the\nprotection of his country, but he is British wherever he goes and his\ncourage and resourcefulness cannot be broken.\n\nWhenever I met a man who had been a prisoner since the beginning of\nthe war, I made a point of getting his story to ascertain the truth\nabout the barbarities I had read of.\n\nThere was no mistaking these men. I could not see them but I seemed\ninstinctively to recognise, and whether it was my imagination or not I\ncannot tell; but their manner seemed distinctive and they spoke like\nmen who had suffered much and were harbouring a just grievance, and\nlived for the day when they would revenge themselves. As one man put\nit to me:\n\n\"If we ever see a German in England when we get back we will kill\nhim.\"\n\nThese men were taken at Mons; captured, most of them, by sacrificing\nthemselves in rear-guard fighting to save the main British army.\n\nThese men have been in captivity for two and a half years. Just think\nof it! But do we think of it enough, or have we forgotten it?\n\nThe British Tommy has an individuality which is not always understood.\nAsk him in an official way to give evidence of his treatment, and he\nwill sit tight and say not a word. Take out your note-book to write\ndown his evidence and he can think of nothing, but all the same he\nknows a lot.\n\nI know this to be true; for after I was exchanged I spoke to a soldier\nwho had been exchanged at the same time, and he said that a Government\nofficial had been round to question the men on the treatment they had\nreceived in Germany. During our conversation he told me that 200 of\nour men had been put to work in a Zeppelin factory. I asked him if he\nhad given this in evidence, but he said:\n\n\"No, not likely; they got nothing out of me.\"\n\nI asked him why not, for it was his duty. But he said they would only\nhave asked him a lot more questions to try and tie him up in a knot.\n\nWhen I came across a soldier who was captured at the beginning of the\nwar I used to invite him to my room when no one was about. We would\nsit in front of the fire and drink a cup of cocoa and smoke a pipe.\n\nI never asked him questions, but let him talk as he felt like it.\nThere were generally one or two others in the room, and when we began\nto feel we knew each other and were chums together in adversity, he\nwould tell his story in his own way.\n\nI met these men in Hanover Hospital, Osnabruck camp, and Blenhorst\ncamp. I will not publish their names for fear of paining their\nrelatives; but I have their names and the names of witnesses who heard\nthe stories, which I will relate in my next chapter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nSTORIES OF THE HEROES OF MONS\n\n\nThe statements which follow, and which were made to me while I was a\nprisoner of war in Germany, are not from picked soldiers who happened\nto have sensational stories. They were the only men whom I met who\nwere prisoners in the early days.\n\nBeing blind myself, I could not, of course, see the men I was speaking\nto, but their tone impressed me very much as being men who had\nsuffered in silence.\n\nIt was necessary for me to study very carefully what they said and\nimpress it on my memory; and I have committed their statements to\nwriting immediately on my release, for to carry written statements\nover the frontier was entirely out of the question.\n\nI have put down nothing which was not told to me; neither have I tried\nto embellish or enlarge upon the statements made, or frame the words\nof the men in any way that might give an exaggerated impression of\nwhat occurred.\n\nIt is quite possible, however, that one or two incidents which I have\nreported from one man may be part of the story of one of the others.\nBut it can be taken as an absolute fact that, taken as a whole, the\nstatements are a true recital of these men's own description of their\nexperience.\n\nThe men were in no way excited. I obtained the information when\nchatting in the ordinary way over a pipe of tobacco, whenever the men\nhad an opportunity of coming to my room to have a chat.\n\n   THE STORY OF PRIVATE ----, WEST KENT REGIMENT\n\n   \"I was captured at Mons, sir. Been here over two years now.\n   Things are not so bad now as they were at first.\n\n   \"I've seen some things which I shan't easily forget. I've been\n   keeping them to myself because we dare not talk of them.\n\n   \"Some of the fellows have had a terrible time. When the war is\n   over any German who is met in England by any prisoners of war\n   will have a rough passage. There won't be any need to hold\n   ourselves back any longer. My goodness, sir, they'll never get\n   away alive!\n\n   \"Not long after I was captured 70 English soldiers were taken\n   away from the Lager one day. They never knew where they were\n   going. They were taken to a munition factory; and when they found\n   out where they were they passed the word along to refuse to work.\n\n   \"When the Germans told them what they had to do, they refused.\n   Their guards threatened them, and said it would be the worse for\n   them if they didn't; but they wouldn't budge.\n\n   \"Then they were taken out and made to stand in a row against a\n   wall; and a firing-party was drawn up in front of them with\n   loaded rifles, but not one of them flinched.\n\n   \"They were told that unless they went to work they would be shot,\n   and although the firing-party was standing in front of them not\n   one of them would budge.\n\n   \"The threat was not carried out, and they were sent back to the\n   Lager.\n\n   \"Before we started getting parcels we had a terrible time trying\n   to live on the food they gave us. All they gave us was a cup of\n   coffee and two slices of black bread in the morning; and for\n   dinner and supper a basin of hot potato water. It was so thin and\n   weak it was just like water that potatoes had been boiled in.\"\n\nThe soldier whose statement is given above has since been exchanged to\nSwitzerland, owing to an injury to his sight, caused by the work he\nwas employed upon while a prisoner.\n\n\n   THE STORY OF PRIVATE ---- OF THE LEICESTER REGIMENT\n\n   \"I was captured during the retreat in August, 1914.\n\n   \"My Company was left behind as a rear-guard, to enable the rest\n   of the battalion to get away. Our trench was only about two feet\n   deep. Although the Germans were coming on very fast and in\n   enormous numbers, we were not allowed to retire.\n\n   \"The Germans charged us three times. We lost all our officers,\n   and although we kept on fighting they came on in such large\n   numbers it must have been the main body, for they were all round\n   us, and most of the fellows were killed or wounded.\n\n   \"They had their revenge on us, too, when they got us, for the\n   German soldiers who were told to look after us did terrible\n   things. They took us one by one and made us run the gauntlet.\n\n   \"I was bruised all over when I got through, and so were the other\n   fellows.\n\n   \"One chap when he was running the gauntlet was struck in the face\n   by the butt of a rifle; his nose was smashed and his face covered\n   in blood, and he fell to the ground insensible. They threw him in\n   a ditch, because they thought he was dead; but he was able to\n   crawl out next morning.\n\n   \"It was awful, that first night, and they didn't know what to do\n   with us. They made us stand the whole night through in a loose\n   wire entanglement, so that we couldn't walk about or sit down;\n   and it rained like anything all night long.\n\n   \"Then we were put in cattle trucks and sent into Germany, and for\n   the first two days they did not give us any food or water.\n\n   \"On the second day we stopped at a station and a woman came\n   towards us with a large can of soup, and we thought we were\n   going to be fed; but she brought it right up to us, and said:\n   'Ugh, dirty Englanders,' and poured it on to the line.\n\n   \"I was taken to Soltau Lager; and the food they gave us consisted\n   of a cup of acorn coffee in the morning and a small piece of\n   black bread, which had to last all day, and wouldn't make more\n   than two good slices.\n\n   \"For dinner we got a basin of very thin potato soup; sometimes we\n   got a potato in it, and sometimes we didn't. For supper we got a\n   cup of coffee, and we were supposed to make the bread do for both\n   breakfast and supper.\n\n   \"The prisoners were sent out from Soltau in working parties to\n   farmers, factories, and coal mines and salt mines. The salt mines\n   were dreaded most, and fellows who had been working there for two\n   or three months looked dreadful. In fact, they could not keep up\n   there longer than that; they got too ill.\n\n   \"I was sent into a salt mine myself. The hours are not long,\n   because it is impossible to stay down many hours at a time, and\n   we were generally brought up about one o'clock. They did not\n   keep me in the mine long, because they found I was of no use for\n   the work.\n\n   \"It's not so bad on the farms, although you have to work from\n   about 4 o'clock till 8 or 9 at night. But the food is better, as\n   you generally live at the farmer's table, and have the same as he\n   does.\n\n   \"When prisoners are sent in working parties, the employers have\n   to pay the German Government the same wages he usually pays a\n   man, and the prisoners receive from the German Government 30\n   pfennings (about 3d.) per day.\"\n\n   \"Did the American Consul ever visit the lager?\" I asked.\n\n   \"Yes, but only once when I was there.\"\n\n   \"Were you free to make any complaints to him if you wished?\"\n\n   \"Two of the fellows did; but they got punished for it.\n\n   \"Before he visited the lager a notice was put up that the\n   Commandant did not consider there was any reason for complaint,\n   and any man making a complaint would be given 14 days'\n   imprisonment.\n\n   \"When he called we were drawn up on parade in four companies,\n   and stood to attention, while he passed down the line, asking if\n   there were any complaints.\n\n   \"By his side was the Commandant and another German officer.\"\n\n   THE STORY OF PRIVATE ---- OF THE NORFOLK REGIMENT\n\n   \"I came out with the original Expeditionary Force, and was in the\n   retreat from Mons, but was not captured until October, 1914.\n\n   \"The German soldiers who captured me treated me quite well. They\n   gave me some of their rations, and allowed me to attend to our\n   wounded.\n\n   \"I had just bandaged up the leg of a man in the Cheshire\n   Regiment, who had half his foot blown off, when all the prisoners\n   were ordered to the rear.\n\n   \"A German officer came up and ordered us both to get back; but I\n   pointed out that the Cheshire man was too badly wounded to be\n   moved without help. He ordered me to undo the bandage, and when\n   he saw the condition of the wound, he drew his revolver and shot\n   him dead. He then ordered me to get back.\n\n   \"We were then sent into Germany, and when we stopped at the\n   Railway Stations school children were paraded on the platform and\n   threw things at us.\n\n   \"We were given nothing to eat, and at one station we appealed to\n   a clergyman, who spoke English; but he said that only German\n   soldiers should be fed, and turned away.\n\n   \"I was sent to Hameln Lager. I was several times sent out with\n   working parties, and we were sometimes treated very roughly,\n   especially when there was only an under officer in charge of us.\n\n   \"The job I liked best was working for a farmer. Sometimes you get\n   hold of a decent chap, who will treat you well, if you suit him.\n   The work is hard and the hours very long, but you live with the\n   family, and food is much better than what you get in camp;\n   especially as some of the farmers have food concealed.\n\n   \"The under officers are very rough, and stop at nothing.\n\n   \"There was a notice up in the lager which said that no man has\n   any right to refuse to work, and that only the laws of the\n   Imperial German Government were recognised; and if any man\n   refused to do what he was told, the guards had authority to use\n   their rifles.\"\n\n   \"Did they ever use them?\" I asked.\n\n   \"I never saw them myself; but a man came into the lager one day\n   who said that just before he was moved one of the men was being\n   badgered about by his guards, until he at last turned round and\n   knocked one down. The guards immediately ran their bayonets into\n   him, and he died next day.\n\n   \"The American Consul visited our camp shortly afterwards, and\n   this man told him about it, and was informed the matter was\n   already known, and was being investigated. I do not know if\n   anything came of it.\n\n   \"Another little trick which they used to employ to force men to\n   work in the mines and other places was to take them out one by\n   one under an armed guard. The rest of us would hear a shot fired,\n   and then they would take another; a shot would be fired, and so\n   on. But we soon got on to that, because we found it was a fake.\n\n   \"About 100 men were taken away from the lager in the early part\n   of the war to work in a factory, but when they found it was a\n   munition factory they refused to work. They were each sentenced\n   to twelve or fifteen months' imprisonment. I know this for a\n   fact, because I have spoken to the men. They were very badly\n   treated, and one of them is in hospital to-day, insane.\"\n\n   THE STORY OF PRIVATE ---- OF THE MIDDLESEX REGIMENT, TOLD ME IN\n   BLENHURST CAMP\n\n   \"I was at Soltau Lager for a long time before we came here. We\n   used to get one loaf of black bread a day (2 lbs.) between 10\n   men. The only food we got was some sort of coffee for breakfast,\n   and the same for supper. For dinner we had a basin of soup, which\n   was almost undrinkable, some thin washy stuff; occasionally we\n   got some potatoes.\n\n   \"In the early part of the war there were about 60 of our fellows\n   sent to work in a munition factory. But when they got there and\n   saw what they had to do, they refused. They were threatened with\n   all kinds of things to make them work, and then they were lined\n   up against a wall, and a number of German soldiers stood in front\n   of them, and told them that if they didn't work, they would be\n   shot. Then they made a show of loading, and brought their rifles\n   up to the shoulders. When our men still refused they were taken\n   into a building and locked up two or three in a room; and left\n   there for 3 or 4 days without food or water or convenience of any\n   kind.\"\n\n   I asked Private ---- if he was quite sure of this statement and\n   the length of time, as the men would be reduced to a state of\n   absolute starvation.\n\n   \"I am quite sure about it,\" he said, \"and as for the men being\n   starved, I can only tell you that they were found curled up on\n   the floor, gnawing at their finger-nails.\n\n   \"When the Commandant let them out he said he was going to send\n   them back to their lager, as he admired their pluck, and didn't\n   think Englishmen had so much in them.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nOSNABRUCK\n\nARRIVAL IN CAMP. THE CANTEEN. DAILY ROUTINE. RATIONS. PARCELS. NEWS\n\n\nWe looked forward to the journey with a great deal of pleasure, not\nthat I could see where I was going, but the sensation of travelling\nwas a pleasant change.\n\nWe had about half an hour to wait for our train at the station, to the\nintense interest of a crowd of 60 or 70 peasants, who gathered around\nus and gazed in open-mouthed wonder.\n\nAs a matter of fact I was quite unaware that we were the centre of\nattraction. I thought we were standing quite alone. It is not a\ndisadvantage to be blind sometimes.\n\nWe had a guard with us of one soldier with a revolver in his belt,\nwhich no doubt was fully loaded, though we did not trouble him to\nprove it.\n\nWe were placed in a very comfortable second-class carriage, quite\nequal to an English first-class carriage. German officers also appear\nto travel second class; and on all the journeys I made in Germany, I\nwas always treated on an equality in this respect.\n\nHalf-way through the journey we had to change, and had to wait about\nthree-quarters of an hour for a connection. We were glad of this, as\nwe were looking forward to a meal in the station restaurant. But we\nwere doomed to disappointment. On entering the restaurant there were\nplenty of tables and chairs, but to all appearances nothing to eat.\n\nWe sat down at a table in company with our escort, and Wishart went\nover to the counter to order a hot meal, but could not make himself\nunderstood. After energetically ordering every dish he could think of,\nincluding eggs and bacon, and emphasising his wishes by violent\ngesticulations, he returned unhappily to the table and sought the\nassistance of the guard, who was made to understand that in England\nthe object of entering a restaurant is for the purpose of getting\nsomething to eat.\n\nWe were finally provided with a cup of coffee, a piece of cheese, and\na slice of very stale and uninteresting bread.\n\nWe arrived at Osnabruck station at about 9 P.M., and were placed in a\nfour-wheel cab, our guards sitting opposite us, with another soldier,\nwho met us at the station, sitting on the box seat, thus attracting\nthe attention of the passers-by and conjecture as to the distinguished\noccupants of the cab, whose cigars by this time were unfortunately\nexhausted.\n\nWe had a drive of about four miles, for Osnabruck camp is situated on\nthe outskirts of the town; and we were greeted on arrival by a request\nfrom the cabby for ten marks.\n\nAfter having been in daily expectation of a voyage to England, my\narrival at Osnabruck camp gave me a fit of the blues; and I felt like\none who enters a prison to undergo a term of penal servitude.\n\nWe knocked at the outer gate, which was securely locked, and were\nchallenged by a sentry, who was answered by our guard. There was\nreally no need to challenge us, for as far as Wishart and I were\nconcerned, we were perfectly willing to remain outside the domain of\nhis authority.\n\nWe heard a clatter of rifles, as the guard was turned out to welcome\nour visit, and after an examination of our papers to make sure that we\nhad the right to enter, we were marched across the courtyard and\nstopped before a very large door. More knocking and a noise as of\nbolts being drawn back, and we entered the building.\n\nAs the door was closed and bolted behind me, I felt like one who was\nlosing his freedom for ever in the dungeons of a mighty fortress.\n\nWe were led into the canteen, and the canteen manager supplied us with\na cup of tea and a slice of bread and margarine--the margarine being a\nrare luxury for a prison camp.\n\nWe were next taken into an office and searched and our money exchanged\nfor canteen money. This precaution is always taken, so that if a\nprisoner escapes he is not likely to have any negotiable money upon\nhim.\n\nI thought the soldiers who searched us were very fair, for seeing I\nwas blind, they allowed Wishart to see exactly the money I had upon\nme, so that there could be no dispute. As a matter of fact I handed\nout the money myself.\n\nThey did not search me, but asked me if I had anything on me which\nshould be given up, and now I come to think of it, although others\nwere always rigorously searched, I do not ever remember having been\nsearched myself. They always took my word for it; perhaps it was\nbecause I was blind and they thought I was harmless.\n\nWe were then taken up to a room on the second floor. Doctor Pohlmann\nwas as good as his word, and a room for three was provided, Rogan\nbeing in possession.\n\nOsnabruck camp is part of a cavalry barracks, and the accommodation,\ntherefore, is what one would expect in English barracks, and quite\nsuitable for soldiers.\n\nThe rooms are comfortable; there is a small stove with coal provided,\nand the furniture consists of camp-beds with two blankets each, a\nchest of drawers and a small table and chair. Some of the rooms\ncontain as many as seven beds, but the rooms are fairly large and do\nnot appear to be overcrowded.\n\nDoctor Pohlmann told us that the camp boasted, among other\nattractions, a billiard-room. Probably he was right, but he must have\nforgotten to add that there was no billiard-table or other article of\nfurniture in it.\n\nA large room was set aside for the British prisoners, and another for\nthe Russian prisoners; these were furnished at the prisoners' expense\nwith a piano and card-tables, and used as anterooms. The British\nanteroom, however, never seemed popular, as the officers preferred\ntheir own living-rooms, which were warmer.\n\nThe French had no anteroom, although I think they could have secured\none had they desired it.\n\nThere were about 250 prisoners in the building, about 200 of whom were\nRussian and French.\n\nThere was a canteen, where almost everything but food could be\nobtained. The beer was not bad, and fairly cheap; but the only other\ndrinks obtainable were a yellow fluid and a reddish fluid, which was\ngiven by the canteen manager the humorous description of sherry and\nport wine.\n\nHe was a wise man, that canteen manager, for under what strategical\ndevice could he have extracted one mark per glass from his customers,\nand at the same time supply a \"have another\" atmosphere to his\nestablishment? But he was a good fellow, and added greatly to the\ncomfort of the officers (and to the comfort of his own banking-account).\n\nYou could buy anything from him (except food), from a toothpick (which\nhe never caused us to need) to a grand piano (which he did not keep in\nstock).\n\nHe would purchase on commission, and the latter part of the purchase\nhe gave particular attention to. But he sought custom, and it made him\ncivil and obliging. He would supply you with a kettle of boiling water\nfor 5 pfennigs; or, for a larger consideration, would cook the\npheasant which came in your last parcel.\n\nThe grounds outside the building were very small, although just before\nI left a field was thrown open, where the officers could kick a ball\nabout. There were also two tennis-courts built by the officers.\n\nThe picture does not seem an unpleasant one; and I do not think the\nofficers imprisoned there ever complain of their treatment. But if it\nwere a marble palace, that would not alter the fact that it was a\nprisoners' camp; and two hours was about as long as anybody would stay\nwithout being bored.\n\nIf the description I have given leaves the impression that the\nprisoners have a good time in such seclusion, a stroll around the\nbuilding a few times, avoiding the barbed wire; or a few nights' sleep\ndisturbed by the frequent challenge of the sentry and the barking of\nthe watch-dogs would disillusion them, and make them realise what it\nmeans to feel the strong fetters of captivity.\n\nIn England we treat German officers very liberally; and if we ever\nallow this to arouse our indignation, we should pause to remember that\nthis generous treatment has induced the German authorities to grant\nfavours to British officers.\n\nOur officers, for instance, on signing a parole, are allowed once or\ntwice each week to go for a long country walk in company with only one\nGerman officer; and this privilege is at any rate worth an equal\namount of consideration being shown towards the German officers in\nEngland.\n\nA medical officer is present each morning, and if it is necessary to\nattend hospital, or the dentist, or if you have permission to go down\nfor any other purpose, you are allowed the privilege of hiring a\nconveyance for what the cabby probably flatters himself is a moderate\ncharge; but if you do not wish to pay for this privilege, you can\nwalk--in the gutter.\n\nThe dentist was not a popular man to visit, although a prisoner is\noften tempted to sacrifice a tooth in order to enjoy the privilege of\na ride down-town. But he was apt to use his professional skill as an\ninstrument to his patriotic ardour, and appeared to aspire to the\nremoval of the jaw instead of the tooth.\n\nDuring the time I was at Osnabruck, there was a good commandant in\ncharge. He was a gentleman, fair-minded, and considerate,\nnotwithstanding the fact that he was a professional soldier of the old\nschool.\n\nWhen I speak of the old school, it leads me to express an opinion that\nthe brutalities perpetrated upon our soldiers who fell into their\nhands in the early part of the war were due to professional military\nhatred more than to popular intention. At the commencement of the war,\nthe professional German soldier seemed to be imbued with the sole\nidea, which was no doubt fostered by the system of training, to get to\nEngland, and satisfy his hunger by murder and pillage; and the first\nprisoners who saved the people of this country by their heroic\nself-sacrifice received the first experience of their intentions.\n\nMy contention is borne out by the fact that these brutalities are not\npractised to-day in anything like the same degree, for the old army\nhas become more or less extinct, and a new army of civilians has taken\nits place. With the exception, perhaps, of certain elements of the\nhigher commands, there is a decreasing element of the \"top dog\"\nspirit, and an undercurrent of feeling that it may not be wise to be\ntoo overbearing.\n\nTo-day it is the German civilian fighting the British civilian, and\nthe German who has a home, family, and business has not the same\nhatred as his professional predecessor.\n\nThe German professional soldier is unapproachable; but the German\ncivilian soldiers seemed reasonable and anxious for peace, and even to\ndeplore the domineering authority which compelled him to take up arms.\n\nAt Osnabruck the roll-call was made by the officers simply parading\noutside of their respective rooms and coming to the salute as the\nGerman officer passed him, and he, in passing by, would answer the\nsalute. The morning roll-call was at 9 A.M., so at one minute to nine\nit was necessary to tumble out of bed.\n\nThe curious raiment frequently donned more with a view to speed than\ndignity prompted an order being issued that officers should parade\nfully dressed. The ingenuity of the British soldier, however, could\nsoon overcome a requirement of this kind. One minute to nine still\nprevailed, but the wearing of overcoats for early morning roll-call\ngrew in popularity.\n\nI was very much impressed with the fair and systematic handling of our\nparcels, letters, and money; and even letters and post-cards which\narrived for me after I had been sent back to England were readdressed\nand sent back. A remittance of five pounds, which arrived for me after\nI had left was even returned to me in England, instead of being\napplied to the pressing need of the German War Loan.\n\nLetters are distributed each morning. Parcels arrive on Mondays and\nThursdays, and a list is made out and sent round the same afternoon,\nfrom which each prisoner can ascertain the number of parcels awaiting\nhim. He thereupon appears at an appointed hour the following day to\nreceive his parcels, which are opened by the German censor in his\npresence.\n\nAll tin food has to be opened, but if it is not required for immediate\nconsumption, it is placed unopened in a locker, and he can draw what\nhe requires on any day he wishes to use it.\n\nThe American Express Company was permitted to cash officers' cheques\nthrough the paymaster, who kept a proper account of the debits and\ncredits against each prisoner; so that he could draw money at any time\nfrom the funds standing to his credit. These accounts were kept in a\nvery businesslike manner, and a prisoner was permitted to go into the\npaymaster's office and examine his books whenever he wished. I know of\nat least one instance in which a prisoner had been permitted to\noverdraw his account.\n\nThe prisoners spent most of their time at Osnabruck in playing tennis,\nfootball, walking up and down the yard, learning French or Russian,\nplaying cards, or reading.\n\nThe books which prisoners receive from time to time from England are\npassed round, thus forming a sort of circulating library.\n\nIn living a life of this kind one cannot help but develop the habits\nof school-days, and become boyish in many things.\n\nOne lives for letters and parcels. It is not the length of letters or\nsize of parcels which count so much as the number; and when the parcel\nlist comes round, he is a lucky fellow who finds four or five parcels\nawaiting him, even though their total contents amount to no more than\nthat of the man who receives a single parcel.\n\nOn Tuesdays and Fridays the number of parcels was an absorbing topic,\nand one would turn to another in schoolboy fashion, and say:\n\n\"How many parcels have you got to-day?\"\n\n\"Only one--how many have you?\"\n\n\"Six.\"\n\n\"Lucky devil!\"\n\nIn each room the men throw their parcels into one mess, and share\nalike; and if a new prisoner arrives, who would not be receiving\nparcels, he shares with the others in his room.\n\nIf several prisoners just arriving are put in a room by themselves,\nthey do not, of course, fare so well, and until their parcels arrive,\nmany weeks later, they are more or less dependent upon the food issued\nto them; although presents of food are frequently sent in by the\nothers, and articles of clothing are loaned.\n\nThe charge made to the prisoners for food was forty-five marks per\nmonth. We were afterwards informed that by a new regulation the\ncharge, by some international arrangement, had to be reduced to thirty\nmarks per month. And the commandant explained that for this sum he\ncould only supply the same ration which the men received; but would\ncontinue to supply the old ration if the officers would voluntarily\nagree to continue paying forty-five marks, and extra for their\nbread--which, of course, they did.\n\nThis ration consisted of imitation coffee for breakfast and no food. A\nplate of washy stuff called soup, for dinner, followed by some sloppy\nmashed potatoes, and sometimes green stuff; and for supper, more\nsloppy potatoes.\n\nTo satisfy one's hunger on a cold day with such food--which is only\nfit for pigs--can only be done by loosening the waistcoat, and half an\nhour afterwards one feels as though he had never had a meal.\n\nPrisoners were allowed to receive as many letters as they were lucky\nenough to have sent them; and there does not appear to be any\nrestriction as to the length of the letter.\n\nThey are allowed to write two letters of four pages each, and four\npost-cards each month. All letters are censored by a staff of censors\nin the camp. Outgoing letters and post-cards are held for ten days,\nwith a view of ascertaining, I believe, whether invisible ink had been\nused.\n\nNews arrives in the camp principally by the arrival of new prisoners,\nwho are kept in quarantine for about ten days.\n\nGerman official bulletins are posted in the anteroom; and the\n_Continental News_, which is published in the English language, or\nrather disgraces the English language by using it, is delivered daily.\nBy the bye, the _Continental News_ is a rag of the worst kind, and\ncontains lies of the worst description.\n\nMy orderly came to me one day, and after carefully closing the door,\nhe drew from under his tunic a few scraps of an English newspaper a\nmonth old.\n\nWe devoured the news eagerly, as well as the advertisements, and\npassed it quietly around to the other officers.\n\nHe had been sweeping up the canteen after the censor had finished\nopening up the parcels. One parcel had been wrapped up in the\nnewspaper, and unthinkingly the censor overlooked it, and tore the\npaper into fragments and threw it on the floor.\n\nMy orderly, while sweeping, noticed the pieces on the floor. The\ncensor was in the room, and he went on sweeping until, when the\ncensor's head was turned, he stooped and, snatching it up, stuffed it\ninto his tunic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nCOMEDY AND DRAMA\n\nI SALUTE THE WALL. THE STORY OF AN EGG. A NOVEL BANQUET. JOY RIDE ON A\nLORRY. THE SWISS COMMISSION\n\n\nWhen I arrived at Osnabruck, I found three English orderlies, and to\nmy surprise and delight, two were men of my own regiment who had been\ncaptured at Gommecourt Wood on July 1.\n\nThe commandant came up to visit me the following morning, something\nvery unusual; but no blind prisoner had ever been confined within the\nwalls of Osnabruck before, and I suppose I was an object of interest.\n\nI heard Rogan say, \"Commandant,\" and click his heels.\n\nI stood up and saluted. I was turned around, for, unknowingly, I had\ngravely saluted the wall.\n\nHe spoke fairly good English:\n\n\"You quite blind?\"\n\n\"Yes, quite.\"\n\n\"See no light--nothing, no?\"\n\n\"Nothing whatever.\"\n\n\"Your health, vot, is your health goot--yah?\"\n\n\"Very weak and shaky; I cannot sleep at night.\"\n\n\"Is there anything you want?\"\n\n\"There are two orderlies here from my own regiment. Can I have one as\nmy personal attendant? Otherwise I am helpless; I am not yet\naccustomed to blindness, and among so many people and in strange\nsurroundings, I shall become a nuisance.\"\n\n\"Yah; I will make arrangements.\"\n\nThat was how I came to get Private Cotton as my orderly. Cotton was a\nfine lad; a well-educated, superior type of fellow, and we became very\nmuch attached to each other during those long, dreary days.\n\nHe could speak French, and although he could speak no German, he\npossessed that wonderful faculty peculiar to the private soldier, of\nunderstanding and making himself understood in a language he did not\nknow.