"Yes," he answered. "I missed you."

It was the first time he'd answered a new question properly, without being told how to do it, shocking both of them into silence.

And for just a second, Denise's worries from the night before were forgotten.

If Denise expected that Kyle's simple statement would alleviate her concerns about Taylor, however, she was mistaken.

Not that it went bad right away. In fact, in many ways things didn't seem much different at all, at least for the next week or so. Though Taylor-still citing work as the reason-had stopped coming by in the afternoons, he nonetheless continued to drive Denise to and from the diner. They'd also made love the night Kyle had spoken.

Yet things were changing, that much seemed obvious. Nothing dramatic; it was more like the unwinding of twine, a gradual unfurling of everything that had been established during the summer. Less time together meant less time to simply hold each other or talk, and because of that, it was difficult for her to ignore the warning bells that had sounded the night they'd had dinner with Mitch and Melissa.

Even now, a week and a half later, the things that had been said that night still troubled her, but at the same time, she honestly wondered if she was making too much of the whole thing. Taylor hadn't really done anything wrong, so to speak, and that's what made his recent behavior difficult to figure out. He denied that anything was bothering him, he hadn't raised his voice; they still hadn't even had an argument. On Sunday they spent the afternoon on the river, as they'd done numerous times before. He was still great with Kyle, and more than once he'd reached for her hand as he drove her into work. On the surface, everything seemed the same. All that had really changed was a suddenly intense devotion to work, which he'd already explained. Yet . . .

Yet, what?

Sitting on the porch while Kyle played with his trucks in the yard, Denise tried to put her finger on it. She'd been around long enough to know something about the pattern of relationships. She knew that the initial feelings associated with love were almost like an ocean wave in their intensity, acting as the magnetic force that drew two people together. It was possible to be washed away in the emotion, but the wave wouldn't last forever. It couldn't-nor was it meant to be-but if two people were right for each other, a truer kind of love could last forever in its wake. At least, that's what she believed.

With Taylor, however, it almost seemed as if he'd been caught in the wave, unaware of what might be left behind, and now that he realized it, he was trying to fight his way back against the current. Not all the time . . . but some of the time, and that's what she seemed to be noticing lately. It was almost as if he were using work as an excuse to avoid the new realities of their situation.

Of course, if people start looking for something in particular, they're more likely to find it, and she hoped that was the case now. It might simply be that Taylor was preoccupied by work, and his reasons seemed genuine enough. At night, after picking her up, he looked tired enough for Denise to know that he wasn't lying to her about working all day.

So she kept as busy as she could, doing her best not to dwell on what might be happening between them. While Taylor seemed to be losing himself in his work, Denise threw herself into her work with Kyle with renewed energy. Now that he was speaking more, she began working on more complex phrases and ideas, while also teaching him other skills associated with school. One by one she began to teach him simple directions, and she worked with him to improve his coloring. She also introduced the concept of numbers, which seemed to make no sense to him whatever. She cleaned the house, she worked her shifts, she paid her bills-in short, she lived her life much the same as she had before she'd met Taylor McAden. But even though it was a life she was used to, she nonetheless spent most of the afternoons looking out the kitchen window, hoping to see him coming up the drive.

Usually, however, he didn't.

Despite herself, she heard Melissa's words once more.

All I know is that one day they seemed to be doing fine and the next thing you knew, it was over.

Denise shook her head, forcing the thought away. Though she didn't want to believe that about him-or them-it was getting more and more difficult not to do so. Incidents like yesterday's only reinforced her doubts.

She'd taken a bike ride with Kyle to the house Taylor was working on and had seen his truck parked out front. The owners were remodeling everything inside-the kitchen, the bathrooms, the living room-and the huge pile of scrap wood that had been torn from the interior of the house served as evidence that the project was a large one. Yet when she'd popped her head in to say hello, she'd been told by his employees that Taylor was out back, under the tree, eating his lunch. When she finally found him, he looked almost guilty, as if she'd caught him doing something wrong. Kyle, oblivious of his expression, ran over to him and Taylor stood to greet them.

"Denise?"

"Hey, Taylor. How are you?"

"Fine." He wiped his hands on his jeans. "I was just having a quick bite to eat," he said.

His lunch had come from Hardee's, which meant he'd had to drive past her house to the far side of town in order to buy it.

"I can see that," she said, trying not to let her concern show.

"So what are you doing here?"

Not exactly what I wanted to hear.

Putting on a brave face, she smiled. "I just wanted to stop by and say hello."

After a couple of minutes Taylor led them inside, describing the remodeling project almost as if he were talking to a stranger. Deep down, she suspected it was simply his way of avoiding the obvious question as to why he'd chosen to eat here instead of with her, as he'd done all summer long, or why he hadn't stopped in on his way past her house.

But later that night, when he'd picked her up to take her to work, he didn't say much at all.

The fact that it wasn't unusual anymore kept Denise on edge throughout her entire shift.

"It's just for a few days," Taylor said, shrugging.

They were sitting on the couch in the living room while Kyle watched a cartoon on television.

Another week had gone by and nothing had changed. Or rather, everything had changed. It all depended on her perspective, and right now Denise was leaning heavily toward the latter. It was Tuesday and he'd just come by to take her into work. Her pleasure at his earlier arrival had evaporated almost immediately when he'd informed her that he was leaving for a few days.

"When did you decide this?" Denise asked.

"Just this morning. A couple of the guys are going down and asked if I wanted to go along. South Carolina opens the hunting season two weeks earlier than we do around here, so I figured I'd head down with them. I feel like I need a break."

Are you talking about me or work?

"So you're leaving tomorrow?"

Taylor shifted slightly. "Actually, it's more like the middle of the night. We'll be leaving around three."

"You'll be exhausted."

"Nothing that a thermos of coffee can't fix."

"You probably shouldn't pick me up tonight," Denise offered. "You need a little sleep."

"Don't worry about that. I'll be there."

Denise shook her head. "No, I'll talk to Rhonda. She'll bring me home."

"Are you sure she won't mind?"

"She doesn't live that far from here. And it's not like she's been doing it very much lately."

Taylor slipped his arm around Denise, surprising her. He pulled her close. "I'll miss you."

"You will?" she said, hating the plaintive note in her voice.

"Of course. Especially around midnight. I'll probably wander out to my truck through force of habit."

Denise smiled, thinking he'd kiss her. Instead he turned away, motioning with his chin toward Kyle.

"And I'll miss you, too, little man."

"Yes," Kyle said, eyes glued to the television.

"Hey, Kyle," Denise said, "Taylor's leaving for a few days."

"Yes," Kyle said again, obviously not listening.

Taylor crawled down from the couch, creeping on all fours toward Kyle.

"Are you ignoring me, Kyle?" he growled.

Once Taylor was close, Kyle realized his intent and squealed as he tried to get away. Taylor grabbed him easily, and they began to wrestle on the floor.

"Are you listening to me?" Taylor asked.

"He's wrestling!" Kyle shrieked, his arms and legs flailing. (Ees wesswing!)

"I'm gonna get you!" Taylor bellowed, and for the next few minutes there was pandemonium on the living room floor. When Kyle finally tired, Taylor let him pull away.

"Hey, when I get back, I'm going to take you to a baseball game. If that's okay with your mom, of course."

"Bessbaw game," Kyle repeated wonderingly.

"It's fine with me."

Taylor winked, first at Denise, then at Kyle.

"Did you hear that? Your mom said we can go."

"Bessbaw game!" Kyle cried, louder this time.

At least with Kyle he hasn't changed.

Denise glanced at the clock.

"It's about that time," she said, sighing.

"Already?"

Denise nodded, then rose from the couch to collect her things. A couple of minutes later they were on their way to the diner. When they arrived Taylor walked with Denise to the front door.

"Call me?" she said.

"I'll try," Taylor promised.

They stood gazing at each other for a moment before Taylor kissed her good-bye. Denise went in, hoping that the trip would help clear his mind of whatever had been bothering him.

Perhaps it did, but Denise had no way of knowing.

For the next four days she didn't hear from him at all.

She hated waiting for the phone to ring.

It wasn't like her to be this way; the experience a new one. In college her roommate sometimes refused to go out in the evenings because she thought her boyfriend might call. Denise always did her best to convince her roommate to come with her, usually to no avail, and then would head out to meet with different friends. When she explained why her roommate wasn't with them, each of them swore up and down that they'd never do something like that.

But here she was, and suddenly it didn't seem so easy to follow her own advice.

Not that she stopped living her life, as her roommate had done. She had too many responsibilities for that. But it didn't stop her from racing to the phone every time it rang and feeling disappointed when it wasn't Taylor.

The whole thing made her feel helpless, a sensation she detested. She wasn't, nor had she ever been, the helpless type, and she refused to become that now. So he hadn't called . . . so what? Because she was working, he couldn't reach her at home in the evenings, and he was probably spending all day in the woods. When was he supposed to call her? The middle of the night? At the crack of dawn? Sure, he could call and leave a message when she wasn't there, but why did she expect that?

And why did it seem so important?

I'm not going to be like this, she told herself. After running through the explanations again and convincing herself that they made sense, Denise forged on. On Friday she took Kyle to the park; on Saturday they went for a long walk in the woods. On Sunday she took Kyle to church, then spent the early part of the afternoon running other errands.

With enough money now to begin looking for a car (old and used, cheap, but hopefully reliable), she picked up two newspapers for their classified ads. Next stop was the grocery store, and she scanned the aisles, choosing carefully, not wanting to overload herself for the trip back home. Kyle was staring at the cartoon figure of a crocodile printed on a box of cereal when Denise heard her name being called. Turning, she saw Judy pushing her cart toward her.

"I thought that was you," Judy said cheerfully. "How are you?"

"Hi, Judy. I'm fine."

"Hey, Kyle," Judy said.

"Hewwo, Miss Jewey," he whispered, still enamored with the box.

Judy moved her cart a little off to the side. "So what have you been doing lately? You and Taylor haven't come by for dinner in a while."

Denise shrugged, feeling a pang of unease. "Just the usual. Kyle's been keeping me pretty busy these days."

"They always do. How's he coming along?"

"He's had a good summer, that's for sure. Haven't you, Kyle?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

Judy turned her attention to him, beaming. "You sure are getting handsome. And I hear you're getting pretty good at baseball, too."

"Bessbaw," Kyle said, perking up, finally looking away from the box.

"Taylor's been helping him," Denise added. "Kyle really likes it."

"I'm glad. It's a lot easier for a mother to watch her children play baseball than football. I used to cover my eyes whenever Taylor played. He used to get crunched all the time-I could hear it in the stands, and it gave me nightmares."

Denise offered a strained laugh as Kyle stared, uncomprehending. Judy went on.

"I didn't expect to see you here. I figured you would be with Taylor right now. He told me he was going to spend the day with you."

Denise ran her hand through her hair. "He did?"

Judy nodded. "Yesterday. He came by after he got home."

"So . . . hes back?"

Judy eyed her curiously. The next words came out carefully. "Didn't he call you?"

"No."

As she answered, Denise crossed her arms and turned away, trying not to show her discomfiture.

"Well, maybe you were already at work," Judy offered softly.

But even as she spoke the words, both of them knew it wasn't true.

Two hours after she got home, she spotted Taylor coming up the drive. Kyle was playing out front and immediately started for the truck, racing across the lawn. As soon as Taylor opened the door, Kyle jumped up into his arms.

Denise stepped out onto the porch with conflicting emotions, wondering if he'd come because Judy had called him after running into her at the store. Wondering if he would have come otherwise. Wondering why he hadn't called while he was gone, and wondering why, despite all that, her heart still leapt at the sight of him.

After Taylor put Kyle down, Kyle grabbed his hand and the two of them began making their way to the porch.

"Hey, Denise," Taylor said warily, almost as if he knew what she was thinking.

"Hi, Taylor."

When she made no move off the porch toward him, Taylor hesitated before closing the gap. He hopped up the steps as Denise took a small step backward, not meeting his eyes. When he tried to kiss her, she pulled back slightly.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked.

She looked around the yard before focusing on him. "I don't know, Taylor. Should I be?"

"Tayer!" Kyle said again. "Tayer's here!"

Denise reached for his hand. "Could you go inside for a minute, sweetie?"

"Tayer's here."

"I know. But do me a favor and leave us alone, okay?"

Reaching behind her, she opened the screen door and then led Kyle inside. After making sure he was occupied with his toys, she returned to the porch.

"So what's up?" Taylor asked.

"Why didn't you call while you were gone?"

Taylor shrugged. "I don't know . . . I guess I just didn't have the time. We were out all day and I was pretty worn by the time I got back to the motel. Is that why you're mad?"

Without answering, Denise went on.

"Why did you tell your mother you were going to spend the day here if you didn't plan on doing so?"

"What's with the questions? I did come by-what do you think I'm doing now?"

Denise exhaled sharply. "Taylor, what's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. Look, I got back into town yesterday, I was beat, and I had a bunch of things to take care of this morning. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?"

"I'm not making a big deal out of this-"

"Yes, you are. If you don't want me around, just tell me and I'll get in my truck and leave."

"It's not that I don't want you around, Taylor. I just don't know why you're acting the way you are."

"And how am I acting?"

Denise sighed, trying to put it into words.

"I don't know, Taylor . . . it's hard to explain. It's like you're not sure what you want anymore. With us, I mean."

Taylor's expression didn't change. "Where is all this coming from? What-did you talk to Melissa again?"

"No. Melissa has nothing to do with this," she said, becoming frustrated and a little angry. "It's just that you've changed, and sometimes I don't know what to think anymore."

"Just because I didn't call? I've already explained that." He took a step closer to her, his expression softening. "There just wasn't any time, that's all."

Not knowing whether to believe him, she hesitated. Meanwhile, as if sensing something wrong, Kyle pushed open the screen door.

"C'mon, guys," he said. "Let's go inside." (C'mon, guys. Wess go issite)

For a moment, however, they simply stood without moving.

"C'mon," Kyle prodded, reaching for Denise's shirt.

Denise looked down, forcing a smile, before glancing up again. Taylor was grinning, doing his best to break the ice.

"If you let me in, I'll give you a surprise."

