CHAPTER TWO

 

As Tyler halted before his cabin, the young woman put out a hand to steady herself against the wall. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm just a little woozy. I’ll be fine."

She didn’t look fine; she looked like she was ready to drop. Keeping a close watch on her, Tyler opened the door and followed her inside.

The child sat at the table talking quietly with Jonas, sipping a cup of hot chocolate and shivering under the brown wool blanket draped around her shoulders. Her black hair hung in damp braids down the back of her sodden dress, and her small face was very pale, making for an altogether pathetic sight.

"Cee Cee?" the girl called, looking around. “Cee Cee, is that you?”

“It’s me!” The young woman hurried across the room and hugged the child to her. “I've never been so frightened in all my life, Em. Promise you'll listen to me from now on."

“I was frightened, too, Cee Cee.”

Tyler watched the two, puzzled, as Jonas rose and came toward him.

"Emily is blind," Jonas whispered. "That’s her sister, Claire, also known as Cee Cee."

Blind! Tyler couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. He should have noticed the girl's unfocused stare. Her sister certainly had her hands full, and he didn’t envy her.

“I’m going to the pilot house,” he informed Jonas. “See to them, will you?” He glanced back at Claire and saw her watching him. For a moment he was tempted to stay, but he talked himself out of it.

Claire felt a curious sense of disappointment when their rescuer left the cabin, but she smiled politely as the older man came forward and took her hand. “Jonas W. Polk the third, at your service, Miss Cavanaugh. Let me get you some coffee to warm you up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Polk. You’re very kind.”

She accepted a cup of the steaming beverage and thanked him again. He was much older than their rescuer, with a long, narrow, weathered face, sun-bleached brown hair, and an accent of some kind -- British, Claire guessed.

“Have you ladies eaten recently?”

At the mention of food, Claire's stomach rumbled. "Early this morning."

"We'll remedy that soon enough. Come with me, Lady Emily. You can help with the menu while your sister warms up." Jonas left the cabin with her sister in tow.

Pulling a blanket around her shoulders, Claire sat down on the narrow bed that hung from the wall and propped her chin in her hands. Hunger seemed the least of her problems. Tomorrow morning she would be attending her father’s funeral.

How could it be possible? Arthur Cavanaugh was too powerful and certainly much too ornery to succumb to death. Claire hadn't even known he'd been ill. He hadn't indicated anything about it in his letters to her; he’d always been in robust health.

In the letter she had received only ten days ago, he had expressed his excitement over a discovery on the estate, something that would secure Claire’s and Emily’s future. Surely he hadn’t meant that he was going to sell Bellefleur for a huge profit. The land had been in her father’s family for generations. It was their home, the only real home Claire could remember.

But what if she and Emily were turned out onto the streets? How would they survive? She began to tremble as those unwanted memories flooded back, trying to drag her once again into the past. Jumping to her feet, Claire paced rapidly, her hands balled into fists. She was no longer that frightened child. And she would sell her soul to the devil before she would ever subject Emily to what she had endured.

Outside the storm raged on, and for the twentieth time that day Claire wished her fiancé had come with her. She had never felt more alone, more in need of a strong shoulder. But Claire understood Lance’s reasons for staying behind. It was bad enough she had to leave a week before finals, and right before graduation, too; she couldn't expect him to do the same. But she wished he’d at least offered to come.

The door opened suddenly and her sister’s rescuer walked in. He stopped when he saw her, as though he’d forgotten she was there, then a look of irritation crossed his face. He settled himself at his desk on the opposite side of the cabin and delved into some paperwork. Claire stared at him uncertainly. Should she go? Stay? She smoothed her skirt, then cleared her throat.

Without looking up, he asked, “Has the dizziness passed?”

“Yes.”

“Has Jonas gone to get food?”

“Yes.”

With a nod, he resumed his work. Stewing, Claire pulled out a chair at the table. Some gentleman he was! Drumming her fingers, she glanced around the cabin. Everything from the mahogany paneling and dark red-and-brown wool carpet to the built-in bookcase and cherry desk seemed neat and orderly and masculine -- like him. She took it to be an indication of his character.

“Must you?”

Claire blinked in confusion. “Must I what?”

“Tap your fingers on the table.”

“I hadn’t realized I was doing it.”

“Do you realize it now?”