\n\nHe had been a civil servant in the War Office; but in the early part\nof the war had volunteered his services with the colours, and fought\nnight and day in the trenches for a shilling a day; while the young\nman who took his place in the War Office drew one and sixpence an hour\novertime after 4 o'clock. Yet Cotton never complained. But his duty\nwas the other man's opportunity.\n\nAs I write these lines Cotton is still a prisoner. I wonder if the\nother man is still drawing overtime, and wearing a war-service badge?\n\nNow Cotton was a gentleman both by birth and education; but he was a\nprivate soldier, and seemed to make a hobby of being one. He was a\nprivate, and I was a captain, and he insisted on that gulf being\nmaintained.\n\nWhenever he bade me good-night, after he had laid me in my bed and\nmade me some cocoa--generally from his own supplies, for my parcels\nwent astray--I could always hear him click his heels, and I knew he\nhad saluted.\n\nThe second day after I had arrived at Osnabruck, he took me for\nexercise up and down the yard outside the canteen. This was my first\nappearance, and I was evidently an object of some curiosity, for wind\nhad got round the camp that a blind prisoner had been brought in.\n\nAs the French officers passed me, I used to hear them say: \"Good\nmorning, Capitaine,\" or \"Bon jour, mon camarade.\"\n\nThe English officers were splendid and always anxious to help me, and\nmany a welcome supper of cocoa and cake I used to have in their rooms\nbefore going to bed.\n\nI am afraid, though, that I used to make rather a big meal of it, as\nfor the first two weeks I had to exist on the German rations.\n\nWhen I took my first walk in the yard the canteen manager, his wife,\nand daughter were evidently watching out for me; for by and by, as a\nsign of their good-will, the daughter came running out after me with a\npresent. It was an egg!\n\nCotton and I had a serious talk about this egg. He thought I should\nsave it, and have half for supper and half for breakfast; but I\nsettled the matter by eating it at once.\n\nI think I have forgotten to mention that we were allowed to buy for\nhalf a mark, a loaf of bread every five days. I had no idea how far a\nloaf would go; I had never before given it a thought.\n\nBut Cotton had it down to a science; and worked it out that two small\nslices for breakfast, and the same for supper would carry me through,\nand he kept me to it.\n\n\"Cotton,\" I would say, after I had breakfasted on the two slices, \"I\ncould eat another slice.\"\n\n\"Better not, sir.\"\n\n\"Why not, Cotton? It's my loaf.\"\n\n\"This is the fourth day, sir, and if you have another slice, there\nwill only be a small piece of crust for to-morrow's breakfast.\"\n\n\"All right, Cotton, I will sleep to dinner-time instead.\"\n\nIt was a joyful day when my first parcels arrived in camp. I was too\nexcited about it to eat alone that day; and I invited young Martell of\nthe R.N.A.S. to come and dine with me in my room.\n\nThere was a tin of soup and a tin of tripe and onions, and some\nbiscuits and cheese. What a banquet! Martell and I decided to do\nourselves in style. We even went so far as to send Cotton to the\ncanteen for two glasses of what we indulgently patronised the canteen\nmanager's humour by calling port wine.\n\nMartell cooked the tripe and onions, after opening the tin with his\npenknife, and boiled it on the stove. The more we thought of that\nmeal, the more we schemed to make a spread of it.\n\nCotton, too, rose to the occasion. From the canteen he obtained a\nsheet of white paper for a table-cloth, and by the side of each plate\nhe placed a clean white handkerchief for serviettes.\n\nThe table was just a little rough, wooden one, about two feet square.\nThe room was swept and the beds made to give the room a tidy\nappearance, and then we sat down.\n\nYes, Cotton understood. He knew that that meal was taking our thoughts\nback to England. It was taking him back, too. He knew that we imagined\nwe were back again in the mess; and he imagined the same thing\nhimself.\n\nIn that little room, and in the presence of that tin of tripe and\nonions we forgot we were prisoners; we forgot that rows and rows of\nbarbed wire bound us in captivity; we ignored the footsteps of the\nsentry pacing up and down outside our window, and the sharp yelping of\nthe dogs.\n\nWe were back in the mess, and we chatted and laughed during the meal\nas we had done in the old days, while our spirits rose with the aroma\nof the tripe and onion; and Cotton stood behind me silent and\nattentive, removing the plates, washing them, and replacing them ready\nfor the next course, pretending he was drawing plates from a\nwell-filled pantry.\n\nWe finished our repast with biscuits and cheese, and then we solemnly\nstood, and raising our glasses, toasted the King.\n\nThen we drew our chairs round the fire, and heating the coffee which\nwas left over from breakfast, we bathed our thoughts in the aroma of\ntwo cigars which Cotton had thoughtfully provided for the occasion\nfrom the canteen.\n\nYes, people of England, living at home in luxury, by the protection of\na thin line of khaki; when you become anxious at the prospect of one\nmeatless day per week, try living for a fortnight on slops, and then\nappreciate the glories of a tin of tripe and onions.\n\nStill, one can live on slops, and improve a meal by a vivid\nimagination. In fact, imagination is a distinct advantage when sitting\ndown hungrily to a plate of thin watery soup and sloppy potatoes for\ndinner.\n\nWhen the door used to open and Cotton appeared with this unsavoury\nrepast, which was always the same each day, I would say to him in the\nmost indifferent tone I could assume:\n\n\"Well, Cotton, what kind of soup is it to-day?\"\n\n\"Well, sir; I really don't know. It might be anything; it looks like\nhot water.\"\n\n\"Why, my dear Cotton, this soup is salt. How dull you are! There must\nhave been a battle in the North Sea!\"\n\n\"How do you know that, sir?\"\n\n\"It's the way the Germans have. This soup is hot sea-water; it is to\ncelebrate a victory.\"\n\nThe next day there would be a slight difference in the soup, and again\nCotton would gravely shake his head, unable to fathom its mystery.\n\n\"My dear Cotton, when will you learn to gather information from your\nrations by a method of deduction?\"\n\n\"Has there been another battle in the North Sea, sir?\"\n\n\"No, my dear Cotton, the soup is thicker; the German fleet is back in\nthe Kiel Canal.\"\n\nIt was the beginning of the third week of my sojourn in Osnabruck,\nwhen I was told one day that I was to proceed next morning to\nBlenhorst camp to appear before the Swiss Commission. Three other\nofficers were also to go, including Rogan.\n\nCotton was to accompany me, and we made great preparation for the\njourney, packing in a tin box biscuits and cheese, chocolate and\nsardines; for although an officer is charged just the same for his\nfull day's ration, the Germans have a habit of sending him on a long\nday's journey without food.\n\nWe started off at about 6 o'clock the next morning in high glee; for\nwhatever the result of the Swiss Commission might be, there was the\njourney to Blenhorst to break the monotony of Osnabruck.\n\nWe had to change trains several times, and in the station restaurants\nwe had much the same experience as I have described on my journey from\nHanover.\n\nIn one restaurant we could only obtain a slice of ham as thin as\ntissue-paper, and in another a very small sausage; and yet the German\npeople we passed in the streets had no appearance of being short of\nfood, or suffering any hardships in this respect. The people in the\nstreets, I understand, looked just as contented and well fed as the\npeople in England.\n\nThe station for Blenhorst is about eight miles from the camp. A large\nflat, open lorry was sent to meet us to carry our baggage, but as our\nbelongings were for the most part carried in our pockets, it was\nunnecessary for that purpose.\n\nIt then dawned upon our two guards, who had no more desire to walk\nthan we had, that we might ride on the lorry ourselves. They obtained\na form to hold four, and we four officers occupied this seat on the\nopen lorry, Cotton sitting on the floor, while the two guards sat\ntogether behind us, with their feet dangling over the side.\n\nThat ride I shall never forget. Perhaps it was because I was blind\nthat the situation seemed so ridiculously funny. The single-horsed\nlorry was pulled slowly through the rough, cobbled streets in sudden\njerks, which sent our legs flying in the air, giving the form a tilt;\nand I expected every minute that we would all four turn a double\nsomersault over the heads of our guards behind, and fall into the road\nlike clowns at a circus.\n\nImagine the picture, an open lorry on a bitterly cold day going\nthrough the streets of a small German town with four British officers\nin uniform; two with their heads bandaged, another with an arm in a\nsling, and a fourth with a lame leg, all sitting on a form, shivering\nwith cold--all smoking cigars; while people came out and gazed in\nopen-mouthed wonder at the strange spectacle; and a crowd of little\nurchins came running behind, yelling at the top of their voices.\n\nAll this was explained to me; and I imagined a great deal more, for\nthe ridiculous situation could only be complete if a shower of rotten\neggs were hurled at us as we passed by.\n\nThe following morning the Swiss Commission arrived, and all those who\nwished to appear before it were ordered to assemble in the yard.\n\nIt was a pathetic assembly, officers and men maimed and afflicted\nbeyond repair, waited in a long queue for their turn to go in and hear\ntheir fate.\n\nThere were a number of Tommies acting as orderlies in the camp who\nhad been prisoners since Mons. There was nothing physically the matter\nwith them; yet the silent and hopeful manner in which they took their\nposition in the line, knowing as they must have done, that their\nchances were hopeless, was most pitiful to witness.\n\nYet, the same men, on appearing before the Commission, and being\nimmediately rejected, laughed and joked as they returned to their\nwork.\n\nThe British Tommy is heroic, and rough though his language sometimes\nis, he is a man, and Britain is his debtor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nFREE\n\nI BLUFF THE GERMAN SERGEANT. AACHEN. TWO BOTTLES OF WINE. ACROSS THE\nFRONTIER. GREAT SCOTT! I AM CHARGED FOR MY OWN DEATH EXPENSES\n\n\nI was passed for England!\n\nThe Examination Board consisted of a Swiss doctor, a German doctor,\nand the camp commandant. The Swiss doctor was provided with a schedule\nof disablements under which prisoners could be passed for exchange to\ntheir own country, and partial disablements for Switzerland, and\nfrequently objections to a prisoner's application would be made by the\nGerman representative.\n\nOf our party from Osnabruck, one was rejected, two were passed for\nSwitzerland, and I was passed for England.\n\nThe decision of the Swiss Commission is not final, for, on being sent\nto the border, all prisoners are again examined--this time by German\ndoctors only--and by their decision prisoners are frequently rejected\nand sent back to camp.\n\nThe final examination for those going to Switzerland takes place at\nKonstanz, and for those going to England, at Aachen.\n\nI knew of one British Tommy who, during eighteen months had been twice\npassed for England and once for Switzerland, and each time rejected at\nthe border, and he is to-day still in Germany.\n\nIt was about two weeks after I had been passed by the Swiss Commission\nthat a German non-commissioned officer came to my room, and told me\nthat I was to leave at 4 A.M. the next morning for England.\n\nI had waited for this moment for three long months; I had no\noccupation of any kind, and spent most of my time lying on my bed or\nsitting on an uncomfortable chair before the fire, in hourly\nexpectation of the door opening to tell me of my freedom.\n\nPermission had been granted me to take Cotton with me to the border,\nso we packed all the food we had in stock and prepared for the\njourney. After travelling for some hours, we arrived at Hameln camp,\nwhere we were to stay the night. There was no accommodation for\nofficers in the camp, and they apparently did not know what to do with\nme, or how to provide me with food, as they had never been called upon\nbefore to take charge of an officer.\n\nThe only spare hut was some distance down the road, but as this was\noutside the camp, a special guard had to be mounted outside my door.\nThe question of feeding me was evidently found to be rather a\nperplexing one, and a German N.C.O., who could speak English, came to\nsee me about it.\n\n\"You do not get the same rations at Osnabruck as private soldiers?\nNo?\"\n\nI saw an opportunity and took it.\n\n\"No, special food is always provided for officers.\"\n\n\"What do you usually get?\"\n\n\"Meat, vegetables, pudding or fruit, and coffee.\"\n\n\"Zo! But how much do you get? Do you get _all_ that?\"\n\n\"Yes. As much as we like to pay for.\"\n\n\"But the money. How do you pay?\"\n\n\"Oh, I will pay cash before I leave.\"\n\n\"Goot. I will send you a dinner.\"\n\n\"By the way, what about my orderly? Bring in the same for him.\"\n\n\"Is dot usual? I vill gif him rations mit der men.\"\n\n\"That's against regulations in Osnabruck. Officers pay for their\norderlies' food. Bring him the same as me. By the way, sausages and\ncoffee for breakfast for both.\"\n\nThe meals were excellent, and I was glad we were moved off next day\nbefore the commandant came back to discover that I had bluffed the\nsergeant.\n\nAt the end of the following day we arrived in Aachen, and again, being\nthe only officer, the difficulty arose about my accommodation.\n\nThis time I was placed in a real hospital which was used for German\nofficers, and the accommodation was quite as good as I would expect in\nEngland. There were six nurses in this hospital, kind and generous in\ntheir treatment, and they fed me with every delicacy they could find,\nand waited upon me hand and foot.\n\nCotton was ordered to return to Osnabruck, and was replaced by a\nGerman orderly. An armed guard was placed outside my bedroom door, day\nand night, and whenever I took exercise in the garden, I could hear\nhis footsteps behind me, following me wherever I went, and spitting on\nthe ground every two or three yards.\n\nOn the second day after my arrival, I went for my final examination,\nand the medical officer told me he would send his sergeant-major, who\ncould speak good English, to have a talk with me that evening. What\ndid that mean? Why should he want to talk to me? I became suspicious\nand awaited his coming with some uneasiness.\n\nHe arrived about 7 o'clock that evening, bringing a friend and two\nbottles of wine. They opened the wine and we smoked together.\nConversation was going to be very difficult. I felt I was going to be\npumped for information.\n\nIt was going to be a battle of wits--I could feel it in my veins.\n\nI made up my mind to be pleasant and tactful and meet every question\nby asking one.\n\nAs a matter of fact, I was mistaken. They were Germans who had lived\nin England and worked at the Deutsche Bank in George Yard, Lombard\nStreet, until war broke out, and had lived in Highbury. I soon found\nout that they were not bad fellows at all, although their opening\nconversation did put my back up, and make me suspicious.\n\n\"London must be full of soldiers?\"\n\nI replied cautiously:\n\n\"Well, I suppose the big cities, London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, must\nall be full of soldiers these days.\"\n\n\"But what do the English people really think about the cause of the\nwar?\"\n\n\"Well,\" I replied evasively, \"it's difficult to say, because people in\nEngland who talk, don't think; and people who think, don't talk.\"\n\n\"Well, do you think when the war is over there will be any hard\nfeeling? Do you think things will settle down, and we shall be able to\nlive there again as we did before?\"\n\n\"Well, that depends upon the people's feelings after the war.\"\n\n\"You know, we cannot understand the English people; you are very hard\nto understand, the way you do things.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"Well, look at the way you have got your army together. It's\nmarvellous; we all admit it. It surprised us.\n\n\"Look at your colonies. We thought Canada and Australia would break\naway; or at the very best, would not send over more than about 50,000\nmen.\n\n\"But what we cannot understand is why a country which can organise and\nhandle such an enormous army, is unable to manage its civilian\npopulation.\"\n\n\"In what way do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, look at Ireland; fancy allowing that sort of thing! And the\nstrikes you have! You build an army, and then allow your people to\nhinder it by striking.\"\n\n\"How can you help it?\"\n\n\"You don't find strikes in Germany, because we organise our civil\npopulation for war, as well as the military population.\n\n\"There was one strike a little while ago, not for more money, but\nbecause the men felt they were not getting the food they were entitled\nto. Do you know what we did?--We put them all in uniform, and sent\nthem on to the Somme, and we sent back from the Somme an equal number\nof soldiers to replace them in the factory.\"\n\n\"When do you think the war will be over?\" I asked.\n\n\"When each side realises that it can't exterminate the other. Look\nwhat we've done on the Somme! You've lost, let us say, 700,000 men,\nand we have lost, say 500,000; and how far have you got? You'll never\nbeat us. If you bend us back more, all we shall have to do is to\nretire to a new line, and you will have to begin your work all over\nagain. You can bend, but you can't break us.\"\n\n\"Well, you tried it, and now it's our turn.\"\n\n\"Yes; but it will never end that way. Do you know that for months past\nwe've been digging a new line, a straight line between Lille and\nVerdun, which will shorten our line by half? And if you bend that we\nwill build another farther back. It can go on for ever at that rate.\"\n\n\"What about the blockade?\"\n\n\"Of course, that's a farce. You've been doing your best to starve us\nfor over two years. Do I look starved? We may not get as good food as\nwe should like, but we get enough to live on, because we've got it\nproperly systemised; whereas you let your people eat what they like.\"\n\nYes, there was truth in that; and after drinking all his wine, I\nturned into bed; for to-morrow I was to be free!\n\nAt 7 o'clock on the following evening motor-cars, each with two\ntrailers, went towards the station, filled with totally disabled\nsoldiers, en route for England.\n\nEven their captors thought it was not worth while to keep them.\n\nWar is a monstrous machine of the devil. At one end the manhood of\nBritain was pouring into its fiery cauldron; and here at the other end\nthe devil was raking out the cinders.\n\nMy story is drawing to a close.\n\nThe hospital-train, bearing its human freight, passed through Namur,\nLiege, Brussels, and Antwerp to the Dutch frontier.\n\nAll who could do so looked eagerly out of the window for the moment\nwhen they would pass into freedom.\n\nThe train stopped at a small station right on the frontier, and some\nformalities were gone through. It started again--there was a German\nsentry--there was a Dutch sentry--we were over. Hurrah!!!\n\nCheer after cheer rang out from that long line of prostrate men.\n\nThe train pulled up at a little station just across the border. The\ndoor of my carriage was flung open and a number of Dutch girls came to\nmy bed, and a shower of things came tumbling all about me as they\npassed one after the other, saying:\n\n\"Cigarettes, pleeze; apple, pleeze; cigar, pleeze; cake, pleeze;\nsweets, pleeze----\"\n\nI was in heaven.\n\nMy story is told.\n\nI am back in my own home now; and as I conclude this record the\npostman brings me a letter. It is from my solicitors; I have torn it\nopen, and find an account. The irony of fate closes the chapter:\n\n\"To services rendered in connection with the death of Captain Nobbs!\"\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    +-----------------------------------------------------------+\n    | Typographical errors corrected in text:                   |\n    |                                                           |\n    | Page  63: 'lets drink' replaced with 'let's drink'        |\n    | Page 193: lagar replaced with lager                       |\n    | Page 220: 'we forget we were prisoners' replaced with     |\n    |           'we forgot we were prisoners'                   |\n    |                                                           |\n    +-----------------------------------------------------------+\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's On the right of the British line, by Gilbert Nobbs\n\n*** ","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nWORDS OF PRAISE FOR\n\nJESUS SWAGGER\n\n\"It's encouraging to me that in a sea of loud voices, there are fresh, honest perspectives like Jarrid Wilson's breaking through the clutter!\"\n\n\u2014 Jon Acuff, _New York Times_ best-selling author of _Do Over_ , _Start_ , and _Stuff Christians Like_\n\n\"What Jarrid does have here is a book that lays it out there for all of us to realize that living a life for Jesus isn't something we're to be ashamed of. It's something to be proud of. To live for. To die for. I love this book!\"\n\n\u2014 Judah Smith, _New York Times_ best-selling author of _Jesus Is ______.\n\n\"Jarrid Wilson is a fresh and powerful new voice in the church today. His call to authentic faith is something we should all listen to and learn from. I'm grateful for how he models the walk of faith.\"\n\n\u2014 Jud Wilhite, author of _Pursued_ , senior pastor of Central Christian Church\n\n\" _Jesus Swagger_ is a punch to the gut of mediocre Christianity.\"\n\n\u2014 Matt Wade, pastor at Cross Point Church\n\n\"Readers beware: Jarrid Wilson doesn't pull any punches. If you are a poser preacher, bogus believer, or faker follower who wants to be left alone to live an inauthentic life pretending to be someone you're not, stay as far away from this book as possible. _Jesus Swagger_ will kick you out of your comfort zone, force you to face your fears, and catapult you into a more honest existence. Put it down right now so you can keep being the impostor God never called you to be.\"\n\n\u2014 Jonathan Merritt, author of _Jesus Is Better than You Imagined_\n\n\"I'm excited about this book! My friend Jarrid has written a super book. _Jesus Swagger_ is a call to love and action. You'll be glad you bought this book.\"\n\n\u2014 Derwin L. Gray, lead pastor of Transformation Church, author of _Limitless Life: You Are More Than Your Past When God Holds Your Future_\n\n\"Finally\u2014a book that acknowledges the distinction between a religious poser and someone who actually looks like Jesus. I've been waiting a long time for a book like this, and I bet you have too.\"\n\n\u2014 Jeff Goins, author of _The Art of Work_\n\n\"For many of us, there is a gap between the relationship with God we have and the relationship with God we thought we'd have when we first started following Jesus. The Christian life we're living isn't what we'd thought it would be. We lost our swagger. _Jesus Swagger_ closes that gap and reintroduces us to a Jesus that loves us with a transformative love. Read this book. Fall in love with Jesus all over again. Be a part of His life-changing movement.\"\n\n\u2014 Justin Davis, author of _Beyond Ordinary: When a Good Marriage Just Isn't Good Enough_ , pastor at Cross Point Church\n\n\"Too often, Christians get caught up speaking their own language, and have trouble communicating the gospel in the language of culture. In the wake of Jesus and the apostle Paul, Jarrid redeems culture's lingo to teach a new generation how to love Jesus well. As he does with hundreds of thousands of followers on social media, Jarrid boldly, clearly, and wittingly points to the amazing gospel in this book, and helps you see where you may or may not be faking your faith, so you can learn to love Jesus for real. The world can get things so wrong. We ourselves, without the light of Christ, can get things so wrong. Jarrid calls us to true swagger, the greatest way any man or woman can carry themselves: not just talking the talk, but walking the walk. No posers allowed.\"\n\n\u2014 Matt Brown, evangelist, author of _Awakening_ (2015), and founder of Think Eternity\n\n\"Knowing and talking with Jarrid Wilson has not only been a blessing in my life, but I can see and know that what he is doing is going to be a blessing to others. What he is ministering about in _Jesus Swagger_ is what people need to hear. It's about being Christ-like and not conforming to the ways of the world. He models his walk with God the same way, letting his Light shine bright.\"\n\n\u2014 Chad Lail, aka Gunner from Impact wrestling\n\n\"Jarrid Wilson helps readers move from being a sideline fan to becoming a passionate follower of Jesus. Wherever you are on your faith journey, _Jesus Swagger_ offers a fresh and innovative reality check on whether you're affecting the culture or the culture is infecting you. You're going to hear much from Jarrid Wilson in years to come, get in on the action early and check out this book.\"\n\n\u2014 Margaret Feinberg, author of _Wonderstruck_ and _Fight Back with Joy_\n\n\"Jarrid Wilson, with authenticity and a heart to lift high the name of Jesus, has written a book that will inspire you to follow King Jesus more completely! As a professional soccer player for the last eight years, it has been a constant struggle to not place my identity in the game. We are not what we do. Instead, we are who God created us to be . . . children of the One true God. Jarrid Wilson communicates this powerful truth in such a refreshing and authentic way. I challenge you to break free from poser Christianity and rock your Jesus Swagger like only you can! This book is a must read!\"\n\n\u2014 Wells Thompson, Jesus follower, professional athlete, and founder of Wells Thompson Soccer, LLC\n\n\u00a9 2015 by Jarrid Wilson\n\nAll rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means\u2014electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other\u2014except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.\n\nPublished in Nashville, Tennessee, by Nelson Books, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Nelson Books and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.\n\nPublished in association with Wolgemuth & Associates, Inc.\n\nThomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.\n\nUnless otherwise noted Scripture quotations are from the _Holy Bible_ , New Living Translation, copyright \u00a9 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.\n\nScripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the _Holy Bible_ , New International Version\u00ae, NIV\u00ae. Copyright \u00a9 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.\u2122 Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com\n\nScripture quotations noted _The Message_ are from _The Message: The New Testament in Contemporary English_ , by Eugene H. Peterson. Copyright \u00a9 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.\n\nScriptures marked ESV are from The Holy Bible, ENGLISH STANDARD VERSION. Copyright \u00a9 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers.\n\nScripture quotations noted NASB are taken from THE NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE\u00ae, Copyright \u00a9 The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)\n\nISBN 978-0-7180-2200-6 (eBook)\n\n**Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951863**\n\nISBN 978-0-7180-2199-3\n\n15 16 17 18 19 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1\n\n_To my beautiful wife, loving parents, and all who have supported my passion to share the relentless grace of our Lord, Jesus._\n\n_In loving memory of Thomas J. Wilson \"Papa\"_\n\n_1943\u20132013_\nCONTENTS\n\n_Introduction: What Is Jesus Swagger?_\n\n1. Poser Christianity\n\n2. Stop the Epidemic\n\n3. Love Without Limits\n\n4. Church Without Walls\n\n5. Jesus Isn't Hiring Part-Time Disciples\n\n6. Be the Change\n\n7. I Got 99 Problems But the Holy Spirit Ain't One\n\n8. Jesus Is Not Your Homeboy\n\n_Conclusion: Jesus Swagger Isn't Optional_\n\n_Acknowledgments_\n\n_About the Author_\n\n_Notes_\n**INTRODUCTION**\n\nWHAT IS JESUS SWAGGER?\n\nAn unconventional man once said, \"I got the kind of swagger that you ain't used to.\"\n\nThat man was actually Snoop Dogg (aka Snoop Lion), and catatonic nonetheless, I think he makes a valid point. Although that song goes on to describe subjects I won't mention in this book, that tiny phrase is packed with biblical depth.\n\nIt seems that even Snoop Dogg unintentionally understands the basis of Scripture better than most who claim to live their lives by it. As Christians we are called to live like Christ, seek his face, and be a reflection of his love. But for some reason, I truly think we've cracked the very foundation we were called to build upon.\n\nIt's one thing to claim a love for God's Word, his commandments, and his divine guidance. But it's a completely different story when one actually tries to live out one's life based on these things. It's the difference between night and day.\n\nIn a world of constant conformity, God has called us to be different (Romans 12:2), set apart (Jeremiah 1:5), walking tall with a righteous swagger, a Jesus swagger.\n\nThe title of this book explains itself, but does it resonate with you the way it does for me? We talk about being Christlike images, walking as he walked, and talking as he talked, but are we really mirroring that image? Or are we doing the opposite?\n\nTo relieve any frustrations you may have from seeing the word _swagger_ added to the divine and holy name of Jesus, please understand that the word _swagger_ has many meanings, and in this book I plan on referencing the following definition:\n\n\"A person's style\u2014the way they walk, talk, dress.\"\n\nIf we evaluate our lives according to the blueprint of Scripture, I believe many of us would be astonished by how much we really _aren't_ reflecting the revolutionary example of our Lord and Savior.\n\nJesus swagger is all about your life being infected with the love of Christ. Being different, _noticeably different_ , so much so that people wonder, _What is different about that person?_ It's a lifestyle that resembles Jesus to the fullest, not worrying about the opinions of others, but instead holding firm to a foundation in Christ alone; one that is able to withstand anything the world throws at you.\n\nA week before my grandfather passed away, he and I sat in my parents' kitchen while I explained to him what my next book was going to be about. I could see the excitement in his eyes as I began to tell him about what God was stirring in my heart. My grandfather had always been supportive of my ministerial efforts, so much that he even purchased a Kindle just so he and my grandmother could download a digital copy of my first book on release day, before the hard copy was available.\n\nKnowing that my grandfather was truly interested in the concept of my next book, I began to share with him the ideology behind _Jesus Swagger_ and why I felt our culture needed to hear this message. My grandfather's face lit up as he listened to me talk, and I'll never forget the confused expression on his face as he asked me, \"Wait, what does _swagger_ mean again?\"\n\nAs I proceeded to explain the definition of swagger to my sixty-five-year-old grandfather, I'll never forget the moment he looked at me, chuckled, and stated, \"Yup, I've got some of that!\" Little did I know that this conversation would be the last that my grandfather and I would ever have.\n\nTwo weeks after my grandfather and I sat at my parents' dining table and discussed my upcoming book, he was unexpectedly hit by a car while crossing the street en route to attend a local high school football game\u2014one of his favorite activities. It's crazy to think that it was only a few months back that he and I sat down to discuss what we both believed it truly meant to live like Jesus. And although the mourning of his death was painful and confusing, I can't help but realize that my grandfather was the epitome of someone who harnessed the wondrous likeness of Jesus swagger. Generosity. Self-sacrifice. Openness. Love. Total dependence on God. These things gave him a confidence that went beyond normal swagger, and bordered on something holy.\n\n_Jesus Swagger_ is not just a book, but a road map that will take you through a spiritual journey and make you rethink the way you're living. At the end of your life, how will people know that you lived for Jesus? What about your everyday attitude will leave them wondering about the greatness of God? Will it be the way you treated people? The confidence you walked with? The way you feared God, loved without limits, shared your faith, or modeled Jesus? By the end of this book, I hope you will have already begun evaluating the way you spend your days on this big sphere of dust they call Earth. Jesus didn't die an extravagant death so that we could live mediocre and comfortable lives. The man who gave his life for us expects nothing less than our best, and I don't believe that's too much to give.\n\nFew of us have had the honor of seeing a life that truly lifts the glory and transcendental beauty of Jesus. And while the world continues to see war, darkness, and the pursuit of self-righteousness, the light you give off\u2014your Jesus swagger\u2014could help many down the narrow path you and I are called to walk.