In this section, I used lyrics from "I Will Love You" by Angel Diaz, and

"I Can't Help Falling in Love With You" by Elvis Presley.

Thanks for hanging in there. . .

************************************************************************

PART THREE--- CHAPTER THREE

"BOSTON HERALD---August 28, 1972. Assault Victim Continues to Make Progress. Newborn Daughter 'Better Than Expected,' say Doctors. Distraught Husband and Father Hopefull of Full Recovery." In even smaller print, the man on the train read, "Knowlton Indicted for Murder One, and Two Counts of Attempted First-Degree Murder."

But the part he savored most was the final paragraph. "Donations have been pouring in from the rest of New England, and even further afield, to aid the stricken family with their staggering medical expenses. For the most part, the money has been returned to those donors who identified themselves, with the explanation that expenses will be largely handled by the town, the Hoffman family, and Collins Enterprises. But a decision will soon be made, as how to best allocate a large pool of anonymous donations. Some will be used to defray extra hospital expenses, and some will be placed in a college fund for the infant Sarah Loomis. A final decision on how to best use the remainder will be announced later this week by Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, trustee of this fund, based on consultation with the child's parents."

"Not until I consult with them, myself," the man thought. "About time one of my kids helped out their old man." He looked at the pictures on the front page. One was of Jack Knowlton, who had engineered the circumstances under which the donation fund had come to exist in the first place. Not that the man on the train

was, to do him credit, supportive of his deeds in the least. "Bastard ought to get the chair," he thought. "Wonder if they even have the chair anymore? Not since the damn liberals turned things around. Hope they get his ass in the Big House, anyhow."

The other picture depicted the man's son and daughter-in-law, victims of Knowlton's actions, and, inadvertantly, the recipients of the generosity of other liberals. The picture was, obviously, taken just before the hideous incident. The man's son's arms were wrapped around the very pregnant middle of his wife. "William and Cecily Hoffman Loomis, July 1972," the caption read.

"That girl is a nice piece of tail. But that sure won't last. Teresa was the same, and she turned out to be a slut," Harold Loomis thought. "I'd better get in there, and take what's coming to me, before everything blows apart, and she tries to grab the dough in a divorce."

The train arrived at Collinsport Station. Harold counted himself lucky to get a taxi that had just discharged a passenger. "Where to?" the driver asked, without really looking at his new customer.

"Collinsport General Hospital," Harold said. No use wasting time.

"What, did you get train-sick, or something?"

"No, I got family members there."

"That's something new. All the people I've picked up lately, who wanted to go there, were all reporters. They wanted the inside scoop on the Loomis case. Damn shame about that girl. Still . . . Look, nobody misses that whore Melinda. But I got to tell you, that Cecily shouldn't have expected any better when she took up with that scum, and I didn't mind telling the reporters so."

"Would you mind if I told you you were insulting my daughter-in-law, and my son?" Actually, Harold couldn't have agreed more, but he enjoyed watching the cab-driver's reaction to this news.

"I what? Oh, shoot," the driver said, as he glanced at his rear-view mirror, at the man sitting there. Behind him sat an older, but easily recognizable replica of the "scum" in question. "Oh, man. Look, Mr. Loomis, sir, I didn't mean--- I didn't mean--Oh, Christ, now you'll want another cab, and you'll bitch to the company. . ."

"Nothing like that. I'm in a hurry, and I don't feel like waiting for another cab. Just can it, when it comes to my family."

The taxi arrived at the Hospital in record time. Harold took full advantage of the cab driver's discomfiture. He'd even agreed to wait for his passenger to return from his visit, which Harold expected to be short, and to take him to a cheap motel on the outskirts of Collinsport.

Harold managed to get a visitor's pass, and arrive on the maternity floor, without attracting too much attention. "It's a surprise for my son," he told anyone who recognized him. "I was so worried when my daughter told me the news." Of course, he hadn't talked to Fran. He had some angry words with his son-in-law, the farmer Maracek (Harold thought of Steve as the "Slow-Vac") but he learned enough to know that he needn't fear running into his daughter, if he moved fast. Fran wasn't due to visit for two more days.

Harold looked so concerned, and downcast, when he told the nurses about his "conversation with poor Fran," that nobody questioned him. He even got that pretty Porkchop nurse to direct him to his daughter-in-law's room. Fortunately, the hall was clear at that time, and when he peeked into Cellie's room, he found her quite alone, reading a baby-care book.

"Excuse me, Mrs.--Cecily," he said, in his most ingratiating manner. "Maybe you recognize me?"

Cellie looked up, and turned herself carefully to face him. "Oh, my God," she said.

"No, but close," he joked.

"You're--you're Will's Dad. If you want, I can have someone call him. He's in the cafeteria." She reached for the nurse's buzzer.

"No, not right now. You can get him in a few minutes. I'd like to get acquainted with you, before he has a chance to poison your mind about me."

"He never poisoned my mind about anyone."

"I have a real hard time believing that. But, think what you want. It's just that, when I heard about this whole Knowlton thing. . . I heard about it in Boston."

"We had no idea you lived in Boston."

"I don't. Like my son, I took to what you might call the, ah, nautical life. But we never ran into each other. It's a big world, and a big ocean, out there."

"I take it, then, you just came back, and read about us in the papers, by chance."

"Exactly. Now I know why you were an honor student." He smiled again, and Cellie began to wonder if this was the sort of face she wanted to look at in twenty years. But, unlike his father, Willie had gentleness in his expression, even when he leered at her in bed. Cellie became wary.

"Just what do you want, Mr. Loomis?" she asked. She tried to read him. The ability was coming back to her, in fits and starts. (In fact, she believed that Nicholas Blair had, indeed, been present, briefly, in her room the day she had the bad dream, so intense were her sensations of his coldness.) Her father-in-law wasn't hard to read. He was full of that yellow-blue anger. When he glanced at her body (her ribs were bandaged to just under her breasts, which emphasized the swollen condition for which she now had to take dry-up pills), she sensed a kind of twisted lust, orange-brown, mixed with hatred and contempt. She felt sick.

Still, this was her husband's father, and now, she had a golden opportunity to do what she'd always had a secret ambition to try. She was getting along with her own father much better these days, partly because of his new relationship with her baby's God-mother. Maybe she could patch things up between her husband and his father. She recalled that she'd said she would check with Willie first, but she wanted the inside track, before he came in and started a confrontation.

"I just came back, because, you know how it is when you get older. You start thinking about stuff that you did wrong in the past. I know I did wrong by Willie and Frannie, and the rest. I want to make it up with my son. He must be worth something, if a girl from such a nice family wanted to marry him and have his kid. And believe me when I say, that jerk Knowlton ought to be shot for what he did to you and my new grand-daughter."

Now, he was generating a kind of queasy pink, as though he had some paternal feeling left somewhere inside. Cellie decided that was something to build on. "Well, I hope you understand, at the outset, a reconciliation won't happen overnight. There's a lot of dirty water under the bridge. You weren't too good to your family."

"See? He poisoned your mind, like I said. Cecily, when you're married a few years, and you see the stuff husbands and wives can do to hurt each other---I'm not saying you'll ever do that, or Willie, but you never know--"

"It doesn't matter what happened between you and Will's Mom. You left a sickly woman and a thirteen-year-old boy in charge of five younger kids. You didn't even send money."

"I didn't have any, not at the time. And later, when I did, they were long gone. Teresa gave Lenny, Jerry, and Harry Junior to the state, and she dropped Frannie off with the Maraceks. There wasn't any point doing anything for her. She was able to handle Paulie, and Willie checked out as soon as he could."

"Well, what about before you checked out? Why couldn't you have made your family life work?"

Harold was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. Ever since he started to talk to his daughter-in-law, he felt like something, or someone, was suctioning his insides, trying to drain him of his very justifiable anger toward his trampy late wife, and his ne'er-do-well jailbird son. He looked at Cellie. Red-headed, self-righteous witch, he thought, and got a real pain in his gut. "What the hell's the matter with me?" he complained. "You don't have some flu I could be catching now, do you? I feel sick as a dog."

"Why, no, I'm well enough, considering. . . Maybe you've picked up something on your travels you could give to me."

"I was okay when I came in. Maybe I'm getting an ulcer, or angina. I'll have to check with a U.S. doc before I ship out again.

I don't trust those foreign quacks." He smiled again, and this time forced a little warmth into it. "Listen, Cecily, I don't want to hash over the stuff I can't change. I want to move forward, y'know? I want to share in your---your new life, a little, before I have to leave again. I'd like something to take with me, to keep me from feeling left out on those lonely nights at sea."

"Are you ever really that lonely at sea?" Cellie asked. "My husband never was. As soon as he hit the shore, he never lacked for company, to hear him tell it. You can't be all that different."

"Looks can be deceiving. Just 'cause I have this handsome face, doesn't mean I always used it. I turned away a lot of female company. I saved a few bucks that way. I'd be willing to bet my son couldn't make that boast. Oh, yeah, and unlike my son, I was never in jail either. Or the nuthouse! But again, that's in the past.

I just want to be with you two, now, and, you know, share the good times, with the baby and all."

"You won't be sharing ANYTHING with us." Willie stood in the doorway. "You never wanted anything to do with any of us since the day you walked out, and left my Mom crying on the kitchen floor. What do you want from us? And Cecily, shame on you. You should have buzzed the nurse, and told them to get me. I'll never understand why they let him up here in the first place."

"Hello to you too, son," Harold said, trying to laugh.

"Hon, I was just trying to make a little peace in the family." Cellie pleaded. "I wanted to sound him out, before I called on you. I'm sorry. I guess I just wanted to test my wings a little."

"Your wings are just fine, casts or no casts. It wouldn't pay to try anything with him, anymore than it did with Jack."

"What the Hell are you two talking about?" Harold asked in consternation. "Since when is your father in the same league with the animal who killed your girlfriend and almost killed your wife and kid?"

"Melinda wasn't my damn girlfriend, now or ever! See what I mean,

Cecily? He automatically thinks I'm the same louse he was."

"I'm not sure he's a louse now." Cellie began to cry.

"I only know, I want to talk to him alone right now. And if he comes back in here, I want you to have him tossed out. Nothing good will come of having him hang around here."

"Now, son," Harold began.

"You never called me 'son' in your life. Stop trying to confuse my wife. She's been through enough crap. Get out here, right now!"

Harold shrugged, and rose to follow Willie. Willie led him to the cafeteria floor. Fortunately, the large room was nearly empty. "Aren't you going to buy me a cup of coffee first, Willie? I came a long way to see you, and I'd like to have something to drink, before you chew me out."

"Buy it yourself. You didn't come to see me, or my wife, or the baby. You want something. I can tell, even if Cecily is still too sick to see through you. So, what is it? I don't have anything to give you."

"Oh, yes you do, son. There's some money coming your way. I thought it might be worth it to you, if you really don't want me hanging around your new family, if you'd share a little with me."

"Why do people always come to me to get stuff that isn't mine to share?" Willie thought of Jason's unreasonable request for Barnabas's jewelry, that had led to his death.

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean, now? The people are sending you money. They don't put their names on it. I read that you're keeping some for the kid."

"It's only about a thousand, and that's being invested for her future. I couldn't touch that, even if I wanted to. And I don't want to. A lot is going to pay for the hospital. Again, I can't touch that."

"What about the rest? That Stoddard woman can't object if you dip into that, a little."

"Mrs. Stoddard is trusting me and Cecily to do something good with that money. Giving it to you doesn't qualify."

"Even if it meant getting me out of your hair?"

"Hey, if you wanted to live here, I can't stop you. I doubt you'd want to. Not much to do around here, and not too many women to do it with, now that Melinda's six feet under."

"As if I would have anything to do with your used tramps! I'm getting older, and I'm tired of traveling around. Maybe I'll stick around, anyway. It'll be a treat for me to watch what happens between you and that cute little cookie back there."

"I don't want you near us."

"Oh, Willie, didn't you hear the little woman? She wants us to kiss and make up before I go to that big ship in the sky. And then, there's the dear baby. Your first born in wedlock."

"I don't have any other kids!"

"And how would you know that? They turn up in the strangest places. Once, right after I left Vermont, our ship docked in a small port in Spain. There was a senorita in the tavern, and well, this was before I knew better than to throw away my wages on anything in a skirt. We had a high old time. Then I was out of there, and about fifteen years went by. I was on another ship by then, and at first,

I didn't even think about it when I heard we were going back to that place. Well, there we were, and the tavern was still there, so I went in. And there, mopping the floor, was a boy with a familiar face. My face, with dark eyes, and hair. It must be a curse, always making kids that look like me. You can bet I got the hell out of there. Later, I heard that his grandfather owned the tavern, and that his mother had left him there when she found some sucker to marry her. The man didn't want to raise her little mistake."

