She was rich and successful and fulfilled in countless different ways. She had no right to be miserable.

She thought of the young brats coming along today. Some of them accused her of having succeeded because she was rich and beautiful—what did they know about beauty?—and had “connections” because of her father, and because of her mother’s wealth.

But then, too, some of the young ones said Lillian Parker had given up too much. As if they knew. They pointed out she had never married, never borne children. They could have it all. What the hell was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she have had it all, too?

But they knew nothing, not about her. About her sacrifices. About her joys. They all thought they knew. But they didn’t. No one did, she thought.

She sighed, suddenly tired. Maybe it wasn’t what they knew, but what they feared. Maybe they were just plain scared they were going to hit their fifties with everything and nothing. She felt sorry for them. She wished she could impart some words of wisdom—or at least of comfort. But they’d have to find their own way, decide for themselves what was worth sacrificing and what wasn’t, and learn to understand that there were always regrets.

Turning back to her desk, she saw again the incredible smile and blue eyes of Ashley Wakefield. And the glittering jewels.

I should have guessed this would happen, she thought.

In block letters, she printed “J. Land Crockett” on a label, and then a post office box in Southwest Harbor, Maine. She clipped one of her crisp business cards to the magazine and put them into a large manila envelope. She sealed it and added plenty of stamps. With a red pen, she printed “first class mail” diagonally across the lower corners.

Then she took the elevator downstairs and put the package into a mailbox on the street. Few knew she had access to J. Land Crockett. She wanted to keep it that way.

Bartholomew Wakefield pushed his grocery cart up to the express register at the supermarket on busy Route 9 between Amherst and Northampton. He had sugar, cinnamon, allspice, self-sealing canning jar lids. The apples were ready. He would pick them over the weekend and make applesauce, maybe some apple butter. It used to be that Ashley and David took care of the apples. But that had changed. Sometimes Ashley came out to the farm and helped with the canning and freezing, but only when she felt like it. It was a hobby now, not a duty. And David was busy, too, with his own house, his own land. When he was at the farm, he concentrated on the things that had to be done. Apple butter they could do without. But there was only so much one old man could do alone.

He liked them, Ashley and David. They were good people. He had done well. And the money hadn’t spoiled them. Then, looking up, he saw the smile he’d watched transform over the years, from a toothless, drooling grin of a baby to the impish smile of a child to the awkward smile of a gangly adolescent, and now to this, the sparkling smile of a confident woman.