\n\n**SWAGGER MATTERS**\n\nIf you think the way you act is irrelevant to your walk with Jesus, you're dead wrong. Not only are your actions viewed as a direct correlation to your relationship with Christ, but people from the outside will always be looking for a flaw to call you out on. I'm not saying this is fair, but I am saying that it's true. If you frequent the national news channels, you'll notice that most of the publicity Christianity seems to get surrounds a group of people who claim to follow Christ, but are doing something irresponsible and hateful, like picketing soldiers' funerals. What are observers supposed to think? Gandhi is often quoted as saying, \"I love your Christ, but I dislike your Christianity.\" Ouch. That hurts. But hey! He just said what everyone else was thinking. From the outside looking in, all he could see was a group of individuals who were unlike the God they were claiming to reflect. How can we let this go on, when we could be the ones to stop it?\n\nThe way you walk, talk, and present yourself to others matters when it comes to your faith. Why? Because if you claim to be a Christian, then people are going to expect you to act like one. Simple. Your swagger truly matters. No matter how long or how briefly you've known Jesus as your Lord, you are held to a higher standard of accountability by those around you.\n\nAlthough there is freedom and grace in the arms of Christ, we are all still called to live above reproach in all that we do. This means that no matter the circumstance, you are called to reflect an image that portrays the purity and boldness of Christ himself. I know that may seem like a tough act to follow, but that's the beauty of the Holy Spirit. God intrinsically designed us to take the Holy Spirit into our lives and allow him to guide and direct us in a way that reflects true Christianity, and to deter us from embracing things that are not from him.\n\nRomans 6:1\u201320 is one of my favorite passages in the Bible: it depicts the true image of who we are called to be in Christ. In encouraging others to pursue a lifestyle that flees from sin, Paul writes:\n\nSo what do we do? Keep on sinning so God can keep on forgiving? I should hope not! If we've left the country where sin is sovereign, how can we still live in our old house there? Or didn't you realize we packed up and left there for good? That is what happened in baptism. When we went under the water, we left the old country of sin behind; when we came up out of the water, we entered into the new country of grace\u2014a new life in a new land!\n\nThat's what baptism into the life of Jesus means. When we are lowered into the water, it is like the burial of Jesus; when we are raised up out of the water, it is like the resurrection of Jesus. Each of us is raised into a light-filled world by our Father so that we can see where we're going in our new grace-sovereign country. (vv. 1\u20135 MSG)\n\nWe are new! Can you feel that? You and I are new creations, with new hearts, new minds, and new destinations. It's as if God has rerouted us midflight. We are no longer who we once thought we were, but instead who God has called us to be. The paths we have been taking have been repaved with purpose and worth. What a beautiful thing.\n\nPaul goes on to say,\n\nCould it be any clearer? Our old way of life was nailed to the cross with Christ, a decisive end to that sinmiserable life\u2014no longer at sin's every beck and call! . . . Never again will death have the last word. When Jesus died, he took sin down with him, but alive he brings God down to us. From now on, think of it this way: Sin speaks a dead language that means nothing to you; God speaks your mother tongue, and you hang on every word. You are dead to sin and alive to God. That's what Jesus did.\n\nThat means you must not give sin a vote in the way you conduct your lives. Don't give it the time of day. Don't even run little errands that are connected with that old way of life. Throw yourselves wholeheartedly and full-time\u2014remember, you've been raised from the dead!\u2014into God's way of doing things. Sin can't tell you how to live. After all, you're not living under that old tyranny any longer. You're living in the freedom of God. (Romans 6:6\u201314 MSG)\n\nWhat was once a swagger that thrived off our selfishness has now turned into a Jesus swagger, fueled by a hunger and thirst to reflect the indescribable beauty of Jesus. This uncontainable thirst cannot be quenched by anything of this world, but only through an everlasting relationship with Christ.\n\nPaul goes on:\n\nWell then, since God's grace has set us free from the law, does that mean we can go on sinning? Of course not! Don't you realize that you become the slave of whatever you choose to obey? You can be a slave to sin, which leads to death, or you can choose to obey God, which leads to righteous living. Thank God! Once you were slaves of sin, but now you wholeheartedly obey this teaching we have given you. Now you are free from your slavery to sin, and you have become slaves to righteous living.\n\nBecause of the weakness of your human nature, I am using the illustration of slavery to help you understand all this. Previously, you let yourselves be slaves to impurity and lawlessness, which led ever deeper into sin. Now you must give yourselves to be slaves to righteous living so that you will become holy.\n\nWhen you were slaves to sin, you were free from the obligation to do right. And what was the result? You are now ashamed of the things you used to do, things that end in eternal doom. (Romans 6:15\u201321 NLT)\n\nSo we finally have freedom from the bondage of sin and shame. Yeah, it's a relief. Our mistakes no longer define who we are, but instead we are to find worth in the name of Jesus. But we are not called to take this gift and run, or to ignore God, but to pursue him and thank him for the liberation he has provided us.\n\nDon't waste another moment away from this new righteousness. Don't give your old ways a moment's time. And don't tease yourself by setting foot in your old stomping grounds. You are new, forgiven, and free. Let God's love set your soul on fire.\n\nWhile many individuals live in search of identity and purpose through the acceptance of others, God is impartially waiting for us with open and fulfilling arms. Jesus offers the free gift of eternal salvation, freedom from the bondage of your mistakes, and power to conquer anything that comes between you and your calling. When you embrace this gift, you are able to engage in a swagger that is unlike anything this world can compare to.\n\n**WORLDLY SWAGGER V.** | **JESUS SWAGGER**  \n---|---  \nBased on image  | Based on internal strength from God   \nComes and goes with popularity  | Stays eternally grounded   \nSeeks its worth from others  | Knows its inherent worth comes from Christ\n\nWhen one is truly engaged in a relationship with Christ, it is impossible to walk about life unchanged. The old you will slowly be transformed into a righteous individual who seeks justice, grace, and the pursuit of righteous living.\n\nYour life will be radically different when you are transformed as a follower of Christ. You won't be able to recognize yourself in the mirror, but instead you will see a person who has been renewed into someone yearning after the persona of Christ, to express his grace to people. What does that look like? You're more forgiving. You're slower to anger. Your heart breaks with compassion more easily. In this way, when we see injustice, hurt, pain, and hunger, it is as if we are looking through the eyes of Jesus himself.\n\nJesus swagger is all about embracing the new life that Christ has given us\u2014a life fueled by the power, love, and grace of Christ.\n**CHAPTER 1**\n\nPOSER CHRISTIANITY\n\nGod is looking for Christ followers, not religious posers. #JesusSwagger\n\nI remember my first day of high school like it was yesterday. The night before was filled with excitement as I dreamed of what could be. I laid out my new clothes for my first day, while continuously giving myself a pep talk about why the next four years were going to be some of the best life could offer.\n\nI guess you could say I had an untainted view of what high school was going to be like. All I could imagine was something resembling a low-budget Disney movie with a hint of _Glee_. Okay, maybe not exactly those things, but I couldn't help but think there might be a few spontaneous dance routines taking place in the halls, and I might even get to see a couple kids getting thrown in their lockers for not bringing the local bully their lunch money.\n\nRegardless, I was excited for the first day of a new adventure, and I think most people my age would have felt the same.\n\nThe first day of high school is probably one of the most important days of your high school career. Why? Because the way you represent yourself on day one is quite possibly the way people are going to label you for the next four years. Was I going to be a jock? A geek? A musician? A Jesus freak? A loner? A teacher's pet? The class clown?\n\nI really had no idea who I was trying to be, but all I can remember is staring at the clothes I had purchased the day prior and thinking to myself, _What was I thinking?_ I guess I had chosen to go for the stoner-musician look and had also decided to put my faith in the backseat. My parents loved me, but I'd be lying if I said they were extremely fond of my decisions as a teenager.\n\nThe reality was, I was accepting the lie that I needed to be someone other than who God had created me to be. All throughout high school, my identity wasn't built upon Christ, but instead the clothes I wore, the friends I had, and the achievements I was trying to gain.\n\nAnd although I felt very fashion-forward with my long, blond hair, checkered slip-ons, and a T-shirt promoting my favorite band, I'm surprised no one ever told me how ridiculous I looked. Well, maybe someone did, but I obviously didn't take that person seriously.\n\nThe truth is, I hated dressing that way, but all the people I planned to spend my time with looked the part, so I figured I would too. It's funny how quickly a friendship can turn into a fashionship, even in ninth grade. But the feeling of being accepted was incredibly hard to resist.\n\nWhy? Because our human nature thrives on being accepted and liked by our peers.\n\nBased on the expectations of the world around me, fitting in was something I felt compelled to do in order to \"be somebody.\" Maybe it was the thousands of shallow and scandalous advertisements I saw each day. Or maybe it was the media imposing its lies onto my feeble and newly pubertized brain. Or maybe it was because my heart wasn't grounded in the Word of God, but instead the shallow words of man. I'm pretty sure it was the last one, but regardless, all of those options played a role in my belief that in order to be accepted I had to follow the crowd.\n\nBased on the culture that surrounded me, an outsider was considered uncool, lame, and mediocre. But little did I know that ignoring my identity in Christ made me as mediocre as they come. I was nothing more than a cookie-cutter crowd-pleaser. I was just another clich\u00e9. And according to Romans 12:2, I was exactly opposite of who God called me to be. It says, \"Don't copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God's will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.\"\n\nI was conforming to the world without even realizing it. My swagger resembled nothing of Christ and everything to do with creation.\n\nIt didn't take long for me to start posing in other attributes in my life: music, movies, books, and even the types of food I ate. I began posing as someone I wasn't, in order to gain acceptance from people.\n\nThe worst thing is that I claimed to be a Christian during my entire high school experience. I mean, I attended church, went to Bible study, and even memorized a few verses, but the reality is I never let the message of Jesus completely transform me, nor did I share my faith with others. I clearly remember the times I ignored my relationship with God in order to be part of the crowd. I was so young, but I knew the truth\u2014and chose to ignore it.\n\nBut I soon came to realize there is a big difference between knowing _of_ him and knowing him personally. Not only was I posing as someone I wasn't with my so-called friends, but I was also posing as a follower of God at the same time. How twisted is that?\n\nIt wasn't until years later that I truly began to seek God for who he is, and not who I wanted him to be, that those insecurities started to subside, and my view of God became more selfless rather than selfish.\n\nIt's mind-blowing how much of my experience in high school reflects the lifestyle of many self-proclaimed Christians in today's world.\n\nThink about it. How many people in today's world claim to be Christians who love and follow God, but in reality are nothing more than religious posers? They claim to be one thing, but in reality aren't what they seem. My hand is humbly raised, and I'll be the first to admit that this is a daily struggle for me. Everyone deals with the temptation to give off an image that isn't quite true. There is a term for people like this: that's right, it's called being a poser.\n\nHave you ever been called a poser? Although it seems immature and childish, that word packs a mega-punch in today's vulture culture. Everyone is created differently, but how many of us are pretending to be someone of faith in hopes that outsiders won't be able to see our inner decay?\n\nThe first step in finding your inner Jesus swagger is to stop posing as a follower, and start living as one. A true relationship with Christ cannot be mimicked, because only in a true relationship with Christ can we find real transformation.\n\nSome of us always carry a Bible, we serve on the greeting team at our church, and we pray before every meal\u2014even while in public. We have our favorite Bible verses tattooed on our forearms, and our refrigerators are covered in Bible-verse magnets. Not to mention our cars are covered in our John 3:16 and WWJD bumper stickers.\n\nSound familiar? Lots of us think we're doing God a favor by taking part in all these surface-level activities, when in fact God would be more satisfied with our hearts reflecting him more than our cars and fashion trends. That'll preach.\n\nDon't get me wrong; all of these things are great, and there is nothing wrong with any of them. But when our faith in Jesus ends with the way we decorate our public appearance, we need to stop, evaluate ourselves, and realize that we are heading down a road of false assurance. It's not going to get us anywhere. Jesus swagger is about allowing the message of Jesus to penetrate the core of your heart, releasing an overflow of love, selflessness, and servanthood that goes beyond mere appearances, and makes a positive difference.\n\nYour swagger reflects who you are. When we harness a swagger influenced by the power of Jesus, posing as someone we are not will no longer be an option. But when we don't allow Jesus to fully take control of our lives, posing as a Christian is the only option we will really have.\n\nTo be honest, it's easy to live in America as a poser Christian. We buy Christian clothing, stickers, accessories, DVDs, and music. We proudly attend church every once in a while, but we never let the message of Jesus change who we are. It's like throwing plant seeds onto a slab of cement. They aren't going to grow roots. They aren't going to get any nutrients. And they aren't going to grow into what they were created for.\n\nHere is something that might sting a little bit: Just because you believe in Jesus doesn't mean you're going to end up with him.\n\nBefore you call me a biblical heretic, hear me out.\n\nJames 2:19\u201320 states, \"You say you have faith, for you believe that there is one God. Good for you! Even the demons believe this, and they tremble in terror. How foolish! Can't you see that faith without good deeds is useless?\" Even the demons believe! And that belief does nothing for them. We must allow Jesus to become more than just a person we believe in; he needs to be a person we also relentlessly follow and hunger to be more like.\n\nFaith without action is a waste of time. Don't just talk about it; act upon it. I hurt at the thought of how many times I have forgotten this vital truth. This passage isn't saying that \"works\" will get you into heaven, but that your faith should be complemented by action. Jesus' aim was not for us to strive for good intentions, but to live with righteous ambitions fueled by the forgiveness and atonement he gave us on the cross.\n\nThe real issue isn't whether our generation is wearing enough bedazzled cross T-shirts; it's whether we are allowing the message of Jesus to root deeper than our wardrobe, blog posts, music playlists, tweets, and Facebook statuses. We've become a tribe of people who rank our faith in a measurement of likes, re-tweets, and memory verses. We need to up our game.\n\n**EIGHT DIFFERENCES BETWEEN A BELIEVER AND A FOLLOWER**\n\n1. A believer believes in Jesus. A follower honors his commands.\n\nYou believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that\u2014and shudder. (James 2:19 NIV)\n\n2. A believer reads the Bible when things get tough. A follower reads the Bible to engage in a deeper understanding of Jesus himself.\n\nLook to the LORD and his strength; seek his face always. (Psalm 105:4 NIV)\n\n3. A believer prays when things get tough. A follower gives thanks no matter the circumstance.\n\nAlways giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. (Ephesians 5:20 NIV)\n\n4. A believer twists the Bible to fit his or her lifestyle. A follower works to make his or her lifestyle resemble the teachings of the Bible.\n\nSome of his comments are hard to understand, and those who are ignorant and unstable have twisted his letters to mean something quite different, just as they do with other parts of Scripture. And this will result in their destruction. (2 Peter 3:16)\n\n5. A believer gives when it's easy. A follower gives out of the abundance of his or her heart.\n\nThey all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything\u2014all she had to live on. (Mark 12:44 NIV)\n\n6. A believer conforms under the pressure or culture. A follower holds fast against temptation.\n\nTherefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. (Ephesians 6:13 ESV)\n\n7. A believer will share his or her faith when it's comfortable. A follower will share his or her faith regardless of the scenario.\n\nAnd he said to them, \"Go into all the world and proclaim the gospel to the whole creation.\" (Mark 16:15 ESV)\n\n8. A believer knows about Jesus. A follower knows Jesus as his or her Lord and Savior.\n\nBecause, if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. (Romans 10:9 ESV)\n\nMany people act like being a poser Christian is okay. Does that make you as frustrated as it makes me? It's not just about those obviously hateful people who are claiming to represent Christ while waving their \"God hates f-gs\" picket signs and yelling into their wrath-of-God megaphones. It's normal, nonconfrontational people too.\n\nThis may sound judgmental, but it's a trap any of us could fall into. Claiming to love Jesus but not following his commandments is like selling a pair of brass knuckles to Mother Teresa. It just doesn't make sense.\n\nWhen our gospel-centered tweets and faith-driven Facebook posts are stripped away, and we are left with nothing more than our hearts and a face-to-face conversation with God, who are we then?\n\nFrancis Chan said, \"The irony is that while God doesn't need us but still wants us, we desperately need God but don't really want Him most of the time.\" That's the difference between knowing _about_ God and really _knowing_ God. When we know God, we know how much we need him.\n\nI want to help you bridge the difference between being a follower of Jesus and being nothing more than a sideline fan. I want to help you develop your Jesus swagger, rather than the cheap imitation swagger that most of the world thinks is enough.\n\nWe can't expect the Jesus swagger to flow when all we know about him are some thousand-year-old statistics we researched on Google. These days, anyone can know _about_ Jesus, but what does it take to know him?\n\nThe definition of _knowing_ someone in the Greek text of the Bible (the word _ginosko_ ) is more than just an understanding of someone, but rather an intimate and extremely knowledgeable relationship that goes further in detail than that of a simple acquaintance.\n\nWe must view our relationship with Jesus to be more than just a shallow bond, but one that is worth putting in our time and energy\u2014all in order to deepen its value and worth. This relationship must be put to the forefront of our hearts.\n\nThrough obedience, prayer, study, service, a pure heart, and all the things we'll talk about in this book, you'll become a person who fully belongs to God, and then the real swagger will begin to follow.\n\n**CHECK YOURSELF**\n\nThink about it: Are we the same people we claim to be in 140 characters or less?\n\nLet me tell you more about my poser days. I was juggling the world and the Word, praying that I was doing enough \"good\" to be loved by God, but also hoping I was popular enough to be accepted by the world around me. It was actually hindering my relationship with God, and not at all helping it.\n\nI would claim to be the \"Christian guy\" because I listened to all the top chart Christian bands. Not to mention I went to youth group once a week, wore my WWJD bracelet, and had some virtuous morals that could support my claim.\n\nBut when it came time to take part in activities the Bible would deem sinful, I would justify my sin by stating the biggest excuse known to man: \"God knows my heart.\" And maybe follow that up with a good self-pep-talk about why I was a \"good person.\" I'm positive I am not the only one who's experienced this.\n\nThere are plenty of self-proclaimed Christians who can quote more Scripture than you ever will, preach the most powerful message you've ever heard, and perhaps even tithe more than most people you know. But underneath the good deeds and pretty words they are nothing more than posers. It's all a show. It's the heart that matters, and I say this from personal experience.\n\n**POWER RANGER POSER**\n\nEvery year we use Halloween as our day to play pretend. And no matter how young or old, we see people getting into their fairy-tale attire and killer zombie outfits.\n\nAlthough this holiday is often full of innocent fun, one Halloween opened up my eyes to something painful and sorrowful but true. One year when I was a kid, I wanted to dress as the Red Ranger from the _Mighty Morphin Power Rangers_ , but all the store had left was a Blue Ranger costume. And if you remember the original Power Rangers correctly, Billy the Blue Ranger was a total nerd. Anyway, against my personal preference, I ended up buying the Blue Ranger costume because it was all they had left. And frankly, my mom and I were tired of shopping. Regardless, for one night of my life I was going to be a Power Ranger, and I didn't care that I was the Blue Ranger, no matter how nerdy he was.\n\nWhen Halloween came around, I remember looking in the mirror, fully decked out in my Blue Ranger costume, laser pistol, and sound-activated gloves. If I recall correctly, I looked pretty sweet. I remember feeling like I could take on the world or fight anyone who came in my path. The costume I was wearing looked so good that I began to believe I actually _was_ a Power Ranger.\n\nSo I did what any extremely awesome seven-year-old kid would do: I began practicing my ninja moves in the mirror just in case someone tried to steal my candy or hurt my parents as we walked through dangerous suburbs of Southern California. As I continued practicing my advanced ninja techniques, I remember doing an incredibly off-form ninja back kick against my bathroom sink. All of a sudden I heard a _smack_! I realized I was on the ground. My knee had been scraped up by the edge of the bathroom door, and my head felt like it had been super-punched by an elephant. To be completely honest, I don't remember exactly what went wrong, but I do know that the kick did not go the way I had seen it in last week's episode.\n\nAs I sat on my tiled bathroom floor in tears, the blood began to trickle down the side of my kneecap. And as I wiped the blood off with a piece of toilet paper, I realized something incredibly heartbreaking. It was something that would destroy the hope of any seven-year-old's heart. I realized at that very moment I wasn't a Power Ranger. I didn't even have superpowers. I didn't fight crime, nor did I have an incredibly good-looking sidekick named Kimberly. I was just a kid in a costume trying to be something I wasn't in hopes I could impress the people around me and prove I was actually the person the costume had made me out to be.\n\nWhen my knee stopped bleeding and my mind had wrapped itself around what had just happened, I cleaned myself up and took a good, long look in the mirror.\n\nI remember standing there for a solid fifteen minutes with the insecurities flooding through my head. _You're not a Power Ranger_ , they said. _I bet the Red Ranger would_ _have been able to do that kick_. And just as the tears began to trickle down my face once more, my mom peeked her head into the door and said, \"Hey, my little Blue Ranger! Are you ready to get some candy or what?\"\n\nFact: moms have a powerful way of making things all better. And although she knew I wasn't the real Blue Ranger, I remember my mom telling me how great my costume looked, and that it was my job to protect us while we were out collecting my bagful of cavities.\n\nWhile this story has a cute and happy ending, it scares me to think that so many others who share a similar experience won't have the same conclusion. This story is about more than pretending to be a Power Ranger. This story is about the lives of most Christians in today's world.\n\nWe dress the part, act the part, and even try our best to walk and talk the part. But how many of us are just playing dress-up? How many of us are trying to live as something we aren't? And, how many of us have turned a beautiful relationship with Jesus into a 24-7 costume party, only to end our days realizing we are not really the people we are pretending to be?\n**CHAPTER 2**\n\nSTOP THE EPIDEMIC\n\nNo past, present, or future is broken enough to be kept from the all-consuming grace of God. #JesusSwagger\n\nEven if poser Christianity is an epidemic in the Christian faith, is the gospel still being shared? Yes. And are lives still being transformed? Yes. I don't doubt God's power to use all things for his good.\n\nBut imagine if everyone who claimed to love Jesus actually did. Imagine if everyone who called themselves a Christian put more effort into serving their neighbors than catering to their selfish wants. You know, if we served because others needed help, not just to check a good deed off our list. Or looking at the church budget and being more worried about people coming to know Jesus as Lord than wondering when your church is going to purchase some chairs that are more comfortable. Imagine if every person who called themselves a Christian actually followed the ways of Christ, and completely turned away from living life for their own desires.\n\nIf this happened, we would see world change. We would see nations experiencing hope, cities transforming from the inside out, and churches around the world making disciples and going to extreme lengths to serve their communities.\n\nBut we're nowhere close. Don't get me wrong\u2014there are incredible things happening in the name of Jesus. But so much more can be done. Our motives must change. Our focus must be reunited with the gospel. And our passion must be fueled by what God can do through us, not just what he can do for us.\n\nConferences, books, albums, and T-shirts are wonderful tributes to the kingdom of God. In fact, I love that our generation is doing everything it can to expand its reach. But the essence of Christianity goes beyond publicity: it's the belief that people loving people in the name of Jesus will truly change the world.\n\n**THE PHARISEE FAKES**\n\nThere are some posers in Scripture who rocked robes and giant hats instead of Power Ranger costumes: the Pharisees. I kind of feel bad for these guys. I mean, whenever they get brought up I immediately think, _Great. What arrogant nonsense are they spouting now?_ No joke: most of these guys are the epitome of religious posers.\n\nThe Pharisees were known as the religious elite, the top dogs, and the high-and-mighty of faith. And although these nicknames sound incredibly awesome, the men who were behind them weren't all too savvy when it came to actually knowing their heavenly Father. Pharisees were known to be righteous and zealous for keeping the law. But their observance and protection of the law was filled with arrogance and hypocrisy. They were prideful and stingy with grace. Judgment was easy for these guys, but refusing to show grace or give second chances was their demise.\n\nIn Matthew 23, you will find Jesus teaching to the crowds and his disciples about the problems of hypocrisy. He claimed that although the words of the Pharisees may have been wise, their actions did not match what they preached. He continued by describing what most poser Christians face in today's generation: \"Everything they do is for show\" (Matthew 23:5).\n\nJesus was publicly calling out the Pharisees for being religious show-offs who were looking to gain nothing but personal acknowledgment for their actions. They were using their faith and knowledge of the Scriptures as a catalyst for personal popularity. They loved the idea of being extremely religious, but failed to convert that into passion for God himself.\n\nNot only did the actions of the Pharisees hurt their own opportunity for salvation, but their ways of living gave a false reflection of what it actually meant to be a follower of God. The constant judgment and religious entanglement they repeatedly subjected people to was theologically unjustifiable.\n\nWhat sorrow awaits you teachers of religious law and you Pharisees. Hypocrites! For you shut the door of the Kingdom of Heaven in people's faces. You won't go in yourselves, and you don't let others enter either. (Matthew 23:13)\n\nThe Pharisees spent so much time focusing on their outer appearance that they failed to allow the inner transformation to take place. You know, the one thing that actually mattered. It would be similar to someone who buys an old car from a junkyard, completely restores both interior and exterior, and then doesn't put any money into fixing the car's engine. It may look spectacular, but it's not going anywhere. Likewise, we seem to have convinced ourselves that if the outer image looks grand enough, then no one will bother asking about what's actually under the hood.\n\nWhen we find ourselves being complimented on the outer appearance long enough, it's easy to forget about fixing what's inside. As you can imagine, this is a hindrance to many people who are trying to find true transformation in Christ himself.\n\nSince the Pharisees found themselves in the spotlight of religious appreciation, it's no surprise that their elegant speech and impressive knowledge of the law kept them comfortable and unwilling to push further in their spiritual journey.\n\nDo you want to know how to live a great gospel-centered life? Just do the exact opposite of everything the Pharisees did. The Pharisees were more focused on impressing each other with spiritual knowledge than actually following the commandments of God, showing grace, or lending out a selfless hand. We have to make an effort to walk that talk.\n\n**THE PHARISEES** | **TRUE FOLLOWERS OF CHRIST**  \n---|---  \nPrayed in public for recognition.  | Pray in public because they are unashamed.   \nRead God's Word for head knowledge. | Read God's Word to deepen their relationship.  \nJudged people for the sake of judgment. | Lovingly correct people because they care.\n\n**THE STONES WE THROW**\n\nOne of my favorite encounters of Jesus and the Pharisees is found in chapter 8 of the book of John. It's a righteous shutdown that has reverberated through history, and become part of how we deal with accusations even to this day. This story is very popular among those even outside the evangelical crowd, and its ripple effect has spread the grace and love of Jesus from person to person.\n\nBut Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, \"Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery.\" (John 8:1\u20134 NIV)\n\nThe Pharisees go straight to pointing out the flaws in the adulterous woman. They don't give Jesus her name, how old she is, or even a background of where she has come from. There is no benefit of the doubt in their eyes. The pharisaical group barges into the temple courts, only to throw a heap of judgment and religious law in the face of a woman who is obviously broken. They demand, \"In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?\" (John 8:5 NIV).\n\nHoping to trap Jesus into teaching a law in opposition to theirs, they ask him a question that Jesus answers in glorious form. Not only does Jesus' answer completely baffle the Pharisees, but it firmly convicts them of their own faults. Jesus calls out the Pharisees by playing their own game. Talk about reverse tactics. This one is genius.