"So you dumped your troubles on someone else. Again," Willie said with disgust. "Thank God, the kid at least had a grandfather to care about him. Well, if it ever comes to my ears that I do have some other kids, somewhere, I wouldn't turn them away. I would give anything to have more kids, now." His eyes filled with tears.

"Well, you won't have to worry about having that little sweetie to hold you back for long. From the looks of her, she won't be wasting too much more time with the likes of you."

"My wife will never leave me, and I'll never leave her. I'm not like you."

"Maybe she's like your dear mother. Good thing she can't have more kids, or there'd be another Paulie for you to fret over." Harold smirked.

Willie lifted his father from his seat, and dropped him back on it. Hard. the chair was set against the wall, and Harold banged his head and shoulders against the bricks. But not hard enough---he laughed at Willie now. "Whores, son. All of 'em. All the whupping you can do to me won't change that fact. And red-heads, they're the worst.

Oh, they're hot enough in the sack, but just let 'em get out of your sight. . . And that one, she's some kind of witch, I think. She gave me a dirty look, and I thought I swallowed a vacuum cleaner. I got her number. But hey, don't take my word for it. You'll see for yourself, someday. She'll let you down. They all do."

Willie yelled, "GET OUT OF HERE! I'm going to tell them, at the desk, not to let you in here anymore. I don't want you near my wife. Take your filthy talk, and your filthy self, out of here!"

"Willie, just remember, the next time you look in your mirror. I AM your filthy self, son. The apple never falls far from the tree. And as for your little witch, good luck. You're going to need it, to keep her where a good wife belongs, barefoot, in your kitchen, and tied to your bed. A baby won't stop her. Five babies didn't stop your mother."

"If you'd been nicer to her, maybe. . ."

"It doesn't matter, Willie. Men give their wives the world, and they still want to crawl in the dirt. At least I never wasted the effort, or the money, on Teresa. I suggest you follow my advice. Oh, yes, that reminds me. Are you sure you won't be paying me for my good advice?"

Willie was defeated. "How much do you want?"

"Can you come up with five hundred?"

Willie was taken back in time. Five hundred. That's what Jason got for him, from Mrs. Stoddard, to get him to leave town, six years ago. He'd taken it, but of course, by then, he couldn't leave, because of Barnabas. And then, Walter Hoffman had just offered him twenty times that, to leave Cecily and Sarah, and he'd come close to taking it. . . Maybe he was like his father, more than he cared to admit. No, damn it, he wasn't like that! Not any more! He didn't leave his girls, and he wasn't going to rip Mrs. Stoddard off again, either. She was so nice when she told him it was up to him and Cecily to make a wise choice about the money, to give it to some local charity. "Of course, Willie, if you'd like more for Sarah Teresa's college fund. . ." That was about as greedy as Willie felt these days. He'd accept it for Sarah Teresa, but not for a man who came back into his life, and insulted his wife and his late mother.

Willie thought about his and Cellie's savings. There was about five hundred in the bank now. If he went to his wife and explained the situation, she might let him take a hundred or so. "All I can give you is a hundred," he said finally. "I'm sorry, but that's all I have. Take it or leave it."

"After spending so many years hanging off the coattails of rich people, I can't believe you couldn't come up with more than that. People working in that cannery probably bring home twice as much."

"Go work in the damn cannery then."

"To stay close to my loved ones? Now that's an idea." Harold rose slowly from the chair. Willie resisted an impulse to help him. "A bad idea. I doubt I worked that hard on the ship. But, as I said, it would be worth it, to stay and watch you fall flat on your face. I'll be seeing you, son. Now, I'm just going upstairs for a minute, to see my newest grandchild. Don't worry, I won't be visiting the Mrs. again, for a while, anyway." He shambled out of the room.

Harold went back up to Maternity. He went straight to the nursery window, without anyone at the desk noticing him. He looked in. Sarah Teresa Manoela Hoffman Loomis (her card had been reworked to include the additional name) was in the front row. She seemed to be looking right into his eyes, into his soul.

Harold wasn't having any of that. Baby eyes, no matter how sweet or how knowing, had never impressed him. He'd looked on six sets in a row, and he was never inspired to better behavior. This little imp, with reddish hair from her mother, was no exception. If she was older, though. . . He remembered some amusing times he'd had with Fran when she was about nine, and she'd started to develop a little early. It might be worth hanging around until then.

It was then Harold became aware of a man standing near him. The fellow was Greek, by the looks of him. He was dressed like a kid, like one of those hippies that used to be all over the place. He turned to Harold, and said, "A fine child, is she not?"

"I suppose so. She's my grand-daughter. Terrible thing to happen to her mother, though."

"There are many terrible things that can happen to a little one, also. To never know love, or warmth, or security. . . To know only pain, and perversion. . . This little one is fortunate to have parents who would give the world for her happiness."

"Mister, you sound like a sentimental crackpot to me."

"If believing in good things makes me a crackpot, so be it. I am surprised you are so cynical when it comes to your own grandchild. Your blood courses through her tiny veins."

"Not just mine. That's a disgusting thought, anyway. Who wants to think about blood?"

"Perhaps, someday, it will mean something to you. Until then, it would be better if you were gone from here."

"I'm not going anywhere. My son is here, and my daughter will be here in a couple of days. I haven't seen her in quite a while."

"And shall continue so. I let things get away from me once. Never again."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said. You will leave, Harold Loomis."

"How do you know so much about me?"

"I don't, but I know about men's hearts. Go now. Your driver waits. He has sacrificed better fares because of your mischief."

"My what? What's going on here? What kind of place is this?" Harold grabbed his head. "Ow. What kind of---are you in cahoots with my daughter-in-law? I've been to Haiti, and Africa, and I've seen some voodoo-hoodoo going on."

"It's not voodoo, Mr. Loomis. It is your own vile thoughts and feelings catching up with you."

"I don't have any---Damn, what was that?" He reached for his groin.

"Please, not in public, in front of these innocents. The men's room is up the hall, that way. So are the elevators, if you catch my drift."

"I'm going. I'm going." Harold turned on his heel, and fled down the hall, to the elevator. He entered it, panting a little, until he got a good look at the pretty blonde woman, with bright green eyes, dressed in a white sweater and skirt, already standing in it.

He looked her up and down, thinking it might be worth asking her for a tumble before he cut out of town. Then, he thought, hell, why should he leave? That crazy Greek fellow was just taking advantage of his random aches and pains. Harold had headaches, and personal aches, before. It was all a coincidence, wasn't it?

"What's your name? You a nurse here?" He asked the blonde.

"Arlene. I'm not a nurse here. I'm just visiting. Who are you?"

"Harold. I was visiting, too. Now I'm off to my motel, and in search of something to eat. You married?"

"No," she smiled. "Are you trying, in a not-so-subtle way, to pick me up?"

Harold turned red. "Maybe. Sorry, I'm not used to being, ah, subtle, with the ladies. I like being blunt. Cut to the chase, I always say. It saves a lot of time, and in my line of work, I have to make the best use of my time."

"And what kind of work would that be?"

"Shipping. And handling."

"Handling what?" Her green eyes sparkled.

"Well, for starters, I'd like to handle you, Arlene."

"That's the funniest thing I've heard all day," she laughed. "Alas. I'm not married, but I'm taken, so to speak. Still, I could spend a little time with you. . ." She whispered to him. Harold grinned from ear to ear.

"You won't charge me for that, will you?"

"I'm not a hooker, Harold. I do things from pure enjoyment. No strings attached. You'll never, ever forget what we're going to do."

"Meet me at that motel outside of town in an hour. I don't know what room, yet, but ask at the desk."

* * * * * * * * * * *

The next morning, an ambulance pulled up at the Bide-A-Wee Motor Lodge, sirens blaring, lights blazing. The paramedics jumped out, unfolded a gurney, and ran to a room at the end of the building. The motel manager stood there, with an old cleaning lady, and a policeman. The cleaning lady was crying. When the paramedics dragged out the loaded gurney, minutes later, she wailed louder.

The manager said to the policeman, "See the look on his face? You couldn't wipe that smile off with a jackhammer. If he was really dead, though, I'd sure give it a shot. That woman he had over must have been something else, last night. I wish I could tell you more about her, but she just poked her head in the door to ask for his room, and then she ran to it. Still, she had no way of knowing. I heard him singing to himself, through the open window, for at least a half- hour after she left. Agnes here, she found him like that, when she went in to clean this morning. She thought he'd already checked out. He must have had a stroke. All I can say is, I'd better not be held responsible for his medical expenses. He said he was visiting his son when he checked in. That Willie Loomis, the one whose wife almost got killed. Call him."

* * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER FOUR

Willie held his daughter in his lap, and tried to smile for her, but he just couldn't. He would look at her,and sigh, and then turn to his wife, who reached out with her casted wrist. "It's my fault. I had a fight with him in the cafeteria. I chucked him down so hard, he hit his head."

Cellie declared, "People don't get strokes, just like that, from being sat down too hard. You didn't even give him a bump on the noggin, I'll bet. You once chewed me out for trying to kiss up to Jack, when he'd just given me a hard time. At least I had a good reason. But you have to get past this tendency to feel guilty about things

you've done against people who probably deserve it. You were right about your Dad. As far as sleazy head games go, he could run neck-and-neck with Nicholas. I'm sorry he's sick, but you shouldn't carry on like you caused it."

"It's not just that."

"Hon, what did he say to you that would make you chuck him anyway?"

Willie laid the baby on the pillow across Cellie's lap, and leaned over the bed rail, head hung down. Cellie reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. Her wrist cast scratched his scalp, but that didn't seem to bother him. "Cecily, he wanted money to go away. The donated money. I said no, and I offered him a hundred bucks of our money."

"Twice that would have been a worthwhile investment, if it really made him leave. But that's not the real problem. I know it's deeper than that. You've got that guilty color all over you."

"Cecily, he said the apple never fell far from the tree. I'm like him in more than looks. There's something that happened a couple of days ago, with your Dad, something I was scared to tell you. But I can't stand NOT telling you, you understand? He offered me an awful lot of money to leave you and Sarah Teresa. I came real close to taking him up on it."

"How much?" Cellie's face became red. She dropped her hand from his head.

Willie became frightened, even though he wasn't feeling bad. Yet. He whimpered, "Ten thousand dollars. Cecily, I'm sorry. I didn't even tell him I'd consider it, I just refused him outright. And, see, I'm still here!"

"How long did it take you to think it over?" Her voice was hard, but with a teary edge.

"A couple of minutes. I couldn't help it! I mean--"

"You know, when my father first came to see me, he offered to take me and the baby to Saint Thomas in the Carribbean. And I told him no, right off the bat, because you promised to take me someday, when we had our own money. Even if your promise never pans out, I'd still say the same. And look what happened when he offered you a bribe." She cried now. "After all we've been through!" She fought that urge to get back at him.

"I turned him down! Damn it, Cecily, it was ten thousand! I don't think we'll ever have ten thousand altogether at any time in our whole lives. And, at least, he would have taken care of you and Sarah. But I thought about the baby, and you, and all the good stuff we got going. I'm not a saint, like you. I'm a Loomis. But I chose you over the dough."

"Thanks for acknowledging my sainthood. I'd better alert the nuns," Cellie said, bitterly.

Willie rubbed her arm. Cellie moved it away from him, and put it under the pillow, to hold up the baby's head better. Sarah Teresa wriggled, and made little noises. When she had her parents' full attention, she smiled at them. Willie stroked her cheek. Then he reached for a hank of his wife's coppery hair, rubbing it between his fingers.

"I want to stay, Cecily. I don't ever want to dump you two, like my Dad would have. But he said other bad things, about you and my Mom. Comparing you to her. That hurt worse than what he said about me."

"I can just imagine what that horny old toad must have said. How many times do I have to tell you, you're 'It' as far as I'm concerned? And as for your Mom, if you really loved her, I don't mind if you compare me to her."

"I really did. I was a dopey kid, leaving her alone, then.

I wanted to screw around, and take stuff--"

"The difference is, when you left, you were a kid. He was already, what? About the same age you are now? There's no excuse for him, I'm afraid. It's been surreal, you know, the past few weeks, seeing what you must have been like, once, in Jack, and then, what you might have become, in your father. But 'might have' and 'must have' don't count anymore. I have you now. That's all that matters. Just make the 'now' last."

There was a soft tap on the half-closed door. Julia entered the room. "How are the three patients today?" She asked, sympathetically.

"Okay, I guess. What did they find wrong with my--my Dad?" Willie said.

