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baked to escape her own pain. To give herself something to occupy her mind other than her own guilt and misery and fears.
    She’d buried herself in cookie dough and piecrusts andcake batter. And all in all, she’d found it a more effective therapy than all the counseling, all the prayers, all the public appearances.
    When her life, her marriage, her world had continued to fall apart, baking had been a constant. Suddenly, she had wanted more. She had needed more.
    Suzanne’s Kitchen had been born in an ordinary, even uninspired room in a neat little house a stone’s throw from the house where she grew up. She’d sold to local markets at first, and had done everything—the buying, the planning, the baking, the packaging and delivery—herself.
    Within five years, the demand had been great enough for her to hire help, to buy a van and to take her products countywide.
    Within ten, she’d gone national.
    Though she no longer did the baking herself, and the packaging, distribution and publicity were handled by various arms of her corporation, Suzanne still liked to spend time in her own kitchen, formulating new recipes.
    She lived in a big house snuggled well back on a rise and guarded from the road by woods. And she lived alone.
    Her kitchen was huge and sunny, with acres of bold blue counters, four professional ovens and two ruthlessly organized pantries. Its atrium doors led out to a slate patio and several theme gardens if she felt the need for fresh air. There was a cozy sofa and overstuffed chair near a bay window if she wanted to curl up, and a fully equipped computer center if she needed to note down a recipe or check one already in her files.
    The room was the largest of any in the house, and she could happily spend an entire day never leaving it.
    At fifty-two, she was a very rich woman who could have lived anywhere in the world, done anything she desired. She desired to bake and to live in the community of her birth.
    Though she had chosen the wall-screen TV for entertainment rather than music, she hummed as she whipped eggs and cream in a bowl.
    When she heard the five-thirty news come on, shestopped work long enough to pour herself a glass of wine. She sampled the filling she was mixing, closed her eyes and considered as she rolled the taste on her tongue.
    She added a tablespoon of vanilla. Mixed, sampled, approved. And noted the addition meticulously on her pad.
    She caught the mention of Woodsboro on the television and, picking up her wine, turned to see.
    She watched the pan of Main Street, smiling when she caught sight of her father’s store. There was another pan of the hills and fields outside of town, as the reporter spoke of the historic community.
    Interested now, certain the report would focus on the recent discovery near Antietam Creek, she wandered closer to the set. And nodded, knowing how pleased her father would be that the reporter spoke of the importance of the site, the excitement in the world of science at the possibilities to be unearthed there.
    She sipped, thinking she’d call her father as soon as the segment was over, and listened with half an ear as a Dr. Callie Dunbrook was introduced.
    When Callie’s face filled the screen, Suzanne blinked, stared. There was a burn at the back of her throat as she stepped still closer to the screen.
    Her heart began to thud, painfully, against her ribs as she looked into dark amber eyes under straight brows. Her skin went hot, then cold, and her breath grew short and choppy.
    She shook her head. Everything inside it was buzzing like a swarm of wasps. She couldn’t hear anything else, could only watch in shock as that wide mouth with its slight overbite moved.
    And when the mouth smiled, quick, bright, and three shallow dimples popped out, the glass in Suzanne’s hand slid out of her trembling fingers and shattered on the floor at her feet.

Three
    S uzanne sat in the living room of the house where she’d grown up. Lamps she’d helped her mother