Vita came to, groggy and disoriented, feeling as if she had been on a three-day bender. Yellow sunlight filtered through the sheer lace curtains and splashed across her comforter, bathing the room in a rose-gold brightness. She slitted her eyes and peered at the little china clock on her bedside table. Ten-fifteen.
Ten-fifteen? Impossible. She had gone to bed a little after nine the night before. How could she have slept the clock around, and then some? Rising early was something of a religion with Vita Kirk, or at the very least an obsession. She hadn’t set an alarm in years, but she was always awake and moving by seven, even if she had worked until midnight. Only lazy people lolled around in bed after sunup.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Every muscle in her body protested. Her head throbbed, and her sinuses felt as though they were packed with concrete. She let out a groan.
No, definitely not a three-day bender. More like a six-car pileup, with Vita right in the middle.
Maybe a shower would help. She staggered to the bathroom and brushed her teeth while the water heated up. Once under the spray, she stood there for a full five minutes, barely moving except to turn and turn again so that the steaming pulse pummeled first her back and shoulders, then her chest. Her sinuses began to clear, and the pounding in her head eased a little.
But not the tightness in her chest.
Despite the losses Vita had endured in her lifetime, she had little experience of true grief. When Gordon chose Mary Kate over her, a cold blue anger rose up inside her, a wall of ice that shielded her and kept her invulnerable to the heat of any passion.
By the time her father died, she couldn’t feel much of anything.
She could only watch with detached curiosity as her mother shriveled in upon herself like a night-blooming flower against the blazing noonday sun.
Sophie’s death, however, had somehow pierced beyond the wall. Vita didn’t know how it had happened, but she did know— instinctively, if not experientially—that this was what grief was like. A bottomless, empty pit. A raw place on the soul, an open wound that welcomed the purging burn from every tear.
Scalding water ran down Vita’s face, and she tasted an unexpected mixture of shampoo and salt. For a long time she stood there, crying, until the shower turned tepid and she began to shiver.
I have to get hold of myself, she thought. This is ridiculous. How can I weep so bitterly for a child I’ve only known through a few brief scenes on a computer screen? And yet she could still see the little rag-doll figure lying among the willows, feel the weight in her own chest as Sophie’s lungs fought for air, hear the song of the willow-woman as she sang her little girl into the great beyond.
Maybe it was because Sophie was so young. Or maybe it was because the friendship with Rachel called up painful memories of losing Hattie. Whatever it was, it was over. Sophie was gone.
Vita turned off the water, toweled herself dry, and stood naked and chilled on the cold tile floor while she ran the hair dryer. The mirror was fogged with steam; she turned the dryer toward the glass and watched as her face appeared in an ever-widening circle surrounded by mist. Red-rimmed eyes set deep over high cheekbones. Wet, dark hair lying in disarray across her bare shoulders. For the first time in years, she saw herself as a portrait of weakness, of vulnerability.
Vita abandoned the dryer, went into the bedroom, and began opening drawers. Within five minutes she was dressed—black slacks, a matching turtleneck, a gray cable-knit cardigan. She brushed back her still-damp hair and fastened it with a rubber band at the nape of her neck, then glanced in the mirror over the dresser. Her face seemed to float above the high turtleneck, a white oval disconnected from the rest of her body. She gave a grunt of disapproval, made the bed with a few expert strokes, and went downstairs.
Vita was at the kitchen table when she heard the Seth Thomas on the living room mantel strike one deep bong. She glanced at the clock on the stove. It was twelve-thirty, and she was still sitting here, pushing around the remains of her scrambled eggs and fiddling with a cup of lukewarm coffee.
She was already nearly a week behind schedule on the Alaska project, but it seemed like a Herculean effort just to get up and walk into her office, much less do any real work. She took one last gulp of the coffee and grimaced as it went down cold.
Stalling wasn’t going to help, and it wasn’t her style, anyway.
Writers had a reputation for sheer genius when it came to procrastination, but Vita had never counted herself among them. She was the one who always finished before the deadline. The practice made editors deliriously happy—they were so easily pleased—and kept work coming her way at a steady pace.
Exhaling determination on a sigh, Vita heaved herself to her feet and went to the sink. She scraped the remains into the garbage can, put her plate in the soapy dishwater, and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. Then she gathered together all her resolve and made her way through the living room onto the sun porch.
The computer sat there, dark and silent, mocking her. The moment of truth. Time to find out whether the Treasure Box program had irreparably damaged her hard drive, or whether it had been a benign virus that, once gone, would let her access her working files.
She opened the top drawer of her desk and riffled through a stack of business cards until she found the one she wanted: Bits ’n Bytes, on Hendersonville Road. Home of Sandy the computer genius. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said to the card as she wedged it under the corner of the telephone. “If this doesn’t work, I may be needing you.”
She pressed the power button, then went back to her desk and picked up the folder marked Alaska. Behind her, she heard the computer booting up, but she kept her back turned while she flipped through the material. “I’ve got enough to begin writing,” she muttered to herself. “Anything else I need, I can track down on the Internet.”
When she heard the music that marked the opening of Windows, Vita swiveled back around toward the computer. There was her desktop, displaying the familiar wallpaper scene of the Blue Ridge Mountains, surrounded by program icons.
Vita stifled a rush of disappointment and tried to force herself to feel relieved. She had been right. The Treasure Box program— or virus, or whatever it was—had vanished. It was time to forget about Sophie and get back to work.
