September 1998

Abigail rested her feet on the railing of the front porch, tipped her head back, and closed her eyes to the setting sun. She was tired, so tired, and yet felt so good.

The inn had enjoyed an incredible summer, with each of the fifteen rooms booked every night and the dining room filled not only with inn guests but with tourists from the city as well. McKenna’s Inn—as Abigail had renamed it—had become famous in one season: famous for its gourmet cooking, famous for its unique decor.

Even Joel’s daughter—sweet, cooperative, and friendly—had worked hard picking Abigail’s roses every day for all the guest rooms, and setting the tables for dinner. She did such a wonderful job that once Abigail had kissed her forehead in thanks. She didn’t know which of them had been more surprised.

Joel looked over now from his place on the comfortable glider. “It’s finally over,” he said wearily; “the summer people are gone.”

Abigail smiled. It had been right, she now knew, for her to return.

It had not been easy. Standing in the hospital corridor, hearing what she’d heard, her first reaction had been to attack Kris. Kris Kensington was going to give Abigail’s husband the baby that Abigail never had. And Abigail Hardy had wanted to kill.

But then, she’d looked down at the shopping bag she brought and thought about what was inside.

And then she thought of Betty Ann.

“By the time I am seventeen …” Betty Ann had written so long ago, “I will make sure that we are friends forever.”

So Abigail had not attacked Kris. She had not killed her. Instead she’d left the hospital, left New York.

She’d returned to the small island off Seattle, where it was too damn rainy and too damn cold, but where people treated her like they loved her and where they called her Sarah Appleton even though they knew that was not her name.

Louisa had phoned to say she’d heard from Kris, that Kris and Maddie had been stunned to find Abigail’s gift waiting in the hospital room—the gift that Abigail had set atop the photo album on the nightstand, the Cristal champagne bottle with the three small pieces of paper that lay at the bottom.

Kris had found a secret, safe place and had hidden the bottle away.

A few months after Maddie’s surgery, Louisa reported that Maddie had pulled a coup, had ousted Parker from Our World, and had regained the magazine for herself. Circulation was on the rise; advertising dollars were bound to follow.

Louisa had also heard from Harriet Lindley, who’d told her that L.C. Howard had finally given up the art world and women under age thirty. His new passion (“Can you believe it?”) was that young, good-looking boy named Grady.

Last week Louisa had other news. She said that Kris had given birth to a healthy baby girl. A girl they named Abigail.

Edmund and Kris, of course, would not marry. Not until Edmund felt he could have his wife declared legally dead. It was a measure that Kris apparently was not going to encourage.

But I am dead, Abigail wished she could tell them. Sarah Appleton is alive; selfish, self-centered Abigail Hardy is dead.

Still, everyone seemed happy at last. Louisa said that Edmund and Kris planned to move to London by Christmas; Sondra had opted to stay behind. She told her father it was time she made it on her own. She had accepted a position with the Historical Society as curator of Windsor-on-Hudson.

Joel rose from the glider now and walked toward Abigail. His ponytail had grown longer over the summer, his tan had grown deeper, his eyes softer. He leaned down and kissed Abigail’s cheek. “How about if I treat my favorite partner to dinner in the city?”

She looked into his eyes and saw beyond them. For the first time she wondered if they could be more than just friends. “Does that mean I’d have to put on real clothes and act like a lady?”

“Fresh salmon,” he said, teasingly trying to coerce her, “broiled lightly in a lemon and dill cream sauce … not, of course, as delectable as yours …”

Abigail laughed and swung her legs from the railing. “As much as I hate to get out of these jeans, the prospect of not cooking has won me over.” She stood up and walked across the porch of the huge old house, the house that glimmered now with life and hope and love. She did not know if there was any future between her and Joel; she realized that what she knew today didn’t matter. Today was today and that was all that counted.

She stopped in the doorway and smiled as she thought that maybe sometimes—if we’re very lucky—maybe sometimes we really do get a second chance to do things over. Maybe we really do get a second chance at life.

Quietly Abigail touched her bracelet, touched the locket. Then she turned and looked back to the porch. “I, of course, will demand a bottle of champagne,” she said to Joel.

“Champagne?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “After all, today is my birthday.” She did not add that she was now fifty, and that her wish had finally come true.