Did he take her for a dolt? Claire fumed. “I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly. After all, he had saved her sister.

With a rustle of paper, he returned to his work.

At least, he’d stopped scowling. He was handsome when he wasn’t scowling.

He appeared to be about thirty years old. He had a lean, chiseled face with penetrating, gold-rimmed brown eyes, and a cleft in his chin. Dark wavy hair framed his strong features, and his white shirt and slim black pants emphasized his powerful build. His shirt sleeves had been rolled back, revealing tanned, muscular arms.

For some reason, he reminded Claire of her father -- though not in looks or dress. Perhaps it was his somber expression. Or perhaps it was his bravery and generosity: like her father, this man had proved himself a hero.

He was also potently masculine.

Claire felt her cheeks warm. Why did she find him so attractive? He was the complete opposite of her fiancé. Lance had a beautiful face, with a wide, bright, dimpled smile that was boyish and endearing. His short hair, which he wore combed straight back, was more blond than brown, and he stood only half a head taller than Claire -- unlike Emily’s rescuer, who towered over her.

Somehow, this man seemed intimidating. Claire didn't want to think of him as dangerous, yet she sensed a restlessness in him, like that of a panther on the prowl, that made her feel vulnerable. Lance, on the other hand, was solid, sensible and safe. Above all else, Claire craved safety.

The man looked up and caught her staring. Not knowing what else to say, she blurted, "I'm sorry, but I don't believe I've heard your name."

At first, Claire thought he was going to ignore her. But then he rose and came over. "My fault.” Unsmiling, he held out a strong, wide hand. "Tyler McCane."

At the firm grip of his long fingers, a tingle of electricity raced through her, starting at her fingertips and ending somewhere deep inside, leaving her suddenly breathless. "Claire Cavanaugh," she replied, blinking up at him.

"Not Cee Cee?" A bare flicker of a grin appeared on his darkly handsome face. Claire sensed that he was not accustomed to smiling. For some reason, that bothered her.

With a blush, she slid her hand from his warm grasp. "Actually, those are my initials. My father started that years ago. He gives everyone a nickname, though not all of them are complimentary."

Claire looked down as tears stung her eyes and her throat tightened. How long would it take her to remember to refer to her father in the past tense?

"Do you have a night robe with you?" Tyler asked abruptly, breaking into her thoughts.

His question stunned her. "I beg your pardon?" she replied stiffly, suddenly fearing he had ulterior motives for bringing her to his cabin. She glanced quickly at the door. Was it locked?

Tyler opened a cabinet in the wall and took out a lady's wrapper. "It may be a few hours before we can leave, so you and your sister may as well sleep until we reach Fortune. If you don't have a night robe you can wear this."

Longingly, Claire eyed the beautiful rose-patterned silk wrapper. She had only one change of clothing and some personal necessities in the leather valise -- Emily's clothes consumed the bulk of the space – but she could not wear such a scandalous outfit in front of him. She was shocked that he had even suggested it – unless she had misunderstood? "Thank you, but I’ll be fine," she said coolly.

“Suit yourself. If you want to wash up, there's a small privy behind that door."

Claire hadn't noticed the second door in the cabin. Stepping inside the tiny, paneled closet she found a portable commode, a porcelain wash basin attached to the wall, and several towels hanging from rings.

She unbuttoned the cuff of her damp sleeve and rolled it up, thinking again about the silk wrapper. Did it belong to his wife? How silly to even wonder! she chided herself. What difference could it possibly make to her if Tyler McCane was married?

 

While Claire washed, Tyler busied himself at his desk. He knew he should be in the pilot house conferring with the captain, checking the weather, or doing any number of tasks that awaited him -- yet he stayed, though he felt foolish for doing so. He assured himself the reason for his interest was purely carnal; after all, he hadn't offered her the wrapper solely for charitable reasons. He regretted that he wouldn’t see her with only that thin layer of silk covering her body. Hearing the click of the door handle, Tyler looked up.

Claire had plaited her still damp hair into a thick braid, which now hung over one shoulder, brushing the tip of her breast. Tyler’s gaze moved down the damp, white blouse to her narrow waist, down the curve of shapely hips. She was a comely woman, and his blood grew thick and hot as he imagined what she would have looked like in the silk wrapper. He imagined untying the sash and parting the robe, revealing the glorious body beneath. He could see himself carrying her to his bed, laying her back so that he could feast his hungry gaze on her, unbraiding her black hair so that it fell around her naked shoulders.