"The doctors on his case have no explanation. He didn't have a stroke, or any injury that could have brought on a coma. There were abrasions on the back of his head, but they were strictly on the surface."

Willie sighed in relief at that news, then became concerned. "So it isn't a 'regular' coma, if there is such a thing. What put him out like that, and will he get better?"

"Nobody has any idea. As usual in these cases, I'm consulting.

I personally believe him to be in some kind of trance. I'm having a hard time tracking down anyone who saw him before he went out, to ascertain the source of the problem. I've talked to Pavlos, who had some words with him before he left the hospital, but he swears Harold was fine when he went toward the elevator. The manager at the motel said an attractive woman showed up at his office, that evening, looking for Harold's room---"

"That figures," Willie said, bitterly. "there he was, giving me a lecture about blowing money on women, and then, before you know it, he's getting it down with some hooker. She had to be a hooker. Why else would she spend time with the likes of him? Still, he was kind of a cheapskate, and he was hitting on me for money, which I didn't give him. I don't think he had much to begin with. I just don't get it."

"Maybe she was handing out free samples," Cellie commented acidly.

"Or, maybe she was drunk, and he wowed her with his charms."

Julia said, "Well, however he came to know her, he was conscious when she left. The manager heard him singing, of all things."

"That's my Dad. I used to know when he was messing with my Mom, especially if he was wasted. . ." Willie's voice trailed off. He had a far-off, sad look in his eyes. Cellie pulled his head to her shoulder. Sarah Teresa reached up to touch a button on her father's shirt. He took her tiny hand.

"Afterward, that was the last anyone saw or heard of him, until the cleaning woman came in the morning."

Someone else knocked on the door. "This room is starting to get popular," Cellie commented. "I think it's time the baby went back to the nursery." Willie reluctantly placed his daughter in her bassinet, and wheeled it out of the room. Elliot Stokes and Mrs. Texeira entered, as he eased past them.

Mrs. Texeira kissed Cellie on the cheek. "You poor girl. It never rains but it pours for you and your husband. I was so sorry to hear about your father-in-law."

"It's kind of hard on Will. He never got along with his Dad, even before he left, but now I wonder if they'll ever have a chance to at least try to work out a truce."

"Cellie, you are quite an optimist," Elliot said. "I spoke to Pavlos, shortly after he met Harold Loomis. To hear him tell it, even a brief encounter was enough to give him the impression that your father-in-law was nearly irredeemable."

"Harold must have bowled Pavlos over with his fine manners. Pavlos almost never gives up on anyone," Cellie observed.

Willie had returned. He stood in a corner, as though he was being punished for having such an unregenerate character for a father. Cellie gazed at him, trying to send him soothing vibrations, but he stared at the floor.

To Julia, Elliot said, "I take it the learned physicians consulting on this case are baffled?"

"That's why I called you."

"And that's why I brought Fatima. As we've gotten closer, we've shared some of our interests, and it turns out, she has some of the same beliefs. When she heard about the elder Mr. Loomis's misfortune, she had something to tell you. Something I consider significant. Fatima?"

"Yes. I don't know if this will help Willie's father. Make of it what you will. See, I go to church with an older lady named Ana Ines Ferreira. She works as a maid at the Bide-A-Wee Motel. They call her the English name for Ines, Agnes. She helped me when I first came to Collinsport, and since then, we've kept in touch. She called me at home, the day she found Harold. She told me, finding him like that, undressed, in bed, with that smile on his face, that wasn't the whole story."

"What more do we need to know? Sounds like the story of my father's life," Willie said quietly.

"She found things in his room. In the bathroom. Candles all around."

"So, he was with a hooker who liked candles. I suppose there was incense, too?" Willie asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes. But there was more. Ines said there were little chalk drawings of stars, and other symbols. They were mostly in the bathroom. Maybe whoever put them there thought Harold wouldn't be as likely to notice them, perhaps even think they were part of the wallpaper. Anyway, that's how it looked to Ines."

"Did she show these things to the police?" Julia inquired.

"Well, they saw the candles and the incense sticks, and figured the same thing Willie suggested," Fatima replied. "As for the pictures, Ines cleansed them from the wall with Holy Water. She wants to call Father Rondini, and have him bless the place. I told her it was pointless, there would be more sinning going on in there before the week was out. And she said, 'Maria Fatima, I do not protest ordinary sinning. People will do what they do, and cleaning up after makes my living. God will judge each case as it comes before Him. But this was different. I felt it to be different. She who made the stars, and put that foolish man to sleep---la bruxa, la bruxa.' "

"The witch. Oh, boy," Cellie said. "Who's the new witch in town, these days?"

"My father thought it was you," Willie replied. "It's a good thing they don't burn 'em or hang 'em, anymore, or you'd be in real trouble."

"As long as you don't agree with his opinion."

"I don't, my girl." Willie approached the bed, and resumed his seat at Cellie's side. "The manager and that Ines didn't have a better description of that woman?"

"No," Julia said. "They both only saw her briefly, and, apparently, she was wearing a kerchief on her head. She wore a white dress, like a nurse, but that's all they could say. I don't suspect any of the nurses here, but I made private inquiries, and they all seem to be accounted for."

"You know," Cellie said, "I wish I could go see Harold for myself. I was able to get some impressions from him. In a lot of ways, he was as easy to figure out as Will. He just took me off guard, and then Will came in here and took him away before I had a chance to get better acquainted."

"He'd have tried to make a date with you, for when you got better, if he stayed any longer," Willie sighed, "And tricked you into paying the bill. He didn't like you, but I could tell he thought you were, ah, hot stuff. What good would it do, seeing him now?"

"What's all this about?" Mrs. Texeira asked.

"I'll explain it later, with Cellie's permission," Elliot said. "Do you think this is a case involving emotions, Cellie? If so, perhaps they're emotions better left unexplored."

"You may be right. Harold had some pretty base emotions. Still, something's bugging me. . . something that's bugged me since he left my room, and even before. Aunt Jule, could you arrange for me to see him somehow?"

"Well, he's in Intensive care right now, but since he seems to be in stable, not to say static, condition, they're considering a move to a regular room. I'll lend my support to the plan. But you have to be checked over by Virginia, before we automatically drop you in a wheelchair and take you to him. I don't want you performing any complex functions that might interfere with your recuperation."

"Like I said, it might be pretty easy with him. But there's someone else I have to see. Hon," she said to Willie, "Could you call Pavlos? I want to see him as soon as possible."

"Whatever you want. I'll start dialing for you right now," he said, picking up the receiver.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Pavlos sat by Cellie's bed, and reached for her hand. She let him take it. "Little Flame, my deepest sympathy over your father-in-law's condition. I did not like the man, but he is not one upon whom I would wish such a distressing malady."

"Are you sure about that, Pavlos?"

"Of course. What kind of question is that?"

"I don't know. You tell me, Pavlos. Tell me what you are. I know what my father-in-law was. I know know how he is, now. I know what I am, and what I could have done to him, if I was up to it, and he pissed me off enough."

"And what are you, Cellie?"

"What you are."

"What do you believe us both to be?"

"Empaths. With the ability to identify, analyze, absorb, filter, and project the emotions of others. Occasionally, to help them. Sometimes, to even hurt them, as though one was throwing a rock at their innermost selves."

"Cellie---" Pavlos broke off, and stood up. He paced the small room. "You are right about the one thing. I am found out. I, too, have this gift. I have known of it, and practiced at it, since I was eleven years old."

Cellie's eyebrows shot up. "Eleven! I was thirteen!"

"In my family, the males mature early. The anomaly comes with this--this sexual maturing. Perhaps it is meant to help one find true union with a mate, I have no idea. But I only know, in my case, it has not brought me that happiness. Not yet, at any rate. As long as I live and am healthy, I will never give up that hope. But you and Willie, my little Flame--"

"I'm not talking about Will, or soul-mates. I'm talking about Harold. Someone as experienced as yourself must be able to place a suggestion, an emotional time-bomb, to go off when the target is most vulnerable. As vulnerable as a fifty-six-year-old man after a satisfactory visit from a prostitute. Maybe you even know the prostitute? A prostitute who may well have been a witch, at that?"

"No! Cellie, No! That is where you are in the wrong. I may have misused and misinterpreted readings and projections in the past. Who does not make honest mistakes? But this I swear, upon my belief in the Holy Mother and Her Son, that I have never, and will never, use this great gift for evil purposes. Far from it. I have had intimations that I am to use the empathy in the service of God. Further, I have been charged to watch over you and instruct you, and the littler Flame. I regret to say, I have not always been vigilant. The night of your attack--- if not for Anissa, I would not even have been in the neighborhood, and been around to help you, and Willie, as inadequately as I did."

"Pavlos, Pavlos. . ." Cellie's voice broke. "It wasn't your fault. Jack was a hard read, if ever there was one, among ordinary humans, at least. I tried to help him, and failed. You and I may even have been made to fail, that night. I have had to think a great deal about destiny, and the purposes of pain and suffering, in the past ten days. I am trying to accept my afflictions and trials as part of a greater plan, difficult as it may be."

"The trial could have been softened for you. But that chance has passed, and we must deal with the present and future. As for the present, Cellie. Yes, I did confront Harold Loomis. I found him to be riddled with corruptions, and unwhole-some lusts. How he dealt with them on his own time, that was his own choice. But I sensed a disruptive influence around him. I admit, I did give him a little incentive, to leave the hospital. A bit of a headache, a twinge in the prostate. . ."

"Oh, Pavlos, that's gross!"

"I did him no lasting harm. And even though I have planted suggestions in susceptible individuals, I did nothing further to him. What happened to him, after, is as much a mystery to me, as it is to you. I pity you, my dear. This is another instance of you, and now your child, standing between your Willie, and the demons of his past, his earliest past. He hates, and yet, wishes he could love his father.

He sees his image reflected, and dreads a return to the attitudes that make a Harold Loomis possible."

"My shoulders are almost overloaded as it is, Pavlos. I have to get better, somehow, learn to care for a new baby, fight evil, and soothe my husband's psyche. All that, and college someday."

"I can see your real shoulders. They are stronger than you think they are. Your gift is stronger, also. How did it finally come to you that we have this anomaly in common?"

"I have alway searched for someone who is like me. I found friends, and I even found a lover, who would accept me, and for that I'm grateful, especially for Will. But even the most knowledgeable of them could teach me little more than simple methods to throttle the empathy. I had my 'feelers' out for a kindred spirit. I have several kindred spirits to call upon for other purposes, my husband, and Barnabas, and David, but I searched for a kindred empath. I might have sensed it was you, earlier, but I was distracted, and we haven't spent much time together.

"Then, the other day, after Harold came and went, I was resting alone in my room, and I had a very strong sense of the kind of force I use when I'm projecting, or, rather, ricocheting, a negative emotion back at someone. I couldn't check out the situation, and Will was so upset when he returned to me, I didn't have the heart to ask him to investigate for me. I thought you were coming to see me that night,

and you didn't show, but Aunt Jule said you were here, and had talked to Harold. I just put two and two together."

"I am sorry I didn't tell you much earlier," Pavlos said, shamefacedly. "But again, if one accepts that there is a plan, this delay must be part of it."

Cellie replied, "Oh, this isn't the first time I've had to wait, and suffer, before I found out what I needed to know, and it won't be the last, I fear. Can I just ask you one thing?"

"Name it."

"Why hasn't your ability brought you personal happiness?"

Pavlos sighed. "I don't know, Little Flame. I sometimes feel I answered the wrong call---not to watch out for you, but which path to follow. When I was very young, before my gift emerged, I felt a great calling to the religious life. Orthodox priests can marry, but I was thinking of the monastery. I had an uncle who went to live on Mount Athos, one of the strictest and most isolated monasteries. I don't

know if it was God who called, or simply the fact that I missed my uncle, but until I was eleven, I tried to be worthy of eventually joining the monks. Then, one day, I woke up, and suddenly, I had this disturbing new ability, and even more disturbing new feelings about girls." He smiled.

"I pursued them, lustily, but, I assure you, without malice," he continued. "I felt I had what they call here an 'inside track' to their hearts, and thus, their bodies. My father thought my behavior extreme, even for a Pavlos, so he encouraged me to marry early. He found several pretty, well-dowered virgins, and gave me a choice. I did fall in love with the one I eventually married, but she also happened to be the hardest to 'read.' We came to this country and had four children together. I did confide in her, but she found my readings intrusive.

I had marginally better relations with our children. We all loved each other, but there was a fatal pressure. There was great relief, and great peace that came to exist between all of us, after we parted."

"And there was more of the same, with the other two wives and kids?" Cellie asked gently.