As she thought about it, Denise crossed her arms. Behind Taylor, in the yard, a bluejay called from the fencepost. Kyle looked up expectantly.

"What is it?" she finally asked, giving in.

"It's in the truck. Let me go get it." Taylor stepped backward, watching her carefully, realizing that her comment meant she was going to let him stay. Before she changed her mind, he motioned toward Kyle. "C'mon, you can help."

As they walked back to the truck, Denise watched him, her emotions warring within her. Again, his explanations seemed reasonable, as they had for the past two weeks. Again, he was great with Kyle.

So why didn't she believe him?

After Kyle was asleep that night, Denise and Taylor sat together on the couch in the living room.

"So how did you like your surprise?"

"It was delicious. But you didn't have to fill my freezer."

"Well, mine was already full."

"Your mom might want some."

Taylor shrugged. "Hers is full, too."

"How often do you hunt?"

"As much as I can."

Before dinner, Taylor and Kyle had played catch in the yard; for dinner, Taylor had done the cooking, or rather part of it. Along with the venison, he'd brought some potato salad and baked beans from the supermarket. Now, relaxing for the first time, Denise felt better than she had for the past couple of weeks. The only light came from a small lamp in the corner, and a radio was playing softly in the background.

"So when are you taking Kyle to his baseball game?"

"I was thinking about Saturday, if that's okay. There's a game in Norfolk."

"Oh, that's his birthday," she said, disappointed. "I was planning to throw a little party for him."

"What time's the party?"

"Probably around noon or so. I still have to work that night."

"The game starts at seven. How about if I take Kyle with me while you're at work?"

"But I kind of wanted to go, too."

"Ah, let us have another boys night out. He'd enjoy it."

"I know he would. You've already got him hooked on that game."

"So is it all right if I bring him? I'd have him home in time to pick you up."

She brought her hands to her lap. "All right, you win. But don't keep him too long if he gets tired."

Taylor raised his hand. "Scouts' honor. I'll pick him up at five, and by the end of the night, he'll be eating hot dogs and peanuts and singing 'Take Me Out to the Ball Game.' "

She nudged him in the ribs. "Yeah, sure."

"Well, maybe you're right. But it won't be for lack of trying."

Denise rested her head against his shoulder. He smelled like salt and wind.

"You're a good guy, Taylor."

"I try."

"No, I'm serious. You've really made me feel special these last couple of months."

"So have you."

For a long moment, silence filled the living room like a living presence. She could feel Taylor's chest rising and falling with every breath. As wonderful as he'd been tonight, she couldn't escape the concerns that had been troubling her for the past two weeks.

"Do you ever think about the future, Taylor?"

He cleared his throat before answering.

"Sure, sometimes. Usually it doesn't go much beyond the next meal, though."

She took his hand in hers, weaving their fingers together.

"Do you ever think about us? About where we're going with all this, I mean?"

Taylor didn't respond, and Denise went on.

"I've just been thinking that we've been seeing each other for a few months now, but sometimes I don't know where you stand on all this. I mean, these last couple of weeks . . . I don't know . . . sometimes it feels like you're pulling away. You've been working such long hours that we haven't had much time to spend together, and then when you didn't call . . ."

She trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken, knowing she'd already said these things before. She felt his body stiffen just a little as she heard his answer coming out in a hoarse whisper.

"I care about you, Denise, if that's what you're asking."

She blinked, keeping her eyes closed for a long moment before opening them again.

"No, that's not it . . . or not all of it. I guess I just want to know if you're serious about us."

He pulled her closer, running his hand through her hair.

"Of course I'm serious. But like I said, my vision of the future doesn't extend all that far. I'm not the brightest guy you've ever met."

He smiled at his own joke. Hinting wasn't going to suffice. Denise took a deep breath.

"Well, when you think about the future, are Kyle and I in it?" she asked point-blank.

It was quiet in the living room as she waited for his answer. Licking her lips, she realized her mouth had gone dry. Eventually she heard him sigh.

"I can't predict the future, Denise. No one can. But like I said, I care about you and I care about Kyle. Isn't that enough for now?"

Needless to say, it wasn't the answer she had hoped for, but she lifted her head from his shoulder and met his eyes.

"Yeah," she lied. "That's enough for now."

Later that night, after making love and falling asleep together, Denise woke and saw Taylor standing by the window, looking toward the trees but obviously thinking of something else. She watched him for a long time, before he finally crawled back into bed. As he tugged at the sheet, Denise turned toward him.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

Taylor seemed surprised at the sound of her voice. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

"No. I've been awake for a while now. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just couldn't sleep."

"Are you worried about something?"

"No."

"Then why can't you sleep?"

"I don't know."

"Is it something I did?"

He drew a long breath. "No. There's nothing wrong with you at all."

With that, he cuddled against her, pulling her close.

The following morning, Denise woke alone.

This time Taylor wasn't sleeping on the couch. This time he didn't surprise her with breakfast. He'd slipped out unnoticed, and calls to his house went unanswered. For a while Denise debated stopping by his work site later in the day, but the memory of her last visit kept her from doing so.

Instead she reviewed their evening, trying to get a better read on it. For every positive thing, there seemed to be something negative as well. Yes, he'd come by . . . but that may have been because his mother had said something to him. Yes, he'd been great with Kyle . . . but then he might be focusing on Kyle to avoid what was really bothering him. Yes, he'd told her he cared about her . . . but not enough to even think about the future? They'd made love . . . but he was gone first thing in the morning, without so much as a good-bye.

Analysis, debate, dissection . . . she hated reducing their relationship to that. It seemed so eighties, so grounded in psychobabble, a bunch of words and actions that might or might not mean anything. No, scratch that. They did mean something, and that's exactly what the problem was.

Yet, deep down, she realized that Taylor wasn't lying when he said he cared about her. If there was one thing that kept her going, that was it. But . . .

So many buts these days.

She shook her head, doing her best to put it all out of her mind, at least until she saw him again. He'd be by later to take her into work, and though she didn't think there'd be time to talk to him about her feelings again, she felt sure that she would know more as soon as she saw him. Hopefully he'd come by a little early.

The rest of the morning and the afternoon passed slowly. Kyle was in one of his moods-not talking, grumpy, stubborn-and that didn't help her own mood, but it did keep her from focusing all day on Taylor.

A little after five she thought she heard his truck on the road out front, but as soon as she stepped outside, she realized it wasn't Taylor. Disappointed, she changed into her workclothes, made Kyle a grilled cheese sandwich, watched the news.

Time continued to pass. Six o'clock now. Where was he?

She turned off the television and tried unsuccessfully to get Kyle interested in a book. Then she got down on the floor and started playing with his Legos, but Kyle ignored her, focusing on his coloring book. When she tried to join him in that, he told her to go away. She sighed and decided it wasn't worth the effort.

Instead she straightened up the kitchen, killing time. Not much to do there, so she folded a basket of laundry and put it away.

Six-thirty and still no sign of him. Concern was giving way to a sinking sensation in her gut.

He's coming, she told herself. Isn't he?

Against her better judgment she dialed his number, but there was no answer. She went back into the kitchen, got a glass of water, then returned to the living room window. Looking out, she waited.

And waited.

Fifteen minutes to get there or she'd be late.

Then ten.

At five until seven she was holding her glass so hard that her knuckles had turned white. Loosening her grip, she felt the blood rush back into her fingers. Her lips were pressed together when seven o'clock rolled around and she called Ray, apologizing and telling him she'd be a little late.

"We've got to go, Kyle," she said after hanging up the phone. "We're going to ride our bikes."

"No," he said.

"I'm not asking, Kyle, I'm telling you. Now move!"

Hearing the tone of her voice, Kyle put down his colors and started toward her.

Cursing, she went to the back porch to get her bike. Rolling it off the porch, she noticed it wasn't gliding smoothly, and she jerked it before finally learning what the problem was.

A flat tire.

"Oh, c'mon . . . not tonight," she said almost in disbelief. As if not trusting her eyes, she checked the tire with her finger, feeling it give as she applied only a little pressure.

"Damnit," she said, kicking at the wheel. She let the bike fall onto a couple of cardboard boxes, then went into the kitchen again just as Kyle was coming out the door.

"We're not taking our bikes," she said through gritted teeth. "Come inside."

Kyle knew enough not to press her now and did as he was told. Denise went to the phone and tried Taylor again. Not in. She slammed the phone down, then thought of who else to call. Not Rhonda-she was already at the diner. But . . . Judy? She dialed her number and let it ring a dozen times before hanging up. Who else to call? Who else did she know? Really, only one other person. She opened the cupboard and found the phone book, then thumbed to the appropriate page. After punching in the right numbers, she breathed a sigh of relief as it was answered.

"Melissa? Hi, it's Denise."

"Oh, hey, how are you?"

"Actually, I'm not too good right now. I hate to do this, but I'm really calling for a favor."

"What can I do?"

"I know it's really inconvenient, but is it possible for you to drive me into work tonight?"

"Sure, when?"

"Now? I know it's last minute and I'm sorry, but the tires on my bike are flat-"

"Don't worry about it," Melissa interrupted. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

"I'll owe you one."

"No, you won't. It's not that big a deal. I just have to grab my purse and the keys."

Denise hung up, then called Ray again, explaining with more apologies that she'd be there by seven-thirty. This time Ray laughed.

"Don't worry about it, honey. You'll get here when you do. No rush-it's kind of quiet right now anyway."

Again she breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly she noticed Kyle, watching her without saying a word.

"Mommy's not mad at you, sweetheart. I'm sorry for yelling."

She was, however, still angry at Taylor. Any relief she was feeling was counteracted by that. How could he?

Gathering her things, she waited for Melissa to show up, then led Kyle out the door when Melissa's car rolled up the drive. Melissa rolled down the window as the car slowed to a stop.

"Hey there. C'mon in, but excuse the mess. Kids are knee-deep in soccer these days."

Denise buckled Kyle into the backseat and was shaking her head as she got in the front seat. Soon the car had made its way down the drive and had turned onto the main road.

"So what happened?" Melissa asked. "You said your tire was flat?"

"Yeah, but I didn't expect that I'd have to ride my bike in the first place. Taylor didn't show up."

"And he said he would?"

Her question made Denise hesitate before answering. Did she ask him? Did she still have to?

"We didn't talk about it specifically," Denise admitted, "but he's been driving me all summer, so I just assumed he'd keep doing it."

"Did he call?"

"No."

Melissa's eyes darted in Denise's direction. "I take it things have changed between you two," she said.

Denise simply nodded. Melissa faced the road again and was quiet, leaving Denise alone with her thoughts.

"You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"

"I've known Taylor a long time," Melissa answered carefully.

"So what's going on with him?"

Melissa sighed. "To tell you the truth, I don't know. I never have. But Taylor always seems to turn gun-shy whenever he starts getting serious with someone."

"But . . . why? I mean, we get along so well, he's great with Kyle . . ."

"I can't speak for Taylor, I really can't. Like I said, I don't really understand it."

"If you had to guess, though?"

Melissa hesitated. "It's not you, trust me. When we were at dinner, I wasn't kidding when I said that Taylor really cares about you. He does-more than I've seen him care about anyone. And Mitch says the same thing. But sometimes I think that Taylor doesn't feel that he deserves to be happy, so he sabotages every opportunity. I don't think he does it on purpose-I think it's more that he can't help himself."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe not. But it's the way he is."

Denise pondered that. Up ahead she saw the diner. As Ray had said, from the looks of the parking lot there weren't too many people inside. Closing her eyes, she balled her fists in frustration.

"Again, the question is why?"

Melissa didn't respond right away. She turned on the blinker and began to slow the van.

"If you ask me . . . it's because of something that happened a long time ago."

Melissa's tone made her meaning obvious.

"His father?"

Melissa nodded, then let the words out slowly. "He blames himself for his father's death."

Denise felt her stomach dip, then roll. "What happened back then?"

The van came to a stop. "You should probably talk to him about that."

"I've tried. . . ."

Melissa shook her head. "I know, Denise. We all have."

Denise worked her shift, barely concentrating, but because it was slow, it didn't really matter. Rhonda, who would normally have driven her home, left early, leaving Ray as the only option to bring her and Kyle home. Though she was thankful Ray was willing to drive her, he usually spent an hour after closing cleaning up, so it meant a later night than usual. Resigning herself to that, Denise was doing her own closing work when the front door opened just before it was time to lock up.

Taylor.

He stepped inside, waved to Ray, but didn't make a move toward Denise.

"Melissa called," he said, "and told me you might need a ride home."

She was at a loss for words. Angry, hurt, confused . . . yet undeniably still in love. Though the last part seemed to be fading with each passing day.

"Where were you earlier?"

Taylor shifted from one foot to the other. "I was working," he finally answered. "I didn't know you needed a ride today."

"You've been driving me for the last three months," she said, trying to keep her composure.

"But I was gone last week. You didn't ask me to drive you in last night, so I just figured Rhonda would bring you in. I didn't realize that I was supposed to be your personal chauffeur."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's not fair, Taylor, and you know it."

Taylor crossed his arms. "Hey, I didn't come here to get yelled at. I'm here in case you need a ride home. Do you want one or not?"

Denise pursed her lips together. "No," she said simply.

If Taylor was surprised, he didn't show it.

"All right, then," he said. He turned to look at the walls, then the floor, then back to her. "I'm sorry about earlier, if that means anything."

It does and it doesn't, Denise thought. But she didn't say anything. When Taylor realized she wasn't going to speak, he turned away, pulling the door open again.

"Do you need a ride tomorrow?" he asked over his shoulder.

Again she thought about it. "Will you be there?"

He winced. "Yes," he answered softly. "I will."

"Then, okay," she said.

He nodded, then made his way out the door. Turning around, Denise saw Ray scrubbing the counter as if his life depended on it.

"Ray?"

"Yes, honey?" he answered, pretending that he hadn't been paying attention to what was going on.

"Can I take tomorrow evening off?"

He glanced up from the counter, looking at her as he probably would have looked at his own child.

"I think you'd better," he answered honestly.