She met his eyes warily, and there were bright spots of color in her cheeks, as though she knew the direction of his thoughts and was embarrassed. In a fluid, graceful motion, she raised one hand to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. Her unbuttoned cuff fell back, revealing a slender ivory forearm. Tyler’s groin tightened. Her movements were both innocent and sensual, a potent combination he found difficult to resist.

His earlier, instinctive fear returned, but he shoved it aside. He’d long ago taught himself rigid control over his emotions. She was just a lovely woman, and his physical response was natural and meaningless.

"Was that your wife's wrapper?" she asked suddenly, as though to either divert his attention or remind him of proper conduct.

"My wife's?" he repeated blankly. "I'm not married."

Jonas entered at that moment, balancing a tray of food on one hand and holding onto Emily with the other. "Here we go, ladies,” he sang out cheerily. “Time to eat."

Tyler’s gaze met Claire’s for just an instant and saw her relief. Was it because Jonas had arrived or because he wasn’t married?

With his assistant in charge now, Tyler left. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about Claire - her intriguing eyes, her beguiling smile, her sensuous body. In light of her recent bereavement, he was almost ashamed of his base thoughts.

When he returned to the cabin three hours later, he found the sisters fast asleep on his bed. Leaving the lantern outside, he quietly crossed the room to gather a few personal items and a change of clothing. He paused for a moment to gaze down at Claire. What a shame she wasn’t alone.

"They're sound asleep," he told Jonas, as he prepared to bunk down in his assistant's cabin across the hall.

With a yawn, Jonas climbed into one of the two wall-hung beds. "They should be pleased when they wake up and discover themselves nearly home. Poor things -- received a telegram right out of the blue. What a dreadful way to find out about their father. And then having to rush home for the funeral, and Claire only weeks away from graduating from college."

“You’re certainly a fount of knowledge,” Tyler muttered dryly.

“Emily’s quite a little chatterbox.”

“That explains why you hit it off so well.” The bed squeaked as Tyler rolled onto his side. "But their problems are not our concern.”

"But, you see, they're orphans now. Their mother died four years ago, and they’ve just lost their father, too."

Tyler sighed. "They’ll be fine. There’s money in the family.”

"Perhaps we should see them all the way home."

"Perhaps you should stop talking so I can catch some sleep. I've got that meeting with Boothe later today."

"Ah, yes. Our new partner." Jonas doused the lantern near his bed. "Still, Tyler, about the girls, I think --"

"Damn it, Jonas,” Tyler ground out, rising on one elbow, “stop thinking. You're getting soft. And by the way, Boothe is not a partner until he signs on the dotted line."

"And if he balks?"

"He won't. He wants this partnership as much as I do. With Boothe's backing, we’ll have the biggest operation on the Ohio. We'll all be wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. How do you like the sound of that?"

"It's music to my ears," Jonas admitted. "I just hope there aren't any hitches."

"Hitches are merely temporary interruptions -- nothing to fret about."

"I know," Jonas said with a sigh, "like women."

"Exactly. Neither will stop me from getting what I want."

"Time will tell,” Jonas murmured, “and so will the right woman.”

Tyler pretended not to hear him. It was Jonas's firm conviction that he needed a wife. Though a confirmed bachelor, the feisty Englishman was nevertheless quite sentimental about the state of holy matrimony. Tyler, however, had no such sentiment. He'd learned early on that women could be enjoyed, but never trusted.

Draping an arm across his forehead, he found himself thinking of a certain woman with intriguing blue eyes, and he smiled. He would enjoy an opportunity to get to know Claire better. He'd been too long without female companionship.

It wasn't that he'd lacked opportunities; the glamour of riverboats attracted women. But since he'd bought LADY LUCK he'd been too busy establishing a name for himself to devote much attention to them.

Her slender form flitted across his mind once again. He wouldn't mind devoting some attention to Claire, as long as it didn't interfere with business.

 

Reginald Boothe winced at the heavy, persistent knocking on his front door. Whoever was waking him at this ungodly hour had better have a damn good reason for it. Tying the sash of his robe, he yanked open the door to find Sheriff Simons on the other side, his hat in his hand.

"Yes, what is it, Sheriff?" he asked impatiently.