\n\nThey were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, \"Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.\" (John 8:6\u20137 NIV)\n\nInstead of stating whether or not the woman deserved to be stoned based on the laws of Moses, Jesus instead asks whoever can call themselves blameless in the sight of the Lord to cast the first stone. Not only does this put the Pharisees in a state of confusion, but Jesus knows none of them are idiotic enough to claim such blasphemy in the eyes of the public.\n\nAgain he stooped down and wrote on the ground. At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. (John 8:8\u20139 NIV)\n\nThere are many ideas of what Jesus might have been writing in the sand while face-to-face with the Pharisees that day. Some scholars believe Jesus could have been writing down the sins of the Pharisees, their mishaps, and the secrets they tried to keep from the public. I don't know if we will ever know the truth, but I think this postulation makes perfect sense due to the Pharisees' reaction to Jesus' question. It's a punch in the gut to ask, \"Who here is blameless?\" and it's a total knock-out to then write the sins of those who were thinking about claiming it.\n\nAfter the Pharisees drop their stones and remove themselves from the presence of the adulterous woman, Jesus makes another shocking statement.\n\nJesus straightened up and asked her, \"Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?\" \"No one, sir,\" she said. \"Then neither do I condemn you,\" Jesus declared. \"Go now and leave your life of sin.\" (John 8:10\u201311 NIV)\n\nHe offers the woman grace, forgiveness, and a second chance at life. \"Then neither do I condemn you. Go now and leave your life of sin.\"\n\nJesus' encounter with the Pharisees and the woman caught in adultery draws such a relevant image for what we face in today's culture. Our world finds it so easy to point out the flaws and failures in one another, but constantly fails to realize that we too have our own closetful of sins and mishaps.\n\nJesus swagger is all about dropping your pharisaical lifestyle and embracing the reality that everyone deserves a helping-hand grace. You and I were once handed a second chance when we didn't deserve it. Grace is not something we get to control. It was never ours to begin with. The grace of God was given to us when we had nothing to give back, and it's only correct for us to offer it to those who we think may not deserve it as well.\n\nMatthew Henry's _Concise Commentary of Ephesians 2_ illustrates the power and undeserved potency of God's transforming grace in each of our lives:\n\nSin is the death of the soul. A man dead in trespasses and sins has no desire for spiritual pleasures. When we look upon a corpse, it gives an awful feeling. A never-dying spirit is now fled, and has left nothing but the ruins of a man. But if we viewed things aright, we should be far more affected by the thought of a dead soul, a lost, fallen spirit. A state of sin is a state of conformity to this world. Wicked men are slaves to Satan. Satan is the author of that proud, carnal disposition which there is in ungodly men; he rules in the hearts of men. From Scripture it is clear, that whether men have been most prone to sensual or to spiritual wickedness, all men, being naturally children of disobedience, are also by nature children of wrath.\n\nThis text may seem pretty harsh, but understand that this was before the grace of God entered into our lives. We are no longer considered children of wrath, but instead sons and daughters of God. The toughness in this text is also the beauty. It showcases the love and grace Jesus provided us when he died on the cross. It is a gift that we did nothing to deserve. The grace he has given us brings a new line of connection to him, one that didn't exist while we were still dead in our trespasses and sins.\n\nWhat reason have sinners, then, to seek earnestly for that grace which will make them, of children of wrath, children of God and heirs of glory! God's eternal love or good-will toward his creatures, is the fountain whence all his mercies flow to us; and that love of God is great love, and that mercy is rich mercy. And every converted sinner is a saved sinner; delivered from sin and wrath. The grace that saves is the free, undeserved goodness and favor of God; and he saves, not by the works of the law, but through faith in Christ Jesus. Grace in the soul is a new life in the soul.\n\nThis reckless and powerful grace has saved us from being children of wrath, and instead opened up the door to God's eternal love and mercy. We have been delivered from our brokenness, and instead set free by the undeserved grace and favor of God.\n\n**SIX THINGS JESUS DIDN'T DIE FOR**\n\n**1. JESUS DIDN'T DIE SO THAT WE COULD TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HIS GRACE.**\n\nGrace is never deserved, and it also is not to be taken advantage of. While God's grace flows in abundance, this does not give us the right to misuse it for the benefit of our selfish desires. This doesn't mean we are expected to be perfect, but instead progressing toward real righteousness, God's way (Titus 2:11\u201312).\n\n**2. JESUS DIDN'T DIE SO THAT WE COULD REFLECT CHRISTIANITY IN A HATEFUL WAY.**\n\nWhether in person, on social media, or even through the grapevine, Jesus did not die on a cross so that you could claim to love him yet reflect an opposite result to others (1 John 4:20).\n\n**3.JESUS DIDN'T DIE SO THAT WE COULD PURSUE MONEY, FAME, AND MATERIALISM.**\n\nThe cross points us to Christ, not creation. The gift of grace wasn't presented so that we could become infatuated by the pursuit of riches, titles, and glory. The cross of Christ gives us a new hope, a new vision, and a new purpose\u2014beyond all that. We are called to be \"not of this world.\" As a Christian, your life should reflect an image of grace and selflessness, not greed and self-entitlement (Romans 12:2).\n\n**4. JESUS DIDN'T DIE SO THAT WE COULD WEAR CROSSES AROUND OUR NECKS HONORING THE SACRIFICE THAT WAS MADE ON ONE.**\n\nA cross isn't just a fashion accessory. The significance of the cross has more weight than any other symbol in the world. And while many use this symbol as nothing more than a piece of bling, God highlights it as the very thing he sent his son Jesus to die upon (1 Corinthians 1:18).\n\n**5. JESUS DIDN'T DIE SO THAT WE COULD MAKE MONEY OFF HIS NAME.**\n\nBiblically, there is nothing wrong with having a Christian company. The problem is when one uses the name of Jesus to strictly make a profit, with no vision of expanding the reach of his hope. It all comes down to one's motives (2 Corinthians 2:17).\n\n**6. JESUS DIDN'T DIE SO THAT WE COULD LIVE A LIFE FREE FROM \u00a0PAIN.**\n\nFree from pain? Nope. But with strength to lean on during trials? Yes. Becoming a Christian doesn't mean that life will be just peachy, but it does mean you will have someone to rely on during times of pain and suffering (Matthew 11:28).\n\n**PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH**\n\nLet's take a moment to ask some questions.\n\n1. Am I a poser?\n\n2. Do I claim one thing but live another?\n\n3. Am I much different than the Pharisees?\n\nAs I sit here in my local coffee shop and drink my overpriced iced vanilla latte (a real manly drink), I've begun looking around me wondering what kind of lifestyle I am portraying. I'm sure it has nothing to do with my skinny-jeans and pierced ears, but instead the two open Bibles on my table.\n\nI've noticed a few people walk through the entrance and stare, dumbfounded and confused, as if I was doing something too radical to be seen in public. One lady even gave me a little _pffff_ , rolled her eyes, and then made her way to the nearest barista to get her caffeine fix. As much as I try to fight them, insecure thoughts have now begun running through my head. _Maybe I should put my_ _Bibles away so I don't make people feel uncomfortable_. Or, _Maybe I should go to a different coffee shop where the tables are a little more private_.\n\nBut a few seconds later I've snapped out of my trance of insecurity and said to myself, _No! This is exactly why I am writing this book. So people who claim to love Jesus will start acting like it, regardless of who or what they are surrounded by_. As silly as the title of this book may sound, I want to make sure that my life portrays a living, breathing, love-wearing, grace-pouring example of Christ. That's not just confidence: it's Jesus swagger.\n\nIt's time to stop making up excuses about why we can't be what God has made us to be. We should care less about the coffee shop lady's shallow opinions, and only focus on the one that matters: God's. And since the day I was born, God set aside a place for me in his kingdom, just as he has for you. Our calling is to walk like Jesus walked, talk like he talked, and serve like he served.\n\nAs I continue to write this, there is a battle for my heart being fought every single day. And it's happening within you too. No matter where I am writing, tweeting, preaching, or walking, the world will try to pull me one way, while the truth of the gospel moves to lead me the right way. It's a battle that we must prepare for every day of our lives.\n\nIn Revelation 3:16 we see Jesus share his thoughts of what he thinks about posers in the Christian faith. \"But since you are like lukewarm water, neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth!\"\n\nThe word _spit_ in Greek is _ekptu\u00f3_ , which literally means \"spit out, disdain, reject, or loathe.\" In other words, Jesus despises the posers of Christianity so much that you could say it makes him gag. You don't need to have a theological degree to understand that's probably not a good thing.\n\nBut while Jesus weeps over the posers of the Christian faith, so many of us live our lives as if it's okay. Let's call it _purposeful ignorance_. That's when you know what you are engaging in is wrong, but you pretend to be ignorant toward the morally correct answer in order to justify engaging in it anyway. I firmly believe that the closer we get to God, the farther away from lukewarm living we will be.\n\nThis type of committed lifestyle doesn't just happen overnight. We must ask ourselves where our roots are truly planted, and make a decision to get away from lukewarm faith. In Scripture we can find Jesus sharing a relevant parable to better equip the crowd before him to do just this. One of my favorite readings on this parable is found in _The Message_ , where it's titled \"The Story of the Seeds.\"\n\nAs they went from town to town, a lot of people joined in and traveled along. He addressed them, using this story: \"A farmer went out to sow his seed. Some of it fell on the road; it was tramped down and the birds ate it. Other seed fell in the gravel; it sprouted, but withered because it didn't have good roots. Other seed fell in the weeds; the weeds grew with it and strangled it. Other seed fell in rich earth and produced a bumper crop. (Luke 8:4\u20138 MSG)\n\nImagine a dramatic pause here before Jesus goes on.\n\n\"Are you listening to this? Really listening?\"\n\nHis disciples asked, \"Why did you tell this story?\"\n\nHe said, \"You've been given insight into God's kingdom\u2014you know how it works. There are others who need stories. But even with stories some of them aren't going to get it:\n\nTheir eyes are open but don't see a thing,\n\nTheir ears are open but don't hear a thing.\" (Luke 8:8\u201310 MSG)\n\nHere Jesus screeches to a halt and actually explains his own parable. He doesn't look for another creative illustration or explain with another story, as he did so many other times. He just spells it out to his followers. That's how important it is.\n\n\"This story is about some of those people. The seed is the Word of God. The seeds on the road are those who hear the Word, but no sooner do they hear it than the Devil snatches it from them so they won't believe and be saved.\n\n\"The seeds in the gravel are those who hear with enthusiasm, but the enthusiasm doesn't go very deep. It's only another fad, and the moment there's trouble it's gone.\n\n\"And the seed that fell in the weeds\u2014well, these are the ones who hear, but then the seed is crowded out and nothing comes of it as they go about their lives worrying about tomorrow, making money, and having fun.\n\n\"But the seed in the good earth\u2014these are the good-hearts who seize the Word and hold on no matter what, sticking with it until there's a harvest.\" (Luke 8:11\u201315 MSG)\n\nThese words cut to the core of what it means to have mediocre faith, and they tell us what attributes are necessary to a faith that is unshakable. The elegant words of Jesus give a clear understanding to all who are willing to digest their importance. If you are looking to grow, widen, and produce a relationship with Jesus that is unshakable, then why would you plant yourself anywhere that lacks the proper soil and nutrients? In a dry desert without any fellow Christians or people to pray with you? In a self-centered existence where you don't sacrifice lovingly for anyone? In a frenetic, busy life that leaves no space for hearing God's voice?\n\nNo matter where the seeds of your life have fallen, you must come to see that God is always willing to replant you whenever you are ready. No past, present, or future is broken enough to be kept from the all-consuming grace of God. Let your faith shine bright, and let your roots be planted in the enriched soil of God's will.\n\nI can't help but thank God for being more than gracious enough to replant me amid several different instances throughout my life. I pretended to know him as a child, and purposely ignored him during my teenage years. Spiritually, I was all over the place. I did whatever I could to make people happy. It wasn't until I was around twenty years old that he finally yanked me up by my roots, replanted me, and became my everything. Although I didn't deserve to be given a second, third, and fourth chance, God continued to show his unending grace and fiercely convicted me of what changes needed to be made in order to fully experience the life he had planned for me.\n\nI realized how far I had traveled away from God's direction, and it was only in my dark and haunting loneliness that I realized how badly I truly needed him. I thought I could do things on my own while juggling a relationship with God that was good enough, to at least pass as acceptable. I needed help. I needed to focus my heart's desires on his name, his love, and his promises. I needed to get closer to my Creator.\n\n**FIVE WAYS TO GET CLOSER TO GOD**\n\n**1. ADMIT YOU CAN'T DO EVERYTHING ON YOUR OWN.**\n\nOne of the first steps to gaining a closer relationship to God is admitting that you need him in your life. Here's the truth. We can't do everything on our own, so admitting this will not only drive home a sense of humility, but also will show God that you have faith in his strength and promises.\n\n**2. REMOVE YOURSELF FROM HARMFUL RELATIONSHIPS.**\n\nOne of the biggest roadblocks to finding a deeper relationship with God is a harmful relationship. Whether with family, friends, or coworkers, taking yourself out of the equation will help give you the space and energy needed to first get right in your relationship with God. Although this might sound tough to accomplish, you won't believe the freedom and liberty you will encounter when you are able to focus solely on your relationship with God.\n\n**3. GET PLUGGED INTO A LOCAL CHURCH OR SMALL GROUP.**\n\nYou won't believe how much having a group of people to support you will encourage you along your journey with God. Getting plugged into a local church or small group will help keep you accountable, give you wisdom when needed, and even provide for you in times of distress. The church of God was intended to operate in community, so I encourage you to find a community that cares about your relationship with God as much as you do.\n\n**4. READ YOUR BIBLE ON A DAILY BASIS.**\n\nReading your Bible is key. You don't need to memorize the whole thing in Greek, but you should be spending time reading it at least once a day. Whether you simply read it, listen to a podcast, or go through a devotional, reading your Bible will help build a foundation for your faith in God. Write down notes that you can look back to, and always be transparent when incorporating what you've learned. God will speak to you in ways that will not only transform you from the inside out, but will give you a better grasp of who you are.\n\n**5. MAKE PRAYER A PRIORITY.**\n\nPrayer is key. Although prayer can sometimes feel weird or awkward in the beginning, it really doesn't have to be. In fact, it can be incredibly fun. Look at prayer as a conversation between you and God. You don't need to light candles, burn incense, or even wear a black robe. Just relax, get somewhere peaceful, and begin a conversation with God that will help build your relationship with him. Martin Luther once said, \"You cannot find a Christian who does not pray to God; just as you cannot find a living person without blood.\" That quote is packed with powerful truth, and I want you to begin looking at prayer as your way of staying connected to God. Any relationship with meaning is one that has great communication.\n\n**SIX WAYS TO HAVE A LUKEWARM RELATIONSHIP WITH GOD**\n\n**1. ONLY VIEW GOD AS YOUR TICKET OUT OF HELL.**\n\nGod is more than a get-out-of-hell-free card, and our relationship with him should reflect something much deeper than that. Heaven isn't a place for people who fear hell, but instead a place for people who passionately love God. Don't make your relationship with God transactional. He's worth more than anything your mind can fathom. He's not here just to be personal fire insurance. A relationship with God is something to marvel over. It's a relationship unlike anything this world can offer you.\n\n**2. ONLY PRAY WHEN YOU NEED SOMETHING.**\n\nHave you noticed that everyone seems to pray when things get tough? The real question is whether or not you are going to extend your prayer life beyond the hard times. God is looking for a relationship with you, and only by communicating with him will you be able to deepen and nourish it. Take prayer as an opportunity to connect with God daily. This time of one-on-one communication will not only help you grow spiritually, but it will nourish your personal relationship with God.\n\n**3. ONLY READ YOUR BIBLE DURING A CHURCH GATHERING.**\n\nIf you want a relationship with God, then I suggest you read the Word he breathed into life. Read a devotional, join a Bible study, or even read the Bible from beginning to end. Regardless of how you read your Bible, God is looking for you to open up his Word and digest the wisdom he has prepared for you. Let's just get real for a moment: There is no such thing as a Christian who ignores God's Word.\n\n**4. ONLY WORSHIP DURING A CHURCH SERVICE.**\n\nWorshiping during church service is great, but worshiping outside of that element is even greater. Find ways to worship God throughout your everyday life, and make a priority out of giving praise to the One who created you. Worshiping God can be done through many different forms\u2014music, prayer, art, and anything that moves your soul. So find a way to praise God that reflects who God created you to be.\n\n**5. ONLY GIVE BACK WHEN YOU GET SOMETHING IN RETURN.**\n\nTrue giving means expecting nothing in return. Whether you are giving to a charity, a church, or even a mission trip, if you are only doing it because it's tax refundable, or because God might bless you for blessing others, you might want to question whether or not your heart is in the right place.\n\n**6. ONLY CLAIM TO BE A CHRISTIAN WHEN IT BENEFITS YOU.**\n\nAnyone can claim to be a Christian when things are easy. The real question is whether or not you will represent your faith in times of trial and tribulation. Right now there are people all around the world being martyred for their faith, and many of us won't even claim our faith because we're afraid people might make fun of us. Ouch. Is your love for God worth giving everything up for? Is it a privilege and a joy that is stronger even than the fear of death?\n\nNo matter where you have fallen in the soil of God's garden, I would encourage you to truly evaluate yourself in a way that strives for deeper roots and widened branches. God is looking for people who are truly committed to his cause, his mission, and his love.\n\nThere are plenty of ways to have a lukewarm relationship with God, but there is only one way to have a thriving one with him: pursue him. It's all about commitment and the pursuit of God's love. A fully committed follower of Christ will never find himself or herself lacking guidance or purpose.\n**CHAPTER 3**\n\nLOVE WITHOUT LIMITS\n\nI can't ever recall a person who came to know Jesus because of hate. #JesusSwagger\n\nDo you ever question whether or not you are good enough to be a Christian, or holy enough to be loved by God? Well, here are four things God's love won't hold against you.\n\n**1. YOUR PAST**\n\nRelax. You have already been forgiven. When it comes to a relationship with Jesus, don't ever expect to run into resentment from Christ himself. The future looks bright for all those willing to walk in the light of his presence. Jesus will forgive you of your past, even if you have yet to forgive yourself.\n\nWe know that our old self was crucified with him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin. (Romans 6:6 ESV)\n\n**2. YOUR MISTAKES**\n\nWe've all made mistakes, but the beauty of the cross is that Jesus died for them. Your sins have been wiped clean, and your heart has been renewed by the grace of Jesus himself. Your mistakes do not define you. Your failures don't have to haunt you. Your mishaps don't need to be accounted for. God forgives you for your mistakes, even if you have yet to forgive yourself.\n\nTruly, I say to you, all sins will be forgiven the children of man, and whatever blasphemies they utter. (Mark 3:28 ESV)\n\n**3. YOUR CONFUSION**\n\nIt's okay to be hurt, confused, and question what's taking place. God understands everything you are going through, even if you do not. He can take the punches, if you will take the time to seek his guidance. The reality of your confusion may be due to a lack of biblical knowledge or spiritual guidance. Confusion comes and goes, but the love of God is eternal.\n\nFor the LORD gives wisdom; from his mouth come knowledge and understanding. (Proverbs 2:6 NIV)\n\n**4. YOUR ADDICTIONS**\n\nEveryone is addicted to something. No matter if your struggle is drugs, alcohol, sex, pornography, or whatever, your addictions will not keep the relentless love of Jesus from embracing you. Take a deep breath and find peace in knowing that you are not alone or ignored.\n\nNow the law came in to increase the trespass, but where sin increased, grace abounded all the more. (Romans 5:20 ESV)\n\nGod's love for you is stronger than the darkness of your past. The beauty of God's love is that it is relentless, ongoing, undaunted, and never failing. What else in this world can offer you that? Nothing. The cool thing is, we get to showcase this same relentless love to those around us.\n\nRomans 3:23\u201326 shows us a breath of God's relentless love, one that overpowers any mistake or failure we can ever make. His grace not only brings us a forgiveness we do not deserve, but continues to provide understanding in the lives of all who call Jesus their Lord.\n\nFor all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus, whom God put forward as a propitiation by his blood, to be received by faith. This was to show God's righteousness, because in his divine forbearance he had passed over former sins. It was to show his righteousness at the present time, so that he might be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus. (Romans 3:23\u201326 ESV)\n\nThe meaning of this verse is simple: God will love you no matter the circumstance.\n\nCan you say that you reflect the same image to others? Do you love without limits? Do you love without boundaries? Do you love without conditions? I'm already asking myself the same questions, evaluating what I've said or done today, and whether or not my life is truly lived with relentless love.\n\nJesus' love has always been a mystery to me. It's something that my mind cannot fathom fully, nor can I comprehend it spiritually. And although I know his love is without hesitation, it blows my mind to see the beauty of it in action and his pursuit of those he calls \"his children.\"\n\n**A WEE LITTLE LOVE**\n\nThe story of Zacchaeus is one many people can remember hearing in the early days of Sunday school. I can remember the coloring books, cartoons, and Velcro picture boards, all about how Jesus showed love to a \"wee little man\" named Zacchaeus. The kicker in this story is not just that Jesus showed him love, but that it was given to him before there was any sign of repentance for his wrongdoings.\n\nZacchaeus was a tax collector who took advantage of those he was collecting from. Not only did Zacchaeus take money from those less fortunate, but when sending the taxes he collected to the Romans, he was known for keeping some for himself.\n\nHe was a rich man with a small stature and no friends. Zacchaeus's love for money was apparently what kept him from seeing his need for the love of Christ. Then one day, while Zacchaeus was walking through the town of Jericho, he saw a vibrant crowd coming his way. Because there had been so much chatter about Jesus, my guess is that Zacchaeus hoped it could be the one who called himself the Son of God\u2014the man who was giving sight to the blind, healing the sick, and the man who came to seek and save the lost.\n\nJesus entered Jericho and was passing through. A man was there by the name of Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was wealthy. He wanted to see who Jesus was, but because he was short he could not see over the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way. (Luke 19:1\u20134 NIV)\n\nAfter Zacchaeus climbed a sycamore-fig tree, I can only imagine how excited and nervous he must have been as he sat in that tree waiting for a glimpse of Christ himself.\n\nWhen Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, \"Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.\" So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.\n\nAll the people saw this and began to mutter, \"He has gone to be the guest of a sinner.\"\n\nBut Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, \"Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.\"\n\nJesus said to him, \"Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.\" (Luke 19:5\u201310 NIV)\n\nDid this really just happen? Did the blunt and boorish tax collector just get asked to host Jesus himself? As the crowds looked upon what had just taken place, I can't help but think all of them were baffled. To think that the selfish and surly tax collector was just befriended by the man who claimed to be the Son of God. Any preexisting idea of who Jesus was, was just thrown out the window when he made this misfit move. I love Jesus for this because he was always surprising people in the way he did things. It's almost as if he was saying, \"You don't know me the way you think you do.\"\n\nLooking at the inner workings of this story, I notice how powerful and life changing it is for anyone who thinks he or she is not worthy enough to receive the love and compassion of Jesus. In a single action, Jesus showcased to all who were watching that his love does not have boundaries, no matter the depth of one's wrongdoings.\n\nThere are millions of other people in this world who are living a life outside the image of Christ, but still find their curiosity leading them up a tree in hopes of getting even the smallest glimpse of him. Their lives may not make them out to be someone who deserves his love, but just as Jesus stated in Luke 19:10, \"For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost\" (NIV).\n\nYour past failures and mistakes are irrelevant to the all-consuming love of Christ. We are all lost, broken, and in need of divine love. The story of Zacchaeus is an eye-opener to say the least. And while not everyone will be able to understand the works of God, this doesn't mean that love given through Jesus and his Holy Spirit is at all lacking. What we cannot see, God still provides. What we cannot understand, God still creates. And what we cannot comprehend, God still continues to make reality.\n\nYou may be a lot more like Zacchaeus than you think. Or you may know someone who needs love just as much as he did. No matter what side of the gate you're on, the ideology of love is the same.\n\nNotice that after Zacchaeus accepted the offer to befriend Jesus and host him at his household, his entire mind-set and posture was radically changed. Zacchaeus went from a money-hungry punk to a selfless and loving man whose heart was yearning to make right the corruption that had hurt all those around him.\n\nIt's amazing how a single act of love can transform someone from the inside out. Even in your life, one single act of love could be the tipping point to someone knowing the truth of Christ, so don't withhold that from anyone you come across. In the same way that Jesus was willing to show love to a man who most would say didn't deserve it, you and I should be willing to go to great lengths to show love to people all around the world.\n\nWhether you think you are qualified or not, Jesus will pave the way if you are simply willing. Sometimes your willingness to love those who need it will be the difference maker in whether or not people come to realize the love of Jesus really does exist.\n\n**LET THERE BE LOVE!**\n\nIt's sad to sit back and watch the media cover nothing but the faults and failures of proclaimed \"Christ-followers,\" instead of getting down to the truth of what 98 percent of us do differently than the 2 percent who make us look bad. If the negativity that the media portrays is in fact the world's view of what it means to be a Christian, please don't call me one. I'd rather call myself a Christ-follower than be thrown into the twisted view of what we've made \"Christians\" out to be. I understand that _Christian_ actually means _Christ-follower_ , but you get where I'm going with this.\n\nThe word _Christian_ has become too common over the years. Not for the sake of spreading the good news of Jesus, like we'd hope for, but instead that of comfort and ease. People say \"I'm a Christian\" as easily as they would \"I like hamburgers.\"\n\nFor many reasons, the word _Christian_ has stopped being associated with the word _love_. It's stopped being associated with grace. This isn't a matter of theology, doctrine, or philosophy, but instead of the actions people take\u2014or don't take\u2014in the name of Christ. Jesus called us to love one another as he has loved us (John 13:34). Simple. This means we are to relentlessly, passionately, and fervently love one another just as he has loved us, _no matter the circumstance_. But does this really happen?\n\nThe ideology of \"hate the sin, not the sinner\" has _not_ converted well into today's culture. If you take a moment to look around, you'll notice that we are very good at showing hate to the people whom God has called us to love. Regardless of what the Bible says about cursing, drinking, homosexuality, sex, cheating, lying, or stealing, we are still called _to love one another_. It's that simple. No questions asked, regardless of how you interpret Scripture.\n\nDoes this frustrate anyone the way it frustrates me? And before you say anything about seeking to keep your brother or sister accountable, please remember that you and I both sin as much as the next person. The goal isn't to look away when someone is struggling, but instead to engage and embrace people in a way that reflects the loving comfort of Christ. A way that shows the love of Jesus. A way that turns from anything to do with hate. Period.\n\n\"Hate the sin, not the sinner\" isn't working. Honestly, I don't believe it ever has. When hating the sins of others, people just simply don't know how to separate the sinner from the sin. I encourage you to instead \"Love the sinner, not the sin.\" Remove the word _hate_ from your vocabulary, and start reflecting an image of Jesus that portrays him differently than a man standing on a soapbox wielding a megaphone. I can't ever recall a person who came to faith because of hate. Let's start a movement of people who are willing to take hate out of the equation and love people regardless of their sins.\n\nWhen Jesus called us to love one another, it wasn't limited by guidelines or parameters. The commandment was simple and to the point: \"A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another\" (John 13:34\u201335 NIV).\n\nThere are no regulations on who and when to love. Love is not ours to control, monitor, and divvy up. Love was never intended to be kept to ourselves. It was meant to be shared with anyone and everyone willing to accept it.\n\nThe idea of loving without limits may seem a little intimidating, but that's the raw beauty of it. Sometimes loving people might not make sense, but it still makes a difference.\n\nI remember hearing a story from my friend Mike Foster of a man named Emmanuel, who was part of the Rwanda genocide in 1994. As part of the Hutu majority, he assisted in the killings of nearly a million people, and one of those people was the husband of a Tutsi woman. Emmanuel later came to find shame in his actions, and he then asked for the forgiveness of the man's wife. Not only did she express that God had already forgiven him for his actions, but that she did as well.