"I'm afraid so. And then, I became entranced with the life of providing good times and entertainment for strangers, and I got lost for a while. I was not a faithful husband, I confess. I figured, the gift is not enhancing my life, so I left it behind, and lived a surface life for a time. I did come to my senses, though, only too late to salvage the last marriage. As I told you, I am allowed three divorces in my church. If I ever find a woman I truly want to marry--"

"Like my Mom," Cellie said. Pavlos generated a deep red shade, both inside and out, when she said that.

"I will have to go outside my church. I certainly don't wish any of my previous wives to pass away prematurely. And yet, I am torn about my commitment to that faith. Until I started spending time with your mother, I was still involved with sins of the flesh, but I always felt there was a refuge to turn to, when I made up my mind to give them up. And yet, if I do the right thing, and marry, I will lose that refuge."

"Maybe there's another refuge, Pavlos. Maybe I can help you find it." Cellie reached over the bar, and Pavlos grasped her casted hand gently. "Pavlos, were any of your children like you?" She asked.

"One, I believe, but he wouldn't let me know for sure. My Theodore, the son of my second marriage. He blocked me when I would have found him out, and I was so messed up, myself, I didn't wish to interfere. I am pleased to tell you, though, that after a short, troubled period, he's interested himself in the Orthodox priesthood.

I pray he may make the best use of whatever empathy he posesses in that service. I almost did not do right by him, but I wish to make it up to you, and your little one."

"Then, you'll have to help me with Harold. My aunt says he's in a trance. As I told you, we believe a witch brought it on. I don't think I can do the job myself. But I don't want him to die, even if he is a creep."

"I will render any assistance you require."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Fran Maracek, dressed in a white hospital smock, held her new niece under the noses of her own son and daughter. Lew wasn't terribly impressed, but Adele was enchanted. She stroked the reddish fluff on her new cousin's head, and got lost in a daydream. She was here, in this hospital, showing off her firstborn son, Stephan David Collins, born after a heroic labor during which her devoted husband, David, stayed at her side and held her hand. Instead of cigars, he'd be handing out chocolates in blue wrappers, and then he would whisk her and little Stevie away, to the huge new nursery at Collinwood, filled with all the latest equipment.

"Addie, snap out of it," Fran said, gently. She was worried about her daughter's tendency to suspend all but her breathing while her fantasies took over. Adele's teachers had tried to encourage the child to participate in a variety of activities, but she'd allow herself to get left behind. She was bright enough, they said, but she lost touch with reality once in a while.

"Maybe she'd like to hold the baby," Cellie said. "Adele, just run down to the nurse's station, and Nurse Texeira will set you up."

Adele did as she was bidden, and sat beside her young aunt, as Fran handed her the bundle. Sarah Teresa was in a fretful mood, after being handled by strangers all day, and she began to cry. Adele tried to comfort her, but was repelled by a sudden unpleasant smell. "I--I can't hold her anymore. She did something in her diaper," Adele complained.

"That's a baby for you," Fran laughed, as Adele handed Sarah to her uncle. Willie turned from the company, and bent over the bassinet. When he finished, he placed the baby on his wife's lap pillow. Fran said, "I never thought I'd live to see the day you'd be changing diapers again, and with a smile on your face, yet."

"Hey, somebody has to teach this hospital the right way to put the stupid things on the kids," Willie replied. "I showed you back then, didn't I?"

"I wish you could have showed us how to make a million bucks, but, hey, that's how it goes. Strange how things do work out. Something terrible happens, and your baby comes early, but that ends up okay. Then, just when we're breathing a sigh of relief and gratitude, and we're just about to enjoy the baby, our Dad shows up and immediately conks out on us. I wish he was somewhere else. I hate to spoil this visit, knowing we have to go upstairs to see him."

"I don't like it either, Fran. But he is our father. I do resent the extra hospital bill." Harold's "illness' had eaten up the rest of the donated money, and most of Willie's and Cellie's savings. "He got the dough he came for, after all," Willie thought, angrily. "But at least he's not having a good time on it." He didn't know how he and his wife would handle it if Harold had to stay much longer, even if Fran

and Steve kicked in some money. This wasn't the Collins' responsibility, or Collinsport's.

"We have to get him on the dole, somehow, and sent to a nursing home," Fran said. "You and Cellie certainly can't look after him, and, even if I could, I wouldn't, and as for Steve--- Forget Paul, too."

"I don't know if they'd take him in a regular nursing home. He has something wierd wrong with him. I guess he's going to be stuck here a while, yet." Willie looked at his wife. He didn't want her to do what she felt she must, to try to snap his Dad out of his state, but she would have Pavlos at her side.

Willie always felt reassured when he thought about Pavlos, these days, ever since he'd made the horrible grief-pain go away the night Cellie was attacked. Pavlos was the kind of father he would have liked to have, even though he protested he wasn't such a great father to his own kids. "At least you didn't smack them and their moms around," Willie had said. Pavlos had replied, rather cryptically, that there were other abuses one could perpetrate that didn't involve bruises, but Willie could tell the older man appreciated his admiration.

Cellie was talking quietly to Adele. She said, sympathetically, "I know what you just went through. I'm not used to babies, myself.

I never even baby-sat, because as soon as I could get a job, I started working in stores. Your Uncle can't wait to get me home so he can show off how much better he can take care of the baby than me."

"I just thought they were too small to get that scuzzy. You hold them and love them, and feed them, and you change 'em. It shouldn't be that difficult or annoying."

"Babies are people too. That's a good thing, and a bad thing, because they can be just as obnoxious as grown-ups, in their own way. And we were all like that, once, some noisier and dirtier than others."

"Well, someday, when I have mine, I'll have lots of help. Maybe I won't have to change too many diapers myself."

"How do you figure that?"

"When I marry David some day, he'll hire a whole bunch of nannies."

"David's own Mom and Aunt took care of him when he was little.

He didn't even have a governess till he was nine. Oh, Adele. . ." Cellie's eyes prickled with sentimental tears. "Maybe you shouldn't count too much on David. He's a lot older than you, and--"

"Uncle Willie is way older than you, and you got married."

"Okay, you got me there. But David has a girlfriend. You saw her. Annette."

"I'm nicer, and smarter, and when I get some money to fix myself up, I'll look prettier."

"Don't go getting a swelled head, or anything, Adele," Cellie admonished. "As for being smarter, I heard you have a bit of trouble in school, because you keep running these big plans in your mind when you should be paying attention in class."

"I'm sorry." When Adele looked sad, she reminded Cellie so much of Willie it hurt. Cellie thought of a simple solution.

"Look, Adele, when you have these daydreams, save them for when you have some free time, then write them down. Don't do it in math class!" Cellie laughed, then turned serious again. "I used to write poems when I was sad and lonely, and I used to write little stories for myself."

"Nobody has to read them, do they?"

"Not unless you want them to. If they're too embarrassing, you just rip 'em up. But save a few. Maybe you'll want to share them."

"I write to David."

"Write a story about you and David. You can change the names, if you want. Maybe you'll come to understand how you really feel about him. Then you can make plans."

"I'll try it. Maybe I'll be a real brain like you, someday."

"Just try to use it better."

Adele turned to Fran. "Mommy, when are we going to see our other Grandpa?"

Fran bristled. "Oh, you can't see him. He's too sick. David and Cellie's Mom are coming to take you and Lew to Collinwood."

"Aw, I kinda wanted to see him," Adele complained. "I never saw him before, and neither did Lew."

"I don't think you'll be able to. Don't fuss over it, now."

Cellie became aware of a powerful wave of hatred coming from Fran, even worse than Willie's, for their father. Fran was full of that queasy shade of pink, that Cellie had mistaken for parental affection in Harold, and a twist of orange-brown. When David and Janice came by to collect the two children, and Willie had gone out to see if Pavlos had come, Cellie said, "Fran, you look a bit sick. Why are you going to see Harold, when you hate his guts?"

"What do you mean by that? I don't love my father, I don't even like him, but hate his guts? That's pretty strong, coming from someone who doesn't know me very well."

"You're a lot like Will, in a way, but I noticed your reaction, without even having seen Harold yet, is as strong as Will's when he actually confronted him. That was nasty, but Will's over it pretty much. You're still shaking. I know Harold was hard on the lot of you. But what if there was some chance he might get along with your kids?"

"That'll never happen. I don't want him near them, either."

"I don't think I'd leave him alone with my Sarah, but--"

"Don't let him near her at all! Steve, and me, we wouldn't let Adele--"

"Why, Fran? What happened?"

"Look, Cellie, there's just some things. . . You really don't know, do you?"

"I'll probably guess soon enough, but not in time to help you feel better."

"Not a whole lot could, except my Steve. Cellie, when my father was still at home with us, and nobody was around but me and him, he used to pull me into the bedroom and sort of, you know--" Fran almost turned purple "--put his hands where they didn't belong. And stuff. Don't make me tell you more."

"Oh, my God. Did Will know?"

"I'm not sure. It was wierd, between him and our Dad. Willie always wanted to get even with him over what he did to our mother, but Dad was too much for him. Still, if he ever got wind about what Dad was doing with me. . . I guess I would have known if Willie found out."

"And how are you, now? I mean, the rest of the time, when you know you don't have to see Harold?"

"I'm okay. Really. The sun still comes up in the morning, chores get done, I have a good time with the kids, and Steve's just the best. You get up, and do what you have to do. It was a bad time, way back then, for everybody. I was lucky Mama dropped me off with the Maraceks. That why she did, 'cause I told her. She cried a lot, but she said the Maraceks would look after me good. And they did. And Steve was nice to me. He was so mad when I finally had to tell him, after Adele was born.

I was a little scared of him with our own baby, at first! Plus, my Dad started calling us, after a few years. So now, when he does, I have Steve tell him off."

"Don't see Harold, then, Fran."

"I have to, to make sure he's good and still."

"He may get better."

"Then I want the satisfaction of telling him to go to hell when he starts asking for money, or what else he always wants. He can't get around me, the way he tried to get around Willie."

Willie came into the room, followed by Julia and Pavlos. "Well, Cecily, this is your last chance to back out."

"Back out of what?" Fran asked.

"Back out of seeing our Dad."

"Why drag her up there in a wheelchair?"

"It's very important, Fran. I can't explain right now. Maybe you'd like to get up there, right now, before--before he wakes up."

"I just need to know what's going on."

"Let her," Pavlos said. "It is important to her, as it is to you."

As it turned out, Cellie wasn't taken to see Harold in a wheelchair. Consenting, wearily, to yet another infringement on her medical authority as it applied to Cellie's case, Dr. Hurley insisted the girl be transported on a gurney, as though she was returning to surgery. This led to concerned whispers among the nurses and new mothers, as they saw her pass through the corridors with her entourage. "That poor girl, they must have found some other injury they didn't

catch in the first operation," was the general consensus.

Cellie found the ride exhiliarating, after being cooped up in her room for ten days. She was relieved when she saw that they were taking her to a regular room, with a door that could be shut. After her experience with Margene's baby in Intensive Care, she didn't want to practice her skill in such a public arena again.

Harold lay, seemingly awake, his eyes wide open and staring, shielded under taped-on plastic goggles. "He only blinks once in a great while," Julia explained. "That's how they keep his eyes from drying up." There was a humid mist under the lenses.

"They may have to be removed, at least until we get going," Cellie said. She studied her father-in-law. He wore that disturbing smile, but his face had relaxed. Harold resembled his son more strongly now that he wasn't animated by that sleazy swagger. This made it easier for Cellie to concentrate.

"He's waiting for something," she announced finally.

"What for? He got what he wanted," Willie said.

"A different kind of release," she replied. "Aunt Jule, they took toxicological tests, didn't they?"

"Whatever they have available here. They came up negative. Do you get the sense that this was caused by some obscure poison we have no test for?"

"Not poison. A potion. An Aphrodisiac, maybe."

"But he'd just had---" Julia began.

"What if he wanted something more? What if this so-called 'witch' offered him something to tide him over until she had a chance to visit him again? Especially if it was free," she commented, wryly, looking at her husband. Willie nodded at the observation.

"He did mention he was familiar with some voodoo practices," Pavlos said. "He would, doubtless, have found sexual stimulants a welcome fringe benefit of these rituals."

"That's disgusting," Fran said, looking at her father with a withering expression. "But then, he always was---is---disgusting."

"We have no tests for aphrodisiacs," Julia said.

"Maybe they could re-check the results of the earlier tests. Herbal remedies sometimes have pretty strong chemical traces," Cellie observed. "What's a good aphrodisiac? Ginseng? Mandrake? I've heard of a couple, but I'm not sure what would bring on paralysis in an overdose." She reached her free arm over the railings of her gurney, and Harold's bed. It was Willie who placed his father's hand in hers.

