There was no need to put on the radio for the drive to Lily Pad Stables. The memory of Alison's voice kept him company enough. It had been so long since a woman had him feeling as fascinated, optimistic, and excited as she had—a natural antidepressant, well beyond the equivalent of all the Prozac and Welbutrin he had taken over the years.

Lily's directions were perfect. They had to be because the roads quickly became narrower, windier, and less well marked. If she didn't already have a pied-à-terre in D.C., she would certainly need one after her appointment to Drew's cabinet. Gabe checked the trip odometer. Her place had to be close. The land along the road was densely wooded, with occasional broad pastures and narrow dirt roads that were marked only by a mailbox or handmade sign and immediately disappeared in the summer forest.

". . . So when those hard times come a calling, remember you've got to take the bitter with the—"

Gabe stopped singing and slowed, completely awed by the picture-book vista that had opened up before him. The woodlands had given way to vast, rolling pastureland, crisscrossed by pristine two-rail whitewashed fencing. Scattered among the meadows were horses, at least two dozen of them, grazing contentedly. To his left, a professionally made sign read:

LILY PAD STABLES

MAIN ENTRANCE

An arrow pointed straight up. On the other side of the paved drive, a second sign, with an arrow pointing to the right, read:

LILY PAD STABLES

REAR ENTRANCE

STABLES 0.5 MILES

ALL DELIVERIES THIS WAY

Gabe swung the Buick to the left, drove up a short rise, and this time stopped altogether. Nestled in a verdant valley, set against the breathtaking mountains, still in the distance, was the main house of Lily Pad Stables—a sprawling white farmhouse with black shutters that would not have done the term mansion any discredit.

But it wasn't the incredible beauty of the place alone that had stopped him short. He had seen that exact view—mountains, outbuildings, pastures, and main house—before. It took a moment for him to connect with how that could be, but only a moment. It was the scene depicted in the oil painting sketch awaiting completion on the easel by the upstairs window of Jim Ferendelli's Georgetown brownstone.

Gabe gripped the wheel until his knuckles were white, then remained parked on the rise for several minutes, composing himself and wondering how he could possibly get at the subject of Lily's connection with his predecessor without arousing her suspicion that he might know more than he was letting on. Finally, having failed to come up with any specific plan other than to improvise, he eased his foot off the brake and rolled slowly down the first of several gentle grades.