\n\nWhat reckless love was shown through the actions of this woman. Where the rest of the world might give her an excuse to eternally hate this man, she instead harnessed the love of God and offered a place of forgiveness and grace.\n\nIf anyone should be leading the way for love and compassion, it should be the followers of Love himself\u2014Jesus. When we begin to view people through the eyes of Jesus, we are less likely to see their flaws and more likely to see their need for love.\n\nAll throughout Scripture we see Jesus loving people whom others deemed foul, broken, dirty, and unworthy. To us that may mean the homeless drunk guy, the prostitute hanging out downtown, the person in jail, the drug addict\u2014even the convicted sex offender. People may criticize you for giving your time and attention to people who are ostracized or considered permanently broken. They may say it's not safe, that they're not worth your time, and that these people gave up the right to be treated well when they made their bad decisions. They said that to Jesus too. But while many self-proclaimed followers of God sat back and criticized the openness of Jesus' love for people, he called them out for their lack of it:\n\nAnd as he passed by, he saw Levi the son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax booth, and he said to him, \"Follow me.\" And he rose and followed him. And as he reclined at table in his house, many tax collectors and sinners were reclining with Jesus and his disciples, for there were many who followed him.\n\nAnd the scribes of the Pharisees, when they saw that he was eating with sinners and tax collectors, said to his disciples, \"Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners?\" (Mark 2:14\u201316 ESV)\n\nTake notice that even the Pharisees and other religious leaders are confused as to why Jesus is extending love to those who are sinners, tax collectors, prostitutes, and thieves. The love Jesus showed to these people was without boundaries or regulation. He was giving it all to people who might not even recognize him as the Son of God. The beauty of this is that Jesus knew these people couldn't offer him anything in return, and yet he still embraced their friendship and presence.\n\nJesus' response to the religious elite was nothing short of jaw-dropping: \"And when Jesus heard it, he said to them, 'Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners'\" (Mark 2:17 ESV).\n\nThe sick, or the sinners, were the people who needed the most urgent shot of love. You probably have someone in mind right now who could be classified as one of \"those who are sick.\" Hey, it may even be you. But no matter the person or their beliefs, when you show them love, you show them the Spirit of Jesus himself.\n\n**DISPENSABLE LOVE**\n\nRecently I was hiking through the trails of Washington State on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Whether I am hiking the mountains, fishing the streams, or simply looking for an adventure, getting outdoors and into the wild is something I've always loved to do. There is a spiritual awakening that comes with adventuring through God's creation. Although the weather in Washington can get pretty cold, it's easy to build up a sweat while trekking through the rugged wilderness, especially while wearing a few layers of clothing.\n\nI'm an avid watcher of those reality survival shows, so I absolutely love the idea of being in the woods, having to survive on my own, and protecting myself from the dangers of the wilderness. A friend of mine had recently given me a survival kit for Christmas, so I was pretty excited to try out some of the items that came along with it. I'm not sure if he gave it to me as a joke or not, but I was all for using the kit in a real-life situation\u2014even if it was just for a day.\n\nI'd probably actually enjoy getting lost in the wild and having to rely on a small kit like this\u2014but let's be honest. I also love learning everything I can as I watch from the comfort of my living room, eating popcorn instead of worms and bugs and whatnot.\n\nOn my walk, as I continued traveling down the bank of a river, I noticed that my water bottle was looking a little empty and I had nothing left to drink in my backpack. Instead of chancing the salmon-crowded river water below me, I decided to make my way back toward a little town I had spotted when I parked my car. I must not have been as far into the woods as I thought, and to my surprise it only took me about fifteen minutes to get where I was headed.\n\nI walked up to the local park and tried getting a water bottle out of the vending machine. To my surprise there was no water in stock, and I was out of luck. I took a moment to examine my surroundings, and I realized that this little town was in fact abandoned, and not the lively place I hoped it to be. I took a few minutes to walk about the area, in hopes of finding a small convenience store. Once again, I was out of luck and without water.\n\nI decided I was going to have to try my luck with the stream water, but I was hesitant knowing I could get extremely sick. Why? Because it was spawning season, and the last thing you want to do is drink water where salmon are spawning. I don't need to further explain, do I? Yuck.\n\nJust as I was about to make the plunge in drinking the river water, I heard a voice in the distance. To my surprise, a man with his dog came out of the woods, jogging with an overnight backpack on. I gave him a quick wave and he ran over to me with a smile on his face. I kindly introduced myself and then asked if he knew of anywhere I could get some water. He looked around and said, \"Here, there are some cabins just over that hill. Use one of their community fountains.\" He pulled a small trail map out of his backpack, circled a specific location, and then handed it over to me with a huge smile on his face. \"Really?\" I asked. He nodded his head and went back to running. Before I could say anything else, he was up the hill and back on course to his adventure.\n\nIt took me another ten minutes to find the cabins he was talking about, but man, were they a sight for sore eyes. I walked up to the community water fountain, filled up my water bottle, and found myself extremely relieved.\n\nI sat down, drank enough to get myself rehydrated, and then made my way back to my car, grateful that I'd avoided heatstroke. I can't begin to explain how refreshing and rejuvenating that water was.\n\nThat afternoon, the fact that I could easily and freely access water from that fountain stuck with me. God's love is also described as a fountain of \"living water\" that is always available to us in our driest times (John 4:10). The thing is, if God is the water, then we should be the ones sharing his love. We dispense his love to those who need it. It's our calling. A drinking fountain isn't going to judge how much you drink, what you did in your past, or whether or not you deserve a sip. It's simply there to refresh and rehydrate you in your time of need. Aren't we called to do the same thing to people all around the world?\n\nImagine if everyone who called him- or herself a Christian loved like a water fountain. No matter who needed love, why they needed it, or whether or not they deserved it, love would be poured out with nothing asked for in return. Think about how many community water fountains there are in this world. Imagine if all of those were actually people standing by and giving love to anyone who crossed their path. How would our society be different?\n\nMind you, we all can't stand around and just wait for someone in need. But we can take time out of our busy schedules to stop and pause for a moment when it's needed, and to put others before our calendars.\n\n**A JOYFUL DEBT**\n\nWe are called to love like this for a very good reason: because Christ first loved us. He paid for our sins on the cross. That puts us in a sort of joyful debt to him\u2014where we live a life of gratefulness, freedom, and love in return. While earthly debt is destructive, the debt of love is life-giving. Paul says in his letter to the Romans, \"Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another\" (13:8 NIV). What does this mean? Origen wrote in the second century, \"Paul wants every debt of sin to be paid and absolutely no debt of sin to remain among us, but for our debt of love to abide and never cease; for paying this debt even daily and owing it at all times is beneficial to us.\"\n\nThe Christian is always a love debtor, no matter how much love he gives. If you have ever had a personal debt, be it ever so small, you know that the first thing that enters your mind when you see that person is that you \"owe\" them. It may be nerve-racking, but that urgency makes us spring to action. Being a spiritual debtor is much less nerve-racking, but the sense of positive urgency remains. When we go to church, town, work, shopping, school\u2014wherever we go, whoever we meet, we owe love. As R. Kent Hughes says, \"This is our debt\u2014loving on the level.\"\n\nWhen it comes to loving people, let's not allow it to be something we do on the side. Let's make it part of who we are. Let's make it a lifestyle. Whether we are at the gas station, picking up groceries, even waiting to get our car repaired, there is always an open opportunity to love someone in need.\n\nHaving been able to preach all across the United States in the last few years, I came to realize that no matter where I am located, people are always in need of love. Whether I was in the rainy streets of Seattle, on the border of Mexico in Laredo, Texas, or all the way across the country on the sandy beaches of Florida, it's all the same. Love is a language that's relevant in all cultures.\n\n**LOVE IS A VERB**\n\nHave you noticed that people use the same word to explain their affection toward chocolate as they do to their husband or wife? How frivolously we use the word _love_.\n\nA bar of chocolate and a wife are two completely different things that deserve two completely different descriptions. To me, that shows that we need to deepen our conversation about what love really means.\n\nToday's concept of love seems to be extremely shallow. And while I know not everyone may speak and think of love frivolously, I would bet that the general population would agree we need to do better at it. According to a 2011 census, 41 percent of all marriages in the United States now lead to divorce. Why such a shocking figure? It might have something to do with the way we use the word _love_ as a noun, rather than a verb. So many people think of it as a \"thing\" instead of an \"action.\"\n\nAlthough my wife and I still have many years ahead of us, it doesn't change the reality that we need to constantly pursue one another's hearts. No matter how long you've been with someone, this fact doesn't change. Utilizing love as a verb in our relationship has completely transformed the way we see each other. Not only do we affirm each other by saying that we love each other, but we show our affections through actions and follow-through. A hug here, a kiss there, a sacrificial act of service, a gift, a listening ear, a frank talk, a fun night out\u2014love in action makes a huge impact over time. The only way it works is if we take each day as an opportunity to relentlessly pursue one another.\n\nBut there is an example far greater than what we humans can do for one another. It's the transcendent act of love that God showed on the cross through Jesus. Words fail us when it comes to describing the cross. Because of that ultimate loving act, we're called to pursue a lot less talk and a lot more action. Not only are we to exhibit love through our everyday actions, but we are to be a living exhibit of Christ's love. It's a lifestyle that can only be shown through experiencing a life in Christ.\n\n**LOVE LIKE A SAINT**\n\nWhen I think of radical, unlimited love, I immediately begin to think of a humble woman who has become an icon of grace and selflessness: Mother Teresa. Not only was this woman a bold and vibrant example of the love of Jesus, but she relentlessly showed love to the \"least of these\"\u2014the lepers of Calcutta (Matthew 5:19). In some of her most famous words, she drives home an amazing point: \"You may be exhausted with work, you may even kill yourself, but unless your work is interwoven with love, it is useless. To work without love is slavery.\"\n\nI wish I could have met this woman before she passed away, because her story and testimony have completely changed my life for the better. Other than Jesus himself, Mother Teresa is hands-down one of my favorite historical world changers. Her story is one that provides an exuberant example of how Christ will provide for those who are willing and open to God's work. Here is how one of her biographers described her beginnings:\n\nNamed Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu, Teresa was born an Albanian in Skopje, Yugoslavia. Her father was a prominent businessman and her mother a helper of the poor. As early as age twelve, Teresa saw herself as a devout Catholic with missionary interest in India. In 1928, on graduating from high school, she joined the Sisters of Loretto, an Irish order of missionary nuns. After a year's study of English in Ireland, she arrived in Calcutta, India, in 1929.\n\nTwo years later, vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience concluded her novitiate. She took her name from Teresa de Lisieux, who emphasized joy in menial tasks. In 1937, she became Mother Teresa through further vows. From 1931 to 1948, Teresa taught geography and history at St. Mary's School, her order's high school in Calcutta. But by 1946, she believed God had given her another special call: to live among and assist Calcutta's most desperate poor.\n\nMother Teresa secured permission to begin her new ministry in 1948. After a year's training as a nurse, she founded a school in one of Calcutta's slums. Before long, she had attracted numbers of dedicated workers. In 1950, the Vatican approved organization of her work as the Missionaries of Charity. A fourth vow became basic to this group: wholehearted free service to the poor. As her efforts proceeded, Teresa was appalled at some of the slums' hideous conditions. Consequently, she resolved to concentrate on the worst of the diseased and destitute. With her various helpers, she approached Calcutta's most afflicted lepers, trash-disposed infants, starving families, and beggars\u2014the deformed and helpless of all ages and backgrounds.\n\nThus, among other facilities, Teresa's Calcutta work eventually included a home for the dying, an orphanage, a leper colony, an employment workshop, various medical centers, and countless shelters. But soon Calcutta could not contain Teresa's vision. In 1965, she was permitted to extend her ministries to other parts of the world. By 1986 the Missionaries of Charity had founded centers in Venezuela, Ceylon, Tanzania, Rome, Cuba, and other locations. These all implemented Teresa's call to the \"poorest of the poor\" . . .\n\nIn 1979, she accepted the Nobel Peace Prize. Overruling critics, the Nobel Committee stated that she made efforts for peace by her \"confirmation of the inviolability of human dignity.\" In the name of \"the hungry, the naked, the homeless,\" Teresa accepted all prizes, using any monetary awards toward purchasing more facilities. Above all, in describing her motives, she spoke of Christ's love and his commands to respect each human life. . . . About her ministries, she claims to have done no great things, only small tasks in the power of Jesus's love.\n\nAs I sit and ponder the life of Mother Teresa, I can't help but envision a woman who, without fear, let nothing stop her from sharing the love of God. No brokenness, no disease could keep her from helping the people she was called to shower in love. She didn't have any limitations on love. Her passion and purpose to love kept her heart focused on the ideology to \"love because he first loved us\" (1 John 4:19 NIV).\n\nMother Teresa was a rare breed of human\u2014a love-sharing juggernaut\u2014but that same beautiful truth is also a saddening truth. Why is it so rare? It makes me think about my motives for sharing love in my own life. I constantly question whether or not I am loving in a way that reflects the true being of Jesus, or whether my actions are merely motivated by the good feeling I get after handing a homeless man some change. Is sharing love in a limited capacity just another way of being a poser Christian?\n\nMy wife and I have learned that our calling in life isn't to make ourselves feel good by helping others, but to relentlessly help others regardless of whether it's convenient for our personal lives. This means things like pulling over on the freeway to help a family with a flat tire, bringing lunch to a homeless man down the road, or helping a mother bring all of her groceries to the car. Loving others isn't about us at all. And until that sinks in, we'll never be able to love the way Christ truly loved.\n\nMother Teresa selflessly put aside her personal needs, wants, and comforts in order to love those whom society rejected. While the rest of the world overlooked the diseased people of Calcutta, Mother Teresa loved them relentlessly, passionately, and without limitation. It might be bizarre to imagine Mother Teresa walking the streets of India with Jesus swagger, but she embodies the second key to swagger so well: loving with sacrifice, as God did, and accepting God's love yourself. This led her to confidently stride into areas of disease and suffering, knowing that God would protect her, uphold her, and make her a fountain of mercy. May we keep her in mind as we swagger on.\n**CHAPTER 4**\n\nCHURCH WITHOUT WALLS\n\n\"You can't be a church without a building,\" said Jesus, never. #JesusSwagger\n\nI was visiting a new church for the first time since relocating for a new job. I had heard nothing but great things about this church from the people around me, so I figured we would give it a shot since I was looking for a new place to call home. As I drove up to the building I noticed it was smaller than I had expected, but that didn't really matter since my goal was to find community rather than get lost in a crowd. And while my previous experiences in the church had already given me preconceived notions about what our experience might be like, the Spirit reminded me that not all churches are the same, and that my old ways can't get in the way of what God might do through me today.\n\nAs I walked in to find my seat I could already tell I was out of place. I was probably the youngest person in the congregation, and everyone around me either had four kids or was starting to get some grey hair. This doesn't mean that God couldn't have used this church to speak to me, but the reality was I was looking to build community with people my age and in my stage of life.\n\nIgnoring the age difference of the people around me, I went through the motions of a typical church service. I listened to the announcements, awkwardly tried to sing a few songs I didn't know, and then got up to greet people around me before the pastor was scheduled to come up and teach. I'm dead serious when I say I stuck out like a sore thumb. I'm positive people thought I was some-one's grandkid visiting for the weekend, partially because I looked like I was sixteen, and partially because I was a third of the age of everyone attending.\n\nAs I returned to my seat, the pastor took his place in the pulpit and began preaching a message that started like most, but eventually he said something that has forever opened my eyes. It wasn't the message itself that tore me apart, but what was happening to the right of me in the church foyer that brought me to tears and ignited a bomb of righteous frustration.\n\nThe message was dedicated to how the congregation was to rapidly grow over the next few years, how they planned on expanding their building, how they would accomplish reaching thousands of new members, and in what ways they could make the experience of attending their church better. He proceeded to go off on a tirade about how their congregation needed to work more with the homeless, help hurting families, and be there for the least of these (Matthew 25:40). It was one of those tirades that every communicator, including myself, goes on when they are fired up about something. And while he continued to passionately preach to his congregation, my eyes glanced toward a group of individuals with stringy hair, dirty clothes, and tattered jackets sitting on chairs in the lobby across from my seat. _What are the odds of that?_ I asked myself.\n\nI immediately thought, _You should go see if any of them want to sit with you_. I got up from my chair and walked over to a man who seemed as if he was in deep thought, and unaware of his surroundings. I introduced myself and asked for his name. \"Roger,\" he said, as his toothless smile lit up the entire lobby. I asked if any of them would like to sit with me during service, and his response to me is what has forever changed my view on the church.\n\n\"We have to stay right here,\" he said with a timid voice, as one of the staff members looked on at both of us with crossed arms and a tough grin. In my confusion I asked him again, hoping that I had just heard him wrong. But as he repeated exactly what I had thought he said, my anger toward the church staff began to grow, and I assured him it would be fine if he and some of his pals sat next to me. Glancing nervously at the two staff members now crowding us, he insisted on remaining in the lobby in hopes of staying out of trouble. They were sitting in a small and separate seating group reserved strictly for homeless individuals. And with a handshake and exchange of names I stumbled back to my seat with a disgruntled expression on my face while the staff members looked at me like I was some sort of crazy person. As service ended and people began getting up from their seats, I watched dozens of people walk past Roger and his friends, not even giving them a glance. As most of the congregation flooded out of the building, Roger and his pals were then asked to grab their stuff and told the service was now over. I can't imagine what Roger must have been feeling, but everyone in the congregation acted as if he and the rest of his group were invisible.\n\nI find myself in tears as I think about how humiliated and rejected Roger must have felt while being ignored by a church, and put in a corner like a dog needing to stay out of trouble. I don't know his entire life story, but I can only imagine the circumstances that brought him to where he is today are anything but glamorous and joyful.\n\nTo this day I still wish I would have left my seat and sat with Roger and his group in the lobby, but I'm assuming my frustrations kept me from thinking straight, or maybe it was that I was still working through my time as a poser Christian. The rest of the service that day I couldn't concentrate; I kept asking God, _How could anyone let this happen? Isn't this supposed to be a church_? and _Didn't the pastor just get done saying how we need to help the hurting?_\n\nAt that moment I realized how backward the purpose of churches has become. We've become so infatuated with bringing people into our buildings, making them extremely comfortable, and verbally designing an idea of what we think Christianity is supposed to look like, that we have forgotten that the very message of Jesus was to \"go and make disciples of all the nations\" (Matthew 28:19). Including our own\u2014and the hurting people in them.\n\nI'm not ignorant enough to believe that every church in the world would act the same way this one did, but I will say that this experience opened my eyes to something many churches in the world are at fault for. We lack the boldness to reach outside of ourselves, and we're afraid to get the carpets dirty. We look more like museums than we do biblical churches.\n\nFrom the very foundations of the Bible, we find examples of the church reaching outside of itself, meeting people where they are, and going to great lengths in order to help those who are in need. The church was never intended to be exclusive, but so many of us have turned our ideology of its purpose into a club that meets once a week in a building made by man. The church was never meant to be a members-only country club.\n\nAre church buildings wrong? Of course not! They are a wonderful tool that can be utilized to host gatherings, provide shelter, and even create a 24-7 communal space for those in need. But when the sole focus of a church becomes \"How many people we can bring inside our building?\" we've completely missed the mark. We can't expect to create an influx of hope in our culture while we continue to close the church doors behind us.\n\n**CHURCH AND CASINOS**\n\nOver the last few years God has given me the wonderful opportunity to visit and preach at some incredible churches. And while every church has its own strengths and weaknesses, there are always a few churches that stand out to me more than most.\n\nThe last place anyone would expect to see a thriving church would be the city of Las Vegas. But while many people deem this fast-paced entertainment capital \"Sin City,\" my dear friend Jud Wilhite has other plans for this community. Jud is currently the pastor of a church in Las Vegas, a place he has decided to call Grace City. And while many people in the world may scarcely hear about the struggles of porn, drugs, prostitution, gambling, and other addictions in their congregations, this is something Jud and his staff see on a daily basis.\n\nJud's church reminds me of a quote I once read by Abigail Van Buren: \"Church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints.\"\n\nI've actually heard their church once described as one big AA meeting. And if you really think about it, that's a huge compliment! I believe Jesus would applaud that. If you remember, Jesus himself spent time with sinners, prostitutes, drunks, and swindlers (Luke 15:2). He was always showing affection to those who the world would overlook.\n\nAnd while it would probably be fairly easy for Jud and his staff to ignore the pain and suffering coming through their church doors, they instead open themselves up to anyone and everyone who is looking for help. They aren't afraid to get their carpets dirty, deal with some tough issues, and reach outside their comfort zone in order to benefit a person in need of God's love. Trust me, I've seen it firsthand.\n\nTheir team has people who are constantly reaching out to local bars, casinos, and strip clubs, all in the hopes of bringing people to Christ. Not to judge or condemn, but to love and offer help for addictions they might not even know they have. I'm not telling you to barge into your local strip club, bar, or casino and proclaim the name of Jesus. But I am telling you that God is using some incredibly willing people to reach the ones no one else is reaching, by doing things no one else is doing.\n\nI'll never forget the first time I ever visited Vegas. Jud's executive staff picked me up from the airport and then took me to lunch. I wasn't too sure where we were going to eat, but they told me they had something special in store for my arrival. To my surprise, we ended up at a buffet, in a casino, on the Las Vegas strip _. I hope nobody tells my mother about this_ , I thought to myself. I find it kind of funny that my first trip to Vegas was to visit a church, rather than all the things that city has to offer. And if you think that's crazy, what's even crazier is that the staff told me not to be surprised if some of the people who attended or even served at their church were currently working at that very casino.\n\n\"We come here to show people we aren't above or beyond them,\" they told me. \"You'd be surprised to know how many people who are working the tables are also serving with us on Sunday mornings.\"\n\nI was blown away by the church's willingness to break down the walls and barriers of its congregation, and open itself up to the entire city of Vegas. It's no wonder this church is one of the biggest and fastest growing churches in America. They're extending the same love, grace, and hope that Jesus himself did. There are no limitations or boundaries as to who was handed a hearty helping of church. Sin City better look out.\n\nAs the lunch conversation continued on, I couldn't help but remember what Paul stated in 1 Corinthians 9:22\u201323:\n\nWhen I am with those who are weak, I share their weakness, for I want to bring the weak to Christ. Yes, I try to find common ground with everyone, doing everything I can to save some. I do everything to spread the Good News and share in its blessings.\n\nWhat a beautiful example of a church without walls. Pastors, staff, elders, and an entire congregation who are willing to step outside of their comfort zones and meet people where they are.\n\nIf that wasn't enough already, the church also has specialized meetings for just about anything you can think of. Single moms, prison inmates, drug addictions, domestic abuse, victims of rape or child abuse, individuals with disabilities, and more. They have opened their arms to anyone and everyone in need of love, grace, and a second chance.\n\nMind you, this church doesn't claim to be perfect. In fact, they don't even claim to be almost perfect. But the beauty behind what this church team is doing in Vegas is their willingness to show relentless love to people all across their city. In the same way, I believe all of us need to strive for this very thing. No matter who you come across, where you meet them, or where they are in life, you and I can always be open and willing to be the church.\n\n**THE EARLY CHURCH**\n\nThe Greek word for church is _ekkl\u00e9sia_ , which means \"assembly.\" You can find the first use of this word in the New Testament when it is spoken by Jesus in the book of Matthew. Jesus stated to his disciples, \"I will build my church\" (16:18). This assembly was built upon his character and power, and it was never meant to be done in any other way.\n\nAfter Jesus said this, he began meeting with people around the tabernacle, and later the temple. Although Jesus used the tabernacle and temple as meeting places, kind of like we do, the foundation and purpose of the church is found in him alone\u2014and not the meeting place in which it is being held.\n\nMost would say that the beginning of the church can be found in chapter 2 of Acts, where the disciples had been overcome by the work of the Holy Spirit and were equipped for their evangelistic mission (vv. 1\u20134). That church's existence testified to the resurrection of Jesus, which began a new age for believers and still affects the world around us.\n\nImmediately after the disciples shared their teachings, a church of community and fellowship was born. The communities were filled with acts of prayer, the sharing of bread, and worship. The early church was founded on the aspect of community and how one could help the needs of others. There was no official building to meet in, but the church of Jesus grew still: \"praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved\" (Acts 2:47 NIV).\n\nMany scholars and theologians would claim that this model of church would not last in today's society, but when it comes to people who are looking for biblical community, I'd bet differently. There is a hunger for community, and it doesn't matter where it meets\u2014be it a shopping center, bar, movie theater, home, park bench, or stained-glass cathedral. A buildingless community is definitely not the only way to be the \"authentic\" church, but it's an intriguing option.\n\nWhen I begin to evaluate what people are actually looking for in a church setting, nine times out of ten I will get a response that has to do with finding a community of people to do life with. If this is the case, then I can't see why an Acts 2 model of a deepened sense of community and founded on the power of the Holy Spirit would not work.\n\nThe church that propelled me into my ministerial journey was one in Corona, California, called Crossroads Christian Church. And at the age of twenty I dedicated my life to the Lord, got baptized, and immersed myself into a life of ministry. Not only did God provide me with incredible leaders, but the mission and purpose of the church was summed up into three words that I believe are the crux of our faith: _Christ_ , _cause_ , and _community_. These three words not only helped mold the church's vision, but also kept it focused on God's purpose for the congregation.\n\nI started off like everyone does in ministry. I was an intern who basically did what I was told, walked in a posture of learning, and allowed myself to be molded and poured into by the leaders around me. I learned how to serve. Even in my first few years of ministry I noticed a theme in those around me: a yearning for community. People were excited for events, concerts, and special guests at the church, but for some reason nothing compared to everyone's desire for biblical community in the daily rhythm of their lives.\n\nYes, the church had a vision for growth and expansion; but they placed extreme emphasis on the act of building community outside of the church's walls. Even after being away for quite some time, I can see that the church's mission and purpose remains the same, and the leadership continues to make strides to expand their \"outside-the-building\" communal efforts. They are meeting in lower income neighborhoods, with after-school programs and a day-care center, and it's really changing their community. Other than service on Sundays and a student gathering on Mondays, every group or meeting of people meets outside of the church, immersed in the surrounding community.