"I thought you'd want to know that Cavanaugh's daughters are coming back for the funeral. Abe Galloway, from the harbor master’s office down in Paducah, reported that they'll be arriving this morning by boat."

What did he care that the girls were coming home? About to slam the door in Simons’ face, Boothe had second thoughts.

"Why don't you meet them at the docks?" he suggested. "Welcome them back; express your heartfelt sympathy; and find out what their plans are. I'm sure you'll impress the older one with your consideration -- what was her name?"

"Cee Cee." The sheriff blushed bright red as he said it. "What about their housekeeper? She'll probably send someone to meet the boat."

Boothe suppressed an exasperated sigh. "Offer to pick up the girls for her. In fact, why don’t you keep an eye on them for as long as they stay in town?”

With a big grin, Wilbur Simons bobbed his head once and turned to leave.

“And Sheriff,” Boothe called, “don’t forget to send Mr. Galloway a generous token of my appreciation.” He shut the door and returned to his bedroom, where his mistress, Daphne Duprey, the wickedly delectable daughter of the town council president, awaited him. Even so, he wasn’t too angry with the sheriff for disturbing him. It was good to keep abreast of what Cavanaugh’s daughters had planned -- in case more serious efforts were required.

 

Claire awoke with a start. They were moving! She heard gears grinding deep in the belly of the boat and said a quick prayer of thanks. They would be home in time for the funeral.

She and Emily washed and dressed quickly in the dimness of the cabin and emerged onto the deck as the first rays of the sun skimmed the horizon. At that moment, the LADY LUCK rounded a bend in the river, bringing their hometown into view. “We’re almost there,” she told Emily, giving her sister’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. It would be good to be home again, regardless of the circumstances.

"Good morning, ladies."

The deep bass voice sent a disturbing thrill of excitement through Claire. She noted the trim cut of Tyler’s figure in a dark serge suit and white shirt as he approached. "Good morning," she and Emily said in unison.

"We should dock within the hour,” Tyler told them. “If you’d like some breakfast, the dining room is at the front of the boat. Just follow this deck straight ahead."

Claire gave Tyler a grateful smile. "Thank you for all your help. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate what you’ve done for us. You’re a brave, generous man."

Uncomfortable with her praise, Tyler muttered a response. His actions had been automatic, not heroic. He didn’t want to be held in such high regard.

Emily held out her hand, which Tyler took. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. Cee Cee is very lucky you heard her calls for help.” Almost as though she could see him, she gave Tyler a wink and turned. “Coming, Cee?”

With a look of amused exasperation, Claire followed.

Tyler allowed himself the pleasure of studying her as she took Emily’s hand and led the way to the dining room. Claire’s braided hair revealed a slender neck and small, shapely ears. Her outfit was typical, demure college fare: a full-sleeved white blouse and a long, slim, navy skirt. Even so, he felt the surge deep in his groin that signaled impending arousal.

Perhaps he could invite Claire to dine with him one evening. Alone.

 

"How very kind of you to take us home, Sheriff," Claire said to the large man seated next to her sister in the buggy.

"It's an honor, Miss Cee Cee," he replied in an earnest voice, gazing at her with puppy dog eyes over Emily's head. “I’m just glad I was there to help you out.”

Claire felt Emily punch her gently in the ribs. The sheriff was one of Emily’s favorite targets. Behind his back she referred to him as “Simple Simon,” after the nursery rhyme. Giving Emily a discreet nudge back, Claire smiled briefly at the sheriff, then turned away. Her gaze swept the familiar sights of her hometown as they made the journey to Bellefleur. She hadn't been home since Christmas, but nothing in Fortune had changed.

They traveled down Grand Avenue, which ran parallel with the Ohio River, slowing at the intersection of Main Street to let a large wagon pass. One block up Main sat the mayor’s house, where his seventy-year-old mother would be knitting in her rocker on the front porch. Next to the mayor lived Minnie Pennywhistle, on whose wide verandah the Fortune Ladies’ Society met every Tuesday morning. Across the street lived the judge, and behind his house the steeple of the Presbyterian church was visible. The familiarity of it all gave Claire a feeling of security.

"I'm sorry about your -- uh -- recent loss," the sheriff said awkwardly.

"Thank you." Claire turned when someone called a greeting to her from the sidewalk. "Hello, Mrs. Gardner," she called back with a wave.