Biting her lower lip, she rolled her mouse over the word processing icon and clicked.
The screen flashed, and a low chuckle emanated from the computer speakers. “Not today,” the voice whispered. “There are portals yet to open.”
The star-studded home page appeared on the monitor, with its tiny brass keyhole sparkling at the center. Vita gnawed at the inside of her cheek. Someone was playing games with her. She had put her feelings aside and convinced herself that she really did want to get back to work, and now this. A virus with an attitude.
“OK, OK,” she muttered. “Let’s just get this over with, all right?” She rolled her mouse over the keyhole, revealed the key, and inserted it into the lock. The invisible door in the sky swung open, just as it had when Vita had first entered Jacob Stillwater’s workshop, and the same bright light blinded her.
But the scene that appeared on the screen was not Jacob’s shop, or his house, or even the big oak tree where Sophie and Rachel had played. It was a village green surrounding a large, splashing fountain. For a split second the sound of the water brought back an image of little Sophie being carried down the rapids, and Vita felt a fist squeeze her lungs, cutting off her breathing.
But there was no river. No white water. No danger.
Just a placid village square, occupied by a young couple sitting together on a park bench, holding hands.
Vita looked closely at them. The man was handsome—impeccably dressed with sandy hair, a broad forehead, and a strong jaw line with a deep cleft at the chin. She didn’t recognize him, but there was something familiar about the woman. She was pleasant-looking, though not striking, with long brown hair pulled back from her face and deep blue eyes. Around her neck, a sparkling silver oval caught the sunlight and reflected it back like a beacon.
Rachel Woodlea. All grown up, and with a beau of her very own.
“Oh, Derrick, it’s beautiful!” Rachel fingered the locket. Her voice still bore a shy, whispery quality, as it had when she was a little girl. She lowered her eyes and ducked her head. “What a special gift.”
“I searched everywhere to find one like your grandmother’s, the one you gave to your little friend so long ago. What was her name? Sonya?”
“Sophie. I’ve told you a dozen times. Sophie.”
Derrick shrugged. “Well, now you have a better one to replace it.” He leaned his head down and peered into her eyes. “Happy birthday, dearest Rachel. Now, no more gloomy memories about Sonya. Your twentieth birthday is a day for celebration.”
“I remember Sophie’s last birthday,” Rachel mused. “We had a wonderful party, and—”
“None of that.” Derrick held up a warning finger. “You have to learn to let the past stay buried, Rachel. Think about the present, and about the future. Our future. The future with you as my wife. Mrs. Derrick Knight.”
Rachel shook herself and forced a smile. “Yes. Our future.”
“How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” Derrick gave her an intense look, as if probing into the depths of her soul.
“Three months, maybe four. By early summer, at the latest.
I’ve been saving every shilling I can manage from my work at the tavern. Sometimes the fellows even tip me, especially when they win at the gambling tables, or when they’re a bit too much in their cups.” She shuddered. “It’s horrid, Derrick. The noise, the smoke, the drunken brawls. Last week a married man twice my age tried to force me into the back room—”
“Just a little while longer,” he interrupted. “I’ve been hoarding my pay, too, and pretty soon we’ll be able to book passage on a ship and sail away to America.” He raised an eyebrow and winked rakishly at her. “How much do you have?”
“Almost two hundred pounds, I think. I gave a bit to Mam to buy some things for Colin.”
Derrick frowned. “Colin’s your baby brother, not your son.
It’s not your responsibility to clothe him.”
“He needed shoes and books for school, Derrick. He’s shot up like a weed in the past few months and has outgrown every stitch he owns.”
“All right, all right. Just don’t get too generous. You’d give away your last pair of bloomers if you thought some other girl needed them.”
Rachel blushed at the mention of her undergarments. “I would not, Derrick. Besides, that money’s hidden safe away, locked in my Treasure Box—the one Sophie gave me before she died. I keep it out of sight under a loose floorboard in the barn.”
“Good. The more we save, the sooner we’ll be on our way to America in proper style.” He rose to his feet. “I must go. I have work to do.”
Rachel stood and pressed her lips to his cheek. “All right, then. Will I see you later tonight?”
“Don’t I always come to the tavern at closing time and walk you home? Until later, my love.” He kissed her hand and made his way across the green. Rachel watched him go and smiled.
Vita sat back and sighed. Rachel, the sweet, faithful child, had grown up into a sweet, faithful woman. She was working hard at a job she abhorred so that she and her fiancé could make passage to America. Little Rachel, engaged—and to a very handsome fellow.
There was something about Derrick that bothered Vita, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on anything specific. It was probably just her own prejudices. Ever since Gordon, she’d had difficulty trusting men. She had little use for the entire gender, the way most of them swaggered around shot full of testosterone, preening themselves like enormous peacocks, and then congratulating themselves on their sensitivity when they remembered to use the word “woman” instead of “girl.”
But this wasn’t about Vita. It was about Rachel. And Derrick Knight might not be so bad. He seemed to adore Rachel—buying her gifts, planning for their future together. Perhaps he was a bit full of himself, but weren’t they all?
Not all. Not Jacob Stillwater. Vita wondered briefly how he was getting along in the ten years since his beloved Sophie died.
Now there was a man Vita could approve of—compassionate, kindhearted, hardworking, creative. If this Derrick fellow turned out to be anything at all like Jacob, Rachel Woodlea would have a very happy life.
And if anyone deserved a happy life, Rachel did.