Taylor came by thirty minutes before her shift was supposed to start and was surprised when she opened the door dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved blouse. It had been raining most of the day, and the temperature was in the sixties, too cool for shorts. Taylor, meanwhile, was clean and dry-it was obvious he'd changed before coming over.

"C'mon in," she said.

"Aren't you supposed to be dressed for work?"

"I'm not working tonight," she said evenly.

"You're not?"

"No," she replied. Taylor followed her inside, curious.

"Where's Kyle?"

Denise sat. "Melissa said she'd watch him for a while."

Taylor stopped, looking around uncertainly, and Denise patted the couch.

"Sit down."

Taylor did as she suggested. "So what's up?"

"We've got to talk," she began.

"About what?"

She couldn't help but shake her head at that. "What's going on with you?"

"Why? Is there something I don't know about?" he said, grinning nervously.

"This isn't the time for jokes, Taylor. I took tonight off in the hopes that you'd help me understand what the problem is."

"Are you talking about what happened yesterday? I said I was sorry, and I mean it."

"It's not that. I'm talking about you and me."

"Didn't we just talk about this the other night?"

Denise sighed in exasperation. "Yeah, we talked. Or rather, I talked. But you didn't say much at all."

"Sure I did."

"No, you didn't. But then, you never have. You just talk about surface things, never the things that are really bothering you."

"That's not true-"

"Then why are you treating me-us-differently than you used to?"

"I'm not . . ."

Denise stopped him by raising her hands.

"You don't come over much anymore, you didn't call while you were away, you snuck out of here yesterday morning, then didn't show up later . . ."

"I've already explained that."

"Yes, you did-you explained each and every situation. But don't you see the pattern?"

He turned toward the clock on the wall, staring at it, stubbornly avoiding her question.

Denise ran her hand through her hair. "But more than that, you don't talk to me anymore. And I'm beginning to wonder whether you ever really did."

Taylor glanced back at her, and Denise caught his gaze. She'd been down this road before with him-the denial of any problem-and didn't want to go there again. Hearing Melissa's voice, she decided to go to the heart of the matter. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"What happened to your father?"

Immediately she saw him tense.

"Why does that matter?" he asked, suddenly wary.

"Because I think that it might have something to do with the way you've been acting lately."

Instead of responding, Taylor shook his head, his mood changing to something just short of anger.

"What gives you that idea?"

She tried again. "It doesn't really matter. I just want to know what happened."

"We've already talked about this," he said curtly.

"No, we haven't. I've asked you about him, and you've told me some things. But you haven't told me the whole story."

Taylor gritted his teeth. He was opening and closing one of his hands, without seeming to realize it. "He died, okay? I've already told you that."

"And?"

"And what?" he burst out. "What do you want me to say?"

She reached toward his hand and took it in hers. "Melissa said that you blame yourself."

Taylor pulled his hand away. "She doesn't know what she's talking about."

Denise kept her voice calm. "There was a fire, right?"

Taylor closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, she saw a kind of fury there that she had never seen before.

"He died, that's all. That's all there is."

"Why won't you answer me?" she asked. "Why can't you talk to me?"

"Christ!" he spat out, his voice booming off the walls. "Can't you just drop it?"

His outburst surprised her, and her eyes widened a little.

"No, I can't," she persisted, her heart suddenly racing. "Not if it's something that concerns us."

He stood from the couch.

"It doesn't concern us! What the hell is all this about, anyway? I'm getting sick and tired of you grilling me all the time!"

She leaned forward, hands extended. "I'm not grilling you, Taylor, I-I'm just trying to talk," she stammered.

"What do you want from me?" he said, not listening, his face flushed.

"I just want to know what's going on so we can work on it."

"Work on what? We're not married, Denise," he said. "Where the hell do you get off trying to pry?"

The words stung. "I'm not prying," she said defensively.

"Sure you are. You're trying to get into my head so you can try to fix what's wrong. But nothing's wrong, Denise, at least not with me. I am who I am, and if you can't handle it, maybe you shouldn't try."

He glared at her from where he was standing, and Denise took a deep breath. Before she could say anything else, Taylor shook his head and took a step backward.

"Look, you don't need a ride and I don't want to be here right now. So think about what I said, okay? I'm getting out of here."

With that, Taylor spun and made his way to the door, leaving the house as Denise sat on the couch, stunned.

Think about what I said?

"I would," she whispered, "if you'd made any sense at all."

The next few days passed uneventfully, except, of course, for the flowers that arrived the day after their argument.

The note was simple:

I'm sorry for the way I acted. I just need a couple days to think things through. Can you give me that?

Part of her wanted to throw the flowers away, another part wanted to keep them. Part of her wanted to end the relationship right now, another part wanted to plead for another chance. So what else is new? she thought to herself.

Outside her window, the storm had returned. The sky was gray and cold, rain sheeting itself against the windows, strong winds bending the trees almost double.

She lifted the receiver and called Rhonda, then turned her attention to the classified ads. This weekend she'd buy herself a car.

Maybe then she wouldn't feel so trapped.

On Saturday Kyle celebrated his birthday. Melissa, Mitch and their four boys, and Judy were the only ones in attendance. When asked about Taylor, Denise explained that Taylor was coming by later to take Kyle to a baseball game, which was why he wasn't here now.

"Kyle's been looking forward to it all week," she said, downplaying any problem.

It was only because of Kyle that she didn't worry. Despite everything, Taylor hadn't changed at all when it concerned her son. He would come, she knew. There was no way on earth that he wouldn't.

He'd be here around five, he'd take Kyle to the game.

The hours ticked by, more slowly than usual.

At twenty past five, Denise was playing catch with Kyle in the yard, a pit in her stomach and on the verge of crying.

Kyle looked adorable dressed in jeans and a baseball hat. With his mitt-a new one, courtesy of Melissa-he caught Denise's latest toss. Gripping the ball, he held it out in front of him, looking at Denise.

"Taylor's coming," he said. (Tayer's cummeen)

Denise glanced at her watch for the hundredth time, then swallowed hard, feeling nauseated. She'd called three times; he wasn't home. Nor, it seemed, was he on his way.

"I don't think so, honey."

"Taylor's coming," he repeated.

That one brought tears to her eyes. Denise approached him and squatted to be at eye level.

"Taylor is busy. I don't think he's going to take you to the game. You can come with Mommy to work, okay?"

Saying the words hurt more than it seemed possible.

Kyle looked up at her, the words slowly sinking in.

"Tayer's gone," he finally said.

Denise reached out for him. "Yes, he is," she said sadly.

Kyle dropped the ball and walked past her, toward the house, looking as dejected as she'd ever seen him.

Denise lowered her face into her hands.

Taylor came by the following morning, a wrapped gift under his arm. Before Denise could get to the door, Kyle was outside, reaching for the package, the fact that he hadn't shown up yesterday already forgotten. If children had one advantage over their elders, Denise reflected, it was their ability to forgive quickly.

But she wasn't a child. She stepped outside, her arms crossed, obviously upset. Kyle had taken the gift and was already unwrapping it, ripping off the paper in an excited frenzy. Deciding not to say anything until he was done, Denise watched as Kyle's eyes grew wider.

"Legos!" he cried joyfully, holding up the box for Denise to see. (Weggoes)

"It sure is," she said, agreeing with him. Without looking at Taylor, she brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "Kyle, say, 'Thank you.' "

"Kenk you," he said, staring at the box.

"Here," Taylor said, removing a small pocketknife from his pants and squatting, "let me open that for you."

He cut the tape on the box and removed the cover. Kyle reached in and pulled out a set of wheels for one of the model cars.

Denise cleared her throat. "Kyle? Why don't you take that inside. Mommy's got to talk to Taylor."

She held open the screen door, and Kyle dutifully did as she'd asked. Setting the box on the coffee table, he was immediately engrossed in the pieces.

Taylor stood, not making a move toward her.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "There's really no excuse. I just forgot about the game. Was he upset?"

"You could say that."

Taylor's expression was pained. "Maybe I could make it up to him. There's another game next weekend."

"I don't think so," she said quietly. She motioned to the chairs on the porch. Taylor hesitated before moving to take a seat. Denise sat as well but didn't face him. Instead she watched a pair of squirrels hopping across the yard, collecting acorns.

"I screwed up, didn't I?" Taylor said honestly.

Denise smiled wryly. "Yeah."

"You have every right to be angry with me."

Denise finally turned to face him. "I was. Last night, if you had come into the diner, I would have thrown a frying pan at you."

The corners of Taylor's mouth upturned slightly, then straightened again. He knew she wasn't finished.

"But I'm over that. Now I'm less angry than I am resigned."

Taylor looked at her curiously as Denise exhaled slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was low and soft.

"For the last four years, I had my life with Kyle," she began. "It's not always easy, but it's predictable, and there's something to be said for that. I know how I'm going to spend today and tomorrow and the day after that, and it helps me keep some semblance of control. Kyle needs me to do that, and I need to do it for him because he's all I've got in the world. But then, you showed up."

She smiled, but it couldn't mask the sadness in her eyes. Still, Taylor was silent.

"You were so good to him, right from the beginning. You treated Kyle differently than anyone else ever has, and that meant the world to me. But even more than that, you were good to me."

Denise paused, picking at a knot in the armrest of her old wooden rocker, her eyes focused inward. "When we first met, I didn't want to get involved with anyone. I didn't have the time or the energy, and even after the carnival, I wasn't sure that I was ready for it. But you were so good with Kyle. You did things with him that no one else had taken the time to do, and I got swept up in that. And little by little, I found myself falling in love with you."

Taylor put both hands in his lap as he stared at the floor. Denise shook her head wistfully.

"I don't know . . . I grew up reading fairy tales, and maybe that had something to do with it."

Denise leaned back in her rocker, gazing at him from below lowered lashes.

"Do you remember that night we met? When you rescued my son? After that, you delivered my groceries and then taught Kyle how to play catch. It was like you were the handsome prince of my girlhood fantasies, and the more I got to know you, the more I came to believe it. And part of me still does. You're everything I've ever wanted in a man. But as much as I care for you, I don't think you're ready for me or my son."

Taylor rubbed his face wearily before staring up at her with pain-darkened eyes.

"I'm not blind to what's been happening with us these last few weeks. You're pulling away from me-from both of us-no matter how much you try to deny it. It's obvious, Taylor. What I don't understand is why you're doing it."

"I've been busy at work," Taylor began halfheartedly.

"That may be true, but it's not the whole truth."

Denise took a deep breath, willing her voice not to break. "I know you're holding something back, and if you can't, or don't, want to talk about it, there's not much I can do. But whatever it is, it's driving you away."

She stopped, her eyes welling with tears. "Yesterday, you hurt me. But worse than that, you hurt Kyle. He waited for you, Taylor. For two hours. He jumped up every time a car went by, thinking it was you. But it wasn't, and finally even he knew that everything had changed. He didn't say a single thing the rest of the night. Not one word."

Taylor, pale and shaken, seemed incapable of speech. Denise looked toward the horizon, a single tear drifting down her cheek.

"I can put up with a lot of things. Lord knows, I already have. The way you've been drawing me in, pushing me away, drawing me in again. But I'm a grown-up, and I'm old enough to choose whether I want to keep letting that happen. But if the same thing should start happening with Kyle . . ." She trailed off, swiping at her cheek.

"You're a wonderful person, Taylor. You've got so much to offer someone, and I hope that one day you'll finally meet the person who can make sense of all that pain you're carrying around. You deserve that. In my heart, I know you didn't mean to hurt Kyle. But I can't take the chance of that happening again, especially when you're not serious about our future together."

"I'm sorry," he said thickly.

"I am, too."

He reached for her hand. "I don't want to lose you." His voice was almost a whisper.

Seeing his haggard expression, she took his hand and squeezed it, then reluctantly let it go. She could feel the tears again, and she fought them back.

"But you don't want to keep me, either, do you?"

To that, he had no response.

Once he was gone, Denise drifted like a zombie through the house, holding on to her self-control by a thread. She'd cried most of the night already, knowing what was to come. She'd been strong, she reminded herself as she sat on the living room couch; she'd done the right thing. She couldn't allow him to hurt Kyle again. She wasn't going to cry.

Damnit, not anymore.

But watching Kyle play with his Legos and knowing that Taylor would no longer be coming by the house made a sickening knot rise in her throat.

"I'm not going to cry," she said aloud, the words coming out like a mantra. "I'm not going to cry."

With that, she broke down and wept for the next two hours.

"So you went ahead and ended it, huh?" Mitch said, clearly disgusted.

They were in a bar, a dingy place that opened its doors for breakfast, usually to a waiting crowd of three or four regulars. Now, however, it was late in the evening. Taylor hadn't called until after eight; Mitch had shown up an hour later. Taylor had started drinking without him.

"It wasn't me, Mitch," he said defensively. "She's the one who called it off. You can't pin this one on me."

"And I suppose it just came out of the blue, right? You had nothing to do with it."

"It's over, Mitch. What do you want me to say?"

Mitch shook his head. "You know, Taylor, you're a piece of work. You sit here thinking you've got it all figured out, but you don't understand anything."

"Thanks for your support, Mitch."

Mitch glared at him. "Don't give me that crap. You don't need my support. What you need is someone to tell you to get your ass back over there and fix whatever it was you did wrong."

"You don't understand-"

"Like hell I don't!" Mitch said, slamming his beer glass onto the table. "Who do you think you are? You think I don't know? Hell, Taylor, I probably know you better than you know yourself. You think you're the only one with a shitty past? You think you're the only one who's always trying to change it? I have news for you. Everyone has crap in their background, everyone has things they wish they could undo. But most people don't go around doing their best to screw up their present lives because of it."

"I didn't screw up," Taylor said angrily. "Didn't you hear what I said? She's the one who ended it. Not me. Not this time."

"I tell you what, Taylor. You can go to the goddamn grave thinking that, but both you and I know, it ain't the whole truth. So get back over there and try to salvage it. She's the best thing that ever happened to you."

"I didn't ask you to come here so you can give me some of your advice-"

"Well, you're getting the best advice I've ever given you. Do me a favor and listen to it, okay? Don't ignore it this time. Your father would have wanted you to."