"We'll look all that up. What else is going on?" Julia asked.

Pavlos put his hand on Cellie's shoulder. He said, "Remove the goggles now."

Julia gently untaped the goggles. Cellie and Pavlos looked into Harold's eyes. Cellie drew a sharp breath. She hadn't noticed before, but Harold's eyes were the same intense blue shade as Willie's. "Cellie, I know what you are thinking," Pavlos said. "Your Willie is over there," he pointed. "If this distresses you too much, or you feel yourself getting lost, break your gaze and look toward him."

"I'm okay right now." Cellie forced herself to look into the eyes she loved so much on her husband, and loathed so much on her vile father-in-law. She was seeing through them, to a tiny pinpoint of light, rather like looking through a telescope, backwards. She forced herself to focus on the small figures she glimpsed moving around. "Fleas?" She thought, but the image enlarged and sharpened. There were bright green eyes, half-closed, looking up at her. Something soft brushed her face. A bright orange nimbus surrounded her. In spite of all her aches, pains, and bandages, Cellie began to feel aroused. Her heart pounded. She felt an uncomfortable pressure under her incision. She muttered, "Promise. . .promised I can feel this way anytime. . .she promised. . . Miss. . . miss. . .aah!" Cellie gagged and coughed.

Lost, lost. . . Pavlos jerked her head toward Willie, and took over. He sighed deeply. His face turned a dark shade of red. He sweated and panted. "Stuff's takin' too long to work. . .Wish she

just stayed another damn half-hour. . . Never forget. . . I'll never forget. . ." He moaned. "Best things in life really are free. . . Can't breathe. . .What's the hell's going on? Who put out the lights?" Pavlos's eyes teared up, and he gasped. "Can't die now. . . I'm

scared. . . No I'm not. . . It's got to work. . ."

Julia looked toward the bed, as Pavlos relived Harold's last conscious moments. Harold's exposed eyes began to tear at the time Pavlos's did. He breathed hard at the same time, and moved his hand in Cellie's, but fell still again.

Celie felt Pavlos's pulse pound, where he grasped her shoulder. He clutched her so tightly she almost cried with pain. His face became a maroon shade, then he sighed very loudly. Cellie became aware of the relaxation of tension in both Pavlos and Harold.

Pavlos whispered hoarsely, "She gave him something that should have paralyzed his breathing just briefly, in order to give him an intense rush. Perhaps Lobelia, or the narcotic Thornapple. . . You must re-test for these things. But he will not pass away now. His fear is behind him. He may even awaken on his own, soon, though I'm not sure how this will affect his memory. I couldn't identify the woman."

"Me neither," Cellie said, regretfully. "Her eyes were green, though." Green eyes. . .where had she seen green eyes like that before? They weren't Angelique's, which only occasionally assumed a greenish tint in certain lights. Seduction was hardly her modus operandi these days, anyway, if she was serious about her redemption. But the eyes WERE similar, in shape, clarity, expression. Maybe ALL witches' eyes were like that, she reflected.

Harold stirred, and moaned. He blinked his eyes several times in rapid succession. Then, still resting against the pillows, he turned his head around, looking at everyone in the room. "What--what the hell is going on here?" He coughed and sputtered. "What's this stuck in my nose?" He touched the nose feeding tube, the I.V.'s. "I'm hooked up to some kind of blood machine?" When he focused on Cellie, lying on her gurney next to him, he got extremely angry. "What, I'm giving a transfusion to that bitch? Or is she giving me one? Get her out of here. And that Greek, too. It's a plot."

"Nice to see you're back to your old, pleasant self, Dad," Fran said, bitterly. "I don't know what Cellie and Pavlos did, but I guess they saved your miserable life."

"They did no such thing! They screwed me up, and they made a big show of bringing me out of it, so you wouldn't know what they're all about. You got a hell of a nerve talking to me like that anyway, Frannie. You, at least, should respect your old man who's flat on his back in the hospital. By the way, when I'm better, I'd like to see my cute little grand-daughter, Adele. Or does that Slow-Vac cow-jockey of yours have her locked up at home? I'll bet you didn't know she's been writing to me." Harold smiled his old, leering smile.

"She's been what!" Fran almost knocked Cellie's gurney over, in her frenzied rush to grab her father's throat. Willie reached for her, and dragged her away.

Pavlos came close to Harold's bed. "You still believe I did this to you? You have no memory of your date?"

"Date? I don't remember a date. I don't have enough dough to get a date. My son wouldn't give me any. Waste of money, anyway. I just know you zapped me in the head, and my family jewels, and that's the last of it. You probably gave me a damn blood clot in my brain."

"Well, Harold, if you think I 'zapped' you before, I can only promise more of the same if you ever communicate with any of your grandchildren, especially the girls. And I wouldn't harass Fran again, if I were you."

Harold's pupils dilated, and he cringed away from Pavlos. Cellie hated to admit to herself that she found the sight of her father-in-law's fear, almost a parody of her husband's, so gratifying. She glanced across at her aunt. Julia didn't approve, but as a psychiatrist, she had often heard of such cases, and sometimes wished there could be some kind of effective, lasting payback.

Still, she had to protect her patient to some extent. "That's enough, Pavlos. He'll be out of here, as soon as we do some of the tests over, and administer any antidotes to the poison."

"I wasn't poisoned! I was hexed!" Harold protested.

"This is MY case, and I will handle it as I see fit, Mr. Loomis." Julia walked to the door, and signalled to Willie, who was comforting his sister. He released her, and came back into the room, followed by an orderly who had helped push the gurney into the room.

As Willie, Pavlos, and the orderly eased Cellie from the room, she looked back, hopefully for the last time, at her father-in-law. She was sorely tempted to hit him up in that sickly-pink-and-orange-brown, incestuously lustful place she found inside him. She visualized it, and began to wring it out in her mind, like a wet mop.

Harold writhed, and groaned, "You win, you win. Let me alone! I'm on the next boat out of here!"

Julia whispered, "Cellie. . ." Her niece sighed, and lay quietly, with an innocent look on her face. Harold relaxed.

Cellie felt her husband's hand on her head, stroking her hair. When they were out of the room, Cellie motioned for her weeping sister-in-law to come closer.

"Fran, you're Catholic now. You ever hear of Saint Dymphna?"

"I know that's the name of the school you lived at before you got married. That's all I know about her. I'm not really up on any but the usual saints. Why?"

"Bend closer, and I'll tell you," Cellie said. She whispered the sad little story into her sister-in-law's ear.

"This Saint---she had a father like mine?"

"Well, I don't think that's the exact reason he wanted be with her, but the result would have been the same. Maybe, you wouldn't feel so alone if you thought about her . . .Unless you know someone else who went through that."

"Nobody that'll admit it, anyway. That's just the way it goes. I'll think about her, maybe even pray. . . Imagine, a saint who had a problem I can understand."

* * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER FIVE

Walter came into his daughter's room, carrying a box of Cellie's favorite candy, and two old books. He kissed her face, now nearly clear shell-white again.

"Sorry I haven't been around for a couple of days, Princess. I had to dash back to Boston to wind down a very big, very profitable, but decidedly amicable divorce. I've just been to the nursery. I heard our Sarah is about ready to be released."

"I know. I wish I could leave with her. But she'll get plenty of attention at Collinwood, between Mom, Mrs. Stoddard, Carolyn, Mrs. Johnson, and David. And Will's going to stay there, nights, so she won't totally forget both her parents." Cellie's eyes teared up. She already felt bereft, even though Sarah would still be with her two more days.

"Where is my son-in-law today?"

"He finally went back to work. He's been going in the last couple of days, cleaning up, and he and Carolyn are giving me a six-month wedding-anniversary present. Brand-new kitchen Linoleum."

"Sounds romantic."

"Well, they couldn't clean the old linoleum---the blood and dirt were too ingrained, and it would have given me nightmares to see it anyway. So they brought me a book of patterns in the best-quality flooring, and I picked a pretty Spanish-tile pattern. When that's installed, and Will straightens out the showroom, Barnabas will be holding a grand re-opening, to bring back the customers. On top of this, he's been putting the finishing touches on our nursery."

"A regular dynamo, I'm sure. He certainly recuperated from his father's visit. I heard the man caused no end of trouble, and almost died on everyone. I'm glad I missed that."

"Daddy, that reminds me of something I have to talk to you about. You tried to bribe Will to leave me. How could you do that?"

Walter turned red. Cellie was surprised to discover actual shame in him. "I'm sorry about that, Princess. I was still angry, and I was upset that I couldn't see you, and I guess I thought he was responsible. But that's no excuse."

"Will confessed he was tempted. You know, Dad, it's so easy to say he shouldn't have considered it. But he used to be a certain way, and he's been poor most of his life. I can't say I would have been surprised if he took you up on it, at least for a short time. Why did you want to hurt me like that?"

"I thought I was helping. I guess I was wrong. He stood up to the offer, and then I really got mad. But it turned out okay, in the end. He's still here, laying down the linoleum, and I got to meet a lovely lady."

"You really like Maggie, don't you?" Of course he did. Cellie hadn't sensed such strong red lights in someone other than her husband, since her aunt had gotten together with Barnabas.

"It's amazing, Princess. I don't think I've felt quite like this about anyone, since I was courting your mother. I realize that didn't turn out well, in the end, but we had many good years together. Since I'm older, now, I think I'm quite ready to settle down, again. Perhaps for good, this time." He smiled, in an almost innocent-looking way.

"What about Maddy?"

"She wasn't too thrilled, but she's been dating around herself. She gave her notice, and by the time I return home, again, she'll likely have landed a new job."

"Mom's getting a new job."

"Oh, really? She brought herself to part with Justin? That Pavlos must be something else."

"Cut it out, Dad. Mom would never make such fun of you and Maggie. She's been apologizing for whatever she said to Maggie at the Koffeehaus, for a week already."

"Alright, I'll behave. Where is she going to work now?"

"At the cannery."

"What, did Janice take over the position left vacant by the late Mrs. Knowlton?" Walter tried not to smile.

"Good Heavens, no. She's Roger Collins's new administrative assistant."

"Janice doesn't have a business degree. Sounds like a glorified secretarial postion to me. And I've met that Roger Collins. He's rather an overbred version of Justin, as far as I'm concerned."

"Well, Mom's pretty tied up with Pavlos, and anyway, Mrs. Stoddard

approved the hiring. Mrs. Stoddard has a wonderful reputation in the business world."

"She's the one who locked herself up for almost twenty years, isn't she?" Walter asked eagerly. "And yet, even then, one heard, from as far away as the New York Stock Exchange, that she was cutting some of the most amazing deals. She even saved her companies from a hostile takeover, working out of her living-room, they say, and then she turned around and formed a limited partnership with the fellow who tried to buy her out. Maybe you've heard of Burke Devlin? The late great, that is. Terrible thing about him, dying in that plane crash when he was flying high everywhere else."

"David, especially, reminisces about him constantly. Apparently, Devlin was like a surrogate father to him."

"He certainly benefitted us, indirectly. If you recall, a few years ago, when we moved into the big house in Brookline, well, that came about as a result of my judiciously playing the stock market, during the wrangle over the companies. God bless insider trading."

"Well, if Mrs. Stoddard was right about that decision, she must be right about this one. Mom is sure she'll love the job. She's even getting her own little office, with a view of the harbor."

"As long as that Roger confines his view to his ledgers. I worry more about a guy like that, than someone like Pavlos. Maggie likes Pavlos, and so do you. He must be alright."

"Dad, I think you're loosening up. Love has done wonders in your case."

"Just opening my mind to new possibilities. I'm even going to make peace with my brother-in-law. He and Julia invited me to live at their house when I'm in town. I'm not sure I want to do that, or live in their guest cottage, either, but I will be going to dinner there, and maybe stay over a night, this weekend."

"That's fantastic. Wow. Things are getting better every day. I'll have to call Will, and have him bring over our special bottle of Champagne."

"How did you come by that?"

"David brought it over, one night. It's Collins private stock. Since it was bottled the year David was born, he decreed it should be used when the baby was born."

"Save it for the grand christening, whenever that's going to be. Have you chosen a date, or is it too soon for the doctors to predict when you'll be sprung from this place?"

"As it happens, the doctors think I'll be able to leave by the second Saturday in September. A week and a half from now. David's birthday falls on the last Sunday. I've kind of been sticking to birthdays for these milestones, and since he's the God-father, I've already told his aunt we should start sending out invitations.

She thought it was a splendid idea, and so did Maggie, when I clued her in. I already know David's getting the baby a fabulous christening present, so I'll need help choosing an equally fabulous birthday gift. And, of course, a present for Maggie. I know you'll be a big help in that department."

