Lush green lawns peppered with neat tombstones stretched into the hazy distance as Amy followed the familiar, narrow lane that wound through cedar and oak. At this early hour the sun that could be brutal by midday was no more than a soft orange ball peeping timidly above the horizon, sending long, purple shadows across this perfectly manicured, emerald patch of earth.
Not that its sleeping inhabitants knew or cared.
Not that Lexie cared.
Amy imagined Lexie’s gray face inside her casket and flinched. Again her hands tightened as she fought for some happier image.
She saw Lexie galloping beside her on her colt, Smoky, her red hair flying behind her as she leaned forward. She saw her slow dancing in skintight jeans with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other on the deck of her parents’ lake house that last night.
Amy swallowed a deep, ragged breath. As always, memories of Lexie alive brought even more guilt than thoughts of her in her grave.
Amy hadn’t seen any other cars or even pedestrians in the cemetery. Which was good. She couldn’t have endured another accidental meeting with Robert Vale, Lexie’s father.
Last year they’d come at the same time. He’d seen her and walked over to her car, stiffly handsome in a pressed black suit. He’d smiled, but his silver eyes hadn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said, unable to look at him. “So sorry.”
“The hell you are. I’ll call and tell your mother I saw you here. Then you’ll be sorry.”
“Please…”
Robert Vale had given her a single, killing glance before he’d stridden over to his own car and started it. He’d called her mother, and her mother had called her.
“Why can’t you just do as you’re told?” she’d said. “Just stay away from that grave. How difficult is that?”
“I…I didn’t even get out of my car.”
“That’s something I suppose.”
Rebellion at her mother’s criticism had flared briefly inside Amy. Then her mother had said, “Dear, you’ve got to let this go.”
Eight years. Today all Amy felt was numbness and coldness. She was like a robot instead of grief-stricken as she should be. Never once since the accident had she shed a single tear.
She didn’t think she ever would. It was as if something in her had died that wild night eight years ago. And yet she hadn’t died. Lexie had.
She’d been the lucky one.
When Amy reached the gate to Lexie’s grave, she braked. Rolling down the windows, she gave a long, hollow sigh. Her heart ached. A minute passed before her shaky fingers managed to touch the icy keys. With an effort she forced herself to cut the engine.
Instantly the air felt dense and close. The car’s interior warmed up fast as the awful stillness of the cemetery wrapped around her.
Amy, who was an events planner, had back-to-back meetings all day. The powerful, demanding man whose account she was representing right now had an incredibly active personal life and career. Sometimes she felt as if she was his number-one gopher.
She twisted a strand of her long, blond hair around a fingertip. Being busy and keeping herself surrounded with people were her drugs of choice. Constant work and constant people kept the real demons at bay—at least, most of the time. Her number-one client called her night and day. That was a good thing.
On nights when she hadn’t pushed herself to the point of exhaustion, her demons attacked her full force. Sometimes she saw Lexie’s face in a deep pool of water with her red hair flowing all around her. Sometimes she heard Lexie’s laughter. Sometimes she dreamed she was riding endlessly over dark water, calling Lexie’s name.
As she had so many times in the past, Amy tried to pray. She squeezed her eyes shut, but her heart felt too numb. Instead of forming coherent thoughts, her mind went blank.
“God, please hear my silent cry,” she finally whispered in despair as her hopelessness consumed her.
Opening her eyes, Amy caught the funereal scent of roses. She sighed again and let go of her hair. Eight lush, velvety red blossoms wrapped in pink tissue lay on the leather seat beside her cell phone. The flowers had been expensive. She’d meant to give them to Lexie. This time she’d really meant to get out and walk up to her grave.
She still meant to, only when she leaned across the seat and lifted the bouquet, a thorn pricked her through the tissue paper. Then just as she touched the door handle, her cell phone rang. She picked it up.
She tensed when she read Carole Burke in vivid blue.
Mother.
Amy frowned and set the phone back down. When it finally stopped ringing, she touched the door handle. Again her hand froze, just as it always did, and her throat went tight and scratchy.
Folding her hands in her lap, she just sat there for several more minutes and endured the silence and the heat that intensified the sickly fragrance of the roses, until finally she tossed them onto the backseat. They would wilt and turn black before she noticed them again.
As she started the Camry, she was almost glad about the long, stressful day ahead of her, almost glad she was going out to dinner tonight with Betsy. At least she wouldn’t be home alone on this night of all nights, her thirtieth birthday.
Thirty. She was thirty.
Eight years ago Lexie had given her a wild birthday party on Lake Mondo. Amy hadn’t had another birthday party since. She never even let her parents bake her a cake.
Even so, she had to go out tonight, not to celebrate, but to avoid her mother’s calls, to avoid the empty walls of her apartment and the awful silence, as well. And the dreams. She couldn’t face her dreams.
Thirty. She was thirty.
She was alive…and yet in some ways, she felt less alive than Lexie.
Damn! Steve Fortune knew he wasn’t much of a cook. Hell, he was supposed to be the owner of this establishment, not the cook. Try telling that to Amos, who hadn’t shown up on the busiest night of the week.
Steve’s left forefinger throbbed where he’d just burned it frying hamburger patties. He needed a beer—fast—to soothe his frayed nerves.
It was ladies’ night at the Shiny Pony Bar and Grill on Sixth Street in Austin, Texas, and so, as usual, his trendy bar was jammed with beautiful women seeking cheap booze and the admiration of urban cowboys who showed up to amuse them.
Men like me, he thought cynically. Steve was thirty-six, too old for this sort of mating game. Too smart, too. After all, he was the smart triplet. At least, that’s the story he tried to sell his brothers.
The girls with their long, satiny hair and their slim hips encased in skintight jeans looked young as they stood at the sturdy wooden bar beside all the liquor and fancy glasses that were stacked sky high. Hell, these girls looked way too young and naive for what he had in mind.
Madison.
Why the hell had Madison chosen to show up this morning on Cabot’s arm when they met to sign the formal papers? She’d had that wounded look in her eyes that carved out his heart and made Steve wonder if Cabot was taking care of her.
She’s not your responsibility anymore.
Sucking on his blistered finger, Steve sank into an out-of-the-way booth where he could watch the action in the shadow-filled room charged with an overload of testosterone and estrogen. The dark lighting, high ceilings, huge beams and scuffed, wood floors made for a cozy, casual atmosphere.
He should have fired Amos for being late again. It was the third time in thirty days. But Steve had been desperate to have a night off, so he’d merely nodded when