Taylor squinted at Mitch, everything suddenly tensing. "Don't bring him into this. You don't want to go there."

"Why, Taylor? Are you afraid of something? Afraid that his ghost is gonna start hovering around us or knocking our beers off the table?"

"That's enough," Taylor growled.

"Don't forget, I knew your father, too. I knew what a great guy he was. He was a guy who loved his family, loved his wife, loved his son. He would have been disappointed by what you're doing now, I can guarantee it."

The blood drained from Taylor's face and he gripped his glass hard.

"Screw you, Mitch."

"No, Taylor. You've already done that to yourself. If I did it, too, it would just be piling on."

"I don't need this crap," Taylor snapped, rising from the table. He started for the door. "You don't even know who I am."

Mitch pushed the table away from his body, knocking over the beers and causing a few heads to turn. The bartender looked up from his conversation as Mitch stood and came up behind Taylor, grabbing him roughly by his shirt and spinning him around.

"I don't know you? Hell, I know you! You're a goddamn coward, is what you are! You're afraid of living because you think it means giving up this cross you've been carrying around your whole life. But this time, you've gone too far. You think you're the only one in the world with feelings? You think you'll just walk away from Denise and everything's going to go back to normal now? You think you'll be happier? You won't, Taylor. You won't let yourself do that. And this time, you aren't just hurting one person, did you ever think of that? It isn't just Denise-you're hurting a little boy! God almighty, doesn't that mean anything to you? What the hell would your father say to that, huh? 'Good job, son'? 'I'm proud of you, son'? Not a chance. Your father would be sickened, just like I am now."

Taylor, his face white, grabbed Mitch and lifted him, driving him backward into the jukebox. Two men scattered off their stools, away from the melee, as the bartender rushed to the far end of the bar. After pulling out a baseball bat, he started back toward them. Taylor raised his fist.

"What are you gonna do? Hit me?" Mitch taunted.

"Knock it off!" the bartender shouted. "Take that shit outside, now!"

"Go ahead," Mitch said. "I don't really give a damn."

Biting his lip so hard that it began to bleed, Taylor pulled his arm back, ready to strike, his hand shaking.

"I'll always forgive you, Taylor," Mitch said almost calmly. "But you gotta forgive yourself, too."

Taylor, hesitating, struggling, finally released Mitch and turned away, toward the faces staring at him. The bartender was at his side, bat in hand, waiting to see what Taylor was going to do.

Stifling the curses in his throat, he strode out the door.

Chapter 23

Just before midnight Taylor returned home to a flickering message on his answering machine. Since leaving Mitch he'd been alone, doing his best to clear his mind, and had sat on the bridge where he'd plunged into the river only a few months earlier. That night, he realized, was the first night he'd needed Denise. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Guessing that Mitch had left him a message, Taylor walked to the answering machine, regretting his outburst at his friend, and pressed the play button. To his surprise, it wasn't Mitch.

It was Joe from the fire department, his voice straining to stay calm.

"There's a warehouse fire, on the outskirts of town. Arvil Henderson's place. A big one-everyone in Edenton has been called, and additional trucks and crews are being requested from the surrounding counties. Lives are in danger. If you get the message in time, we'll need your help. . . ."

The message had been left twenty-four minutes ago.

Without listening to the rest of the message, Taylor hung up the phone and raced to the truck, cursing himself for having turned off his cell phone when he left the bar. Henderson's was a regional wholesaler of housepaint and one of the larger businesses in Chowan County. Trucks were loaded day and night; every hour of the day saw at least a dozen people working inside the warehouse.

It would take him about ten minutes to get there.

Everyone else was probably already on the scene, and he'd be rolling in some thirty minutes late. Those thirty minutes could mean the difference between life and death to any number of trapped people inside.

Others were fighting for their lives while he'd been out feeling sorry for himself.

Gravel shot from his tires as he turned around in the driveway, barely slowing as he turned on the road. His tires squealed and the engine roared as Taylor punched the gas, still cursing. The truck slid through numerous turns on the way to Henderson's as he took every shortcut he knew. When he hit a straight stretch of road, he accelerated until he was traveling at nearly ninety miles an hour. Tools rattled in the back; he heard a thump of something heavy as it slid across the bed of the truck while it made another turn.

Minutes ticked by, long minutes, eternal minutes. In time he could see the sky glowing orange in the distance, an ungodly color in the darkness. He slammed his hand on the steering wheel when he realized how large the fire was. Over the sound of the engine, he could hear the distant wailing of sirens.

He slammed on the brakes, the truck tires almost refusing to catch, then fishtailed onto the road that ran toward Henderson's. The air was already thick with greasy black smoke, fueled by the petroleum in the paint. Without a breeze, the smoke hung languidly all around him; he could see the flames rising from the warehouse. It was blazing violently when Taylor made a final turn, coming to a halt, his tires screeching.

Pandemonium everywhere.

Three pumper trucks were already on the scene . . . hoses hooked to hydrants, blowing water toward one side of the building . . . the other side still undamaged but looking as if it wouldn't stay that way for long . . . two ambulances, their lights flashing on and off . . . five people on the ground being attended by others . . . two others being helped out of the warehouse, supported on either side by men who seemed as weak as they were . . .

As he scanned the hellish scene, he noticed Mitch's car off to one side, although it was impossible to make him out in the chaos of bodies and vehicles.

Taylor leapt from the truck and scrambled toward Joe, who was barking orders, trying and failing to gain control of the situation. Another fire truck arrived, this one from Elizabeth City; six more men jumped out and started unwinding the hose while another ran toward another hydrant.

Joe turned and saw Taylor rushing toward him. His face was covered with black soot, and he pointed toward the hook and ladder.

"Get your gear!" he shouted.

Taylor followed his orders, climbing up and pulling out a suit, then tearing off his boots. Two minutes later, fully outfitted, Taylor ran toward Joe again.

As he moved, the evening was suddenly shattered by a series of explosions, dozens, one right after the other. A black cloud mushroomed from the center of the building, the smoke curling as if a bomb had gone off. People nearest the building hit the ground as burning portions of the roof and building shot toward them, deadly in their aim.

Taylor dove and covered his head.

Flames were everywhere now, the building being consumed from within. More explosions erupted, rocketing debris as firemen scattered backward, away from the heat. From the inferno emerged two men, limbs on fire; hoses were trained on them, and they fell to the ground, writhing.

Taylor pushed up from the ground and ran toward the heat, toward the blaze, toward the men on the ground. . . . Seventy yards, running wildly, the world suddenly resembling a war zone . . . more explosions as paint can after paint can exploded inside, the fire raging out of control . . . breathing difficult because of the fumes . . . an external wall suddenly collapsed outward, barely missing the men.

Taylor squinted, his eyes tearing and burning as he finally reached the two men. Both were unconscious, flames lapping within inches of them now. He grabbed both of them by the wrists and began to pull them back, away from the flames. The heat from the fire had melted part of their gear, and Taylor could see them almost smoldering as he dragged them to safety. Another fireman arrived, someone Taylor didn't know, and took charge of one of the wounded men. They doubled their pace, pulling them toward the ambulances as a paramedic rushed over.

Only one part of the building was left untouched now, though judging by the smoke pouring through the small rectangular windows that had been blown out, that section was getting ready to blow as well.

Joe was motioning frantically for everyone to get back, to move away to a safe distance. No one could hear him above the roar.

The paramedic arrived and immediately knelt before the wounded men. Their faces were singed and their clothes were still smoldering, the oil-fired flames having defeated the fire-retardant suits. The paramedic pulled a pair of sharp scissors from his box and began to cut open the suit of one of the firemen, peeling it off. Another paramedic appeared from nowhere and began the same procedure on the other man.

Both were moaning in agony now, conscious again. As their suits were cut, Taylor helped to tear them away from the men's skin. Up one leg, then the next, followed by their arms and torso. They were helped into a sitting position, and their suits were stripped from their bodies. One man had worn jeans and two shirts beneath; he'd escaped largely unburned except for his arms. The second, however, had only worn a T-shirt beneath his suit-that too had to be cut away from his skin. His back was blistered with second-degree burns.

Looking up from the injured men, Taylor saw Joe waving wildly again; three men were crowded around him, and three others were closing in. It was then that Taylor turned toward the building and knew that something was terribly wrong.

He rose and began to rush toward Joe, a wave of nausea breaking over him. Drawing near, he heard the soul-numbing words.

"They're still inside! Two men! Over there!"

Taylor blinked, a memory rising from the ashes.

A boy, nine years old, in the attic, calling from the window . . .

It stopped him cold. Taylor looked toward the flaming ruins of the warehouse, now only partially standing; then, as if in a dream, he started toward the only portion of the building left intact, the part that housed the offices. Gaining speed, he rushed past the men holding the hoses, ignoring their calls to stop.

The warehouse flames engulfed nearly everything; their flames had spread to the surrounding trees, and those were now ablaze. Straight ahead was a doorway that had been torn open by the firemen, and black smoke poured out the opening.

He was at the door before Joe saw him and began screaming for him to stop.

Unable to hear above the roar, Taylor rushed through the door, propelled like a cannonball, his gloved hand over his face, flames lapping at him. Nearly blind, he turned toward the left, hoping nothing would block his way. His eyes burned as he inhaled a breath of acrid air and held it.

Fire was everywhere, beams crashing down, the air itself becoming poisonous.

He knew he could hold his breath a minute, no longer.

To the left he charged, the smoke almost impenetrable, fires providing the only light.

Everything blazed with unearthly fury. The walls, the ceiling . . . above him, the splintering sound of a beam crashing. Taylor leapt aside instinctively as part of the ceiling collapsed beside him.

His lungs straining, he moved quickly toward the south end of the building, the only area left standing. He could feel his body was growing weaker; his lungs seemed to be folding in as he staggered forward. To his left he spied a window, the glass unshattered, and he lurched toward it. From his belt he removed his ax and broke the window in one swift motion, then immediately leaned his head out, drawing a new breath.

Like a living being, the fire seemed to sense the new influx of oxygen, and seconds later the room exploded behind him with new fury.

The scorching heat of the new flames propelled him away from the window, toward the south again.

After the sudden surge, the fire receded momentarily, a few seconds at most. But it was enough for Taylor to get his bearings-and to see the figure of a man lying on the ground. From the shape of his gear, Taylor could see it was a fireman.

Taylor staggered toward him, narrowly avoiding another falling beam. Trapped in the last standing corner of the warehouse now, he could see the wall of flames closing in around them.

Almost out of breath again, Taylor reached the man. Bending over, he grabbed the man's wrist and then hauled him up over his shoulder, struggling back to the only window he could see.

Moving on instinct alone, he rushed toward the window, his head growing light, closing his eyes to keep the smoke and heat from damaging them any further. He made it to the window and in one quick motion threw the man through the shattered window, where he landed in a heap. His damaged vision, however, prevented him from seeing the other firemen rushing toward the body.

All Taylor could do was hope.

He took two harsh breaths and coughed violently. Then, taking another breath, he turned and made his way inside one more time.

Everything was a roaring hell of acid-tongued flames and suffocating smoke.

Taylor pushed through the wall of heat and smoke, moving as if guided by a hidden hand.

One more man inside.

A boy, nine years old, in the attic, calling from the window that he was afraid to jump . . .

Taylor closed one of his eyes when it began to spasm in pain. As he pushed forward, the wall of the office collapsed, topping in on itself like a stack of cards. The roof above him sagged as flames sought out new weakness and began to surge upward, toward the gap in the ceiling.

One more man inside.

Taylor felt as if he were dying inside. His lungs screamed for him to take a breath of the burning, poisonous air around him. But he ignored the need, growing dizzier.

Smoke snaked around him and Taylor dropped to his knees, his other eye beginning to spasm now. Flames surrounded him in three directions, but Taylor pressed onward, heading for the only area where someone might still be alive.

Crawling now, the heat like a sizzling anvil. . . .

It was then that Taylor knew he was going to die.

Hardly conscious, he continued to crawl.

He started to black out, could feel the world beginning to slip away.

Take a breath! his body screamed.

Crawling, inching forward, praying automatically. Ahead of him, still more flames, an unending wall of rippling heat.

It was then that he came across the body.

With smoke completely surrounding him, he couldn't tell who it was. But the man's legs were trapped beneath a collapsed wall.

Feeling his insides weakening, his vision going black, Taylor groped the body like a blind man, seeing it in his mind's eye.

The man lay on his stomach and chest, the arms out to either side. His helmet was still fastened firmly on his head. Two feet of rubble covered his legs from the thighs down.

Taylor went to the head of the body, gripped both arms, and pulled. The body didn't budge.

With the last vestiges of his strength, Taylor stood and painstakingly began to move the rubble off the man. Two-by-fours, drywall, pieces of plywood, one item of charred debris after another.

His lungs were about to explode.

Flames closing in now, licking at the body.

Piece by piece, he lifted off the wreckage; luckily none of the pieces were too heavy to move. But the exertion had taken nearly everything out of him. He moved to the head of the body and tugged.

This time the body moved. Taylor put his weight into it and pulled again, but out of air completely, his body reacted instinctively.

Taylor expelled his breath and inhaled sharply, strangled for air.

His body was wrong.

Taylor suddenly went dizzy, coughing violently. He let go of the man and rose, staggering in pure panic now, still without air in the oxygen-depleted room; all his training, every conscious thought, had seemingly evaporated in a rush of unadulterated survival instinct.

He stumbled back the way he had come, his legs moving of their own volition. After a few yards, however, he stopped, as if waking forcibly from a daze. Turning back, he took a step in the direction of the body. At that second the world suddenly exploded into fire. Taylor nearly fell.

Flames engulfed him, setting his suit on fire, as he lunged for the window. He threw himself blindly through the opening. The last thing he felt was his body hitting the earth with a thud, a scream of despair dying on his lips.

Chapter 24

Only one person died that early Monday morning.

Six men were injured, Taylor among them, and all were taken to the hospital, where they were treated. Three of the men were able to leave that night. Two of the men who stayed were the ones Taylor had helped drag to safety-they were to be transferred to the burn unit at Duke University in Durham as soon as the helicopter arrived.