Her smile dissolved when Reginald Boothe stepped out of the bank on the corner and paused to settle his derby on his head. Though he was quite distinguished in manner and dress, Claire found him repulsive. He wore his light brown hair combed back from a high forehead and gazed out at the world through eyes that were narrow slits in a smoothly shaven face. His nose was long and bulbous at the tip, his mouth narrow-lipped and humorless, and his long chin curved forward, giving him a haughty air.

Boothe stared at her as their buggy passed, a sneer on his face. With a huff, Claire lifted her chin and looked away.

"Who was that?" Emily wanted to know.

"Reginald Boothe," Claire leaned close to say.

"The snake?” Emily whispered, using the nickname she had given him. “He’s the one who --"

Claire gently squeezed Emily's arm in warning. "Yes," she whispered.

“Will you tell me later?” Emily asked.

As Emily knew the story, her mother, the beautiful, ebony-haired Marie Reneau, had been widowed and penniless with a ten-year-old daughter to care for. Reginald Boothe had hired her as his cook, only to dismiss her without pay two months later. With no money and nowhere to go, Marie and Claire had lived by their resources until the prominent landowner Arthur Cavanaugh took them in. He had fallen in love with his new housekeeper and married Marie a short four weeks later. Emily had been born the following summer. The story had been given an almost fairytale quality in order to shield Emily from the truth.

For Claire, the story was anything but a fairytale. The night she and her mother had left Boothe’s house, as well as the weeks that had followed, would be forever etched in her memory. Had Arthur Cavanaugh not taken pity on them, neither she nor her mother would have survived.

Although twelve years had passed, the horrors Claire had endured still brought on nightmares that left her in a cold sweat. She would never forget the panic in her mother’s voice when she had awakened Claire and told her to dress quietly in the darkness so as not to rouse the household. Nor would she forget the bruises that had marred her mother’s beautiful face, or the fear and loathing in her eyes. Claire had known something terrible had happened, but she had been too timid to ask about it.

It wasn’t until her mother had died that Claire had uncovered the truth. While entering the date of her mother’s passing in the family Bible, she’d noticed that Emily had been born a mere seven months after her mother’s marriage to Arthur Cavanaugh. Great care had been taken to hide the fact of Emily’s early arrival, and she now realized that it had been done to cover a horrible secret: Reginald Boothe had raped Claire’s mother. Emily was Boothe’s daughter.

When Claire told her father what she’d discovered, he’d told her his greatest fear was that Boothe would find out and try to take Emily away from him, or worse, try to destroy the child.

She turned to gaze at her sister’s delicate face. While Emily did not look much like either Marie or Arthur, she thankfully bore no resemblance to the banker. Claire loved Emily with all her heart, and she would do whatever was necessary to keep Boothe from finding out the truth.

There was only one thing that puzzled her. Though she understood her father’s reasons for hating Boothe, she didn’t understand why Boothe had taken every possible opportunity to defame the Cavanaugh name. But with her father gone, hopefully Boothe’s vengeance would be gone as well.

She felt Emily's hand grip her arm. "We're almost home! I can smell it."

As they turned onto River Road, the long dirt road that led to Bellefleur, Claire sat forward on the bench, her heartbeat quickening. "There it is, Em," she said, tears blurring her vision. "Home."

"Oh, do describe it, Cee Cee," Emily said excitedly.

"The pear trees are in bloom," Claire began, "and Mrs. Parks has set pots of petunias, white and pink, on the sides of the steps. The grass is thick and long, and the sky is cloudless --"

"I hear the birds chirping," Emily interrupted, "cardinals, jays, robins -- oh, they sound so beautiful!"

"And the house," Claire continued with a lump in her throat, "the house looks the same, Em, like a stately old gentleman welcoming his family home."

The enormous limestone home sat high on a hill. The estate boasted a roomy carriage house, stables, two huge black drying barns, a cornfield, and a tobacco field. Their land extended down to the Ohio River, where they had built a dock for shipping their crop.

Claire had found her haven there, with a man who had loved her as if she were his own blood. Although Arthur Cavanaugh had a longstanding reputation for being obstinate and stubborn, for which many in town had resented him, he had opened his heart to Claire and her mother. He had become her father; Claire could remember no other. Her own father had been a soldier who had died from malaria when she was a baby.