Cellie didn't mention the wrangle she'd had on the phone with Father Rondini. He almost persuaded her to have a formal christening at St. Ann's R.C., but, in the end, admitted the final decision was up to her. In return, Cellie promised to expose Sarah Teresa to the tenets of both Catholicism and Episcopalism. "Well, at least there's no Unitarian church near here, to make things even more muddled," she thought.

While they were talking about David, Walter brought forth the old books he'd carried in. "That reminds me," he said, "I ran into your friend Carolyn. She said David insisted you have these books. Apparently, he wasn't going to be available to see you himself, today. I don't know why the books couldn't have waited, until you were home with all the other antiques. They look a bit unsanitary to me. And I noticed, they're not exactly by Doctor Spock."

"Well, don't look at them as if they were written by 'Mister Spock'!" Cellie laughed. "See, I've been involved in a kind of research project for Barnabas and Aunt Jule. Now that it looks as though I'm going to be staying on the planet, after all, none of us see any reason not to pick up where we left off."

Walter said, "I looked at the books, when David gave them to me. One of them was published in 1742. It's all about the 'Darker Natives of New England', Indians, I guess. And the other is a book about early Ipswich. You know, your Mom's ancestors came from Ipswich. Did she ever tell you her mother was descended from the Siskes of Old Ipswich?"

"Yeah, and I tried to trace the line, but there were so many Sisks in the nineteenth century, I lost track."

"Well, maybe they're mentioned in this book. No matter how many Sisks there were in the nineteenth century, they could only have been descended from a few in the seventeenth century. People had huge families, and even with child mortality so high, the survivors managed to create something of a population explosion further on down the line. Certain families, like the Sisks, showed a tendency to proliferate and prosper, as did the Frasers in Scotland."

"And then, for whatever reason, some dwindled after peaking, like the Collinses."

"This branch of the family may prove resurgent, once the young ones get married."

"Now you sound like Barnabas."

"That's something new." Walter wasn't sure he wanted to be identified with his brother-in-law in any way, once he'd read the information Simons had gathered. "Well, when I go to that 'Old House,' I'll find out how much more we could possibly have in common." Not much, he hoped.

* * * * * * * * * * *

As the time for the dinner approached, Walter became more uneasy. He would have his copy of his son-in-law's dossier open at the same time he reviewed his brother-in-law's, so he could trace the discrepancies. He was thoroughly familiar with the short section of Willie's record that dealt with Maggie's kidnapping, and its aftermath, including a brief period, following his release from WindCliff, when he apparently became obsessed with her again, and tried to whisk her away.

Barnabas's record, while harder to trace, fitted into the sections where Willie's was blank. Simons had somehow come across a private letter written by one George Patterson, sheriff of Collinsport until 1970, when he was succeeded by a fellow named Davenport, who died soon after, and then, by Fred Beardsley, both of whom had been his deputies. The letter was in the form of a reminiscence, and was never sent. "It was tucked in a file he left after he vacated the office," Simons had written. "Some day I'll have a drink with you, and tell you just how my agent managed to get it from the current sheriff."

In this letter, Patterson had detailed the four years of his tenure, a most trying time when his quiet office had been wracked by disturbances emanating from the eccentric "ruling family, high on their hill," as he put it. Walter learned some interesting facts about old Collins family scandals that had impacted the public consciousness, including an infamous drunk driving incident that had involved

Roger Collins, the late Burke Devlin, and Maggie's late father, Sam. At least, this Patterson had some kind words for Sam, " a gentle, but, unfortunately, morally confused man who lubricated his self-doubts with liquor. Still, he always claimed anything he did was for his dying wife and his daughter. I believed him, but never got him to admit what we both knew, that he was paid to with-hold information by Roger Collins."

There was more fascinating information, about a fire supposedly set by David's late mother, and a distressing series of incidents that took place when both Willie and Barnabas took up residence at Collinwood. Actually, Willie had arrived first, with a certain Jason McGuire, who also turned out to be a troublemaker of another sort, an extortionist and master manipulator. His personal mission was to gain control of the Collins fortune, by convincing Elizabeth Stoddard that she had killed her husband during an argument, years earlier. Fortunately, it turned out to be a fabrication. Just before he would have married Elizabeth, McGuire had been exposed, and exiled from town. Elizabeth's husband turned up alive, a few years later, only to have a breakdown and then get murdered for real shortly afterward, but at least not in a manner that implicated his ex-wife!

What troubles Patterson had experienced with Willie, at first, were simple, if obnoxious---a barroom brawl, the incident with the Knowlton boy, suspicions about local break-ins. In short, little, or nothing to indicate what was to follow. Then, Willie was missing for a few days. When he re-appeared, he was noted to be very sick, and, more to the point, had, seemingly, the layers of a dozen years of violent behavior peeled from him.

Curiouser and curiouser, Walter thought. Why should someone who had suddenly re-discovered docility (and a pleading, mournful docility, at that) suddenly go off his head, attacking women, and, if the sheriff's account was to be believed, mutilate helpless animals? The sheriff didn't understand either, apparently. In this period, Barnabas had showed up, and hired Willie, to everyone's consternation. Things went along, relatively peacefully, except for the intermittent attacks on women and livestock. Interesting juxtaposition, Walter thought, de-humanizing the women and de-valuing the animals, by the same method: somehow siphoning their blood.

Patterson had left a detailed review of the facts of Maggie's case, including the observation that she'd suffered that same kind of anemia, on and off, before she was even taken. At this point, Simons had written, "Tried to find any trace of medical records of late attending physician David Woodard, on both Miss Evans and Loomis, who was known to suffer the same condition. Records were stolen during a break-in at Woodard's office which was never solved."

Patterson mentioned a young girl, who wandered around town, and seemed to know all about Maggie's disappearance. The girl called herself "Sarah." Walter wondered if this had anything to do with the choice of his grand-daughter's name. Not that it wasn't an uncommon name, with all this back-to-the-land nonsense going on, but it was an interesting coincidence. Why would a kidnapper consent to name his own daughter after someone who apparently spilled the information that got him captured and almost killed?

At any rate, Maggie was found by her father on the Collins property, several weeks later, barely alive, and treated by Walter's sister at that WindCliff hospital. Except for a few vague details, she was never able to provide even rudimentary information about where she'd been kept, or by whom. (Walter wondered what had happened to the records Julia must have kept.) Loomis was barely suspected, but,

the sheriff confided, his earliest suspicions centered around Barnabas.

After all, Patterson reasoned, where would Willie have kept Maggie, and how could he have fed her, all that time? One thing was well-known about Willie; he spent practically twenty-four hours a day, repairing the Old House, making trips for his employer, to buy supplies to keep repairing the Old House, as well as a few other odd errands.

Once, there had been a report that Willie had been fencing valuable old jewelry at a jewelry broker's. Patterson had sent Beardsley to check it out, and found that everything was on the

up-and-up. Willie had a written statement from Barnabas, that he was authorized to sell the items for his employer. Patterson and Beardsley both agreed Willie wasn't the first person they would consider for such an errand, but there was the statement, unmistakeably in Barnabas's hand. Just to make sure, Patterson tried to contact Barnabas, but, as was often noted, he was virtually never available during the day. He had a tendency to show up at Collinwood, or in town, after the sun went down. It was never clearly established just where he went during the day.

That little detail set off a small alarm in the sheriff's head. Perhaps Willie was involved, but in a secondary capacity. Both he and Barnabas were known to be quite stand-offish when an uninvited guest came around, especially during the day, and especially one as full of questions as the sheriff. Then, Willie was ambushed by the police while, apparently, trying to force an entry into Maggie's room, after she had recovered and returned home.

Even then, the sheriff had his doubts about the man's guilt, until Barnabas allowed him to search Willie's room, and they found a ring that Maggie had been wearing when she disappeared. Actually, Barnabas found it, and called the sheriff's attention to it. This tiny shred of circumstantial evidence was enough to settle the question in everyone's mind, including the sheriff's; especially since Loomis was out of his mind, Maggie's own mind was a blank, and neither could testify to the facts.

Walter fumed at that detail. He almost wished he could have been Willie's lawyer. If the case had gone to trial, it would have been easy enought to tear down this tenuous connection between Willie and the kidnapping. As it was, Maggie was discouraged from pressing charges, and it was thought that a long spell in an institution would be enough to keep Loomis away from the scene for a great deal longer than it actually did. Walter found it interesting that Barnabas apparently had no qualms about re-engaging the so-called "Psycho", when he was released from WindCliff. "Yutz psycho is more like it," Walter thought. As Maggie had observed, Willie was, indeed, no "mastermind", then or ever, unless it came to installing linoleum.

According to Patterson's letter, this last detail, Willie's return to his old position, turned his head around yet again, as far as his assessment of Loomis's probable guilt went. These doubts had been fanned by the persistent skepticism of both Burke Devlin, and Doctor Woodard, both of whom died before Loomis's return. While there was no doubt about the cause of Devlin's passing (his plane had crashed in Brazil), the Sheriff admitted to some suspicions over the circumstances of the Doctor's death. He'd apparently died of a sudden heart attack after he'd made an urgent appointment to discuss an unnamed matter, probably connected to the kidnapping.

With this last possible source of fresh evidence dried up, Maggie's case was considered closed. There was some interesting addenda about yet another bizarre stalker who had appeared in town, a scar-covered, semi-retarded giant, who also seemed nebulously connected to Barnabas, Willie, and Julia. Only, this oddball's main target was Barnabas's cousin Carolyn. He did, however, attack Maggie's

father, who died less than a week later.

At the same time, it seemed as though whoever caused the early troubles had returned, to do fresh mischief. Maggie's former fiancee and his cousin (who later died) were known to have suffered the same sort of injuries as Maggie and Willie. In this case, though, it was the victim who went off his head, when Joe Haskell tried to kill himself and Barnabas, so it was obvious the older man couldn't have been to blame.

Maggie's hapless former fiancee went from bad to worse after that incident. He wandered about town, muttering to himself, and exploded in violent outbursts; the combined result, the sheriff thought, of a series of confrontations with various attackers who'd inflicted numerous head injuries on the beleagured former sailor. The last came about when, the sheriff discovered later, Joe had been attacked by a mysterious wild animal believed responsible for several grotesque deaths. After a year or so, (and months after Haskell's lengthy confinement in what Walter was coming to think of as "that damned WindCliff,") the "beast" must have died or wandered off somewhere. At any rate, it was never heard from, again, and no fresh reports of its continued activity came from anyplace else. Soon after that, Patterson's term as Sheriff drew to an end; exhausted and exasperated by all he'd endured, he refused to seek re-election.

As the narrative closed, Patterson noted the unsettled situation he was leaving his successor, pitying the burden on Davenport, but relieved that his job was done. Still, in the end, Patterson expressed a wish that "Someone, someday, might review these facts, make a more agressive investigation, and settle the question, once and for all. Even if no conviction results, I feel there is a real human need to know the truth. Too many people have suffered as a result of this, and other odd incidents, that swirl around that most peculiar member of that most peculiar family."

When Walter came to the end of the letter, he immediately wanted to get Patterson on the phone, to rehash the whole ugly story. His desire to do so was so great, he knew a proportionate crash of disappointment when he found another of Simon's notes in the file. "Sheriff Patterson passed away in July 1971, as a result of a heart attack, on a golf-course in Myrtle Beach, while enjoying his well-deserved retirement from the travails of Collinsport," Simons had wryly related.

There were a few more interesting papers, including copies of receipts from the jewelers who'd bought from Barnabas (all noted that the jewelry was about the same age, almost two-hundred years old), as well as from an Ellsworth consignment shop that had sold a considerable quantity of good clothing to Willie, during one April week in 1967. The sizes of some of the items were recorded, and Walter could tell the stuff would never have fitted his son-in-law. There was a curious paper from the Motor Vehicle Department, inquiring after Barnabas's Social Security number, as was required for a driver's license. He must have come up with one, since he was still driving. However, the Collins family was, Walter believed, so-well favored that, perhaps, nobody would have questioned Barnabas's right to operate a motor vehicle without a license.

Most important, like Walter had discovered in his own delvings, there was absolutely no other information available about Barnabas before 1967. He didn't know what to make of any of this. He didn't want to come out and accuse his sister's husband of anything at this time; after all, one of the reasons Barnabas had never been formally accused in the first place was that so much could be explained by coincidence. Still, there was a point beyond which the term "coincidence" no longer applied.