Taylor lay alone in the darkness of his hospital room, his thoughts filled with the man he had left behind who had died. One eye was heavily bandaged, and he was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with the other, when his mother arrived.

She sat with him in his hospital room for an hour, then left him alone with his thoughts.

Taylor McAden never said a word.

Denise showed up Tuesday morning, when visiting hours began. As soon as she arrived, Judy looked up from her chair, her eyes red and exhausted. When Judy called, Denise had come immediately, Kyle in tow. Judy took Kyle's hand and silently led him downstairs.

Denise entered Taylor's room, seating herself where Judy had been. Taylor turned his head the other way.

"I'm sorry about Mitch," she said gently.

Chapter 25

The funeral was to be held three days later, on Friday.

Taylor had been released from the hospital on Thursday and went straight to Melissa's.

Melissa's family had come in from Rocky Mount, and the house was filled with people Taylor had met only a few times in the past: at the wedding, at baptisms, and at various holidays. Mitch's parents and siblings, who lived in Edenton, also spent time at the house, though they all left in the evening.

The door was open as Taylor stepped inside, looking for Melissa.

As soon as he saw her across the living room, his eyes began to burn and he started toward her. She was talking to her sister and brother-in-law, standing by the framed family photo on the wall, when she saw him. She immediately broke off her conversation and made her way toward him. When they were close he wrapped his arms around her, putting his head on her shoulder as he cried into her hair.

"I'm so sorry," he said, "I'm so, so, sorry."

All he could do was to repeat himself. Melissa began to cry as well. The other family members left them alone in their grief.

"I tried, Melissa . . . I tried. I didn't know it was him. . . ."

Melissa couldn't speak, having already learned what had happened from Joe.

"I couldn't . . . ," he finally choked out, before breaking down completely.

They stood holding each other for a long, long time.

He left an hour later, without talking to anyone else.

The funeral service, held at Cypress Park Cemetery, was overflowing with people. Every fireman from the surrounding three counties, as well as every law enforcement official, made an appearance, as did friends and family. The crowd was among the largest ever for a service in Edenton; since Mitch had grown up here and ran the hardware store, nearly everyone in town came to pay their respects.

Melissa and her four children sat weeping in the front row.

The minister spoke a little while before reciting the Twenty-third Psalm. When it came time for eulogies, the minister stepped aside, allowing close friends and family to come forward.

Joe, the fire chief, went first and spoke of Mitch's dedication, his bravery, and the respect he would always hold in his heart. Mitch's older sister also said a few words, sharing a few remembrances from their childhood. When she finished, Taylor stepped forward.

"Mitch was like a brother to me," he began, his voice cracking, his eyes cast downward. "We grew up together, and every good memory I have growing up included him. I remember once, when we were twelve, Mitch and I were fishing when I stood up too quickly in the dinghy. I slipped and hit my head, then fell into the water. Mitch dove in and pulled me to the surface. He saved my life that day, but when I finally came to, he only laughed. 'You made me lose the fish, you clumsy oaf,' was the only thing he said."

Despite the solemnity of the afternoon, a low murmur of chuckles rose, then faded away.

"Mitch-what can I say? He was the kind of man who added something to everything he touched and everyone he came in contact with. I was envious of his view on life. He saw it all as a big game, where the only way to win was to be good to other people, to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and like what you see. Mitch . . ."

He closed his eyes hard, pushing back the tears.

"Mitch was everything I've ever wanted to be. . . ."

Taylor stepped back from the microphone, his head bowed, then made his way back into the crowd. The minister finished with the service, and people filed by the coffin, where a picture of Mitch had been placed. In the photo he was smiling broadly, standing over the grill in his backyard. Like the picture of Taylor's father, it captured the very essence of who he was.

Afterward Taylor drove alone back to Melissa's house.

It was crowded at the house as people came by after the funeral to offer Melissa their condolences. Unlike the day before-a gathering of close friends and family-this time everyone who'd been at the service was there, including some Melissa barely knew.

Judy and Melissa's mother tended to the busywork of feeding the masses; because it was so packed inside, Denise wandered into the backyard to watch Kyle and the other children who'd also attended the funeral. Mainly nephews and nieces, they were young and, like Kyle, unable to fully understand everything that was going on. Dressed in formal clothes, they were running around, playing with each other as if the situation were nothing more than a family reunion.

Denise had needed to get out of the house. The grief could be stifling at times, even to her. After hugging Melissa and sharing a few words of sympathy, she had left Melissa to the care of her family and Mitch's. She knew that Melissa would have the support she needed today; Melissa's parents intended to stay for a week. While her mother would be there to listen and hold her, Melissa's father could begin with the numbing paperwork that always followed an event like this.

Denise stood from her chair and walked to the edge of the pool, her arms crossed, when Judy saw her through the kitchen window. She opened the sliding glass door and started toward her.

Denise heard her approaching and glanced over her shoulder, smiling warily.

Judy laid a gentle hand on her back. "How're you holding up?" she asked.

Denise shook her head. "I should be asking you that. You knew Mitch a lot longer than I did."

"I know. But you look like you need a friend right now."

Denise uncrossed her arms and glanced toward the house. People could be seen in every room.

"I'm okay. Just thinking about Mitch. And Melissa."

"And Taylor?"

Despite the fact that it was over between them, she couldn't lie.

"Him too."

Two hours later the crowd was finally thinning. Most of the distant friends had come and gone; a few members of the family had flights to catch and had left as well.

Melissa was sitting with her immediate family in the living room; her boys had changed their clothes and had gone outside, to the front yard. Taylor was standing in Mitch's den alone when Denise approached him.

Taylor saw her, then returned his attention to the walls of the den. The shelves were filled with books, trophies the boys had won in soccer and Little League baseball, pictures of Mitch's family. In one corner was a rolltop desk, the cover pulled shut.

"Your words at the service were beautiful," Denise said. "I know Melissa was really touched by what you said."

Taylor simply nodded without responding. Denise ran her hand through her hair.

"I'm really sorry, Taylor. I just wanted you to know that if you need to talk, you know where I am."

"I don't need anyone," he whispered, his voice ragged. With that he turned from her and walked away.

What neither of them knew was that Judy had witnessed the whole thing.

Chapter 26

Taylor bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding, his mouth dry. For a moment he was inside the burning warehouse again, adrenaline surging through his system. He couldn't breathe, and his eyes stung with pain. Flames were everywhere, and though he tried to scream, no sounds escaped from his throat. He was suffocating on imaginary smoke.

Then, just as suddenly, he realized he was imagining it. He looked around the room and blinked hard as reality pressed in around him, making him ache in a different way, weighing heavily on his chest and limbs.

Mitch Johnson was dead.

It was Tuesday. Since the funeral he hadn't left his house, hadn't answered the phone. He vowed to change today. He had things to do: an ongoing job, small problems at the site that needed his attention. Checking the clock, he saw that it was already past nine. He should have been there an hour ago.

Instead of getting up, however, he simply lay back down, unable to summon the energy to rise.

On Wednesday, midmorning, Taylor sat in the kitchen, dressed only in a pair of jeans. He'd made scrambled eggs and bacon and had stared at the plate before finally rinsing the untouched food down the disposal. He hadn't eaten anything in two days. He couldn't sleep, nor did he want to. He refused to talk to anyone; instead he let his answering machine pick up his calls. He didn't deserve those things. Those things could provide pleasure, they could provide escape-they were for people who deserved them, not for him. He was exhausted. His mind and body were being drained of the things they needed to survive; if he wanted, he knew he could continue along this path forever. It would be easy, an escape of a different sort. Taylor shook his head. No, he couldn't go that far. He wasn't worthy of that, either.

Instead he forced down a piece of toast. His stomach still growled, but he refused to eat any more than necessary. It was his way of acknowledging the truth as he saw it. Each hunger pang would remind him of his guilt, his own self-loathing. Because of him, his friend had died.

Just like his father.

Last night, while sitting on the porch, he had tried to bring Mitch to life again, but strangely, Mitch's face was already frozen in time. He could remember the picture, he could see Mitch's face, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what Mitch looked like when he laughed or joked or slapped him on the back. Already his friend was leaving him. Soon his image would be gone forever.

Just like his father.

Inside, Taylor hadn't turned on any lights. It was dark on the porch, and Taylor sat in the blackness, feeling his insides turn to stone.

He made it into work on Thursday; he spoke with the owners and made a dozen decisions. Fortunately his workers were present when he spoke with the owners and knew enough to proceed on their own. An hour later Taylor remembered nothing about the conversation.

Early Saturday morning, awakened by nightmares once more, Taylor forced himself out of bed. He hooked up the trailer to his truck, then loaded his riding mower onto it, along with a weed whacker, edger, and trimmer. Ten minutes later he was parked in front of Melissa's house. She came out just as he finished unloading.

"I drove by and saw the lawn was getting a little high," he said without meeting her eyes. After a moment of awkward silence, he ventured, "How're you holding up?"

"Okay," she said without much emotion. Her eyes were rimmed with red. "How about you?"

Taylor shrugged, swallowing the lump in his throat.

He spent the next eight hours outside, working steadily, making her yard look as if a professional landscaper had come by. In the early afternoon a load of pine straw was delivered, and he placed it carefully around the trees, in the flower beds, along the house. As he worked he made mental lists of other things to do, and after loading the equipment back on the trailer, he donned his tool belt. He reattached a few broken planks in the fence, caulked around three of the windows, mended a screen that had been broken, changed the burned-out light bulbs in the outdoor lights. Focusing next on the pool, he added chlorine, emptied the baskets, cleared the water of debris, and backwashed the filter.

He didn't go inside to visit with Melissa until he was finally ready to leave, and even then he stayed only briefly.

"There are a few more things to do," he said on his way out the door. "I'll be by tomorrow to take care of them."

The next day he worked until nightfall, possessed.

Melissa's parents left the following week, and Taylor filled the void in their absence. As he'd done with Denise during the summer months, he began swinging by Melissa's home nearly every day. He brought dinner with him twice-pizza first, then fried chicken-and though he still felt vaguely uncomfortable around Melissa, he felt a sense of responsibility regarding the boys.

They needed a father figure.

He'd made the decision earlier in the week, after yet another sleepless night. The idea, however, had initially come to him while he was still in the hospital. He knew he couldn't take Mitch's place and didn't intend to. Nor would he hinder Melissa's life in any way. In time, if she met someone new, he would slip quietly from the picture. In the meantime he would be there for them, doing the things that Mitch had done. The lawn. Ball games and fishing trips with the boys. Odds and ends around the house. Whatever.

He knew what it was like to grow up without a father. He remembered longing for someone besides his mother to talk to. He remembered lying in his bed, listening to the quiet sounds of his mother's sobbing in the adjoining room, and how difficult it had been to talk to her in the year following his father's death. Thinking back, he saw clearly how his childhood had been stripped away.

For Mitch's sake, he wouldn't let that happen to the boys.

He was sure it was what Mitch would have wanted him to do. They were like brothers, and brothers watched out for each other. Besides, he was the godfather. It was his duty.

Melissa didn't seem to mind that he'd begun to come over. Nor had she asked the reason why, which meant that she too understood why it was important. The boys had always been at the forefront of her concerns, and now with Mitch gone, Taylor felt sure that those feelings had only increased.

The boys. They needed him now, no doubt about it.

In his mind, he didn't have a choice. The decision made, he began to eat again, and all at once the nightmares stopped. He knew what he had to do.

The following weekend, when Taylor arrived to take care of the lawn, he inhaled sharply when he pulled up to Mitch and Melissa's driveway. He blinked hard, to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him, but when he looked again it hadn't moved at all.

A realty sign.

"For Sale."

The house was for sale.

He sat in his idling truck as Melissa emerged from the house. When she waved to him, Taylor finally turned the key and the engine sputtered to a halt. As he started toward her he could hear the boys in the yard out back, though he couldn't see them.

Melissa gave him a hug.

"How are you, Taylor?" she asked, searching his face. Taylor took a small step back, avoiding her gaze.

"All right, I guess," he answered, distracted. He nodded in the direction of the road.

"What's with the sign?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"You're selling the house?"

"Hopefully."

"Why?"

Melissa's whole body seemed to sag as she turned to face the house.

"I just can't live here anymore . . ." she finally answered, trailing off. "Too many memories."

She blinked back tears and stared wordlessly at the house. She suddenly looked so tired, so defeated, as if the burden of carrying on without Mitch were crushing the life force out of her. A ribbon of fear twisted inside him.

"You're not moving away, are you?" he asked in disbelief. "You're still going to live in Edenton, right?"

After a long moment, Melissa shook her head.

"Where're you going?"

"Rocky Mount," she answered.

"But why?" he asked, his voice straining. "You've lived here for a dozen years . . . you've got friends here . . . I'm here . . . Is it the house?" he asked quickly, searching. He didn't wait for a reply. "If the house is too much, there might be something I could do. I could build you a new one for cost, anywhere you want."

Melissa finally turned to face him.

"It's not the house-that has nothing to do with it. My family's in Rocky Mount, and I need them right now. So do the boys. All their cousins are there, and the school year just started. It won't be so hard for them to adjust."

"You're moving right away?" he asked, still struggling to make sense of this news.

Melissa nodded. "Next week," she said. "My parents have an older rental house they said I could use until I sell this place. It's right up the street from where they live. And if I do have to take a job, they can watch my boys for me."

"I could do that," Taylor said quickly. "I could give you a job doing all the billing and ordering if you need to earn some money, and you could do it right here from the house. You could do it on your own time."

She smiled sadly at him. "Why? Do you want to rescue me, too, Taylor?"

The words made him flinch. Melissa looked at him carefully before going on.

"That's what you're trying to do, isn't it? Coming over last weekend to take care of the yard, spending time with the boys, the offer for a house and a job . . . I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it's not what I need right now. I need to handle this my own way."

"I wasn't trying to rescue you," he protested, trying to hide how pained he felt. "I just know how hard it can be to lose someone, and I didn't want you to have to handle everything alone."

She slowly shook her head. "Oh, Taylor," she said in almost a motherly tone, "it's the same thing." She hesitated, her expression at once knowing and sad. "It's what you've been doing your whole life. You sense that someone needs help, and if you can, you give her exactly what she needs. And now, you're turning your sights on us."