\n\nNo, that church is not perfect. But yes, it's effective in reaching people who aren't already part of a church. We won't ever be able to duplicate an exact match of the Acts 2 church, but God does give us the wisdom and guidance necessary to get pretty dang close.\n\nDon't get me wrong. I understand that culture and society are way different than they once were, but we need to remember that Jesus is still the same. He is the same today as he was yesterday and will be tomorrow (Hebrews 13:8). We can't limit what the church is capable of due to a time and date. When we embrace the power of the Holy Spirit, we can reach outside the walls we have built around us.\n\nI have nothing against church buildings, but I do have something against how they make people view the church's purpose. We sometimes use the walls around us as a comfort and safety zone. It's as if we've tricked ourselves into thinking the church only exists when we are within a certain parameter, and ends once we step outside and get into our cars.\n\nThe _ekkl\u00e9sia_ , or church Scripture talks about, is living, breathing, and organically built by the Spirit of God. Yes, we can bring our own unique visions and style into the mix, but to think we can fully control a community that was meant to be guided by the Spirit is heretical. As Charles Wood said,\n\nA lovely building is not a church. All the beams, joists, decking, pews, seats, pulpit furniture, carpet, fixtures, woodwork, organ, piano, speaker system, chalkboards, easels, and podiums do not make a church. These merely form a church building or the building where the church meets.\n\nSome say that no church building is actually ever mentioned in the New Testament. Instead people met and \"broke bread\" within the comfort of their homes (Acts 2:46 NIV).\n\nThis doesn't make a church building wrong, but it does make it nonessential. To think that we cannot praise, worship, serve, or proclaim the love of Jesus without four walls and a pulpit is false beyond measure. The church is people. We are the church (Matthew 18:20).\n\n**KNOW YOUR NEIGHBORS**\n\n_The second is equally important: \"Love your neighbor as yourself.\" No other commandment is greater than these._\n\nMARK 12:31\n\nDo you know your neighbors? Every day we run across people who are working at gas stations, flipping burgers, working at nail salons, and wiping down tables. Imagine if we all took a second out of our day to learn their names, ask how we can pray for them, and intentionally make it a point to come back and see them again. Now, you might be thinking, _That's kind of weird and overbearing_. But it's actually reflecting a vibrant image of Jesus Christ.\n\nSo, yes\u2014it is weird, if by _weird_ you mean _different_. As Christ-followers, we are called to be different from the rest of the world and to love people without limits. That's surely something this world isn't used to. In the same way we show love to our friends, family, and coworkers, we need to be extending that same love and compassion to the people we come across casually in our everyday lives. At one point in time, every friend was a stranger. Love changed that.\n\nThis type of love will only work if it is intentional, selfless, and nontransactional. In order for us to begin a lifestyle of love, we must be intentional about giving it. It will blow you away to see how the most unlikely of people can become the closest of friends, all through the act of intentional love.\n\nWhat's the difference between _being_ the church and simply inviting people to one? It's showing relentless love. This will let us see every place, from the gas station to the grocery store, with an entirely new set of eyes. Before we love, though, we must get to know people. Knowing your neighbor is slowly becoming a faded concept, perhaps because while many people in this world truly yearn for the love and affection friendship brings, many of us are putting our own agendas before the needs of others. We are pulling through the drive-through in a hurry to get to work, rather than sharing a kind word. We are brushing by people on our way to somewhere else \"urgent,\" and maybe even getting too attached to our \"me time.\"\n\nWhen we put others before ourselves, we are directly telling them that we love and value their lives. This might mean taking time out of your busy schedule to stop and let someone know how much you appreciate his or her hard work, or even paying for the coffee of the person behind you. For some people, this might be exactly what they needed to keep from giving up, quitting the job they feel unappreciated at, or even endangering their own lives. So next time you have to make a decision between keeping things running smoothly with your day or showing love, try showing it, and see what a difference it makes.\n**CHAPTER 5**\n\nJESUS ISN'T HIRING PART-TIME DISCIPLES\n\nEveryone is called to full-time ministry, no matter where you live or work. #JesusSwagger\n\nHere's a little questionnaire for you.\n\n1. Do you call yourself a Christian?\n\n2. Do you believe in the power of God's Word?\n\n3. Do you believe the Bible is the inerrant and inspired Word of God?\n\nIf you answered _yes_ to these questions, congratulations: You've just applied yourself for a life of full-time ministry.\n\nYou might think,\n\n_But I don't work at a church_ . . .\n\n_But I don't work for a Christian company_ . . .\n\n_But I don't have time to serve in ministry_ . . .\n\nIf you claim to be a Christian, then the question of \"the meaning of life\" is already solved for you! The purpose of your life is to share the redemptive qualities of Christ (Matthew 28:19). You _are_ in the ministry.\n\nGalatians 2:20 reads, \"I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself up for me\" (NASB). There is vital truth to what this verse states. It is no longer _you_ who lives, but Christ who lives _in_ you. Meaning, it's no longer about your agenda, your desires, and your needs. If you call yourself a Christian, your agenda is now filled with an all-consuming calling from Christ himself.\n\nThat hits me pretty hard. All the selfish desires that you and I have should now be thrown out the window, and all focus trained on Jesus.\n\nYour current situation and workplace are your personal mission field. Why? Because you can reach people a church can't. You're on the front lines! You might even have a better opportunity to reach people than a missionary or church professional does. Don't let anyone tell you that full-time ministry can only be found within the confines of a church building. God is bigger than four walls and a steeple.\n\nGod has put the people around you in your life for a reason. Find out what that reason is, and make it your mission to empower their lives with Christ. Jesus will always supply you with the necessary tools and weapons needed to conquer anything that comes in your path.\n\nWork at a grocery store? Perfect. You have the opportunity to share and reflect the love and servanthood of Christ to dozens of customers a day. Work for a restaurant? Awesome! Use your time at work to share your testimony with your coworkers, or even share a reflection of Jesus' kindness to each person who walks through your doors. If you really look, there are endless possibilities for anyone who is looking to be a full-time disciple of Jesus Christ.\n\nYour job title doesn't matter, but the way you use your time does. Stop letting people tell you that working for the government or for your company isn't God's plan for you. Stop allowing the opinions of man to keep you from being a light to your current workplace (Matthew 5:14). Just because you may not have a seminary degree and a position serving in a local congregation doesn't mean you're not in full-time ministry.\n\nJesus himself wasn't paid by a church. He was a carpenter who used his everyday knowledge of work and carpentry to relate to the people he was surrounded by. Yes, men like Paul and Peter dropped everything to follow the plans of Jesus, but don't forget about the thousands of other people who stayed where they were in order to be a light where it was needed.\n\nThe New Testament couple Priscilla and Aquila are perfect examples of this. Acts 18:2\u20133 tells us:\n\n[Paul] became acquainted with a Jew named Aquila, born in Pontus, who had recently arrived from Italy with his wife, Priscilla. They had left Italy when Claudius Caesar deported all Jews from Rome. Paul lived and worked with them, for they were tentmakers just as he was.\n\nWe can see that both Priscilla and Aquila were tent makers who helped Paul on his missionary journey by allowing him to live and work with them in order to provide for himself. Their regular work flowed seamlessly into their ministry\u2014a ministry that happened to help during one of the most critical points in Christian history. Tent makers, yes, but history makers too.\n\nStep out and start vocalizing what God has put on your heart. If you're not willing to do it where you are, what makes you think you would do it somewhere else?\n\nWhen we think about work or vocation, there's always the issue of money\u2014of getting paid for what you do. It's tempting to put earning a living before being in ministry where you are (\"I need to focus on surviving before I focus on other people\"), but God's logic is the opposite. I know people who make less than $15,000 a year and have thriving ministries. I also know people who make well over six figures a year and can't seem to find their ministerial fit. Your paycheck, job title, and spare time are irrelevant factors to whether or not God can use you. He looks at your heart, not your bank account. And he can use you right now. You have the option to change the world starting with the people who are standing right in front of you. If you don't reach out to them, who will? I wouldn't leave that up to chance, or give up the opportunity to make an unprecedented ripple effect on the world around you. The potential is limitless.\n\nThe ideology of every Christian embracing a lifestyle of full-time ministry has the potential to transform the world from the inside out. It's a possibility that could truly reach the far ends of the world for the sake of the Gospel. Imagine if everyday people, working everyday jobs, meeting everyday customers, all shared the extraordinary salvation given through Jesus Christ. The potential is limitless.\n\nMy sister is a perfect example of someone who is using her current situation in life to better serve the church of Jesus. And while my sister isn't on staff at a church, nonprofit, or any other Christian-based ministry, that hasn't stopped her from going on four missionary trips to Africa, serving at the local shelters on a weekly basis, and striving to help extinguish the global sex trafficking trade, all while attending school full time and working as a waitress. Yeah, she's pretty awesome.\n\nAnd don't even get me started on my wife. This woman lived on her own for years before we were married and has worked full-time jobs since she was seventeen, all while serving more than forty hours a week at local ministries. Not to mention that she has spent an extended amount of time serving in Honduras to help with a privately run orphanage. Why, you ask? Because she has a passion and purpose in the Lord that all people who call themselves Christians have access to. She started serving with what she had, and it snowballed into something beautiful. Her willingness has opened the door for her to change so many lives in the name of Christ. She uses her everyday experiences as an opportunity to change someone's life, no matter the scenario.\n\nIn order to embrace the true Jesus swagger lifestyle, embrace the mission of using every moment available to share your faith in Christ. There are no limitations on where God can work.\n\nLet me say it again: Jesus isn't hiring part-time disciples. While this may discourage you in the beginning, I would encourage you to allow it to fuel your purpose in life. Stop, take a deep breath, and make today the day you start using every avenue available in every place, no matter how mundane, as a way to share the hope, grace, and salvation of Jesus Christ. Trust me, it's worth every moment.\n\n**RECLAIMING CULTURE**\n\n\"Christians are so narrow-minded\" is a phrase I hear almost daily. And while much of me thinks that's entirely false, I can't help but question if that's the reality for most. While many people in this world do their best to stay away from what the evangelical crowd might call \"secular\" life, I tend to be the person who pushes firm believers into the center of it in order to make a difference. Call me unconventional.\n\nI'm not proposing that you should frequent the local party scene, get drunk with your friends, post scandalous photos on your social media channels, or become infatuated with money and material things. Of course not. But what's stopping you from being the one to make a difference in the secular world? What's wrong with showing an example in dark places? If you won't, who will?\n\nHonestly, I think many of us are just too scared to jump headfirst into something Christian culture calls \"secular.\" That word sounds scary. And while I agree there are many things one should stay away from as a Christ-follower, there is a mature and honorable way to go about being a Christian while still being engaged in today's culture. Once again, Christ called us to reach \"all the nations,\" not just Christian cliques (Matthew 28:19).\n\nI believe Jesus came to reclaim culture, not reject it. We talk so much about wanting to change the world for Jesus, but in the same breath we tell people not to engage in the culture surrounding us. Jesus called us to change the world from the inside out, and that begins with us equipping ourselves to evaluate culture, engage culture, and then reclaim the culture for the teachings of Jesus.\n\nWhether it is the job you take, the music you listen to, the movies you watch, or the way you dress, there is always a way to reflect an image of Christ no matter the circumstance. Just because some might not understand it doesn't mean it's not right. I can't begin to tell you how many times I've been criticized for the way I dress, or the fact that my ears are pierced, the way I have decided to cut my hair, or that I decided to get a tattoo of a cross on my chest when I was eighteen. These are all things that others might look at and deem unbiblical, but I tend to look at each of them as biblically redeemed. These are things one can choose to do in a way that glorifies Christ.\n\nGod has called us to reclaim the world he created for his name and purpose. There are many things in this world that culture has used for darkness, but in reality can and should be taken back in the name of Christ. Music, visual art, and the entertainment industry are all examples of arenas we can seek to reclaim for the sake of Jesus. Don't let culture be what changes your relationship with God. _Do_ feel free to let your relationship with God help you change and contribute positively to culture.\n\n**PREACHING WITHOUT A PULPIT**\n\nThe idea of preaching without a pulpit might seem a little crazy to some, evoking images of shouty people standing on street corners, waving Bibles at pedestrians. But the concept of pulpitless preaching is not so narrow. In fact, it's one of the callings God has placed on each of our lives. Not only are we all called to share the gospel with the nations, but also we are called to do it in a fearless way: \"Since this new way gives us such confidence, we can be very bold\" (2 Corinthians 3:12).\n\nI receive messages and e-mails from people from all around the world asking for evangelistic advice. People who want help sharing Jesus with their friends, family, and strangers. And while I always find it easy to give advice to those who need it, I am constantly asking myself if I am listening to the same advice I am giving. If you were to ask yourself when the last time you shared Jesus with someone was, what would the answer be? That answer will tell you a lot about your relationship with him.\n\nI love seeing teenagers who are fired up for Jesus sharing his story with people at malls, schools, and grocery stores. Many of today's youth have more audacity and boldness than those who claim to be mature believers in Christ. That change in living may be derived from \"growing up,\" and being told to chill out over the years, but I believe this is something we need to evaluate and change our view on. We can keep that radical way of living in our hearts. We can keep living an audacious life in the name of Jesus. We're called to be radical. There is no other way to live the Christian life.\n\nIn the same way I see youth groups and Christian clubs excited to use the people around them as personal mission fields, I would hope to see my generation and beyond be passionate for the same thing.\n\nSo why do so many of us hold on to the idea that we need a church building, or some sort of official sanction to preach the Word of God? There are many events in the Bible where Jesus preaches to the masses. Not in a church building, temple, or religious organization, but in the open for all to hear. Jesus constantly used his surroundings as a platform to share truth and religious liberation. One of the most classic examples of this is described in the book of Matthew. The story goes, \"One day as he saw the crowds gathering, Jesus went up on the mountainside and sat down. His disciples gathered around him, and he began to teach them\" (5:1\u20132). No pulpit. No ushers. No printed bulletins. Jesus saw the people, and dug in for the long haul. He must have looked around and seen the faces of hundreds of people who were hurting\u2014who needed hope. And he reacted with a set of teachings we now call the Sermon on the Mount. It's one of the most intense streams of wisdom in the Bible. All from a dusty hillside in Judea.\n\n**THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT**\n\nJesus said to the people:\n\n_God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him,  \nfor the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs._\n\n_God blesses those who mourn,  \nfor they will be comforted._\n\n_God blesses those who are humble,  \nfor they will inherit the whole earth._\n\n_God blesses those who hunger and thirst for justice,  \nfor they will be satisfied._\n\n_God blesses those who are merciful,  \nfor they will be shown mercy._\n\n_God blesses those whose hearts are pure,  \nfor they will see God._\n\n_God blesses those who work for peace,  \nfor they will be called the children of God._\n\n_God blesses those who are persecuted for doing right,  \nfor the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs._\n\nGod blesses you when people mock you and persecute you and lie about you and say all sorts of evil things against you because you are my followers. Be happy about it! Be very glad! For a great reward awaits you in heaven. And remember, the ancient prophets were persecuted in the same way. (Matthew 5:3\u201312)\n\nFor those in the crowd who were poor and in rags, for those who mourned, and those who were ostracized and mocked for following Jesus, this must have been like a cool drink of water. Same for us. How many other people over the ages must this have inspired to be humble, to hunger for justice, to show mercy, and to have a pure heart?\n\nBut Jesus saw more opportunity for encouragement.\n\nHave you ever silently noticed someone, and regretted not telling them what potential you saw in them? When you got great service, saw someone do something you admired, or even loved the way a dad was interacting with his kid? Jesus wasn't about to let the opportunity go to waste. He knew that each person could be a beacon, and he didn't shy away from telling it to them straight, looking in their eyes, and calling out their potential for his kingdom\u2014right there on the hillside.\n\n**TEACHING ABOUT SALT AND LIGHT**\n\nYou are the salt of the earth. But what good is salt if it has lost its flavor? Can you make it salty again? It will be thrown out and trampled underfoot as worthless.\n\nYou are the light of the world\u2014like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and then puts it under a basket. Instead, a lamp is placed on a stand, where it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father. (Matthew 5:13\u201316)\n\nThen it was time to get down to some things we might gloss over in polite conversation. This is a heavy dose of truth-telling, arranged in a \"you may have heard this, but I tell you something completely different\" manner. He even begins, \"Don't misunderstand . . .\"\n\nHow many times have you seen misconceptions about our faith and thought to yourself, _They're not even trying to understand what it really means!_ Or, _I just really don't want to get into this with this guy right now_. Here in this famous street sermon, though, Jesus shows us how to straight-shoot, confronting misconceptions about our faith head-on. After all, in light of eternity, what's the use of letting them slide in order to avoid an awkward moment?\n\nJesus cared about these people, and he needed them to know the truth\u2014that what they had \"heard said\" was not reality. This part of the sermon covers some sensitive stuff: the law, anger, adultery, revenge, giving, prayer, judging, consequences, heaven and hell, and pretty much the real grit of humanity's deepest issues. But he does it without mincing any words, and while still showing love.\n\n**TEACHING ABOUT THE LAW**\n\nDon't misunderstand why I have come. I did not come to abolish the law of Moses or the writings of the prophets. No, I came to accomplish their purpose. . . . So if you ignore the least commandment and teach others to do the same, you will be called the least in the Kingdom of Heaven. But anyone who obeys God's laws and teaches them will be called great in the Kingdom of Heaven. (Matthew 5:17\u201319)\n\nHere he calls for responsibility. There's no hint of \"follow God's laws because they'll make you happy and give you your 'best life now.'\" There's no \"just maybe give it a try if you're comfortable with it.\" Instead there's an acknowledgement of the pure, all-encompassing rightness of God's commandments, and how critical they are to the foundation of a righteous life.\n\n**TEACHING ABOUT ANGER**\n\nYou have heard that our ancestors were told, \"You must not murder. If you commit murder, you are subject to judgment.\" But I say, if you are even angry with someone, you are subject to judgment! If you call someone an idiot, you are in danger of being brought before the court. And if you curse someone, you are in danger of the fires of hell. (Matthew 5:21\u201322)\n\nContrary to the world's way of riding the anger train wherever it leads us (into court? into a yelling fight in the parking lot? into sabotage, slander, or worse?), Jesus gives us the option to get off at the first stop. We can all see the practical application of this; Jesus makes it a spiritual one too.\n\n**TEACHING ABOUT ADULTERY**\n\nYou have heard the commandment that says, \"You must not commit adultery.\" But I say, anyone who even looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart. So if your eye\u2014even your good eye\u2014causes you to lust, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. (Matthew 5:27\u201329)\n\nAgain, tough words. But with refreshing, cleansing power, purifying power. Jesus probably wasn't expecting the people to start hacking away at themselves in the crowd, but he knew how to convey to them the importance of intentions, and how small beginnings grow into great tragedies. Again, a blend of practical and spiritual.\n\n**TEACHING ABOUT DIVORCE**\n\nYou have heard the law that says, \"A man can divorce his wife by merely giving her a written notice of divorce.\" But I say that a man who divorces his wife, unless she has been unfaithful, causes her to commit adultery. And anyone who marries a divorced woman also commits adultery. (Matthew 5:31\u201332)\n\n**TEACHING ABOUT VOWS**\n\nYou have also heard that our ancestors were told, \"You must not break your vows; you must carry out the vows you make to the LORD.\" But I say, do not make any vows! . . . Just say a simple, \"Yes, I will,\" or \"No, I won't.\" Anything beyond this is from the evil one. (Matthew 5:33\u201337)\n\nIn a world where divorce is all around us, where vows are broken every day, this teaching is no more popular than it was then. There are countless hearts wounded, hurting, and crying out for healing because of divorce and the pain that it causes. This is not something to be taken lightly, and Jesus thought so enough to devote these lines to it in his sermon.\n\n**TEACHING ABOUT REVENGE**\n\nYou have heard the law that says the punishment must match the injury: \"An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.\" But I say, do not resist an evil person! If someone slaps you on the right cheek, offer the other cheek also. . . .\n\nYou have heard the law that says, \"Love your neighbor\" and hate your enemy. But I say, love your enemies! Pray for those who persecute you! In that way, you will be acting as true children of your Father in heaven. . . . If you are kind only to your friends, how are you different from anyone else? Even pagans do that. But you are to be perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect. (Matthew 5:38\u201348)\n\nJesus reminds us here about the greatness of God. God doesn't need to fight for his rights with us, or to force us to comply. He gives and gives, grace upon grace, without ever running out. What would the world look like if we did the same?\n\n**TEACHING ABOUT GIVING TO THE NEEDY**\n\nWatch out! Don't do your good deeds publicly, to be admired by others, for you will lose the reward from your Father in heaven. When you give to someone in need, don't do as the hypocrites do\u2014blowing trumpets in the synagogues and streets to call attention to their acts of charity! I tell you the truth, they have received all the reward they will ever get. But when you give to someone in need, don't let your left hand know what your right hand is doing. Give your gifts in private, and your Father, who sees everything, will reward you. (Matthew 6:1\u20134)\n\nThe crowd on the hillside already knew they were supposed to give to the needy. That's not the revelation here. What they needed to hear was that God cared about _why_ they did such things. God sees down deep to each atom of our makeup, each tiny thought, each breath, each feeling, and wants to soak it in righteousness. If you do a right thing for your own glory, you've just killed it. The action may be complete, but no love comes of it. God is not honored. You look like a chump. God looks at us, all striving and performing and running like hamsters in wheels, and wants to tell us to stop what we're doing, look at our hearts, accept his love, and then try again with new energy straight from his endless supply.\n\nTEACHING ABOUT MONEY AND POSSESSIONS\n\nDon't store up treasures here on earth, where moths eat them and rust destroys them, and where thieves break in and steal. Store your treasures in heaven, where moths and rust cannot destroy, and thieves do not break in and steal. Wherever your treasure is, there the desires of your heart will also be. . . . No one can serve two masters. For you will hate one and love the other; you will be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money. . . .\n\nSo don't worry about these things, saying, \"What will we eat? What will we drink? What will we wear?\" . . . your heavenly Father already knows all your needs. Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need. So don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today's trouble is enough for today. (Matthew 6:19\u201334)\n\nSo should you scrap your 401(k)? Hold a massive garage sale? Start passing out your Benjamins on the street? Hey, if you are up for getting radical, I'm not going to stop you. But what I think Jesus is aiming at here is our _hope_ \u2014what we place our hope in. If our savings go bust and our houses burn down, will we despair and lose complete hope in life? Will we completely give up, thinking back on all the hours, relationships, and opportunities we sacrificed just to get all that \"stuff\" that is now gone? Or will we let God set the value on the things in our lives? The \"treasures in heaven\" he's talking about have the amazing side effect of giving us peace of heart here on earth.\n\n**DO NOT JUDGE OTHERS**\n\nDo not judge others, and you will not be judged. For you will be treated as you treat others. The standard you use in judging is the standard by which you will be judged.\n\nAnd why worry about a speck in your friend's eye when you have a log in your own? How can you think of saying to your friend, \"Let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,\" when you can't see past the log in your own eye? Hypocrite! First get rid of the log in your own eye; then you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend's eye. (Matthew 7:1\u20135)\n\nHere's something we recovering posers need like cold water to the face. Comparing ourselves to others (and subsequently judging them) is our stock in trade. These planks in our eyes are huge, but we've decorated them with blinging cross ornaments and Christmas tree lights. But there's a better (and less tacky) way to live. When we let Jesus do the eye surgery, it's a whole lot easier to get around, and we can enjoy others instead of judging.\n\n**EFFECTIVE PRAYER**\n\nKeep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. (Matthew 7:7\u20138)\n\nJesus has told us a lot about what _not_ to do at this point. But here he gives the crowd a power boost: We don't have to fix ourselves. We don't have to figure it out from scratch. God is waiting to help us.\n\n**THE GOLDEN RULE**\n\nDo to others whatever you would like them to do to you. This is the essence of all that is taught in the law and the prophets. (Matthew 7:12)\n\n**TRUE DISCIPLES**\n\nNot everyone who calls out to me, \"Lord! Lord!\" will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Only those who actually do the will of my Father in heaven will enter. On judgment day many will say to me, \"Lord! Lord! We prophesied in your name and cast out demons in your name and performed many miracles in your name.\" But I will reply, \"I never knew you. Get away from me, you who break God's laws.\" (Matthew 7: 21\u201323)\n\nMotivation, motivation, motivation. Jesus is obsessed with your motivations. He cares that you feel connected personally to what you \"do unto others.\" He cares if you are posing as someone who calls him \"Lord! Lord!\" but never actually took the time to know him at all. Authenticity counts so much that it's a deal breaker. And when the crowd on the hillside heard him preaching, they could tell that he had it pouring from within him.\n\n**BUILDING ON A SOLID FOUNDATION**\n\nAnyone who listens to my teaching and follows it is wise, like a person who builds a house on solid rock. Though the rain comes in torrents and the floodwaters rise and the winds beat against that house, it won't collapse because it is built on bedrock. (Matthew 7:24\u201325)\n\nJust as one would expect, the crowds were amazed by the teachings of Jesus. Not only because of his knowledge and wisdom, but because \"he taught with real authority\u2014quite unlike their teachers of religious law\" (Matthew 7:29). He gave them a \"solid rock\" to build on, where they had been slipping around on the sand. It was the truth, and the first time many had heard it. A total game changer.\n\nNone of it would have happened if Jesus had not taken the opportunity to boldly preach where most would not have expected. I believe he gave his disciples something to learn by showing what it means to evangelize and teach the public. He taught with a divine authority, spiritual strength, and truth. He spoke again and again about the heart\u2014about motivation, intention, and inspiration. People today thirst to hear the same thing: authenticity counts. Character counts. The truth (and there is a truth) really matters. They're not floating around in an existence where they're forced to just make do with cultivating an image or posing with the \"wisdom\" of the world around them. There's more. And you get to tell it to them\u2014with or without a pulpit, in every place you go, with everyone you meet.\n\nNo matter where you are, how old you are, or who you are with, Christ will give you the necessary tools to share this truth and understanding.\n**CHAPTER 6**\n\nBE THE CHANGE\n\nChristians are called to be the change the world is looking for. #JesusSwagger\n\nThe world changed completely with the arrival of Jesus, and ultimately will end with Jesus too. But the real question is, what lies between those two points? In order for positive change to happen now, shouldn't we first make sure we have been changed ourselves?\n\nThe fact is, we can't bring positive change to the world if we ourselves have not first been changed. There's a popular saying: \"Be the change you wish to see in the world.\" To us, that means being like Jesus. Throughout Scripture we see that we are called to be like Jesus, we are called to be the difference, and that will make the world look a little bit more like him. As Romans 12:2 says, \"Don't copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God's will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.\"\n\nUntil Jesus returns with glorious swagger, we are called to \"be the change.