There was Maggie's attitude to consider. She would not be joining in the dinner this weekend, because she had to go to a gallery in Augusta to host a retrospective of her late father's artwork. (The unfortunate Sam Evans had, in death, gained the acclaim for his work that eluded him in life.) But Walter knew she would have been included in the invitation, and would have accepted it. In fact, Julia had made a point of inviting Maggie to any such gatherings in the future. Whatever had passed between Maggie and Barnabas, it was not an issue in their present friendly relationship. Maybe Maggie would resent Walter's delvings into Barnabas's past, also.

Walter was torn between his growing affection for the pretty art-store owner, his fond concern for his sister and his daughter, and his mistrust for his brother-in-law. He wished, sometimes, he didn't have that drive to possess all the facts. He hoped his anxieties would be laid to rest by whatever he could discover during his upcoming overnight stay at the Old House, but his past experience had taught him that he wasn't the sort to be so upset by a threat that didn't exist. Denial wasn't his way, any more than it was his daughter's. If he was frightened by something, it was, surely, real.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Adele came down to the drawing room at Collinwood, carrying the new notebook and mechanical pencil she'd insisted that her mother buy for her. She was in the throes of a new fantasy: A. Francine Maracek, world-famous authoress. Of course, in between churning out heart-pounding potboilers, and making gazillions on movie rights to her best-sellers, she was enjoying a peaceful personal life with her husband, David Collins, industrial mogul, and chief supporter of his gorgeous wife's literary efforts.

Then she snapped out of the dream, and did what Cellie had instructed. Adele plunked herself into the nearest easy chair, and began to write. She almost didn't hear David walk into the room.

"Another Cellie in the making," he commented, tousling her light brown hair.

"I thought you were doing something with Lew," she said.

"At present, he's beating the pants off my father, playing chess. He's already won countless games of rummy against him. He's like Cellie in that way, too. Father couldn't stand the way she always beat him at cards. She sure picked the right family to marry into. All winners."

"The kids in school call me and Lew a couple of 'winners,' but I don't think they mean it in a nice way." She pouted.

"Don't listen to that crap. Lew's a cool little dude, and you're a nice kid. Sarah T. couldn't hope for better than to turn out like you two."

Adele smiled. "You sound like a Dad yourself."

"I'm a God-Dad. The Gahd-fahthah. I'll make you an offer you can't refuse," David laughed.

"You're just picking on me," Adele said.

"No, I'm serious. I've spent enough time with the card-sharks, and you've spent enough time following your Mom and Mrs. Johnson around, getting things ready for the baby. I'll really give you something to write about."

"What? A present? A date?" Adele's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

"I'm going to take you on a magical mystery tour."

"We're not going to that horrid West Wing, are we?"

"Aw, it's not so bad once you learn the way around. But no.

I don't think your Mom would appreciate you running around back there, alone, with an older man."

"You're not too old for me. You're just sixteen."

"I'll be seventeen in two weeks, and you're just twelve."

"I turned thirteen August second. So, it's not even a four-year's difference between us, yet."

"Adele. . . that's a big difference between two kids."

"Aunt Cellie is awfully young compared to Uncle Willie."

"That's different. Cellie was never really young, I think. And your Uncle only started growing up recently. They meet in the middle somewhere."

Adele considered this logic. "We could meet in the middle. Maybe wherever you're taking me. Where are we going?"

"Where we can wander around in the open. You want to take the exclusive bicycle tour of the grounds? I heard it's supposed to rain tomorrow, and you're going back home the day after, so this is your only chance to view the wonders of the grand, the stupendous, Collins estate."

"That's really neat. You have a bicycle my size? Oh," she said, "All the boy's bikes have those nasty bars."

"Not mine. I hate those things, myself. I have a couple of comfortable bikes, different sizes, in excellent condition. One-speed, three-speed, ten-speed, your choice."

"Wow. I only have one bike, and so does Lew, that we got from our cousins when they got too big for them. It must be nice, being rich, having so many bikes."

"They're not all mine. My Aunt and Carolyn still like to ride once in a while. We have a good bike trail around the estate. So, you want to go, if your Mom lets you?"

"Oh, boy, would I!" Adele ran upstairs to ask Fran, who was fussing over crib mattresses with Mrs. Johnson. She gave permission, once Mrs. Johnson explained the location and layout of the trail. (Mrs. Johnson was no bicycle rider, but she liked to follow the trail on her daily walks.)

"It sounds safe enough to me. Just don't ride up to that Widow's cliff, or whatever they call it, and stay out in the open. Make sure you're back in an hour or so," Fran said. She wasn't unduly worried about Adele being alone with David. She'd observed David with his girlfriend Annette, and with Cellie, and decided if anyone had to worry about what he might be up to, it would be Annette and poor

Willie. He was obviously besotted with Willie's wife, though Cellie made a great show of not acknowledging his affection, referring to him as her "Other brother."

At any rate, he appeared responsible enough to watch out for her dreamy-headed daughter. David was nothing like Harold Loomis. Fran dismissed Adele's little crush altogether. The girl was surely too shy to act on her feelings. And Mrs. Johnson assured her that, if she wanted to check on the two teenagers, the trail was visible from practically every room in the house. Fran did take a break, going down

to the kitchen for some coffee, and came back to sit on the upstairs balcony, watching as Adele and David burned up the trail toward the Old House.

"Oh, David, could you take me there to show me Josette's special room?" Adele asked, breathlessly, her legs churning the pedals as she struggled to keep up with her friend.

"Not this trip, Ads. When you come back for Sarah T.'s christening, and Barnabas is completely better, we'll stop by. " David, panting, braked his bike, as did Adele. They were on a small hill overlooking the front entrance to the Old House.

"But he must be better now. Look," she pointed, "Cellie's Dad is going to see him." And, indeed, Walter, who had arrived early for dinner, was climbing the steps, and disappeared behind the columns.

"That's different. Grown-ups don't keep other grown-ups trotting around, giving house tours, when they know their host isn't feeling up to par. Mr. Hoffman probably just wants to yack about Maggie with Julia, anyway."

Adele had heard David's version of his ex-governess's romance with Cellie's father. "Are they going to get married?" she asked. "How come he isn't married to Cellie's Mom anymore? I don't know what I'd do if my Mom and Dad broke up." Then she blushed. "Oh, I'm sorry, I almost forgot. Your folks got a divorce."

"Not until the last possible minute, after my Mother. . .went away for good. But it's true, they did split up for a couple of years before. I was only six. But they had to, Adele, they just fought all the time, and my mother, well, she drank a lot and got sick in her mind. My Dad couldn't take care of me too well, not alone, anyway,

so that's why I live here. The important thing is, they were better off apart."

"That's just terrible. But Cellie's Mom doesn't drink, and her Dad loves Cellie and the baby. People don't try hard enough, that's what my Daddy says."

"Maybe it's true for people who belong together from the beginning. Your Mom and Dad probably did. Cellie and Willie---I want to believe they did. But my folks didn't, and it could be, Cellie's parents belonged together long enough to bring up two swell kids, and then it was time for both of them to move on. I know I won't squawk if her Dad marries Maggie. Maggie's sweet as can be, and she's had a hard life. I sure didn't make it any easier. But Cellie's Dad looked like he wouldn't mind protecting her." David patted Adele's cheek. "Now, don't go getting all worried about your own parents. When they were here, at the reception, they acted like they were still on their honeymoon, except for when they had to go chasing after you and Lew."

David and Adele mounted their bikes again, and sped off, out of view from Collinwood, but still close to the Old House. Fran, who was still watching from the balcony, knew if she had any further anxieties, she could just call down at Barnabas's place. She had told her daughter to keep checking her watch. She went back into the house.

David pointed to Abijah's Cottage. "Abijah Collins hid runaway slaves in his cellar there," he called. "He had a special room in there, even more secret than some of the secret rooms at the Big House, or the Old House. But now, all the rooms are open."

"That was real nice of him," Adele called back.

"I'm not sure," David shrilled. He slowed down. "I read a letter from some rich dude in Canada, thanking Abijah for procuring such cheap servants, and workers for his factory. He had to pay them, and they were free, I guess, but they didn't make much, and it was years before they learned French, so they stayed put."

"Sort of like the sharecroppers who stayed Down South after the Civil War,"Adele observed. (Her history teacher was a Civil War buff who drilled details of that conflict into his very young pupils' heads.) "They were free, but not really, because they were so poor, and with all those stupid laws hanging over their heads."

They swung by the old Henderson house, which stood just beyond a simple wire gate. The grass and weeds grew high around the white-clapboarded, Georgian-style Colonial.

"Is that another of your haunted houses?" Adele asked.

"It's not ours. But it might be haunted. An rich old spinster lady lived alone there for years, with the spirits of her ancestors,

I suppose."

"It's a dinky house, compared to Collinwood."

"Actually, it's a kind of a mansion. Most of the rest of the house is hidden by those trees."

"You'd never know it was a mansion. It looks a little like our house in Vermont, but ours is bigger in front."

"If I was younger, or you were older, I'd find a way in, and we could check it out together."

"No, thanks. I don't want to get arrested. One Loomis with a police record is enough." Before she rode off after David, Adele looked back at the house, with its empty, unshaded windows, its dormer gables resembling five eyebrows in a row. "You know," Adele commented, "Maybe this place isn't haunted, but the house looks like it's watching us." She was glad to get away.

They were approaching Widow's Hill. "My Mom said I can't go up there," Adele protested, when David drew his bike up toward the bench on the cliff.

"She just said, don't ride there," David said. "So, get off the bike, and walk. You can't have a proper tour of Collinwood without spending a few minutes on Widow's Hill. Don't panic, there's a safety rail, and a walkway."

"Okay," she replied, trustfully. She came to stand next to him, near the railing. "It's beautiful," she sighed. She reached for his hand. He took it, and patted it while they looked over the jagged rocks, to the ocean beyond. "But such a horrid name. Did widows really come up here to kill themselves? Why couldn't they learn to live without their husbands, or find new ones?"

"Not all the widows in Collinsport came here, silly," David said, smiling. "Most of them remarried, or did without, depending on their age and circumstances. Three particular widows did themselves in here, and they were in dire straits to begin with. One had lost, not just her husband, but all her sons, six, I think, in various shipwrecks over the years. And then, not all who died here were widows. And some were pushed. My cousin's husband, for instance---" He broke off, when he noticed Adele beginning to cry.

"I'm scared now," she wept. "Take me away from here."

David embraced her, awkwardly. "Aw, Adele. I'm sorry. I got a little carried away. I thought you liked my stories. You know, this'll make a swell chapter in your book."

"I don't want to write that kind of book."

"You never know. It may just turn out that way," he said. "Before we go, we could do something fun."

"What, hang from the railing by our toes?" She asked, resentfully. She was still frightened.

"No, I used to stay up here for hours, chucking rocks as far as I could. I challenge you to a contest. Let's see who can chuck the farthest."

"That's a baby contest," Adele sniffed disdainfully.

"I don't think the baby could chuck as far as I could. Bet you can't either." David scooped up a few round pebbles. He wound his arm, as though he was pitching in the World Series, and tossed a pebble far out of sight.

Adele joined in, picking up stones, and throwing them madly. They varied the contest, choosing rocks of different sizes and colors, and tracking their trajectories. Both she and David wore serious expressions of total concentration on their faces. When they looked at each other, they laughed.

After a while, they tired of the game. David led Adele from the cliff, to a small hangar of maple trees. There was a clearing among the trees, where thick grass grew. They flung themselves down, and stared at the sky.

"It's like we're a million miles from anywhere," Adele whispered.

"Not really. If someone looked out the dining room window at the Old House, he would see us." David noticed the way Adele was looking at him. He wrapped his arms around himself, and squealed in falsetto, "So don't get any funny ideas." He laughed uncomfortably. "Maybe we'd better head back. Your Mom said an hour. It must be at least that."

"In a few minutes. David, do you like me?"

` "I wouldn't have spent the time with you, if I didn't."

"I mean, really like me. I really like you."

"Ads, you're a sweet kid, and I'm flattered, honest, that you think so much of me. But you're just thirteen, and I'm going with Annette. Maybe things will change someday, but that's how it is now."

"I'm old enough to know if I like somebody. My Mom met my Dad when she was eleven, and he was fourteen, and they fell in love. They got married when she finished High school, and he was out of the Marines."

"I'm not saying you're too young to feel love for somebody, Adele. But you're too young to do anything about it. And, like I said, I'm sorry, in a way, but right now, it's me and Annette." And Cellie, he thought, with a pang. She was out of his reach, forever, but a part of him would never stop hoping. . .

"David, could I, um, kiss you good-bye at least? I mean on the lips, not on the cheek like you'll do when I really go home?"

"Adele---"

"Please? Just this once."