"I'm not turning my sights on you," he denied.

Melissa wasn't dissuaded. Instead she reached for his hand.

"Yes, you are," she said calmly. "It's what you did with Valerie after her boyfriend left her, it's what you did with Lori when she felt so alone. It's what you did with Denise when you found out how hard her life was. Think of all the things you did for her, right from the very beginning." She paused, letting that sink in. "You feel the need to make things better, Taylor. You always have. You may not believe it, but everything in your life proves that over and over. Even your jobs. As a contractor, you fix things that are broken. As a fireman, you save people. Mitch never understood that about you, but to me, it was obvious. It's who you are."

To that, Taylor had no response. Instead he turned away, his mind reeling from her words. Melissa squeezed his hand.

"That's not a bad thing, Taylor. But it's not what I need. And in the long run, it's not what you need, either. In time, once you think I'm saved, you'd move on, looking for the next person to rescue. And I'd probably be thankful for everything you did, except for the fact that I would know the truth about why you did it."

She stopped there, waiting for Taylor to say something.

"What truth is that?" he rasped out finally.

"That even though you rescued me, you were trying to rescue yourself, because of what happened to your father. And no matter how hard I try, I'll never be able to do that for you. That's a conflict you're going to have to resolve on your own."

The words hit him with almost physical force. He felt breathless as he tried to focus on his feet, unable to feel his body, his mind a riot of warring thoughts. Random memories flashed through his mind in dizzying succession: Mitch's angry face at the bar; Denise's eyes filled with tears; the flames at the warehouse, licking at his arms and legs; his father turning in the sunlight as his mother snapped his picture . . .

Melissa watched a host of emotions play across Taylor's face before pulling him close. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"You've been like a brother to me, and I love the fact that you would be here for my boys. And if you love me, too, you'll understand that I didn't say any of these things to hurt you. I know you want to save me, but I don't need it. What I need is for you to find a way to save yourself, just like you tried to save Mitch."

He felt too numb to respond. In the early morning sunlight, they stood together, simply holding each other in the soft morning sunlight.

"How?" he finally croaked out.

"You know," she whispered, her hands on his back. "You already know."

He left Melissa's home in a daze. It was all he could do to stay focused on the road, not knowing where he wanted to go, his thoughts unconnected. He felt as if the remaining strength he'd had to go on had been stripped away, leaving him naked and drained.

His life, as he knew it, was over, and he had no idea what to do. As much as he wanted to deny the things that Melissa had said, he couldn't. At the same time, he didn't believe them, either. At least, not completely. Or did he?

Thinking along these lines exhausted him. In his life he'd tried to see things as concrete and clear, not ambiguous and steeped in hidden meanings. He didn't search for hidden motivations, either in himself or in others, because he had never really believed that they mattered.

His father's death had been something concrete, something horrible, but real nonetheless. He couldn't understand why his father had died, and for a time he'd talked to God about the things he was going through, wanting to make sense of it. In time, though, he gave up. Talking about it, understanding it . . . even if the answers eventually came, would make no difference. Those things wouldn't bring his father back.

But now, in this difficult time, Melissa's words were making him question the meaning of everything he had once thought so clear and simple.

Had his father's death really influenced everything in his life? Were Melissa and Denise right in their assessment of him?

No, he decided. They weren't right. Neither one of them knew what happened the night his father had died. No one, besides his mother, knew the truth.

Taylor, driving automatically, paid little attention to where he was going. Turning now and then, slowing at intersections, stopping when he had to, he obeyed the laws but didn't remember doing so. His mind clicked forward and backward with the shifting transmission of his truck. Melissa's final words haunted him.

You already know. . . .

Know what? he wanted to ask. I don't know anything right now. I don't know what you're talking about. I just want to help the kids, like when I was a child. I know what they need. I can help them. I can help you, too, Melissa. I've got it all worked out. . . .

Are you trying to rescue me, too?

No, I'm not. I just want to help.

It's the same thing.

Is it?

Taylor refused to chase the thought down to its final conclusion. Instead, really seeing the road for the first time, he realized where he was. He stopped the truck and began the short trek to his final destination.

Judy was waiting for him at his father's grave.

"What are you doing here, Mom?" he asked.

Judy didn't turn at the sound of his voice. Instead, kneeling down, she tended the weeds around the stone as Taylor did whenever he came.

"Melissa called me and told me you'd come," she said quietly, hearing his footsteps close behind her. From her voice he could tell she'd been crying. "She said I should be here."

Taylor squatted beside her. "What's wrong, Mom?"

Her face was flushed. She swiped at her cheek, leaving a torn blade of grass on her face.

"I'm sorry," she began. "I wasn't a good mother. . . ."

Her voice seemed to die in her throat then, leaving Taylor too surprised to respond. With a gentle finger he removed the blade of grass from her cheek, and she finally turned to face him.

"You were a great mother," he said firmly.

"No," she whispered, "I wasn't. If I were, you wouldn't come here as much as you do."

"Mom, what are you talking about?"

"You know," she answered, drawing a deep breath before going on. "When you hit bad patches in your life, you don't turn to me, you don't turn to friends. You come here. No matter what the question or the problem, you always come to the decision that you're better off alone, just like you are now."

She stared at him almost as if seeing a stranger.

"Can't you see why that hurts me? I can't help but think how sad it must be for you to live your life without people-people who could offer you support or simply lend an ear when you need it. And it's all because of me."

"No-"

She didn't let him finish, refusing to listen to his protests. Looking toward the horizon, she seemed lost in the past.

"When your father died, I was so caught up in my own sadness that I ignored how hard it was for you. I tried to be everything for you, but because of that, I didn't have time for myself. I didn't teach you how wonderful it is to love someone and have them love you back."

"Sure you did," he said.

She fixed him with a look of inexpressible sorrow. "Then why are you alone?"

"You don't have to worry about me, okay?" he muttered, almost to himself.

"Of course I do," she said weakly. "I'm your mother."

Judy moved from her knees to a sitting position on the ground. Taylor did the same and reached out his hand. She took it willingly and they sat in silence, a light wind moving the trees around them.

"Your father and I had a wonderful relationship," she finally whispered.

"I know-"

"No, let me finish, okay? I may not have been the mother that you needed back then, but I'm going to try now." She squeezed his hand. "Your father made me happy, Taylor. He was the best person that I ever knew. I remember the first time he ever spoke to me. I was on my way home from school and I'd stopped to get an ice-cream cone. He came in the store right behind me. I knew who he was, of course-Edenton was even smaller than it is now. I was in the third grade, and after getting my ice-cream cone, I bumped into someone and dropped it. That was my last nickel, and I got so upset that your father bought me a new one. I think I fell in love with him right there. Well . . . as time went on, I never did get him out of my system. We dated in high school, and after that we got married, and never once did I ever regret it."

She stopped there, and Taylor let go of her hand before slipping his arm around her.

"I know you loved Dad," he said with difficulty.

"That wasn't my point. My point is that even now, I don't regret it."

He looked at her, uncomprehending. Judy met his gaze, her eyes suddenly fierce.

"Even if I knew what would eventually happen to your father, I would have married him. Even if I'd known that we'd only be together for eleven years, I wouldn't have traded those eleven years for anything. Can you understand that? Yes, it would have been wonderful to have grown old together, but that doesn't mean I regret the time we spent together. Loving someone and having them love you back is the most precious thing in the world. It's what made it possible for me to go on, but you don't seem to realize that. Even when love is right there in front of you, you choose to turn away from it. You're alone because you want to be."

Taylor rubbed his fingers together, his mind growing numb again.

"I know," Judy went on with fatigue in her voice, "that you feel responsible for your father's death. All my life I've tried to help you understand that you shouldn't, that it was a horrible accident. You were just a child. You didn't know what was going to happen any more than I did, but no matter how many ways I tried to say it, you still believed you were at fault. And because of that, you've shut yourself off from the world. I don't know why . . . maybe you don't think you deserve to be happy, maybe you're afraid that if you finally allow yourself to love someone, you'd be admitting that you weren't responsible . . . maybe you're afraid of leaving your own family behind. I don't know what it is, but all those things are wrong. I can't think of another way to tell you."

Taylor didn't respond, and Judy sighed when she realized he wasn't going to.

"This summer, when I saw you with Kyle, do you know what I thought? I thought about how much you looked like your father. He was always good with kids, just like you. I remember how you used to tag along behind him, everywhere he went. Just the way you used to look at him always made me smile. It was an expression of awe and hero worship. I'd forgotten about that until I saw Kyle when you were with him. He looked at you in exactly the same way. I'll bet you miss him."

Taylor nodded reluctantly.

"Is that because you were trying to give him what you thought you missed growing up, or is it because you like him?"

Taylor considered the question before answering.

"I like him. He's a great kid."

Judy met his eyes. "Do you miss Denise, too?"

Yeah, I do. . . .

Taylor shifted uncomfortably. "That's over now, Mom," he said.

She hesitated. "Are you sure?"

Taylor nodded, and Judy leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"That's a shame, Taylor," she whispered. "She was perfect for you."

They sat without speaking for the next few minutes, until a light autumn shower began to fall, forcing them back to the parking lot. Taylor opened her door, and Judy got in the front seat. After closing the door, he pressed his hands against the glass, feeling the cool drops on his fingertips. Judy smiled sadly at her son, then pulled away, leaving Taylor standing in the rain.

He'd lost everything.

He knew that as he left the cemetery and began the short trip home. He drove past a row of old Victorian houses that looked gloomy in the soft hazy sunlight, through ankle-deep puddles in the middle of the road, his wipers flashing back and forth with rhythmic regularity. He continued through downtown, and as he passed the commercial landmarks he'd known since childhood, his thoughts were drawn irresistibly to Denise.

She was perfect for you.

He finally admitted to himself that despite Mitch's death, despite everything, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. Like an apparition, her image had flashed through his mind over and over, but he'd forced it away with stubborn resolve. Now, though, it was impossible. With startling clarity he saw her expression as he'd fixed her cupboard doors, he heard her laughter echo across the porch, he could smell the faint scent of her shampoo in her hair. She was here with him . . . and yet she wasn't. Nor would she ever be again. The realization made him feel emptier than he'd ever felt before.

Denise . . .

As he drove along, the explanations he'd made to himself-and to her-suddenly rang hollow. What had come over him? Yes, he'd been pulling away. Despite the denials, Denise had been right about that. Why, he wondered, had he let himself? Was it for the reasons his mother had said?

I didn't teach you how wonderful it is to love someone and have them love you back. . . .

Taylor shook his head, suddenly unsure of every decision he'd ever made. Was his mother right? If his father hadn't died, would he have acted the same way over the years? Thinking back to Valerie or Lori-would he have married them? Maybe, he thought, uncertainly, but probably not. There were other things wrong with the relationships, and he couldn't honestly say that he'd ever really loved either of them.

But Denise?

His throat tightened as he remembered the first night they'd made love. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew now that he'd been in love with her, with everything about her. So why, then, hadn't he told her so? And more important, why had he forcibly ignored his own feelings in order to pull away?

You're alone because you want to be. . . .

Was that it? Did he really want to face the future alone? Without Mitch-and soon Melissa-who else did he have? His mother and . . . and . . . The list trailed off. After her, there was no one. Is that what he really wanted? An empty house, a world without friends, a world without someone who cared about him? A world where he avoided love at all costs?

In the truck, rain splashed against the windshield as if driving that thought home, and for the first time in his life, he knew he was-and had been-lying to himself.

In his daze, snatches of other conversations began to replay themselves in his mind.

Mitch warning him: Don't screw it up this time. . . .

Melissa teasing: So are you gonna marry this wonderful girl or what? . . .

Denise, in all her luminous beauty: We all need companionship. . . .

His response?

I don't need anyone. . . .

It was a lie. His entire life had been a lie, and his lies had led to a reality that was suddenly impossible to fathom. Mitch was gone, Melissa was gone, Denise was gone, Kyle was gone . . . he'd lost it all. His lies had become reality.

Everyone is gone.

The realization made Taylor grip the steering wheel hard, fighting to keep control. He pulled the truck to the side of the road and slipped the stick shift into neutral, his vision blurring.

I'm alone. . . .

He clung to the steering wheel as the rain poured down around him, wondering how on earth he'd let it happen.

Chapter 27

Denise pulled into the drive, tired from her shift. The steady rain had kept business slow all night. There'd been just enough to keep her constantly moving, but not enough to make decent tips. More or less a wasted evening, but on the bright side, she'd been able to leave a little early, and Kyle hadn't stirred as she'd loaded him into the car. He'd become used to curling up around her on the ride home over the past few months, but now that she had her own car again (hurray!), she had to buckle him into the backseat. Last night he'd fussed so much that he hadn't been able to fall asleep again for a couple of hours.

Denise stifled a yawn as she turned up the drive, relieved that she'd be in bed soon. The gravel was wet from the earlier rains, and she could hear small pinging sounds as the wheels kicked up pebbles that ricocheted off her car. A few more minutes, a nice cup of cocoa, and she'd be under the covers. The thought was almost intoxicating.

The night was black and moonless, dark clouds blocking the light from the stars. A light fog had settled in, and Denise moved up the drive slowly, using the porch light as a beacon. As she neared the house and things came into better focus, she nearly slammed on the brakes at the sight of Taylor's truck parked out front.

Glancing toward the front door, she saw Taylor sitting on the steps, waiting for her.

Despite her exhaustion, her mind snapped to attention. A dozen possibilities raced through her head as she parked and shut off the engine.

Taylor approached the car as she got out, careful not to slam the door behind her. She was about to ask him what he wanted when the words died on her lips.

He looked terrible.

His eyes were red rimmed and raw looking, his face pale and drawn. As he pushed his hands deep into his pockets, he seemed unable to meet her gaze. Frozen, she searched for something to say.

"I see you got yourself a car," Taylor offered.

The sound of his voice triggered a flood of emotions in her: love and joy, pain and anger, the loneliness and quiet desperation of the past few weeks.

She couldn't go through all this again.