\"\n\nOur world often relies on a sense of comfort and stability; change is the last thing most people want to think about. Research shows millions fear change; it even has a name\u2014 _neophobia_ , or the fear of new things. Yes, it's a real phobia, and yes, it says a lot about human nature. But the danger is that when we cave to our fear and avoid change, we get so comfortable where we are that we ignore the very new things God has initiated to get us where we are heading in life. Sure, we can all dream of things we'd like to change about the world, about ourselves, but we are scared to be the ones to step out and do it\u2014 _be it_. When the excuses \"I'm not ready for that\" or \"I'm just not called to do that\" come out of our mouths, that could be a sign of neophobia.\n\nWhen I was younger I once heard a pastor say, \"Partial obedience is disobedience.\" And while everyone around me began to get up from their chairs, clapping and saying, \"Amen!\" I quietly sat in my seat. The phrase smacked me across the face and pierced me to the core. It's so true. I mean, if we are truly living like Jesus, then why are we still doing \"that\" (insert sin here)? Why are we refusing to change our ways, when change is what we need most? We cannot go about our lives half-hearting our walk with God, in hopes that he will give us a full-heart transformation. Since we don't automatically have a nature like Jesus', and constantly have to deal with our human failings, we must accept that to be more like him, we'll have to change.\n\n**THE KIND OF CHANGE YOU WANT**\n\nWhat does it even mean to live like Jesus? The phrase \"live like Jesus\" means so many things, and if we put it into practice, it will cause a change in us of immeasurable depth. Yet so many of us are running around like a chicken with its head cut off, only hoping we are living like him.\n\nC. S. Lewis had this to say:\n\nTo trust Him means, of course, trying to do all that He says. There would be no sense in saying you trusted a person if you would not take His advice. Thus if you have really handed yourself over to Him, it must follow that you are trying to obey Him. But trying in a new way, a less worried way. Not doing these things in order to be saved, but because He has begun to save you already. Not hoping to get to Heaven as a reward for your actions, but inevitably wanting to act in a certain way because a first faint gleam of Heaven is already inside you.\n\nGod never intended us to remain the same, but instead to remain faithful\u2014to take his advice. For in remaining faithful, we will not remain the same.\n\nThere is incredible hope in this. You can be different than you were. You can break the mold of your family's past. You can be different from what everyone else has labeled you. You are made in God's image, for his will. And no human opinion can get in the way of a God-given destination.\n\nYou are a mighty warrior of Christ. It doesn't matter how you grew up. It doesn't matter what you did, or didn't do. It doesn't matter if you've been told \"You're too young\" or \"You're just like your dad.\" What matters to the world doesn't matter to God. And it's time you connect this very truth to the fabric of your heart.\n\nStop listening to the foolish lies of this world, and start appreciating and accepting the truth of God's Word and the freedom that comes with it. I'm sure you've encountered flaws, failures, and mistakes in your life. But that doesn't mean you have to put up with them, or that things have to stay that way. In fact, if you consider yourself a follower of Jesus Christ, you are called to overcome those very things. This does not mean you will find perfection, but you will undoubtedly find progression on the path of righteousness.\n\nJust because it's how you grew up, doesn't mean it's how you should stay. With Christ comes renewal and a new way of living.\n\nScripture confirms this hope:\n\nAnd I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart. (Ezekiel 36:26)\n\nDo not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is\u2014his good, pleasing and perfect will. (Romans 12:2 NIV)\n\n**DON'T CONFORM. BE DIFFERENT.**\n\nGod hasn't called us to \"conform to the pattern of this world, but to be transformed\" through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.\n\nTo live for God.\n\nTo be changed.\n\nTo be different from the world.\n\nSo are you living for God? Have you been transformed? Are you living different from the world?\n\nWe all make mistakes. We all screw up. We all fall short. But in the core of your heart, do you understand what it means to be a follower of Jesus? And based on your everyday lifestyle, do you reflect that?\n\nI ask myself these questions every day. Self-evaluation can make or break your relationship with God. If we can't admit we need help, we will never gather up the courage to ask for it.\n\nGod is looking for progression, not perfection. And you can't find progression unless you have direction. Let God be your compass. Let the way you study, spend time with friends, act in your relationships, and learn be done through the direction of God himself.\n\nLook around you. God has divinely placed you in this very moment, to do something _big_ for his kingdom. There is no need to worry about who's watching, or what they might think. The only thing that matters are the people around you who don't know the love of God and the beauty he provides in our brokenness. Don't miss out on this opportunity. And remember, God is with you through all. The right time to do the right thing is right now. \"For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline\" (2 Timothy 1:7).\n\nWhen we act upon the direction that Romans 12:2 commands when it tells us not to conform, we are engaging in a lifestyle that Jesus rejoices over. It's easy to follow the crowd, conform to the pressures of this world, and submit to the trends that culture gives us. But we were meant to stand out boldly.\n\nAlice Cooper, famous rock and roller, said, \"Drinking beer is easy. Trashing your hotel room is easy. But being a Christian, that's a tough call. That's real rebellion.\"\n\n**THE MISFIT GOSPEL**\n\nWhen thinking of individuals who stood boldly for the sake of the gospel, I begin to think of people like Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King, Jr., Billy Graham, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer.\n\nNot only did these people stand up for their faith in a world that saw their beliefs differently, but they went against the cultural norms, ignoring the potential of negative response.\n\nLet's be real with one another. We all want to be liked, cherished, and appreciated by our peers. But what if I told you that God could not care less about these things? What if I told you that God didn't care how many Facebook friends you have, or how many people follow you on Twitter? And what if I told you that I'm almost positive he doesn't care what your Klout Score is?\n\nWhat if I told you that God isn't worried about how popular you are? In fact, what if the purpose of the gospel isn't to fit in at all, but to stand out for the sake of Jesus?\n\nThe Bible says, \"Do not love this world nor the things it offers you, for when you love the world, you do not have the love of the Father in you\" (1 John 2:15).\n\nThose twenty-eight words carry some major weight in the life of anyone who calls him- or herself a Christ follower. In fact, the basics of a Christian posture are found in the depth of these words: \"Do not love this world.\" And that includes fame, power, popularity, titles, and materialistic value. If that seems rigid, just remember that Jesus died to free you from sins and the shackles of this world\u2014including all these things. My point is, what are your priorities? Whose words are you more yearning to seek: the world's or God's? And whose approval do you care about more?\n\nWith little to no faith in God, I jumped into a kiddy pool of acceptance at a pretty young age, instead of a sea of God's truth. Why? Because it wasn't deep and took little to no personal sacrifice on my end. It was the easy way out. Following the pack seemed a lot easier than breaking away. But little did I know that following these people would soon lead to personal and spiritual failure.\n\nI hadn't realized that since Jesus laid his life down for us, the least we can do is stand for him.\n\nIn today's worth-seeking world, being liked and wanted is something we all yearn for. And regardless of whether it comes naturally, it's how our culture forces us to feel\u2014even by advertising popularity.\n\nThe world says:\n\n1. \"Failure is not an option.\"\u2014NASA\n\n2. \"If you are not first, you're last.\"\u2014Ricky Bobby\n\n3. \"If you're not somebody, you are nobody.\"\u2014 Popular saying\n\nBut when we begin to look into the depth of Scripture, we'll realize that none of those things are actually true. Literally, none of them.\n\n1. Where NASA says \"Failure is not an option,\" Scripture says, \"For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God's glorious standard\" (Romans 3:23).\n\n2. Where Ricky Bobby says \"If you are not first, you're last,\" Jesus says, \"So those who are last now will be first then, and those who are first will be last\" (Matthew 20:16).\n\n3. For everyone that tells you \"If you're not somebody, you are nobody,\" the Bible's clear answer is: \"God does not show favoritism\" (Romans 2:11).\n\nGod has called us to be a city on a hill (Matthew 5:14). To go against the grain. And to be the change for a world that lacks hope.\n\nWe talked earlier about Scripture's call to transformation in Romans: \"Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind\" (Romans 12:2 NIV). While the ideology of that verse stands pretty clear, you'd be surprised to know how many people actually avoid standing out.\n\nRealizing you don't fit in is a good thing. You weren't made to fit in. You were made to fulfill your calling in Christ. You were made to fit out.\n\nSome of us walk, talk, read, and tweet like the most spiritual people ever to inhabit the earth. But behind the plastic mask we call \"Christianity\" is often merely personal modification rather than actual heart transformation. We seek more width than actual depth, and this show can only go on for so long.\n\nBefore you were even born, you were called to be different. You were given the potential for ultimate swagger. And although being different might sometimes look lonely or unpopular, you must come to see that no matter the circumstance, God is still with you. Why on earth would we continue to cheat ourselves out of God's love, and try to fill the void with worldly acceptance?\n\nI've been blogging for a while now, and that experience has been undeniable proof that I cannot please everyone in this world. I can't even please all the Christians in this world. My wife always tells me, \"You can be the ripest and juiciest peach in the world, and you're still going to have people who don't like peaches.\" No matter what I say or do, there is always going to be someone who doesn't agree with the way I've constructed things. Don't believe me? Start a blog and see for yourself.\n\nYou won't believe the amount of hateful, vulgar, and repulsive comments I get from people on a daily basis. Don't get me wrong. I still get hundreds of comments a day from people who are encouraged and inspired by my writing, but this isn't without the few who are looking to start a quarrel.\n\nFor every two hundred comments, there are always about ten to twenty people who seem to have it out for me. It doesn't matter what I say or do, they will always have a way to go against my thoughts and question my intent. At first it really bugged me, but over the last few years my wife and I have learned to laugh it off and use it to fuel us.\n\nFor example, we had one person tell us that drinking Diet Coke was a sin, and instead of wasting our money on canned beverages, we should be spending our money on children in need. Sometimes you just can't win. (But wherever this person is in their quest to fight Diet Coke injustice, I wish him or her well.)\n\nMany people have asked me why I like to discuss touchy subjects on my blog. My only response: \"It's what Jesus would do.\" I don't purposely stir up controversy for the fun of it, but I do purposely talk about the tough stuff in order to bring light to a situation that might be drowning in fear. Look back at the Sermon on the Mount. That thing flipped everything those people once knew upside down. I've come to understand that my purpose on this earth isn't to be loved and cherished by everyone around me. My purpose is to share the love of Jesus, show relentless grace, and always be willing to help my neighbor. Surprisingly enough, not everyone likes that.\n\nIf you want to fully embrace the life that Jesus offers, be willing to ignore the opinions of man while you engage in the righteous pursuit of Christ. If you haven't experienced any pushback yet, could it be that you are holding back in your ministry?\n\nWhen we hide behind smooth words and shallow theology, we are indirectly telling God we are not bold enough to speak the truth. I'll be the first to say I still struggle with this on a daily basis. The second my hand hits the keyboard, there is a battle going on in my head. One side says, _Make sure to keep anything controversial out of this!_ While the other side screams, _Speak the truth, in love, even if it kills you!_\n\nWhich one do you think Jesus would choose? I believe he would speak the truth, in love, even if it killed him. And eventually it did.\n\nIt would be fairly easy for me to write blog posts and books that have no call to action in them. It would be easy for me to write encouraging words that lack any type of conviction. And it would be easy for me to write ear-tickling paragraphs that lack a call to repentance. But frankly, that's not who God has called us to be.\n\nEvaluate your life, your speech, and your conduct. Do you represent Jesus in a way that reflects timidity, or are you speaking the truth in love, and unshaken by the opinions of others? There is no neutrality in the eyes of Jesus. You and I are required to pick a side, no exceptions.\n\nAll the posing that we do in order to gain acceptance from the people around us is the very thing that is keeping us from what our hearts truly desire: God. I want to express to you that worldly approval won't last. The world will never fulfill a heart without Jesus.\n\nYou and I are called to be the oddballs, the different ones, the black sheep, and misfits in society, all for the sake of the gospel. Make this the starting point to turn things around. Embrace the courage and strength God has provided you through his son Jesus, and make it your mission to teach the truth of God's Word.\n\n**A MAN AGAINST AN ARMY**\n\nDietrich Bonhoeffer is not only an inspiration to Christians everywhere, but he is a godly representation of what it truly means to have Jesus swagger. The guy was a misfit beyond measure, and I encourage you to read the story that forced me to completely reevaluate my life, my calling, and the boldness I claim for Christ.\n\nAlthough Bonhoeffer is no longer alive today, his relentless journey of proclaiming Christ has touched the hearts of millions. In fact, a recent biography of him, _Bonhoeffer_ by Eric Metaxas, was a _New York Times_ best seller.\n\nDietrich Bonhoeffer (Feb. 4, 1906\u2013April 9, 1945) was a pastor, theologian, and active member of the German resistance to Hitler and the Nazis. A photo of Bonhoeffer resisting the Nazi salute is an iconic image that has taken our culture's social media channels by storm. Dietrich can be seen surrounded by thousands of Nazi soldiers where he is the only one going against the grain of his surroundings. This is how one biographer tells his story:\n\nWhile the election of Hitler was widely welcomed by the German population, including significant parts of the Church, Bonhoeffer was a firm opponent of Hitler's philosophy. Two days after Hitler's election as chancellor in Jan 1930, Bonhoeffer made a radio broadcast criticizing Hitler, and in particular the danger of an idolatrous cult of the Fuhrer. His radio broadcast was cut off mid-air.\n\nIn April 1933, Bonhoeffer raised his opposition to the persecution of Jews and argued that the Church had a responsibility to act against this kind of policy.\n\nBonhoeffer sought to organize the protestant Church to firmly reject Nazi ideology from infiltrating the church. This led to a breakaway church, The Confessing Church, which . . . sought to stand in opposition to the Nazi-supported, German Christian movement. . . .\n\nAs the Nazi control intensified, in 1937, the Confessing Church seminary was closed down by Himmler. Over the next two years, Bonhoeffer travelled throughout Eastern Germany, conducting seminaries in private for sympathetic students. During this period, Bonhoeffer wrote extensively on subjects of theological interest. This included _The Cost of Discipleship_ , a study on the Sermon on the Mount, and argued for greater spiritual discipline and practice to achieve \"the costly grace.\"\n\n\"Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession. . . . Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.\"\n\nWorried by the fear of being asked to take an oath to Hitler or be arrested, Bonhoeffer left Germany for the United States in June 1939. After less than two years, he returned to Germany because he felt guilty for seeking sanctuary and not having the courage to practice what he preached. . . .\n\nOn his return to Germany, Bonhoeffer was denied the right to speak in public or publish any article. However, he managed to join the Abwehr, the German military intelligence agency. Before his visit to the US, Bonhoeffer had already made contacts with some military officers who were opposed to Hitler. It was within the Abwehr that the strongest opposition to Hitler occurred. Bonhoeffer was aware of various assassination plots to kill Hitler. It was during the darkest hours of the Second World War that he began to question his pacifism, as he saw the need for violent opposition to a regime such as Hitler's.\n\nWhen Visser't Hooft, the General Secretary of The World Council of Churches, asked him, \"What do you pray for in these days?\" Bonhoeffer replied \"If you want to know the truth, I pray for the defeat of my nation.\"\n\nWithin the cover of the Abwehr, Bonhoeffer served as a messenger for the small German resistance movement . . . [where] efforts were made to help some German Jews escape to neutral Switzerland. It was Bonhoeffer's involvement in this activity, that led to his arrest in April 1943. As the Gestapo sought to take over responsibilities of the Abwehr, they uncovered Bonhoeffer's involvement in escape plans. For a year and a half, Bonhoeffer was imprisoned at Tegel Military prison. Here he continued his writings such as _Ethics_. Helped by sympathetic guards, his writings were smuggled out. After the failed bomb plot of July 20, 1944, Bonhoeffer was moved to the Gestapo's high-security prison, before being transferred to Buchenwald concentration camp and finally Flossenburg concentration camp.\n\nEven during the privations of the concentration camp, Bonhoeffer retained a deep spirituality which was evident to other prisoners. Bonhoeffer continued to minister his fellow prisoners. Payne Best, a fellow inmate and officer of the British Army, wrote this observation of Bonhoeffer.\n\n\"Bonhoeffer was different, just quite calm and normal, seemingly perfectly at his ease . . . his soul really shone in the dark desperation of our prison. He was one of the very few men I have ever met to whom God was real and ever close to him.\"\n\nOn April 8, 1945, Bonhoeffer was given a cursory court martial and sentenced to death by hanging. Like many of the conspirators, he was hung by wire, to prolong the death. . . .\n\nJust before his execution, he asked a fellow inmate to relate a message to the Bishop George Bell of Chichester 'This is the end\u2014for me the beginning of life.' The camp doctor who witnessed the execution of Bonhoeffer later wrote, \"I saw Pastor Bonhoeffer . . . kneeling on the floor praying fervently to God. I was most deeply moved by the way this lovable man prayed, so devout and so certain that God heard his prayer. At the place of execution, he again said a short prayer and then climbed the few steps to the gallows, brave and composed. His death ensued after a few seconds. In the almost fifty years that I worked as a doctor, I have hardly ever seen a man die so entirely submissive to the will of God.\"\n\nAs I reread the story of Bonhoeffer, I cannot help but feel pain for what he suffered, but I also find myself cheering for his bold and godly audacity. The man was put into a situation in which most would choose to conform and survive, but he stood his ground even against the all-consuming power of the Nazi regime. How many of us can say we've looked the world in the face and told it we only serve one God? Dietrich Bonhoeffer could.\n\nThe strength and tenacity Dietrich walked with was something only the Spirit himself could have provided him. The courage to stay grounded in his faith didn't originate in Bonhoeffer alone, but instead it was God working through and in him.\n\nThe iconic picture of Bonhoeffer refusing to partake in the Nazi salute is similar to what I believe all Christians face in today's world. You and I are constantly surrounded by a world of temptation, hate, and vulgar motives. The question is whether or not we are going to conform to what's around us, or instead pursue the purpose God has placed within us.\n\nBonhoeffer is a man I will always look up to and aspire to be more like. I can't say that I have been faced with the danger he once stood before, but I pray that you and I will also show the same bold posture no matter what we face. Jesus swagger is a relentless, bold, and audacious way of living\u2014one that ignores all opposition in order to live out the life that Christ has called us to live.\n**CHAPTER 7**\n\nI GOT 99 PROBLEMS BUT THE HOLY SPIRIT AIN'T ONE\n\nThe Holy Spirit is in the business of exalting the name of Jesus, no matter the circumstance. #JesusSwagger\n\nThe phrase, \"The Holy Spirit led me to . . .\" is a bold way to start any conversation. And while you may find some who will be receptive to your statement, you may also find many who are skeptical toward it.\n\nI myself have had several different events where I firmly believe the Spirit told me to:\n\n1. give my life to Christ;\n\n2. get baptized;\n\n3. preach and teach God's Word;\n\n4. write books to help people deepen their faith;\n\n5. help plant a church;\n\n6. marry my wife;\n\n7. try to adopt a child;\n\n8. and move to Tennessee.\n\nI look at each one of these events and realize they were not easy to accomplish. My wife lived across the country; I was twenty-two when I wrote my first book; I was twenty-one when I decided to pursue a church plant; I removed myself from my job, friends, and relationships when giving my life to Christ; and my wife and I hadn't even been married for a year before we were given the opportunity to pursue the adoption of a baby boy.\n\nThe Holy Spirit gave me the courage, wisdom, and peace I needed to pursue the things God had placed in my life. And the Spirit is working in this same way today. Using the phrase \"The Holy Spirit told me to\" is dangerous. But when it's truthful, it's both powerful and inspiring.\n\nMost evangelical Christians hold widely varying viewpoints when it comes to the Holy Spirit, how he works within one's life, and whether or not he is still active today. If you take a moment to search the words _Holy Spirit_ on the Internet, you are bound to come across thousands of controversial books, widely promoted conferences, faith-based blog posts, and pastoral sermons on the subject.\n\nMuch of the content can be split between two different groups: Christians who believe the Holy Spirit is alive, active, and manifesting the supernatural throughout our world; and Christians who believe in the Holy Spirit, see his actions to be alive, powerful, and audacious, but do not give in to the oversaturated attention he's been handed. They just don't believe the hype, and are very cautious about claiming he is still active the way he once was.\n\nWe have two different groups of individuals who land on two different ends of the spiritual spectrum. One believes the Spirit is out front and socially active, while the other sees it working in the background, not looking for attention. The subject has brought Christian against Christian, pastor against pastor, church against church, and even denomination against denomination.\n\nMany people will ask, \"Well, who is right?\" I'd like to think that they both are. I wouldn't call myself charismatic, nor would I call myself a conservative. But I would call myself someone who believes in the Trinity, and the living power of the Holy Spirit. To say the Holy Spirit is inactive in today's world would not only be unbiblical, but could also be looked at as heresy.\n\nBut before I get into what I see the Holy Spirit to be doing in the lives of Christians around the world, let me first take a look at who the Holy Spirit is and why he is among us.\n\n**THE TRINITY**\n\nThe _Trinity_ is a term used by most proclaimed Christians, but it's famously hard to explain in detail. While I believe the ideology behind the Trinity is too complex for our human brains to fully comprehend, I do believe the Trinity can be somewhat understood in a palatable way that makes a difference in each of our lives.\n\nFirst off, the Trinity is composed of three different persons: the Father (God), Son (Jesus), and the Holy Spirit, who is also sometimes referred to as the Holy Ghost. That sounds scary to me, so I'd rather not refer to the Holy Spirit as ghost. And while all these persons come to make one awe-inspiring manifestation of the Godhead, they are three separate living persons who are all active in different ways.\n\nJohn 1:1\u20134 states, \"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind\" (NIV).\n\nThis verse gives an incredible picture of the Trinity, and it's a lot easier to spot than you think.\n\nFirst, the author, John, refers to the relentless power of the Trinity as God, followed by the living manifestation of the Word as Jesus, and then the light of man as God's guiding light known as the Holy Spirit. Each person of the Trinity has individual characteristics and responsibilities, yet they never act independently or in opposition to one another. They have complete understanding between themselves.\n\n_Trinity_ , as defined by _Merriam Webster_ dictionary, is \"the union of the three divine persons (Father, Son and Holy Spirit) in one Godhead.\" Martin H. Manser describes the Holy Spirit as, \"The co-equal and co-eternal Spirit of the Father and the Son, who inspired Scripture and brings new life to the people of God. The Spirit of God is often portrayed in Scripture in terms of 'breath,' 'life' or 'wind,' indicating his role in sustaining and bringing life to God's creation.\"\n\nRegardless of where you look for a definition, the Holy Spirit is basically the living, breathing, life-bringing manifestation of God in each of our individual lives. I believe the Holy Spirit to be in the business of exalting the name of Jesus, no matter the circumstance (John 16:12\u201314). The discussion at hand isn't whether or not the Holy Spirit is alive, but whether or not the Spirit is working in the ways people are claiming he does.\n\nWhen you hear the term _Holy Spirit_ , what is the first thing that comes to your mind? For most people it's the concept of speaking in tongues, Spirit-slaying televangelists, and supernatural healings. And although I don't believe the Holy Spirit has any limitations, I do believe the Holy Spirit isn't in the business of trying to prove a point. Frankly, he doesn't need to.\n\nI'm not saying the Spirit of God is opposed to consuming one's body, providing supernatural healings, or even raising someone from the dead. We must understand, though, that we ourselves do not control the Holy Spirit; instead, the Holy Spirit is controlled by the power and will of God.\n\nCharles Stanley made the distinction this way: \"Earthly wisdom is 'doing what comes naturally' . . . Godly wisdom is doing what the Holy Spirit compels us to do.\"\n\n**THE SPIRIT DID WHAT?**\n\nMany of the pentecostal and charismatic movements announce the Holy Spirit as someone who is alive, living with our bodies, and allowing us to manifest his power on a daily basis. This stance has brought much controversy to the movements, even leading other Christian leaders to describe their members as unbiblical, or not true Christians.\n\nAnd while I believe those statements are extremely harsh and ill-thought, I do believe there will always be individuals who dramatize and embellish what the Spirit is actually doing. But hey, people will always do that sort of thing. As long as one isn't preaching contrary to biblical truth, there's no real problem in getting excited. The problem is found when people focus more on the acts of the Spirit than they do on the grace, salvation, and love of Jesus (Matthew 7:20\u201323).\n\nMany see all the healings, the prophecy, and the spectacular acts of the Spirit that these movements focus on as false and not aligned with biblical text. Statements like \"the Spirit doesn't work that way anymore\" are par for the course, and many individuals completely tune out the overall idea of the Spirit performing the miraculous signs and wonders that these believers are claiming.\n\nEven though my personal Christian practices may not align completely with some of these movements, who am I to say what the Holy Spirit can and can't do? Yes, there are some who take advantage of the idea and run past sanity, but that doesn't mean you should be suspicious of everyone who talks about the Spirit. These people are still your brothers and sisters in Christ. We're still the church, regardless of our differences.\n\nJust because you've never seen the Spirit heal the blind or raise someone from the dead, doesn't mean it's not true. None of us have seen oxygen before, yet we still believe in it. How is this any different?\n\nThe second we start claiming what the Holy Spirit can and can't do is the second we've forfeited the true power of God, and made it into something that we can manipulate or control. That just isn't the case.\n\nThere are many things about God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit that we may never be able to fully understand, but that doesn't mean we should stop believing or seeking to understand. If God was small enough to understand, he wouldn't be big enough to call God.\n\nJohn 14:26 describes the function of the Holy Spirit: \"But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you\" (ESV).\n\nIn the New Testament, the Holy Spirit is active in those who call themselves followers of Jesus. The term _Holy Spirit_ is used around 142 times depending on what version you read; there is obviously no hiding the truth of his existence, and God's Word shows that he is active.\n\nThe Bible contains many different names for the Holy Spirit. Some of them include:\n\n\u2022 the Lord (2 Thessalonians 3:5)\n\n\u2022 Power of the Highest (Luke 1:35 KJV)\n\n\u2022 Spirit of God (Genesis 1:2; 1 Corinthians 2:11)\n\n\u2022 Eternal Spirit (Hebrews 9:14)\n\n\u2022 Comforter (John 14:16 KJV)\n\n\u2022 Guide (John 16:13)\n\n\u2022 Spirit of counsel (Isaiah 11:2)\n\n\u2022 Spirit of holiness (Romans 1:4 KJV)\n\n\u2022 Spirit of revelation (Ephesians 1:17 KJV)\n\n\u2022 Helper (John 14:26 ESV)\n\n\u2022 Witness (Revelation 1:5)\n\nHe's there, obviously, so why do so many ignore him?\n\nI think people are afraid. We are afraid of what might happen if we allow his power into our lives\u2014we're afraid of what might have to change, or what we might lose, not thinking of what we might gain. Many of us put our fear of the unknown in front of the power and potential of the Holy Spirit. It's sad to think that we could be turning from the Spirit's prompting due to a wall of fear. Fear is a liar, and the Spirit brings us the truth (John 16:13).\n\n**QUENCHING THE SPIRIT**\n\nI've noticed that many people get a little uncomfortable when you talk about the Holy Spirit, and part of me associates this with so many not truly investing in his power and guidance. Paul wrote to the Thessalonians, \"Do not quench the Spirit. Do not treat prophecies with contempt but test them all; hold on to what is good, reject every kind of evil\" (1 Thessalonians 5:19\u201322 NIV).\n\nI don't believe you can be a Christian while quenching the Spirit of God\u2014while ignoring your conscience, while pretending as though God can't actively speak to you. It's like saying you want some ice without the part where it's made of water. And while many people embellish and focus solely on the works of the Spirit, I believe there is a whole different side that could be seen as not giving enough credit and validity to him.\n\nI can't imagine my life without God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. They all come in one package. You don't get to pick and choose based on your preference. It's all or nothing. Even though this may seem pretty obvious, many people very rarely discuss the Holy Spirit's movement and activeness in their lives. It's almost as if people don't want to believe in something they can't actually control. Instead we want to focus on subjects that are more comfortable to discuss. Many people would claim that this outlook is unbiblical as well. When we only discuss the works of man and ignore the unexplainable, we are telling God we don't believe in the power of his Spirit.