Chapter One
The honeycomb-weathered limestone, prickly as tiny
needles, poked into my hands. I edged my sneakered feet on
the narrow trail and pressed against the outward-bowing
boulder. A wave crashed on the rock pinnacles beneath me,
the water swishing with a thousand eager fingers into the
crannies of the cliff, relentlessly sculpting the ancient
fissures.
The grainy rock, the thunderous crash of the waves, the
fine mist beading my face and hands, the scent of seaweed
and salt water enveloped me, creating an embryonic world
confined to this place, this moment, these sensations.
Slowly, carefully, knowing a false step could tumble me
onto the rock pinnacles below, I moved ahead, easing
around the bulge.
I felt a moment of triumph when I saw a widening shelf, a
three-foot indentation invisible from the rocky headland
above, cupped on either side by jutting boulders. Trails
lead somewhere. I'd followed the faint ridge in the rock
and my gamble had paid off.
Breathing hard, I dropped shakily to the mist-slick ledge,
drew my knees up under my chin and looked out at the dark
surging ocean. I watched as the pink tendrils of sunrise
turned the water from the blackness of night to vivid
color. I don't know how long I sat, long enough for the
sky to move from a milky opalescence, streaked with red
and gold, to a pale cloudless blue. I looked south at the
distant horizon and knew there was nothing beyond that
meeting of sky and sea but hundreds of miles of water.
Ships were out there, of course, and birds and ocean
flotsam, but at this moment nothing moved on that endless
horizon and I had this spectacular marine world to myself.
My lips quirked in a wry smile. That was always the
problem, wasn't it? Wherever you go, the old saying points
out, there you are. Here I was, recuperating from
pneumonia, a guest at Tower Ridge House, one of Bermuda's
lovelier small hotels, and yet I was not at peace.
Instead, I was trying to empty my mind of fleeting images
jostling and tumbling as unpleasantly as modern
television's witless flip-flip-flip of pictures. I'd
pushed those images away, submerged them in the moment of
struggle on the rock face, savoring the challenge,
glorying in the feel of sun and mist on my skin and the
sensation -- one I'd not had in many years -- of sheer
adventure.
I cocked my head, watched a flock of terns diving for
fish. I'd had an instant of fun, the kind of fun you know
when you are ten and the limbs of a tree beckon you high
above a garden or the roller-coaster crests the rise and
plunges down the slope. But I wasn't ten. I was seventy-
odd and, truth to tell, had no damn business clinging to
slick rock with waves crashing beneath me. Besides, now
that I was alone in my retreat, the images could not be
denied:
Diana slumped in the window seat, staring determinedly out
of the airplane at the expanse of ocean, her young jaw
set, a tear trickling down her cheek. She had her mother's
delicate, almost sharp, features, her father's fair
complexion and reddish-gold hair. Lovely Diana, my
cherished granddaughter, facing a future she could not
alter and was unwilling to accept.
Dark-haired Neal astride the bright red scooter,
remembering to stay left on the steep hill,
shouting, "Hey, Grandma, hold tight," his voice exuberant,
but his sideways glance at his sister somber and
concerned. Chunky, blunt-faced, direct, uncompromising, my
adored grandson. Neal, though, was always pragmatic. What
would be, would be.
And the others:
Lloyd Drake, my former son-in-law, raising his champagne
glass, earnest face flushed: "To Connor, the loveliest
woman I know." Lloyd had looked across the dinner table
last night with doglike devotion, uncritical, impervious
to the waves of dismay and hostility and anger rising from
the other guests, his attention focused solely upon
Connor. Lloyd was enjoying late-come love with the
enthusiasm of a basketball fan at the Final Four, pumped
up, eager and oblivious to criticism.
Connor Bailey fingering the quite perfect pearl choker at
her slender throat, her coral nails bright as the
bougainvillea spilling over the yellow stucco walls of the
hotel. Connor was almost beautiful -- sleek black hair
cupping a Dresden-china face, flashing eyes shiny as
amethyst, a lithe yet voluptuous body. What kept her from
true beauty? The restless movement of her hands? The
glance that demanded too much, gave too little? The
unceasing hunger for admiration in her bright, beseeching
eyes?
Marlow Bailey pushing up too-heavy, unfeminine
tortoiseshell glasses, her dark brows drawn in a worried
frown. She was near in age to Diana, but they might have
sprung from different planets -- Diana graceful and
vibrant, Marlow subdued and understated. Odd to see them
in such agreement, both opposed to the wedding scheduled
for Saturday afternoon.
Aaron Reed smiling ruefully at his future mother-in-law --
Connor -- and future stepfather-in-law -- Lloyd. Last
night Aaron had looked perplexed and sad when Marlow
stormed from the bar, angry because Lloyd had dismissed
Marlow's suggestion that they plan a ski trip in March to
the Bailey family's lodge in Vail. "Not this year," Connor
said firmly. "Lloyd wants to go to Barcelona." Aaron tried
to patch over the moment. "Things sort themselves out."
His voice was husky, pleasant and vacuous, but his eyes
were sharp and thoughtful.
Jasmine Bailey, perhaps the most cheerful member of the
Bailey family, staring adoringly at Lloyd, her ten-year-
old face wreathed in a sunrise smile when she and Lloyd
tossed a beach ball back and forth. "Lloyd, I'll bet I can
catch it a hundred times," and Lloyd's good-humored
laughter...
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