"What are you doing here, Taylor?"

Her voice was edged with more bitterness than Taylor had expected. Taylor took a deep breath.

"I came to tell you how sorry I was," he began haltingly. "I never meant to hurt you."

She'd wanted to hear those words at one time, but strangely they meant nothing now. She glanced over her shoulder at the car, spying Kyle's sleeping figure in the back.

"It's too late for that," she said.

He lifted his head slightly. In the light of the porch he looked far older than she remembered, almost as if years had passed since she'd last seen him. He forced a thin-lipped smile, then lowered his gaze again before pulling his hands from his pockets. He took a hesitant step toward his truck.

Had it been any other day, had it been any other person, he would have kept moving, telling himself that he'd tried. Instead he forced himself to stop.

"Melissa's moving to Rocky Mount," he said into the darkness, his back to her.

Denise absently ran her hand through her hair. "I know. She told me a couple of days ago. Is that why you're here?"

Taylor shook his head. "No. I'm here because I wanted to talk about Mitch." He murmured the words over his shoulder; Denise could barely hear him. "I was hoping that you'd listen because I don't know who else to turn to."

His vulnerability touched and surprised her, and for a fleeting moment she almost went to his side. But she couldn't forget what he had done to Kyle-or to her, she reminded herself.

I can't go through this again.

But I also said I'd be there if you needed to talk.

"Taylor . . . it's really late . . . maybe tomorrow?" she suggested softly. Taylor nodded, as if he had expected her to say as much. She thought he would leave then, yet strangely he didn't move from his spot.

In the distance Denise heard the faint rumble of thunder. The temperature was dropping, and the moisture in the air made it seem colder than it really was. A misty halo encircled the porch light, glittering like tiny diamonds, as Taylor turned to face her again.

"I also wanted to tell you about my father," he said slowly. "It's time you finally knew the truth."

From his strained expression, she knew how hard it had been for him to say the words. He seemed on the verge of tears as he stood before her; this time it was her turn to look away.

Her mind flashed back to the day of the festival when he'd asked to drive her home. She'd gone against her instincts, and as a result she'd eventually received a painful lesson. Here again was another crossroads, and once more she hesitated. She sighed.

It's not the right time, Taylor. It's late, and Kyle's already asleep. I'm tired and don't think I'm ready for this just yet.

That's what she imagined herself saying.

The words that came out, however, were different.

"All right," she said.

He didn't look at her from his position on the couch. With the room lit by only a single lamp, dark shadows hid his face.

"I was nine years old," he began, "and for two weeks, we were practically buried in heat. The temperature had hovered near a hundred, even though it was still early in the summer. It had been one of the driest springs on record-not a single drop of rain in two months, and everything was splinter dry. I remember my mother and father talking about the drought and how farmers were already beginning to worry about their crops because summer had supposedly just begun. It was so hot that time just seemed to slow down. I'd wait all day for the sun to go down for some relief, but even then it didn't help. Our house was old-it didn't have air-conditioning or much insulation-and just lying in bed would make me sweat. I remember that my sheets would get soaked; it was impossible to sleep. I kept moving around to get comfortable, but I couldn't. I'd just toss and turn and sweat like crazy."

He was staring at the coffee table as he spoke, his eyes unfocused, his voice subdued. Denise watched as one hand formed into a fist, then relaxed, then formed again. Opening and closing like the door to his memory, random images slipping through the cracks.

"Back then, there was this set of plastic army soldiers that I saw in the Sears catalog. It came with tanks, jeeps, tents, and barricades-everything a kid needs to have a little war, and I don't remember ever wanting anything more in my whole life. I used to leave the catalog open to that page so that my mom wouldn't miss it, and when I finally got the set for my birthday, I don't think I'd ever been more excited about a gift. But my bedroom was real small-it used to be a sewing room before I came along-and there wasn't enough space to set it up the way I wanted, so I put the whole collection up in the attic. When I couldn't sleep that night, that's where I went."

He finally looked up, a rueful sigh escaping from him, something bitter and long repressed. He shook his head as if he still didn't believe it. Denise knew enough not to interrupt.

"It was late. It was past midnight when I snuck past my parents' door to the steps at the end of the hall. I was so quiet-I knew where every squeak in the floor was, and I purposely avoided them so my parents wouldn't know I was up there. And they didn't."

He brought his hands to his face and bent forward, hiding his face before letting his hands fall away again. His voice gained momentum.

"I don't know how long I was up there that night. I could play with those soldiers for hours and not even realize it. I just kept setting them up and fighting these imaginary battles. I was always Sergeant Mason-the soldiers had their names stamped in the bottom-and when I saw that one of them had my father's name, I knew he had to be the hero. He always won, no matter what the odds were. I'd pit him against ten men and a tank, and he'd always do exactly the right thing. In my mind, he was indestructible; I'd get lost in Sergeant Mason's world, no matter what else was going on. I'd miss dinner or forget my chores . . . I couldn't help it. Even on that night, hot as it was, I couldn't think of anything else but those damn soldiers. I guess that's why I didn't smell the smoke."

He paused, his fist finally closing for good. Denise felt the muscles in her neck tighten as he continued.

"I just didn't smell it. To this day, I don't know why-it seems impossible to me that I could have missed it-but I did. I didn't realize anything was happening at all until I heard my parents come scrambling out of their bedroom, making a huge ruckus. They were yelling and screaming for me, and I remember thinking that they'd found out that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. I kept hearing them call my name over and over, but I was too afraid to answer."

His eyes pleaded for understanding.

"I didn't want them to find me up there-they'd already told me a hundred times that once I was in bed, I was supposed to stay there all night. If they found me, I figured I'd get in big trouble. I had a baseball game that weekend, and I knew they'd ground me for sure, so instead of coming out when they called, I came up with a plan to wait until they were downstairs. Then I was going to sneak into the bathroom and pretend that I'd been in there the whole time. It sounds dumb, I know, but at the time, it made sense to me. I turned out the light and hid behind some boxes to wait it out. I heard my father open the attic door, shouting for me, but I kept quiet until he finally left. Eventually, the sounds of them tearing through the house died down, and that was when I went for the door. I still had no idea of what was going on, and when I opened it, I was stunned by a blast of heat and smoke. The walls and ceiling were on fire, but it seemed so completely unreal; at first I didn't really understand how serious it was. Had I rushed through it then, I probably could have made it out, but I didn't. I just stared at the fire, thinking how strange it was. I wasn't even afraid."

Taylor tensed, hunching over the table in an almost protective position, his voice rasping on.

"But that changed almost immediately. Before I knew it, everything seemed to catch on fire at once and the way out was blocked. That was when I first realized that something awful was happening. It had been so dry that the house was burning like kindling. I remember thinking that the fire seemed so . . . alive. The flames seemed to know exactly where I was, and a burst of fire shot toward me, knocking me down. I began to scream for my father. But he was already gone, and I knew it. In a panic, I scrambled to the window. When I opened it, I saw my parents on the front lawn. My mom was wearing a long shirt and my dad was in his boxers, and they were running around in a panic, looking and calling for me. For a moment I couldn't say a thing, but my mom seemed to sense where I was, and she looked up at me. I can still see her eyes when she realized I was still in the house. They got real wide, and she brought her hand to her mouth and then she just started screaming. My dad stopped what he was doing-he was over by the fence-and he saw me, too. That was when I started to cry."

On the couch, a tear spilled out of the corner of his unblinking eye, though he didn't seem to realize it. Denise felt sick to her stomach.

"My dad . . . my big strong dad came rushing across the lawn in a flash. By then, most of the house was on fire, and I could hear things crashing and exploding downstairs. It was coming up through the attic, and the smoke started getting really thick. My mom was screaming for my dad to do something, and he ran to the spot right beneath the window. I remember him screaming, 'Jump, Taylor! I'll catch you! I'll catch you, I promise!' But instead of jumping, I just started to cry all the harder. The window was at least twenty feet up, and it just seemed so high that I was sure I'd die if I tried. 'Jump, Taylor! I'll catch you!' He just kept shouting it over and over: 'Jump! Come on!' My mom was screaming even louder, and I was crying until I finally shouted out that I was afraid."

Taylor swallowed hard.

"The more my dad called for me to jump, the more paralyzed I became. I could hear the terror in his voice and my mom was losing it and I just kept screaming back that I couldn't, that I was afraid. And I was, even though I'm sure now he would have caught me."

A muscle in his jaw twitched rhythmically, his eyes were hooded, opaque. He slammed his fist into his leg.

"I can still see my father's face when he realized I wasn't going to jump-we both came to the realization at exactly the same time. There was fear there, but not for himself. He just stopped shouting and he lowered his arms, and I remember that his eyes never left mine. It was like time stopped right then-it was just the two of us. I couldn't hear my mom anymore, I couldn't feel the heat, I couldn't smell the smoke. All I could think about was my father. Then, he nodded ever so slightly and we both knew what he was going to do. He finally turned away and started running for the front door.

"He moved so fast that my mom didn't have time to stop him. By then, the house was completely in flames. The fire was closing in around me, and I just stood in the window, too shocked to scream anymore."

Taylor pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, applying pressure. When he dropped his hands into his lap, he leaned back into the far corner of the couch, as if unwilling to finish the story. With great effort he went on.

"It must have been less than a minute before he got to me, but it seemed like forever. Even with my head out the window, I could barely breathe. Smoke was everywhere. The fire was deafening. People think they're quiet, but they're not. It sounds like devils screaming in agony when things are consumed by flames. Despite that, I could hear my father's voice in the house, calling that he was coming."

Here Taylor's voice broke, and he turned away to hide the tears that began to spill down his face.

"I remember turning around and seeing him rushing toward me. He was on fire. His skin, his arms, his face, his hair-everything. Just this human fireball rushing at me, being eaten away, bursting through the flames. But he wasn't screaming. He just barreled into me, pushing me toward the window, saying, 'Go, son.' He forced me out the window, holding on to my wrist. When the entire weight of my body was dangling, he finally let go. I landed hard enough to crack a bone in my ankle-I heard the snap as I fell onto my back, looking upward. It was like God wanted me to see what I'd done. I watched my father pull his flaming arm back inside. . . ."

Taylor stopped there, unable to go on. Denise sat frozen in her chair, tears in her own eyes, a lump in her throat. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible and he was shivering as if the effort of choking back sobs were tearing his body apart.

"He never came back out. I remember my mom pulling me away from the house, still screaming, and by then I was screaming, too."

His eyes closed tightly, he lifted his chin to the ceiling.

"Daddy . . . no-" he called out hoarsely.

The sound of his voice echoed like a shot in the room.

"Get out, Daddy!"

As Taylor seemed to crumple into himself, Denise moved instinctively to his side, wrapping her arms around him as he rocked back and forth, his broken cries almost incoherent.

"Please, God . . . let me do it over . . . please . . . I'll jump . . . please, God . . . I'll do it this time . . . please let him come out . . ."

Denise hugged him with all her strength, her own tears falling unheeded onto his neck and back as she pressed her face into him. After a while she heard nothing but the beating of his heart, the creak of the sofa as he rocked himself into a rhythmic trance, and the words he kept whispering over and over-

"I didn't mean to kill him. . . ."

Chapter 28

Denise held Taylor until he finally fell silent, spent and exhausted. Then she released him and went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a can of beer, something she'd splurged on when she'd bought her car.

She didn't know what else to do, nor did she have any idea what to say. She'd heard terrible things in her life, but nothing like this. Taylor looked up from the couch as she handed him the beer; with an almost deadened expression, he opened the beer and took a drink, then lowered it to his lap, both hands wrapped around the can.

She reached over, resting her hand on his leg, and he took hold of it.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"No," he answered earnestly, "but then maybe I never was."

She squeezed his hand.

"Probably not," she agreed. He smiled wanly. They sat in silence for a few moments before she spoke again.

"Why tonight, Taylor?" Though she could have tried to talk him out of the guilt he still felt, she knew intuitively that now wasn't the time. Neither of them was ready to face those demons.

He absently rotated the can in his hands. "I've been thinking about Mitch ever since he died, and with Melissa moving away . . . I don't know . . . I felt like it was starting to eat me alive."

It always was, Taylor.

"Why me, then? Why not someone else?"

He didn't answer right away, but when he glanced up at her, his blue eyes registered nothing but regret.

"Because," he said with unmistakable sincerity, "I care about you more than I ever cared about anyone."

At his words, her breath caught in her throat. When she didn't speak, Taylor reluctantly withdrew his hand the same way he once had at the carnival.

"You have every right not to believe me," he admitted. "I probably wouldn't, given the way I acted. I'm sorry for that-for everything. I was wrong." He paused. With his thumbnail, he flicked the tab on the can in his hands. "I wish I could explain why I did the things I did, but I honestly don't know. I've been lying to myself for so long that I'm not even sure I'd know the truth if I saw it. All I know for sure is that I screwed up the best thing I've ever had in my life."

"Yeah, you did," she agreed, prompting a nervous laugh from Taylor.

"I guess a second chance is out of the question, huh?"

Denise was silent, suddenly aware that at some point this evening, her anger toward Taylor had dissipated. The pain was still there, though, and so was the fear of what might come. In some ways she felt the same anxiety she'd felt when she was getting to know him for the first time. And in a way, she knew she was.

"You used that one a month ago," she said calmly. "You're probably somewhere in the twenties by now."

He heard an unexpected glimmer of encouragement in her tone and looked up at her, his hope barely disguised.

"That bad?"

"Worse," she said, smiling. "If I were the queen, I probably would have had you beheaded."

"No hope, huh?"

Was there? That was what it all came down to, wasn't it?

Denise hesitated. She could feel her stubborn resolve crumbling as his eyes held her gaze, speaking more eloquently than any words he might say. All at once she was flooded with memories of all the kind things he'd done for her and Kyle, reviving the feelings she had worked so hard to repress these past few weeks.

"I didn't exactly say that," she finally answered. "But we can't just pick up where we left off. There's a lot we have to figure out first, and it isn't going to be easy."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when he realized that the possibility was still there-faint though it was-Taylor felt a wave of sudden relief wash over him. He smiled briefly before setting the can on the table.

