THE SMALL WHITE HOUSE at the end of Linden Lane didn't
look like the kind of place where secrets lived. But no
one in the river town of Whitewater, Illinois, knew better
than Deirdre McDaniel that appearances could be deceiving.
The lawn was manicured with military precision. No
dandelion had dared invade from behind enemy lines — the
yard of the neighbor, whose lackadaisical attitude toward
weed control had been the bane of Deirdre's father's
existence.
She wasn't sure which would have hurt worse — seeing her
childhood home down at the heels, the way vacant
properties often were, or witnessing her older brother's
valiant attempt to keep the place ready for their father's
inspection when the hard truth was Captain Martin McDaniel
was never coming home.
Deirdre shifted the white van into park and killed the
engine. Catching the inside of her full lower lip between
her teeth, a nervous tick no one else could see, she
stepped out of the car, her grip tightening on the keys in
her hand.
Breezes tugged chin-length wisps of unruly mahogany hair
about a face too sharply drawn, with its pointed chin and
high cheekbones. Eyes so intensely blue they seemed a
breath away from catching fire stared at the red-painted
front door. She wished there was a key somewhere among the
cluster in her hand she could use to lock away her
memories, but it was too late. They flooded through her,
the past far more vivid than the glorious late-September
day.
She could remember crushing wrinkles into her mother's
crisp cotton Easter dress as she gave Emmaline McDaniel a
chocolate-bunny-smeared hug. She could smell the wood
shavings on her father's callused hands and hear herself
wheedling her big brother, Cade, into letting her join
the "boys only" club that had the coolest tree fort in the
neighborhood.
She could see Spot, the ragged coal-black mutt she'd
rescued, racing down the lane howling, the neighbor cat's
claws dug into his back, triumphant glee on its feline
face. Deirdre's father with his military bearing and
loathing of weakness glowering in disgust.
If that dog was a marine we would've shot it by now.
But you couldn't shoot your daughter. Not even if she did
the unforgivable.
Merry Christmas everyone. I'm pregnant… That was one
Christmas no McDaniel would ever forget. Seventeen years
had passed since Deirdre had made that announcement, and
her stomach still turned inside out whenever she thought
of it. The only small mercy in the whole ordeal: her
mother hadn't been alive to hear what she'd done.
Emmaline, always the quintessential lady, would have
burned with shame to see the telltale bulge of Deirdre's
belly and hear the whole town buzzing that the wild
McDaniel girl had gotten what was coming to her. Maybe
they were right.
Deirdre quelled the old hurt welling up inside her and
walked up to the familiar front door. Her hand shook so
badly it took three tries to fit the key into the lock.
You don't have to do this. Cade's voice echoed in her
memory as she stepped inside the house. The living room
stood empty except for brighter patches of paint where
pictures had hung and divots in the carpet where furniture
legs had left their mark. A few boxes and some rolls of
bubble wrap stood neatly in a corner, Cade's always-
efficient handiwork. He would have spared her this last
task, too, if Deirdre had been willing to let him.
You've got nothing to prove, he'd insisted with a hug. But
how could the family golden boy ever understand? She did
have something to prove. To herself. And she was running
out of time.
The house was for sale. She might never have another
chance to make peace with the home she'd grown up in. To
say goodbye to the maple tree she'd climbed down to sneak
out at night, her father's workbench, her mother's petal-
pink bedroom — a sanctuary Deirdre had rarely entered
because it was tucked under the eaves. Illustrating just
how big a failure Deirdre was when it came to being
Emmaline McDaniel's daughter.
It was such a simple thing to hold so much pain, just an
old-fashioned cedar chest with dollops of copper trim.
"This is your hope chest," Emmaline explained when Deirdre
was still too young to be a disappointment. "My mother
gave it to me, and her mother gave it to her. Someday
you'll give it to your little girl."
"What is it hoping for?" Deirdre had asked, clambering up
on top of it, the buckle on her shoe cutting a raw white
scratch in the wood. Her mother's lips had tightened in a
way that would grow all too familiar as she hauled Deirdre
down. "A hope chest is a place to store dreams for when
you grow up," Emmaline had explained.
Deirdre remembered running grubby fingers over the smooth
orange-streaked wood as she tried to imagine what dreams
looked like. Would they pour out like the glitter she'd
put on the cookie dough star she'd made for the Christmas
tree? Would they float out, shimmering, and sprinkle her
all over like fairy dust?
She'd been five years old when she was finally strong
enough to wrestle the trunk's lid open and saw what was in
the chest.
Every object was fitted like pieces in a giant puzzle. Old-
fashioned aprons and dainty white napkins with handmade
lace were painstakingly starched in neat squares. A fluffy
white veil and wedding dress, every fold stuffed with
tissue paper so it wouldn't crease. Silverware marched
across one end of the chest in felt sleeves, and crystal
vases like the ones her mother put roses in all over the
house sparkled in nests of cotton batting.
Undaunted, Deirdre figured the treasure must be hidden
somewhere amid all that worthless junk, like the lamp in
the Aladdin story Cade had read her. If she could just
find a way to unleash its magic…
One bright summer morning while her mother was tending her
roses, Deirdre sneaked one of the vases from the wooden
chest so she could try to pour the dream out of it. The
dream she could see sparkling inside it, just out of her
reach. She'd climbed up on the rocking chair by the window
and stretched up on tiptoe, holding the vase as close to
the sunbeam as she could, hoping to see the dream more
clearly.
