“If you get into trouble, call me.”

“Every chance I get.”

He pulls back and looks down at me. “I mean it, Kate. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

Dinner forgotten, he pulls me tightly against him and lowers his mouth to mine.

CHAPTER 5

Sleep is invariably most elusive when you need it, and last night was no exception. Tomasetti slept restlessly, too, but he was snoring softly when I rose at three A.M., showered, and dressed. I grabbed my suitcase, loaded the cardboard box containing the quilts, potholders, and my sewing kit into the Explorer. It’s nearly four when I kneel next to the bed and press a kiss to Tomasetti’s cheek. Then I’m down the stairs and through the door. I run into the darkness, rain cold on my face, sliding behind the wheel of the Explorer.

My headlights slice through black, driving rain. I’m backing up to turn around when I see the bedroom light flick on. For an instant I consider going back inside to spend a few minutes with him. One more kiss before I leave. My foot hovers over the brake, but I don’t stop. We said our good-byes last night, and I don’t want to do it again. Instead, I hit the gas and barrel down the lane.

An excruciating loneliness chases me as I pull onto the road, but I don’t look back. I don’t want to see the light in our bedroom window or think of Tomasetti watching my taillights disappear into the night. The temptation to stay will be too great. I’m loath to admit it, but I don’t want to leave. Already, I miss him. Already, I’m apprehensive about what lies ahead.

By the time I hit Ohio 83 north, I’m crying. I know it’s stupid, and I’m unduly relieved there’s no one around to bear witness. That’s the thing about loving someone. You no longer own your heart, and that small, beating organ can turn on you without warning and shred you from the inside out.

As the lights of Wooster disappear in my rearview mirror and my headlights illuminate the road ahead, I regain control of my emotions. By the time I merge onto Interstate 71 north, my thoughts slide toward the assignment I’ve taken on. Roaring Springs, New York, is a nine-hour drive. Ample time to concentrate on details I undoubtedly overlooked and develop contingency plans in case things don’t go as anticipated.

I’m half an hour out of Erie, Pennsylvania, when dawn breaks, revealing a sky the color of rusted iron. A few more miles and the rain turns to sleet. By the time I hit the outskirts of Buffalo, the sleet has transformed into snow. Driving conditions deteriorate with every mile, and by the time I reach the south side of Rochester, the interstate is down to one lane. I jam the Explorer into four-wheel drive and creep along at forty-five miles an hour. The remainder of the journey is a white-knuckle-two-hands-on-the-wheel event peppered with four spun-out cars and a jackknifed big rig.