\n\nSo which is it? Who is right? Do I allow the Holy Spirit to heal the sick and give sight to the blind? Or, do I view the Holy Spirit as the guiding light of Jesus, and see him as one who doesn't work the way he used to?\n\nTruthfully, I believe it's both.\n\nThe idea that the Holy Spirit can only work in one unique way smothers any claim of him being part of the all-powerful God. If the Spirit is truly the working hand of Jesus, the Spirit can do and will do what he pleases in each and every individual. Some may pray in tongues, and some may keep their mouths shut. Some may worship through song and dance, while others may worship through quiet and tranquility. Some may teach verse by verse, while others may preach topically and thematically. The truth is that we are all different people who have been called to live different and unique lives.\n\nThe Holy Spirit can work in many different ways. Just because the Holy Spirit is working in your life differently than he is another's doesn't mean that the other individual is wrong or outside the will of God. We're all unique, have different sets of fingerprints, and have different callings from God, so of course the Spirit is going to work differently in each of us.\n\nR. A. Torrey said in his book _The Person and Work of the Holy Spirit_ , \"A true Christian life is a personally conducted life, conducted at every turn by a Divine Person. It is the believer's privilege to be absolutely set free from all care and worry and anxiety as to the decisions which we must make at any turn of life. The Holy Spirit undertakes all that responsibility for us. A true Christian life is not one governed by a long set of rules without us, but led by a living and ever-present Person within us.\"\n\nWe can see that, in Torrey's estimation, the Holy Spirit is actively conducting the lifestyle of each and every person. The Holy Spirit is said to undertake the responsibility of guiding great decisions for us, relieving us of having to completely govern our own lives. I love Torrey's words here because they ascribe to the Holy Spirit complete and utter control of our lives as Christians, rather than leaving them all up to the control of our feeble words and decisions. Sure, the power of the Holy Spirit can be encouraged through the words of our faith, but it's not us who has complete control\u2014it's someone much bigger.\n\nWhen viewing the Spirit's activity throughout the world, we begin to see that differences such as personalities, zip codes, states, countries, and levels of faith are not hindrances to what the Holy Spirit does and doesn't do. There is no cookie-cutter doctrine when it comes to what he's capable of. It's simply not our call.\n\nAll around the world you will find stories and testimonies of people who have been healed, redeemed, and rescued thanks to the Spirit of God. And while many people might sit in the comfort of their homes and say, \"That's not true,\" I would encourage them to step out into the world and open up their hearts' guidance to the Spirit of God, and not what only their minds can fathom.\n\nActs 2:1\u201313 portrays a scene I find powerful and comedic, as the Spirit takes control of a group of believers on the day of Pentecost, leaving others in confusion. The day of Pentecost comes ten days after the ascension of Jesus into heaven, about fifty days after Easter, and is referred to by many as the birthday of the church. The biblical account in Acts 2 tells the story:\n\nWhen the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them.\n\nNow there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven. When they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewilderment, because each one heard their own language being spoken. Utterly amazed, they asked: \"Aren't all these who are speaking Galileans? Then how is it that each of us hears them in our native language? Parthians, Medes and Elamites; residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya near Cyrene; visitors from Rome (both Jews and converts to Judaism); Cretans and Arabs\u2014we hear them declaring the wonders of God in our own tongues!\" Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, \"What does this mean?\"\n\nSome, however, made fun of them and said, \"They have had too much wine.\" (vv. 1\u201313 NIV)\n\nEven in the early days of the church, the power and activity of the Holy Spirit wasn't truly understood. If people in biblical times thought that those who were being used by the Spirit were drunk, I can't imagine what kinds of things people are saying in this day and age.\n\nNot everyone is going to understand what the Spirit does or doesn't do in your life. Initiating your Jesus swagger starts by first admitting that you need the Spirit to live out the true life of a Christian. True freedom, confidence, and spiritual effectiveness simply can't exist without him.\n\nA Christian without the Holy Spirit is like a cheeseburger without the cheese. It's not what it claims to be.\n**CHAPTER 8**\n\nJESUS IS NOT YOUR HOMEBOY\n\nJesus isn't looking to be your friend. He's looking to be much more than that. #JesusSwagger\n\nIn the mid 2000s, the phrase \"Jesus is my homeboy\" started trending among evangelical Christians, and soon began finding its way onto T-shirts, hats, and other personal accessories. The origination of the phrase had a powerful meaning: it was meant to signify that Jesus wanted to relate to people personally. But the use of it in today's evangelical culture often comes off as shallow, flaky, even irreverent. While this cute saying seems harmless and fun, the attitude that it stands for can actually be a detriment to a deepening relationship with God. Why, you ask?\n\nBecause Jesus deserves more honor and respect than the term _homeboy_ credits him. And while many people think calling Jesus their homeboy makes him look more inviting to nonbelievers, it's more likely presenting a fake image of who Jesus really is. Yes, Jesus can be described as many different things, but I don't think _homeboy_ is something that magnifies the importance of his being. Your childhood best friend is your homeboy. Your favorite barista is your homeboy. Jesus, however, is _not_ your homeboy: he is your Father, your Savior, your Redeemer, your Rock, your Salvation, your Lord, your Christ, your Shield, your Protector, your Friend, and so much more.\n\nIs using that terminology wrong? No. But is it honoring his true nature? Not even remotely close.\n\nIn everything we do, we are called to show honor and respect to the one we call Savior (1 Corinthians 6:20). While there are many names to describe the God of the universe, I don't think _homeboy_ should be one of them. It's as if I were to refer to Jesus as _dude_ or _bro_. My own father would find that odd, let alone my heavenly father.\n\nWe're living in a world that seems to become less and less faithful as the years go by. The Barna Group states that 60 percent of teenagers will graduate high school without a grasp of their faithful roots. And while the number of faithful servants is decreasing, we need to make sure that the recognition and adoration we have for Jesus continues to increase. We're called to be different, after all (2 Corinthians 6:17).\n\n**THE FEAR OF GOD**\n\nThe term _God-fearing_ is something many Christians do not like to use with today's generation. And while many people see \"fear\" as an inaccurate description of their relationship with God, the Bible itself says otherwise.\n\nProverbs 1:7 explains, \"The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction\" (NIV). _Fear_ is not the same as being scared in this context: it's being rightly aware of God's magnitude, and letting it affect us seriously. In this verse, we can see that the fear of the Lord is promised to bring wisdom and knowledge. That's the healthy kind of fear.\n\nI encourage you not to see this as a literal fear like that of a nightmare, but instead as honor and reverence for our heavenly father. Sort of in the way one could fear the presence of a boss, parent, or police officer, one should fear the Lord, but obviously in a deeper and more admiring form.\n\nJim Newheiser describes our fear of God this way:\n\nTo fear God is to regard God with reverent awe. He alone is holy, awesome, and glorious (Isa. 6:3). He is worthy of our respect. Because God is righteous, we should be concerned about the consequences of displeasing him. Our fear is not one which leaves us cowering and terrified but rather is like the respect a son should have towards his father. The fear of God leads to wise and pure living: \"By the fear of the Lord one keeps away from evil\" (Prov. 16:6).\n\nTo fear God is to submit to him, turning from self-assertion and evil: \"Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and turn away from evil\" (3:7). We are not autonomous beings, free to assert our own will and decide what is right for us. We must acknowledge the Lord's sovereign moral governance of the universe. We should be open to his training and correction and trust that his way is always best. To fear God is to know God. To know God is to have life (19:23a). When you fear God, you no longer fear men (29:25).\n\nThe fear of the Lord is not a beginning like the first stage of a rocket which is cast aside after it has served its purpose. Rather, the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom in the same way in which a foundation is the beginning of a house: everything that comes after the foundation is built upon it.\n\nA literal fear of God should not be the reason of your obedience. Instead, obedience comes out of honor, respect, and admiration for his being. The idea of referring to God or Jesus as your homeboy completely throws out any form of true respect, and instead paints them as nothing more than an acquaintance or pal.\n\n**FEAR BUILT THE ARK**\n\nThe story of Noah's Ark is one that all of us read as children. And while many of us may look at this story as being overtold and overused (and overly made into toys and storybooks and kids' bedroom decorations), there is actually a hidden message about fearing God that is very relevant to what we're talking about. The Bible begins the story by describing a world that seems alarmingly familiar to ours: \"Now the earth was corrupt in God's sight and was full of violence. God saw how corrupt the earth had become, for all the people on earth had corrupted their ways\" (Genesis 6:11\u201313 NIV).\n\nThen God came up with a plan to push the reset button, and he told Noah, \"I am going to put an end to all people, for the earth is filled with violence because of them. I am surely going to destroy both them and the earth\" (v. 13 NIV).\n\nTerrifying, right? God proceeds to lay out detailed instructions to Noah. Any other person might have taken shortcuts, or tried to \"improve\" on God's plan, or even said \"This is absolute craziness\" and just ignored God. Or they would have quaked in fear at the prospect of the world ending, and rushed to obey God in order to save their skin. But Noah _feared_ God in the way that we're talking about\u2014he respected the righteousness behind his plan so much, and took him so seriously, that he followed all his instructions to the inch (or to the cubit).\n\nThen came the instructions for building the ark:\n\n\"The ark is to be three hundred cubits long, fifty cubits wide and thirty cubits high. Make a roof for it, leaving below the roof an opening one cubit high all around. Put a door in the side of the ark and make lower, middle and upper decks . . . You are to bring into the ark two of all living creatures, male and female, to keep them alive with you. Two of every kind of bird, of every kind of animal and of every kind of creature that moves along the ground will come to you to be kept alive. You are to take every kind of food that is to be eaten and store it away as food for you and for them.\" Noah did everything _just as God commanded him_. (Genesis 6:15\u201322 NIV, emphasis added)\n\nNoah takes all of God's direction into account, and in time constructs a ship that I believe would be marveled at by any of today's architects. That's not only because of the ark's size and stature, but because of the limited tools at Noah's disposal.\n\nThe writer of Hebrews in the New Testament also used Noah as an example of someone who properly feared God: as a man who followed his commands and respected his being.\n\nBy faith Noah, when warned about things not yet seen, in _holy_ fear built an ark to save his family. By his faith he condemned the world and became heir of the righteousness that is in keeping with faith. (Hebrews 11:7 NIV, emphasis added)\n\nWhen I read this passage, I don't see a man who built an ark because he was afraid. Instead I see a man who respected and valued the Lord's wisdom so much that he took into account everything the Lord was guiding him to do.\n\nOne of Merriam Webster's definitions of fear is \"to expect or worry about (something bad or unpleasant).\" When someone loves you and has the best intentions for you, you don't fear them in the way this definition describes\u2014expecting disaster. Sure, Noah was facing disaster, but he expected God to honor his covenant and save him and his family. He feared God because God was powerful and worthy. The root of the word _fear_ is the Hebrew word _Yare,_ which means \"to fear, reverence, honor, respect.\"\n\nGod deserves that kind of honor from us. God isn't a tyrant, and neither is he a pushover. He is the perfect combination of tough and tender. Flawless in every way.\n\nWhen it comes to your relationship with him, take into consideration the power and magnitude of his being, but also the comfort and peace he offers as Lord. God isn't in the business of scaring people into submission, but he may be willing to flex a little to show you what he's made of.\n\n**BRINGING HONOR BACK**\n\nThe idea of honoring God has slowly fallen off the map over the last few decades. There was once a time when going to church weekly was seen as important, when praying was taken seriously, and when honoring God was on the top of many people's priority lists.\n\nOne might ask, where has all the honor gone? But I don't think honor has really left. We give plenty of honor and respect\u2014but we give it to things other than Jesus himself. Relationships, money, and popularity are all things our culture gives honor to on a daily basis. Then there's image, success\u2014take your pick.\n\nWhen our relationship with God becomes more like a trend and less like a lifestyle, when it starts playing second fiddle to whatever else we've got going on in our lives, we've begun treating Jesus more like our homeboy than our Lord. I don't believe God intended us to bring Jesus down to a level where he is nothing more than another buddy. Yes, Jesus wants to be our friend. But no, Jesus doesn't want things to stay that way. John 5:23 states, \"That all may honor the Son just as they honor the Father. Whoever does not honor the Son does not honor the Father, who sent him\" (NIV). If we find ourselves showing little to no honor to Jesus, we are also refusing to honor his Father, God. We are refusing to fear him.\n\nIn the biblical sense, honor and fear go hand in hand with one another. When you fear God, you honor God. And when you honor God, you in turn are fearing God. Variations of the word _honor_ are found throughout the King James Bible around 170 times. A relationship with God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit cannot exist without honor. It's more than just an attribute of our spiritual relationship; it's an entire way of living.\n\nIn the same way the Bible commands us to honor our mothers and fathers, I believe God is looking for us to honor him through all aspects of our lives. This can be done in many ways, but definitely the most prominent would be through our time, energy, words, actions, worship, and thoughts\u2014and in putting him above all material objects and other goals. We honor him with the music we listen to, the movies we watch, the things we eat, and even the stuff we spend our money on. If we do everything in a way that reflects the majesty and purity of God's nature, we are in turn honoring him with all that we are, and inviting him to direct our lives\n\n**IN FEAR AND FAITH**\n\nYou remember the story of Jesus walking on water, and Peter coming to him on the lake? Matthew 14 tells us that Peter was a man who was willing to step off a boat, into the raging water, all in order to reach Jesus amid rough winds and crashing waves. While the rest of his friends looked on in terror, faithful Peter stepped off the edge of a boat without looking back.\n\nWay too many scholars and theologians give Peter a bad rap for doing something so foolish, and for losing faith halfway out and sinking: \"But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, 'Lord, save me!'\" (Matthew 14:30 NIV). But Peter did something not many of us would do ourselves. He was audaciously faithful, and went over the edge.\n\nIt's not just Peter's faith that allowed him to walk on water for a brief moment, but also the fear he had for God and his son Jesus. Peter didn't step off because he was afraid of the Lord, but instead because he had reverent fear for the Lord based on the time they'd spent together. Here is how it happened:\n\nImmediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowd. After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. Later that night, he was there alone, and the boat was already a considerable distance from land, buffeted by the waves because the wind was against it.\n\nShortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. \"It's a ghost,\" they said, and cried out in fear.\n\nBut Jesus immediately said to them: \"Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid.\"\n\n\"Lord, if it's you,\" Peter replied, \"tell me to come to you on the water.\"\n\n\"Come,\" he said. Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. (Matthew 14:22\u201329 NIV)\n\nJesus told them to not be afraid, and Peter took him at his word. Then, embarrassingly, he got nervous and started to sink. He took his eyes off Jesus for a minute and began to panic. The following is why people find it so easy to trash him:\n\nImmediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. \"You of little faith,\" he said, \"why did you doubt?\" And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped him, saying, \"Truly you are the Son of God.\" (Matthew 14:31\u201333 NIV)\n\nPeter's \"little faith\" may have caused him to go down, but a healthy fear and honor set him on a pathway of faith in the first place. That's more than what most can claim. It was only because of the voice and command of Jesus that Peter accepted his fate of stepping off the wooden platform his feet were on.\n\nAlthough Peter found his miracle-moment short-lived, he still accomplished what he set out to do. He found himself moving closer to the presence of Jesus, and in the end it's what saved him from being lost in the water.\n\nFearing God and stepping out will instill a way of life that will not only supercharge your faith, but give you a peace and understanding that is beyond anything this world can offer (Philippians 4:7). Fearing God is the essence of our Christian faith. Without fear, we will fail.\n\nOswald Chambers said it best when he wrote, \"The remarkable thing about fearing God is that when you fear God, you fear nothing else, whereas if you do not fear God, you fear everything else.\"\n\nIncrease your fear for God, and you will decrease your fear of everything life throws at you. When we put God in the highest seat in our lives, everything else will seem small and inadequate compared to his glory.\n\n**AFRAID TO BE AFRAID**\n\nAs a Christian, I find that some of the easiest traps for me to fall into are the ones I have set for myself. Sometimes, the hardest things for me to overcome are the walls I have built with my own hands. And the hardest addictions to conquer are the ones I have subconsciously nourished. It's my lack of fear and faith in Jesus that puts me into a position of trying to do things on my own. Human nature tells me to trust myself, while faith in Jesus tells me to not trust my sinful nature.\n\nIt's fairly easy to get in a habit of doing things your way, on your time, and for your benefit. But that is the exact opposite of who Jesus Christ has called us to be.\n\nAs Christians, we are not the directors of our lives anymore. We gave up that right the second we decided to give our lives to him. In reality, we are supporting actors who have been blessed with the opportunity to be part of God's bigger story. When we begin directing our lives the way that we see fit, we will begin to lose touch with our heavenly Father. That intimate and personal connection is the very thing that keeps us focused on righteousness and turned away from worldliness.\n\nStay focused on your role as a supporting actor, and allow God to direct your life in the way he sees fit. It's not about us. Trust me, if he can create the world, I'm sure he's more than capable of directing your life. Just like Peter, you and I are called to step off our boats and into the will of God's direction. \"In all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight\" (Proverbs 3:6 NIV).\n\n**FEAR CONQUERED THE CROWD**\n\nImagine being sick, alone, fearful, and viewed as nothing more than a living infection by the people around you. Imagine not being able to visit your family, see your parents, or ever spend time with any of your friends. Imagine being treated like you don't even exist, while pets and farm animals are given more adequate living quarters than you are.\n\nWhile this may be hard to imagine, this was the broken life of a fragile woman living in Galilee. And while she sat on her mat, overtaken with a sickness that condemned her as unclean, the busy city life went on without her.\n\nThis woman who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years considered her worth nothing more than what those who passed her by told her it was. I can only imagine that the slurs thrown at her were nothing short of detestable. She was mocked, mimicked, bullied, and taken for every penny she had by doctors who claimed to have a cure to make her better.\n\nWhen we look at the concept of fearing God and relate it to this woman, we can see that the only fear she possessed was for those who mocked her. She feared that any day she could be banished from the city, asked never to return again. And she feared that death might reach her body before a cure would.\n\nWhile this bleeding woman sat on her mat and dwindled in her sorrows, she began hearing of a man who was known to heal the sick, give sight to the blind, and raise the dead to life. She remembered conversations she had overheard of a man named Jesus. While a spark of hope kindled in her heart, she could hear the crowds of people following and cheering for what could only have been Jesus himself.\n\nI imagine her thought process was that of a child. _If I could only get to Jesus, I bet he can make everything better_.\n\nAnd with hope in her heart and the fear of the Lord's power as her courage, she made her way toward the man who was said could make her clean again.\n\nNow when Jesus returned, a crowd welcomed him, for they were all expecting him. Then a man named Jairus, a synagogue leader, came and fell at Jesus' feet, pleading with him to come to his house because his only daughter, a girl of about twelve, was dying.\n\nAs Jesus was on his way, the crowds almost crushed him. And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years, but no one could heal her. She came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak, and immediately her bleeding stopped.\n\n\"Who touched me?\" Jesus asked. When they all denied it, Peter said, \"Master, the people are crowding and pressing against you.\" But Jesus said, \"Someone touched me; I know that power has gone out from me.\" Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed. Then he said to her, \"Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.\" (Luke 8:40\u201348 NIV)\n\nI get chills when reading this passage: a woman who thought she had no future was miraculously healed by a man claiming to be the Son of God. Jesus healed the woman, called upon her, and then told her, \"Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.\"\n\nNot only did the woman find the courage to get up off her mat and seek Jesus, but her fear of God was enough to give her faith in his son Jesus. In doing this, the woman broke through a crowd of people surrounding him, got on her hands and knees, and then managed to grab the tip of his robe. The moment she grabbed onto his robe, she was healed, made clean, and made new.\n\nNotice the faith and admiration this woman had for God, Jesus, and the power of their being. Fear and faith intermingle in this passage. This woman feared the Lord in a way that broke through her lesser, worldly fear of those who were surrounding him. Her trembling fear is what led her closer to him, and her fear is what led to the cleansing of her body.\n\nLet me ask you a question. What crowd are you pushing through? Many of us face crowds just like the one the bleeding woman faced. Instead of a literal crowd of people keeping you from the feet of Jesus, you instead could be faced with depression, anxiety, fear of rejection, fear of failure, financial hardships, or even insecurities. These \"crowds,\" these fears, seem overwhelming, causing us to forget where the real power lies. If you're fearing all these other things, then you're not going to be able to fear God.\n\nAs William Gurnall said, \"We fear men so much, because we fear God so little. One fear cures another. When man's terror scares you, turn your thoughts to the wrath of God.\"\n**CONCLUSION**\n\nJESUS SWAGGER ISN'T OPTIONAL\n\nJesus swagger may be attractive. It may be life-giving. It may be a symptom of a heart devoted to God. But what it is not, is optional. The way you dress, love, act, and speak just can't go in opposition to the spirit of the One that died on a cross for your sins. Worldly swagger just doesn't fit you anymore.\n\nOn the other hand, if you've got God living in you and are seeking him truthfully\u2014without posing\u2014you cannot _help_ but have Jesus swagger. It's a light that shines from you and makes people wonder what you've got.\n\nSo if your swagger has been something you've done on the surface to this point, I encourage you to ditch it. It wasn't doing you any good in the first place. You've got endless wells of the real stuff living inside you\u2014if you have Christ inside you. Imagine no more slavery to image and others' judgment. Imagine knowing in your heart what really matters, and just not caring about the rest. Imagine not wasting time on that foolishness ever again.\n\nThe place that once held in your life is taken up by real, actual, world-changing purpose and a mission that comes straight from the Creator of the universe. Whatever swagger you develop as a side effect of that, well, that's a perk that shows the world where your priorities are.\n\nBy now, I hope you know for sure that we Christians don't have to go about life the way others do. We don't have to put on a show, say the right things, post all the right comments online, and act the part in our mannerisms and vocab. That's all just playing around. You, on the other hand, can walk with a holy swagger because you are in pursuit of a kingdom that is greater than anything this world can offer us.\n\nWe are called to be kingdom-chasing, love-wearing, grace-pouring soldiers of Christ. Yes, much of the world might not understand our motives. They were never meant to understand from the beginning. They were meant to be transformed. You and I have been set apart by a force that is beyond our wildest imagination. The One who created the heavens and the earth created us out of nothing but the dust we know to be under out feet. And then he gave us a job to do.\n\nJesus swagger comes from living a life that resembles nothing of ourselves, and has everything to do with the One who created us. It has nothing to do with how we fashion ourselves in the mirror. Our swagger is divine, holy, audacious, and graceful. It's a swagger unlike anything this world has ever seen. And I promise you it's something they will never forget.\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nJesus, your love and grace is what fuels me to live. I wouldn't be here today without your constant love and guidance.\nABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nJarrid Wilson is a husband, millennial pastor, best-selling author, and inspirational blogger. His articles have been viewed by millions, showcased on some of today's hottest talk shows, and featured on national news stations worldwide. He is a dynamic speaker whose outside-the-box perspectives have gained him national recognition from some of today's most influential Christian leaders and pastors.\n\nHis highly unconventional way of sharing faith takes a fresh look at the way Jesus would call individuals to live out their everyday lives. Unafraid to tackle tough and controversial topics, Jarrid is known for his refreshing perspectives on what others may view as set in black-and-white. His blog is one of the most talked about faith-based blogs on the web, and his dedication to social media for the sake of faith has been paramount to his success as a writer.\n\nJarrid and his wife Juli live in Nashville, Tennessee, where Jarrid currently serves as the next-gen pastor of LifePoint Church.\nNOTES\n\n. Snoop Dogg, \"Boss's Life,\" _Tha Blue Carpet Treatment_ , Geffen Records (2006).\n\n. Urban Dictionary, s.v. \"swagger,\" definition 2, http:\/\/www.urbandictionary.com\/define.php?term=swagger, accessed June 8, 2014.\n\n. Attributed to Mahatma Gandhi in W. P. King, review of _The Christ of the Indian Road_ , by E. Stanley Jones, _Atlanta Constitution_ , 7 February 1926, F14.\n\n. Francis Chan, _Crazy Love_ (Colorado Springs: David C. Cook, 2013), 63.\n\n. Joseph Thayer and G. Abbot Smith, _The NAS New Treatment Greek Lexicon_ , s.v. \"Ginosko,\" http:\/\/www.biblestudytools.com\/lexicons\/greek\/nas\/.\n\n. Matthew Henry, _Commentary on the Whole Bible_ (1706), http:\/\/www.biblestudytools.com\/commentaries\/matthew-henry-complete\/.\n\n. _Strong's Concordance_ , s.v. \"ekptu\u00f3,\" http:\/\/biblehub.com\/greek\/1609.htm.\n\n. Martin Luther, _The Communion of the Christian With God_ , trans. Wilhelm Herrmann (London: Williams & Norgate, 1906), 332.\n\n. Origen, _Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, Books 6\u201310_ , trans. Thomas P. Scheck (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2002), 228.\n\n. R. Kent Hughes, _Romans: Righteousness From Heaven_ (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 1991), 250\u201351.\n\n. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, \"National Marriage and Divorce Rate Trends,\" National Vital Statistics System, last updated February 19, 2013, http:\/\/www.cdc.gov\/nchs\/nvss\/marriage_divorce_tables.htm.\n\n. Mother Teresa, _No Greater Love_ (Novato: New World Library, 2001), 69.\n\n. K. J. Bryer, \"Mother Teresa,\" in James Dixon Douglas and Philip Wesley Comfort eds., _Who's Who in Christian History_ (Wheaton, IL: Tyndale House, 1992).\n\n. Abigail Van Buren, \"Dear Abby,\" _Park City Daily News_ , April 1, 1964, p. 3.\n\n. Charles Wood, _Sermon Outlines on Great Doctrinal Themes_ (Grand Rapids: Kregel Publications, 1991), 15.\n\n. Of disputed origin, a paraphrase often attributed to Mahatma Ghandi.\n\n. C. S. Lewis, _Mere Christianity_ (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 130\u201331.\n\n. Attributed to Alice Cooper, reportedly from a 2001 interview with the British _Sunday Times_.\n\n. NASA, \"Failure is Not An Option,\" http:\/\/www.nasa.gov\/multimedia\/imagegallery\/image_feature_2073.html.\n\n. From _Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby_ (Sony Pictures, 2006).\n\n. Tejvan Pettinger, \"Dietrich Bonhoeffer,\" Biography Online, http:\/\/www.biographyonline.net\/spiritual\/dietrich-bonhoeffer.html.\n\n. _Merriam Webster Online_ , s.v. \"trinity,\" http:\/\/www.merriam-webster.com\/dictionary\/trinity.\n\n. Martin H. Manser, ed., _Dictionary of Bible Themes Scripture Index_ , s.v. \"3010 God, the Holy Spirit,\" available on BibleGateway.com, https:\/\/www.biblegateway.com\/resources\/dictionary-of-bible-themes\/3010-God-Holy-Spirit.\n\n. Charles Stanley, _God's Way Day by Day_ (New York: HarperCollins Christian Publishers, 2007), 112.\n\n. R. A. Torrey, _The Person and Work of the Holy Spirit_ (New York: Cosimo, repr. 1997), 112.\n\n. \"Most Twentysomethings Put Christianity on the Shelf Following Spiritually Active Teen Years,\" Barna Group, 2009, https:\/\/www.barna.org\/barna-update\/article\/16-teensnext-gen\/147-most-twentysomethings-put-christianity-on-the-shelf-following-spiritually-active-teen-years#.U_gpFbywKFk.\n\n. Jim Newheiser, _Opening up Proverbs_ (Leominster: Day One Publications, 2008), 28.\n\n. _Merriam-Webster Online_ , s.v. \"fear,\" http:\/\/www.merriam-webster.com\/dictionary\/fear.\n\n. _The NAS Old Testament Hebrew Lexicon_ , s.v. \"Yare,'\" Strong's Number 3372, BibleStudyTools.com, http:\/\/www.biblestudytools.com\/lexicons\/hebrew\/nas\/yare.html.\n\n. Oswald Chambers, quoted in Martin H. Manser ed., _The Westminster Collection of Christian Quotations_ (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 322.\n\n. William Gurnall, quoted in Martin H. Manser, ed., _The Westminster Collection of Christian Quotations_ (Westminster: John Knox Press, 2001), 109.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}