She could still feel the sickening sensation of wavering,
losing her balance, hear the horrid smashing sound as the
vase fell, striking mama's table full of delicate ladies
on the way down. Shattering crystal and china released not
glistening dreams, but the hard, ugly truth that made
Deirdre bleed inside the way her fingers bled when she
tried to scrape up the broken glass, hide it before her
mother could see.
There was no point in giving a girl like Deirdre McDaniel
a hope chest. She was hopeless and not even her mother's
magic chest could change her.
"Mom? Hey, Mom?"
Deirdre nearly jumped out of her skin as her own
daughter's call yanked her back from memories im-bedded
like the slivers of crystal even her father hadn't been
able to remove. They would work out from beneath her
skin's surface on their own when they were good and ready,
he'd promised. When it came to ignoring pain, Captain
Martin McDaniel was an expert.
Deirdre braced herself as sixteen-year-old Emma burst
through the door, her thick black curls tumbling halfway
down her back, her heart-shaped face aglow. Love still
punched Deirdre in the chest every time she looked into
Emma's dark eyes, terrifying her, amazing her. It was
dangerous to love anyone so much. But Deirdre had never
been able to help herself.
"How in the world did you find me here?" she asked, trying
not to sound as relieved as she felt not to be alone.
"I ran across the garden to Uncle Cade's. He guessed there
was a chance you might be here at Grandpa's house."
"My brother the psychic." Deirdre grimaced. "I
specifically told him I was coming here and I didn't need
anyone to hold my hand. In fact, I seem to remember
threatening to murder him if he came within a hundred
yards of this old place. I'm afraid I'm going to have to
kill him."
Emma groaned. "Not again. Couldn't you at least come up
with something more original?"
Deirdre's chin bumped up a notch along with her
aggravation. "It's not funny. I can do this. Alone." Maybe
so, but she couldn't deny how grateful she was to see
Emma's earnest face. Methinks the lady doth protest too
much… What was it about having a daughter in Miss
Wittich's drama class that set Shakespeare rattling around
Deirdre's head? "I'm hardly going to fall apart," she
asserted stubbornly.
Emma sobered. "Maybe you'd feel better if you did."
"That's your aunt Finn talking. She's always so sure she
knows me better than anyone else."
"She's wrong about that." Emma regarded Deirdre with old-
soul eyes so shadowed with worry that guilt twisted in
Deirdre's chest. "Nobody knows you better than I do."
That's exactly what Deirdre was afraid of. It kept her up
late at night, pacing through the white elephant of a
house she and her sister-in-law had turned into a thriving
business.
March Winds…where the past comes alive. Finn had even
incorporated the Civil War-era mansion's resident ghost
into the B&B's logo — a sketch of the distinctive tower
window framing the silhouette of a little girl, a candle
in her hand. A brilliant marketing tool, if only Deirdre
could look at it without being carried back to when Emma
was ten and so terribly alone that the ghost had been the
child's only friend. How could any mother ever forgive
herself for that?
"Mom, for once this McDaniel-style mutiny isn't anyone's
fault but mine. I have to head in to work in less than an
hour and I couldn't stand to wait until the library closed
to tell you the news from school."
It still blew Deirdre's mind that the news from school was
always good where Emma was concerned. For years the
McDaniels had been Whitewater High's personal Bad News
Bears.
"Mom, you'll never guess what Miss Wittich picked for the
senior play."
The drama teacher had kept her selection under wraps for
weeks, leaving her students on tenterhooks — perfect
leverage to keep restless seniors from going bonkers in
class. Of course, it had also put Emma through the
tortures of the damned. The girl couldn't help but hope
the fact she was the best actress Whitewater High had ever
seen would win her the lead. But the rest of the students
made no secret that homecoming queen, cheerleader and
Emma's longtime nemesis Brandi Bates was a shoo-in for top
billing. Considering small-town politics, Deirdre was sure
they were right.
"Don't tell me. Sound of Music? Oklahoma?"
Emma had been dreading some lightweight musical ever since
last year's performance of Bye Bye Birdie.
"Nope. Not a singing nun in sight."
"If it were up to me I'd have your class do The Crucible,"
Deirdre said, still stinging from the jabs Brandi and her
crowd had dealt Emma over the years. "Explore the dangers
of a pack of nasty girls gossiping in a small town. It
might make some of those little bi — uh, witches stop and
think."
Emma gave her a quick hug. "I quit caring what they
thought about me years ago."
If only Deirdre could believe it. She could remember all
too well how it felt to be different, an outsider looking
in. "You know, not one of those girls is even half as
wonderful as you."
"Yeah, well, you're not exactly an impartial judge. But
Miss Wittich is and — You're getting me all off track! I'm
trying to tell you about the play. We're doing the most
brilliant, most wonderful, most amazing play ever
written." Emma paused for dramatic effect. "Romeo and
Juliet!"
"Romeo and Juliet?" Deirdre gave a snort of disgust. "Is
your teacher out of her mind? Stuffing hormone-crazed
kids' heads with romantic nonsense — glorifying sex,
defying one's parents and committing suicide. Teenagers
generally screwing up their lives. That play should come
with a warning from the surgeon general."
"My mother, the last of the great romantics." Emma rolled
her eyes. "When was the last time you went on a date?"