"I'm sorry, Denise," he repeated earnestly. "I'm sorry for what I did to Kyle, too."

She simply nodded and took his hand.

For the next few hours they talked with a new openness. Taylor filled her in on the last few weeks: his conversations with Melissa and what his mother had said; the argument he'd had with Mitch the night he'd died. He spoke about how Mitch's death had resurrected the memories of his father's death and-despite everything-his lingering guilt about both deaths.

He talked steadily as Denise listened, offering support as he needed it, occasionally asking questions. It was nearly four in the morning when he rose to leave; Denise walked him to the door and watched him drive away.

While putting on her pajamas, she reflected that she still didn't know where their relationship would go from here-talking about things didn't always translate into actions, she cautioned herself. It might mean nothing, it might mean everything. But she knew it wasn't simply up to her to give him another chance. As it had been from the beginning, it was-she thought as her eyelids drooped shut-still up to Taylor.

The following afternoon he called to ask if it would be all right for him to stop by.

"I'd like to apologize to Kyle, too," he said. "And besides, I have something to show him."

Still exhausted from the night before, she wanted time to mull things over. She needed that. So did he. But in the end she reluctantly consented, more for Kyle's sake than her own. She knew that Kyle would be overjoyed to see him.

As she hung up the phone, however, she wondered if she'd done the right thing. Outside, the day was blustery; cool autumn weather had arrived in full force. The leaves were dazzling in their color: reds, oranges, and yellows exploding on the branches, preparing for their final descent to the dew-covered grass. Soon the yard would be covered with faded remnants of the summer.

An hour later Taylor arrived. Though Kyle was in the yard out front, she could hear his excited screams over the sound of the faucet.

"Money! Tayer's here!"

Setting her dishrag aside-she'd just finished washing the morning dishes-she went to the front door, still feeling a little uneasy. Opening it, she saw Kyle charging Taylor's truck; as soon as Taylor stepped out, Kyle jumped into his arms as if Taylor had never stayed away, his face beaming. Taylor hugged him for a long time, putting him down just as Denise walked up.

"Hey there," he said quietly.

She crossed her arms. "Hi, Taylor."

"Tayer's here!" Kyle said jubilantly, latching on to Taylor's leg. "Tayer's here!"

Denise smiled thinly. "He sure is, sweetie."

Taylor cleared his throat, sensing her unease, and motioned over his shoulder.

"I grabbed a few things from the store on my way over here. If it's okay to stay awhile."

Kyle laughed aloud, completely enamored by Taylor's presence. "Tayer's here," he said again.

"I don't think I have much of a choice," she answered honestly.

Taylor grabbed a grocery bag from the cab of the truck and carried it inside. The bag contained the makings for stew: beef, potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions. They spoke for a couple of minutes, but he seemed to sense her ambivalence about his presence and finally went outside with Kyle, who refused to leave his side. Denise started preparing the meal, thankful to be left alone. She browned the meat and peeled the potatoes, cut the carrots, celery, and onions, throwing everything into a big pot with water and spices. The monotony of the work was soothing, calming her roiling emotions.

As she stood over the sink, however, she glanced outside occasionally, watching Taylor and Kyle play in the dirt pile, where they each pushed Tonka trucks back and forth, building imaginary roads. Yet despite how well they seemed to be getting along, she was struck once more with a paralyzing sense of uncertainty about Taylor; the memories of the pain he had caused her and Kyle surfaced with new clarity. Could she trust him? Would he change? Could he change?

As she watched, Kyle climbed on to Taylor's squatting figure, covering him with dirt. She could hear Kyle laughing; she could hear Taylor laughing as well.

It's good to hear that sound again. . . .

But . . .

Denise shook her head. Even if Kyle has forgiven him, I won't forget. He hurt us once, he could hurt us again. She wouldn't allow herself to fall for him so deeply this time. She wouldn't let herself go.

But they look so cute together....

Don't let yourself go, she warned herself.

She sighed, refusing to allow the internal conversation to dominate her thoughts. With the stew cooking over low heat, she set the table, then straightened up the living room before running out of things to do.

Deciding to sit outside, she walked out into the crisp, fresh air and sat on the porch steps. She could see Taylor and Kyle, still immersed in their playing.

Despite her thick turtleneck sweater, the nip in the air made her cross her arms. Overhead, a flock of geese in triangular formation flew overhead, heading south for the winter. They were followed by a second group that seemed to be struggling to catch up. As she watched them, she realized her breaths were coming out in little puffs. The temperature had dropped since the morning; a cold front blowing in from the midwest had descended through the low country of North Carolina.

After a while, Taylor glanced toward the house and saw her, letting her know with a smile. With a quick flick of her hand, she waved before burying her hand back in the warmth of her sleeves. Taylor leaned close to Kyle and motioned with his chin, prompting Kyle to turn in her direction. Kyle waved happily, and both of them stood. Taylor brushed off his jeans as they started toward the house.

"You two look like you were having fun," she said.

Taylor grinned, stopping a few feet from her. "I think I'll give up contracting and just build dirt cities. It's a lot more fun, and the people are easier to deal with."

She leaned toward Kyle. "Did you have fun, sweetie?"

"Yes," he said, nodding enthusiastically. "It was fun." (Ess fun)

Denise looked up at Taylor again. "The stew won't be ready for a while. I just got it all going, so you've got plenty of time if you want to stay outside."

"I figured as much, but I need a glass of water to wash down some of the dirt."

Denise smiled. "Do you want something to drink, too, Kyle?"

Instead of answering, however, Kyle moved closer, his arms outstretched. Almost molding into her, he wrapped his arms around Denise's neck.

"What's wrong, honey?" Denise asked, suddenly concerned. With his eyes closed, Kyle squeezed more tightly, and she instinctively put her arms around him.

"Thank you, Mommy. Thank you. . . ." (Kenk you, Money. Kenk you)

For what?

"Honey, what's wrong?" she asked again.

"Kenk you," Kyle said again, not listening. "Kenk you, Money."

He repeated it a third and fourth time, his eyes closed. Taylor's grin left his face.

"Honey . . . ," Denise tried again, a little more desperately this time, suddenly feeling a flash of fear at what was happening.

Kyle, lost in his own world, continued to hold her tight. Denise shot a "See what you've done now" look at Taylor when all of a sudden Kyle spoke again, the same grateful tone in his voice.

"I wuff you, Money."

It took a moment to understand what he was trying to say, and she felt the hairs on her neck stand up.

I love you, Mommy.

Denise closed her eyes in shock. As if knowing she still didn't believe it, Kyle tightened his grip around her, squeezing with ferocious intensity, and said it a second time.

"I wuff you, Money."

Oh, my God . . .

Unexpected tears suddenly began to spill from her eyes.

For five years she'd waited to hear the words. For five long years she'd been deprived of something other parents take for granted, a simple declaration of love.

"I love you, too, sweetie . . . I love you so much."

Lost in the moment, she hugged Kyle as tightly as he was holding her.

I'll never forget this, she thought, memorizing the feel of Kyle's body, his little-boy smell, his halting miraculous words. Never.

Watching them together, Taylor stood off to the side, as mesmerized by the moment as she was. Kyle, too, seemed to know he'd done something right, and as she finally released him, he turned to Taylor, a grin on his face. Denise laughed at his expression, her cheeks flushed. She turned to gaze at Taylor, her expression full of wonder.

"Did you teach him to say that?"

Taylor shook his head. "Not me. We were just playing."

Kyle turned from Taylor back to his mother again, the same joyous expression on his face.

"Kenk you, Money," he said simply. "Tayer's home."

Taylor's home. . . .

As soon as he said it, Denise wiped the tears from her cheeks, her hand shaking slightly, and it was quiet for a moment. Neither Denise nor Taylor knew what to say. Though Denise's shock was evident, to Taylor she looked absolutely wondrous, as beautiful as anyone he'd ever seen. Taylor dropped his eyes and reached for a twig on the ground, then twirled it absently in his fingers. He looked up at her, back to the twig, then over to Kyle before meeting and holding her gaze with steady determination.

"I hope he's right," Taylor said, his voice cracking slightly. "Because I love you, too."

It was the first time he'd ever said the words to her, or to anyone. Though he'd imagined they would be hard to say, they weren't. He'd never been so sure about anything.

Denise could almost feel Taylor's emotion as he reached for her hand. In a daze, she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet, drawing her close. He tilted his head, slowly moving it closer, and before she knew it, she felt his lips against hers, mingling with the warmth of his body. The tenderness of the kiss seemed to last forever until he finally buried his face in her neck.

"I love you, Denise," he whispered again. "I love you so much. I'll do anything for another chance, and if you give it to me, I promise I'll never leave you again."

Denise closed her eyes, letting him hold her, before finally, reluctantly, pulling back. With a little space between them, she turned away, and for a moment Taylor didn't know what to think. He squeezed her hand, listening as she took a breath. Still, she didn't speak.

Above them, the autumn sun was bearing down. Cumulus clouds, rolling white and gray, were drifting steadily, moving with the wind. On the horizon, dark clouds loomed black and thick. In an hour the rain would come, full and heavy. But by then they would be in the kitchen, listening as raindrops pelted the tin roof, watching as the steam from their plates curled toward the ceiling.

Denise sighed and faced Taylor again. He loved her. It was as simple as that. And she loved him. She moved into his arms, knowing that the coming storm had nothing to do with them.

Epilogue Earlier that morning Taylor had taken Kyle fishing. Denise opted to stay behind; she had a few things to do around the house before Judy came over for lunch, and besides, she needed a bit of a break. Kyle was in kindergarten now, and though he'd come a long way in the past year, he was still having a little trouble adjusting to school for the first time. She continued to work with him on his speech every day, but she was also doing her best to help him with other skills so that he'd be able to keep up with his peers. Fortunately the recent move to their new house hadn't seemed to bother him at all. He loved his new room, which was much bigger than it had been in their first house in Edenton, and delighted in the fact that it overlooked the water. She had to admit, she loved it, too. From where she was sitting on the porch, she could see Taylor and Kyle perched on the seawall, fishing poles in hand. She smiled wistfully, thinking how natural they looked together. Like father and son, which of course they were.

After the wedding Taylor had legally adopted Kyle. Kyle had served as the ring bearer in a small, private service held at the Episcopal church. A few friends had come in from Atlanta, and Taylor had invited a dozen others from around town. Melissa served as maid of honor, and Judy dabbed at her tears from her seat in the front row as the rings were exchanged. After the ceremony Taylor and Denise drove to Ocracoke and honeymooned in a small bed-and-breakfast that overlooked the ocean. On her first wedded morning, they rose before the sun came up and took a walk on the beach. As porpoises rode the waves just offshore, they watched the sunrise. With Taylor standing behind her, his arms around her waist, Denise simply leaned her head back, feeling warm and safe, as a new day unfolded.

When they returned from the honeymoon, Taylor surprised Denise with a set of blueprints he'd had drawn up. The plans were for a graceful, low-country home on the water with wide porches, complete with window seats, a modern kitchen, and hardwood floors. They purchased a lot on the outskirts of town and began building within a month; they'd moved in just before the school year started.

Denise had stopped working at Eights as well; she and Taylor went in for dinner now and then, simply to visit with Ray. He was the same as always; he never seemed to age, and as they left he always joked that she could have her job back anytime she wanted. She didn't miss it, despite Ray's good humor.

Though Taylor still suffered from the occasional nightmare, he'd surprised her with his devotion over the past year. Despite the responsibilities of building the house, he came home for lunch every day and refused to work any later than six. He coached Kyle's T-ball team last spring-Kyle wasn't the best player, but he wasn't the worst, either-and they spent every weekend as a family. During the summer they'd taken a trip to Disney World; for Christmas they'd purchased a used Jeep Cherokee.

The only thing left was the white picket fence, and that was going up next week.

She heard the timer go off in the kitchen and rose from her chair. An apple pie was in the oven, and she took it out, setting it on the counter to cool. On the stove, stewed chicken was boiling, and the salty smell of broth wafted through the house.

Their house. The McAdens. Even though she'd been married a little over a year, she still relished the sound of that. Denise and Taylor McAden. It had a nice ring to it, if she did say so herself.

She stirred the stew-it had been cooking for an hour now, and meat was beginning to fall off the bones. Though Kyle still avoided eating meat for the most part, a few months earlier she'd made him try chicken. He'd fussed for an hour but had finally taken a bite; over the next few weeks he'd gradually started eating a little more. Now, on days like these, they ate as a family, everyone sharing the same food. Just as a family should.

A family. She liked the sound of that, too.

Glancing out the window, she saw Taylor and Kyle walking up the lawn, toward the shed where they kept their fishing poles. She watched as Taylor hung his pole, then took Kyle's as well. Kyle put the tackle box on the floor inside, and Taylor scooted it out of the way with a tip of his boot. A moment later they were mounting the steps to the porch.

"Hey, Mom," Kyle chirped.

"Did you catch anything?" she asked.

"No. No fish."

Like everything else in her life, Kyle's speech had improved dramatically. It wasn't perfect by any means, but he was gradually closing the gap between himself and his peers at school. More important, she'd stopped worrying about it so much.

Taylor kissed Denise as Kyle made his way inside.

"So, where is the little fella?" Taylor asked.

She nodded toward the corner of the porch. "Still asleep."

"Shouldn't he be awake by now?"

"In a few minutes. He'll be getting hungry soon."

Together they approached the basket in the corner, and Taylor bent over, peering closely, something he still did often, as if he couldn't believe he'd been responsible for helping to create a new life. He reached out and gently ran his hand over his son's hair. At seven weeks there was barely anything at all.

"He seems so peaceful," he whispered, almost in awe. Denise put her hand on Taylor's shoulder, hoping that one day he'd look just like his father.

"He's beautiful," she said.

Taylor looked over his shoulder at the woman he loved, then turned back to his son. He leaned in close, kissing his son on his forehead.

"Did you hear that, Mitch? Your mom thinks you're beautiful."

This file was created with BookDesigner program bookdesigner@the-ebook.org 2/12/2008

LRS to LRF parser v.0.9; Mikhail Sharonov, 2006; msh-tools.com/ebook/