"Oh, well, if it's so important to you, and you promise it's just this once." David looked downhill, toward the windows at the Old House. "It's all clear, go ahead---"

Adele embraced him, wildly, shoving her face to his in an absurd parody of every passionate movie kiss she'd ever seen. She knocked him to the ground. He should have realized a girl who'd been raised on a farm would be stronger and sturdier than her slight appearance implied. She forced his lips open, and even stuck in her tongue. Where had she learned this? He wondered, while gently pushing her away. She fought him, and finally, he relaxed, and let her finish her kiss. He began to enjoy it a little, but he was relieved when it was over.

"Oh, boy, Adele. That should take care of our good-byes for the next five visits. Now I know how Cellie felt, when I first met her, and I got her alone in the dark."

"You kissed Cellie?" Adele looked hurt.

"Yeah, but it was months ago, before she even started seeing your uncle. Don't tattle on us, now. Poor Willie has enough to worry about."

"You went out with her?" Adele began to sound jealous.

"No, no. Nothing like that. We're just pals. Like you and me. What's wrong, Adele? I go out with Annette, and we kiss all the time. And, if you must know, the one time I kissed Cellie, she almost decked me."

"You even like her, more than you like me. I can tell, just from the way you say her name. Like you're saying a prayer in church."

"Don't be silly, Adele. I'm over her, it was months ago, she's married, I have somebody else, and what's it to you, anyway?"

Adele got up, and brushed herself off. "I gave you my very best kiss, and rubbed on you like they say boys want, and you don't appreciate it."

"Ads, come on. Calm down. We have to go back. It's over an hour, already."

"Mom won't be checking her watch, the way you are. Please,

leave me alone! I have to be by myself." She ran off, crying, in the direction of the cliff, but to a point below it.

"Ads! Come back! Ads! Adele!" David hauled himself up to follow her. He was rounding the corner he'd seen her run past, when he heard a shrill scream. "ADELE!" he cried. "Oh, my God, Oh, My God!"

He stopped so suddenly, he almost fell himself, from a tiny ledge just below Widow's Hill. He looked down, his heart about to explode in his throat, tears running down his face. "ADELE!" He screamed again. Despairing, he looked out to the ocean, expecting to see her slim, lifeless body thrashing about on the waves.

"David," he heard her whimper. He looked straight down, and saw her clinging to some thick roots jutting from beneath the ledge, about three feet below. Her sneakered feet dangled, as she tried to step onto some rocks that stuck out, for extra support.

"Adele. My God. Look up at me. I'm reaching down to you. See if you can grab my hand," he said, leaning over as far as he could without falling, himself, and entending his arm over the edge.

"It's not close enough," she sobbed. "I'm too afraid to reach up, anyway."

"Adele, Adele. I want to get help, but I don't want to leave you. I'll just run up the hill, and see if I can find a branch to stick down there."

"Hurry. My hands are so tired," she said in a dazed voice. She kicked, futilely, at the rocks near her feet.

David ran back to the maple trees. There were no branches on the ground that he could use, and he couldn't snap a big enough one from the trees. He went to the lookout point over the Old House, and screamed for help, but the breeze seemed to carry the sound in another direction. Then, he heard Adele cry out again.

He ran back to her.

"I can't hold on much longer, David. I'm sorry. . . so sorry. It's all my fault for being such a brat. . ."

"No, Adele, hang on. Oh God, what am I going to do?" He dangled his own legs over the edge, but there was nothing for him to hang onto. He cried out loud, now, as he saw her hands slowly lose their grip.

"Tekwitha. No, Tekwitha."

David looked behind him, when he heard the voice. The Indian stood there, tears running down his bronze face. "Please, please," David pleaded. "Help---Tekwitha."

"No help for Tekwitha. No more."

"Please, she's going to fall just about now."

"Tekwitha is gone. But I will help you." He disappeared, for an agonizing minute. A sudden gust of warm air, not blowing from the direction of the ocean, rushed over David, making him think he was about to go over the cliff himself. Suddenly, the Indian re-appeared.

A long, thick maple branch, neatly cut, lay at his feet, as though the same stiff breeze had blown it there. He nudged it towards David.

The teenager reached for it, afraid it had no more substance than the Indian spirit. He was surprised to feel the heaviness of it. Spirits had transported solid goods before, but nothing, he thought, nearly as heavy as that branch. "Thanks. Thank God--the Great Spirit." He stuck the branch over the edge. "Adele, you have to reach up."

"My hands hurt. And they're so tired." Her voice was weary.

"Adele. If Cellie was here, she could pump you up. But this is it. You have to try---Never mind trying. You have to do it. Now."

Adele tried, one last time, to brace herself on the rocks at her feet. She finally managed to hook a sneaker toe on one. David dangled the leafy branch just above her head. She reached up, quickly, and grasped at leaves. She gasped, and David's heart missed a beat. He dropped it another couple of inches. This time, she caught it firmly, then reached up with her other hand.

David began to crawl backwards from the ledge, onto the path. As he pulled, he could feel Adele pushing herself up, like a rock-climber, fitting her feet into crevices along the cliff. Then, she almost lost her balance again. David reached behind him, and, mercifully, grabbed at a thick bush growing there. He hung on, until he could feel Adele righting herself. He stayed close to the bush, in case he needed to hang onto it again. He gave the branch a mighty yank with the last of his strength, and dragged Adele up and over the edge. She crawled to safety, gasping and crying like a newborn baby. David crept toward her, and pulled her onto his lap, holding her tight.

"Adele, Adele. Oh, God. You're safe. You're safe. I don't know how we did it. We'll have to thank the Indian. He brought the branch."

"The Indian that was at the reception?" She asked. She hadn't seen? It was probably just as well, he thought. Perhaps she would have let go of the tree roots in her surprise and fear. Perhaps the Indian had figured on that, and kept himself out of her line of sight.

"You must have reminded him of someone he loved who--who--anyway, he brought the branch, after I couldn't even pull one from the trees. Thank God He let him appear. Adele. I'm so sorry. I should have been more careful with you."

"It's my fault I ran off. I was a dope. I shouldn't have kissed you and made a scene."

"I didn't understand. I won't embarrass you by telling anyone. But we'll have to tell them something---your clothes are a wreck."

"David. . ." She looked into his red eyes. "I hurt your feelings. I never thought about that. You were crying."

"I was scared, for both of us. I was supposed to be responsible for you. I don't want to think about what kind of trouble. . . But there's more. I was afraid to lose my little buddy."

She snuggled up, close to David, and he stroked her hair. She turned her face up to his, and this time he kissed her, not like a friend, and not like he kissed Annette. He kissed her, the way he had wished he could kiss Cellie. "Adele," he whispered. "We'd better get home. Your Mom will definitely be worried by now. Can you get

on the bike?"

"I can do anything, as long as you're with me."

Fran Maracek roared at David, when she saw the condition her daughter was in. Adele had come up with the necessary cover story. "Oh, Mommy, you know how I always have to climb trees and rocks at home. There's plenty of that stuff around here. David would have had to tie me up to stop me. But he never left me alone. I just put some holes in my clothes. I'm sorry."

"Did you ride up to the cliff?"

"No, Mommy, but he did show it to me, when we passed by. We only spent a couple of minutes there. It wasn't as interesting as the rest of the estate."

"Well, I guess I'll forgive him this time. It's true, nobody can stop you when you get that urge to climb like a monkey, except your Daddy. At least David brought you home in one piece. I guess that's the best that can be expected when you have to chase after the queen of the tomboys."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Walter Hoffman had just finished dinner, and rose to help his sister and brother-in-law clear the table. Then, he offered to wash the dishes.

"Oh, Walter," Julia said, "Just like when we were kids. You'd never know it to look at him, Barnabas, but Walter was really into washing dishes. He was a lot like our mother, very particular about how to do it."

"Well," Walter protested, "I'd been at it for quite a few years longer than you, Sis. Mother's theory was that, she knocked herself out, cooking, so it was up to the rest of us to clean up. Our father didn't agree, so it was all on me. And then, finally, you came along, and I had to hurry up and teach you the ropes before I went

off to college."

"I sure missed you then," Julia laughed. "Mother just couldn't adjust to someone else messing with her china. I broke a gravy boat the week after you left for Harvard, and she went wild."

"I hope you're over all these deep-seated traumas," Barnabas joked.

"Been spending time reading Julia's textbooks, Barnabas?" Walter asked.

"But, of course. I married Julia to get my hands on some new reading material." Barnabas smiled, sincerely, but, his brother-in-law noticed, always rather gravely, in spite of his own light remarks. Like a doctor with-holding devastating news, the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Seriously, though, to hear some of these 'experts' tell it, one can be ruined for life when one hears the wrong word whispered behind a closed door, or has to keep re-capping the family's toothpaste, or faces a reprimand for breaking one's mother's treasured gravy boat."

"But that's just it, Barnabas," Julia said. "It's thought, now, that it's the little, everyday aggravations of life that really chip away at our defenses. So much so, that it makes it harder to cope with real crises."

"I don't think we've ever let trivial irritations get in the way of facing any crisis, Julia."

"What sorts of crises, Barnabas?" Walter asked, a bit too eagerly.

Barnabas answered carefully. "I'd say, what just happened to your daughter, for a start, Walter. If we, and Cellie, and Willie, were so tied up in minor details, none of us could have endured, and risen above that appalling situation. The disaster required our full attention, and we gave it, and now, we will move beyond it. A great deal of credit must go to Cellie. She is, definitely, not a modern type, distracting herself from the important issues of life, and death. Everything is important to her, and feeds into how she ultimately handles her travails."

"She's a coper, no question of that. But I know what happened will always lie beneath the surface of her consciousness. She won't be able to help it, when Sarah Teresa is a little older, and Cecily sees her friends pregnant, or with new babies."

"We don't mean, she'll never be unhappy about her situation, Walter," Julia said. "What Barnabas means is, she's like those mothers in the past, who lost so many children, or could have no more, and yet, still made themselves get up and do what they had to to survive. And they must have wanted to survive. A lot of them lived into old age, years after their loved ones' passing, and yet you seldom hear of them losing their minds, or their health, from what must have been considerable grief."

"I just wish my little girl didn't have to go through all this, at such an early age. But there's been a lot of tragedy around here," he said. "When I spend time with Maggie. . .Well, I've never considered myself a particularly sensitive fellow, but I would have to be pretty hard-hearted not to notice her lingering sadness."

Barnabas replied, a trifle uneasily, Walter thought, "She has had more than her share of crosses to bear. But I trust you do all you can to keep up her spirits?"

"I would do anything to relieve her unhappiness. She has a lot going for her, but if I could help her with the things I know bother her the most. . ."

Julia broke in, "We've all done our part to help her, Walter. Still, I find it touching, as does Barnabas, that you already care so much about her welfare."

"It's not merely her welfare I care for, Julia. I haven't known her that long,but this may turn serious quite soon."

"I'd say, it already has," Barnabas said, as he worked his face into a more benign expression. "You'll have to keep us apprised of your progress, and hers. " He turned to the kitchen door. "Why don't we leave the dishes to soak for now? Let's just go sit in the parlor for a while. I have some fine after-dinner brandy. I need to rest

anyway, as my head still gets that hollow feeling when I stand too long."

They sat before the fire, sipping their brandies. Barnabas rested his head on a pillow Julia had carefully arranged around his head and neck. But he was chatting animatedly about his home.

"It's all true, what you've heard about the condition of this place before I moved in, Walter. Elizabeth hesitated to hand me the keys."

"That was a real leap of faith, Barnabas, considering that you were new to this country, and alone, and you didn't have a restoration program all planned out."

"I have always relied on the turn of fortune, and have been rewarded more than once. I discovered Willie, and, as it turned out, he was, up to a point, almost all I needed. In the last two years, I've had to have experts come in for the electricity, the gas, and a lot of the plumbing. But, for the first couple of years, until he was, unfortunately implicated in Maggie's tribulations, Willie was more than adequate. We roughed it quite a bit in those early days, but most of the early repairs and restorations were his work, under my direction, of course. I would say that your daughter need never worry about the condition of any home she and Willie may share in the future. He'll have it put to rights, in any manner Cellie chooses, in the shortest possible time."

"He's certainly the Lord of the Linoleum these days," Walter laughed. "I stopped by the Antique Shoppe this afternoon, and there he was, measuring and cutting and nailing, as though he'd done it all his life. I would never have the patience to work the stuff around all those tiny corners."

"He has, I suppose you'd call it, a simple-minded determination to get things done the right way the first time. But to accomplish that, he can only really concentrate on one task at a time."

"Exactly. That's why I couldn't understand, how he got into such a complex situation, years back, with Maggie. He can get from point 'A' to point 'B', well enough, but when it came to something like that, there had to be a dozen sticky points in between."