Now, the thought of stepping into Arthur Cavanaugh’s shoes terrified her. How would she ever manage Bellefleur without him?

"I can't imagine Pa not being there," Emily said in a quiet, mournful voice.

"Neither can I, Em," Claire answered, swallowing the lump in her throat.

As the buggy drew nearer, Claire saw Mrs. Parks step out onto the wide, covered porch to greet them. The elderly housekeeper leaned on a cane, and even from that distance Claire was alarmed to see that she was stooped and painfully thin, appearing ill.

When the buggy stopped, Claire stepped down and gave a hand to Emily. "Mrs. Parks is on the porch, Em," she said. "But be careful. She looks very fragile."

As Emily set off toward the porch, the sheriff bounded out of his seat and hurried around to offer Claire a hand with her valise.

"Can I carry your bag to the house for you?" he asked, his full face flushing deep red.

"Thank you, but I can manage," Claire said, as she took it from him.

"What are your plans now, Miss Cee Cee?" Wilbur Simons held his hat before him, his meaty hands crushing and releasing the brim as he shot shy glances at her from beneath bushy brows. "I mean after the funeral. Are you going back to college?"

Claire glanced at him curiously, wondering what was causing his nervousness. "I hope to, Sheriff." When he stood shuffling his feet, she said, "May I get you something to drink?"

"Oh, no," he replied. "I wouldn't put you to the trouble. I'll just be on my way."

"Then thank you again for the ride." She felt his eyes on her as she climbed the steps. Claire had known the sheriff for years, but suddenly he seemed more a stranger than a friend.

"My dear child," Mrs. Parks said in a tremulous voice, enfolding Claire in her embrace. Claire felt the tremors in her hands and pulled back to look at her. She had aged drastically in the five months Claire had been away. Thinning white hair had been pulled crookedly to the top of her head. The once crystal blue eyes were cloudy, and the skin around them purplish and wrinkled. Her cheeks were sunken and her mouth, lined by age, trembled.

"How are you, Mrs. Parks?" Claire asked in concern.

Tears filled the foggy blue gaze. "Oh, my dear, where do I begin?"

“Tell me what happened to my father.” Claire felt Emily reach for her hand and she gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Mrs. Parks shook her head. “Your father had been feeling fit as a fiddle only the day before he died. Indeed, for the past few weeks he’d seemed happier than I’d seen him since your mother, God rest her soul, passed on. That morning he was up early and out of the house before breakfast. Sometime later I heard him moving about in his study, slamming drawers and talking to himself as though he was greatly disturbed. Then I heard a sound like something heavy falling, and I went to see what it was. I found him lying on the floor. The doctor said it was a stroke.”

“Poor Papa,” Emily whispered.

"Let's go inside and I'll make us some tea,” Claire suggested, her voice thick with emotion. “Em and I will need to change for the funeral soon." Eager to see the house again, she put an arm around Emily’s shoulders and they stepped into the spacious front hallway together. But as Claire took in her surroundings, her eagerness turned to dismay.

“Does it look the same?” Emily asked excitedly.

Claire couldn’t find the words to answer her. The condition of their home was shocking. A feeble effort had been made to sweep the dark oak floor, but it had merely moved the dust around. Tea stains marred the pale green carpet runner on the oak staircase, and the Turkish rugs needed a good beating. A thick coating of dust covered every surface in the parlor to the left and the dining room on the far right. It was plain to see that Mrs. Parks was too feeble to maintain the home. “Yes, Em, the house looks the same.”

"Why don't you girls sit down in the parlor," Mrs. Parks suggested, "and I'll go back to the kitchen to heat some water."

“No, please, Mrs. Parks,” Claire said, ushering the housekeeper into the parlor. “You sit down and I’ll heat the water.”

"I'm going up to my room," Emily announced. “Call me when the tea is ready.”

As Claire started toward the kitchen, the housekeeper motioned her back. "There's something you must see before Emily returns,” she said in a whisper.

A shiver of apprehension slithered down Claire’s spine as Mrs. Parks reached a shaking hand into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The woman’s chin quivered and her eyes filled with tears as she held out the paper. Claire’s legs suddenly felt too unsteady to move. "What is it?” she asked reluctantly.

Tears began to roll down Mrs. Parks’ lined cheeks. "It’s the bank’s foreclosure notice, Claire. We have five days to move out of the house.”