“But you were best friends.”

Lillian’s expression hardened, her mouth tightening as she said, “The last time I saw Judith was at the Christmas ball in Vienna—unless you want to count her funeral.”

Abruptly, Lillian started out onto the narrow point beyond the dock. It was all rock, with waves splashing up on either side of them, and the huge, loose boulders looked as if they had just been dropped there carelessly, to be picked up later.

“We scattered her ashes here,” Lillian said in a voice curiously devoid of emotion. She was looking out at the water. “Crockett and I. He hasn’t been here since. I come here when I can. When I’m here, I feel as though I can be close to her again—the way she was with her mother.”

“I understand,” Ashley mumbled, although she wasn’t sure she did.

“We were good friends, and I failed her in so many ways. I don’t know if she died hating me. I like to think not. I like to think of us as giggling thirteen-year-olds, plotting to put frogs in Babs Goodworth’s bed.”

For a while, neither woman spoke, and Ashley listened to the sounds of the sea and the birds. There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask Lillian Parker, but not here, not now. First she had to dispel this strange melancholy, the eeriness of Jude’s Paradise, and sit quietly and add these new pieces to the puzzle and see how they might fit.

Lillian turned, standing close to Ashley, the bright sun emphasizing the years in her face. “When you get back to the house, go into the dining room. There’s a portrait of Judith there. Look at it. Get to know her.”

Ashley’s heart began to pound. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only image of her—portrait or photograph—that does her justice.”

“But why do you want me to feel as if I know her?”

Lillian gave a small, curious smile. “Look at the portrait, Ashley. Then you tell me.”

26

David watched as Sarah wrung her hands and dug her top teeth into her lower lip, leaving a mark. They were sitting out on the trailer, among the pumpkins, looking out across the valley. The leaves were turning rapidly now. Sarah said, “I don’t suppose this place has changed much since you and your sister were children.”

“Barky doesn’t like change.”

“He must be an interesting man to have raised you.”

David shrugged. He hadn’t told Sarah about the call from Ashley in Maine, which had come while Sarah was out following Iggy around while he fed the animals. Iggy was gone now, with promises he’d be back later. Aside, he’d told David he wanted to know all about the Texas flower with the “bazooms.” Iggy was a jerk, but reliable; David had known him since they were five. “I guess Barky has his points,” he said.

“David—” Pausing, she touched his arm. “I know you weren’t hurt in a farm accident—and I know it wasn’t a rampaging cow or chicken. Don’t joke with me please. I want to know the truth.”