“Why didn’t you take it?”

“Because I had to sign an agreement that I’d never tell. Things like I just told you.”

“Surely, though bordering on a kind of child abuse, your mother isn’t that worried about her reputation.”

Linda was quiet for a few moments then said with a quiver in her voice. “You’re right, that’s not enough for her to go to these lengths. She cares about the Price family reputation a lot, but then again, she had me in pageants, which is not what the blue bloods around here do to score points with each other. She was making me beautiful for reasons of her own. I mean, I’m not the only one who needed therapy. So reputation isn’t everything. There must be . . .” Wrinkles creased her forehead as she tried to find the right words. “There must be another reason for her to expend so much effort on me. But I don’t know what it is.”

It repeated again in her mind: her mother tidied up the counter, then turned to her with the white plate heaped with food. That’s all she saw in her memory.

“Are you going to be okay?” Crawdad—Ted Jeffers, she remembered—touched her gently on the back of her hand.

“Yes. If I work on it, yes.”

Hours later, after nursing a cup of diner coffee for a long time, she took the bus that got closest to Beacon Hill. Her footsteps crunched on the snow-crusted sidewalk and she wanted to be back on that wonderful beach, far away. Marissa had called her strong. She had felt powerful but it was so hard not to believe that it was the place, the time, the woman, the island—and not her—that had been strong.

She made herself climb the stone steps, ignoring the last glint of sunlight off the classic window panes of purple, black and white. The Price family had owned the house for two centuries. The Price family was rooted deep in Boston society but Linda had never felt as if she fit. She fingered her cold ears as she made her way into the chilly foyer. Had they really stuck out? She could hear the surgeon discussing the procedure with her mother—not the words, but the tone of voice, so impersonal, as if it was a steak to be sliced and not a little girl.

“Have you returned for the evening, Miss?”

Linda turned with a startled gasp, not used to the new butler’s quiet tread. “Yes. I won’t be going out again.”

“Perhaps you’d like dinner, then? Madam is also in. It will be served in thirty minutes.”

The idea of sharing a meal with the woman who hadn’t acknowledged her presence at the meeting earlier and had spoken less than a dozen sentences to her since she’d arrived made Linda want to laugh. Butlers behaved as if everything was normal, no matter what happened. “Something hot on a tray, like soup and some bread, will be sufficient. Thank you,” she added belatedly.