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what that might be and where to start. “I hope not.”
    I shifted my eyes from Sandy’s face with its comforting wrinkles to David. He was ignoring the two of us entirely as he cautiously approached one of the pair of whitewashed terra cotta lions standing sentry on either side of the front door. He’d looked entranced ever since I’d pulled the Jeep off tree-lined Beverly into the circular drive in front of Mother’s. I always thought of it as her house, never mine, perhaps because the Highland Park estate had always reflected her tastes, from the vaulted ceilings and gold-leafed moldings to the cast-stone fireplaces, marble baths, and Chinese silk rugs. It was like a palace in a fairy tale with Mother its queen and me a visiting commoner.
    I hoped the boy would feel comfortable in a setting so different from what he was used to. If I knew Sandy, she’d make sure of that. For Mother’s sake, I prayed he would behave as he had on the drive over. Though I sensed he was not the kind of child who broke things or ran around screaming and smearing jelly on the walls.
    “You want to head inside, David?” I said, and he turned to me, as if only then remembering I was there. His cheeks glowed pink. His knapsack clung turtle-like to his back; on his slight frame, it looked heavy. I waved at the door Sandy held wide for him. “C’mon,” I prodded. “Let’s go.”
    He walked toward me, eyes downcast, and I set my hand atop the soft nest of his hair, guiding him beneath the arched doorway and into the marble foyer.
    I knew he was terrified, what with his mother being taken away in the early morning hours by the police and no one telling him exactly what was happening. But, for all his shyness, he hadn’t cried or pouted. In fact, he’d hardly said a word except to ask a question now and then. Molly had been quiet, too, back in school. The kind of girl who had so much going on behind her eyes, but rarely spoke unless spoken to.
    “Why don’t you let me take David to the kitchen for some breakfast,” Sandy offered as we paused near the foot of the curved staircase. “And you can go up and visit Cissy.”
    Before I’d answered, she put her hands on her knees and bent forward, nose-to-nose with David. He backed against me, and I placed my hands on his shoulders to still him.
    “How does that sound, young man?” she said directly to him. “You haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?”
    “Nope.” He shook his head, then looked up as if to get my approval.
    “Go on,” I told him. “Sandy’ll take good care of you. And wait till you taste her pancakes. Um-um good.”
    I worked the knapsack from his arms, and he wriggled out of the straps. Sandy took his hand, speaking over her shoulder, “Cissy’s having tea and toast in her sitting room.”
    I listened as their footsteps dwindled, the click of Sandy’s pumps and the shuffle of David’s sneakers.
    Then I put a hand on the carved railing and took a deep breath.
    For some reason, I felt a little like I was paying audience to the queen when I visited Mother. Cissy Blevins Kendricks had always been a formidable person, still was even as she neared sixty, and she had always intimidated me, even if she hadn’t meant to do it. She had a way of making me feel small and rumpled and awkward without saying a word. I didn’t blame her for it, and I didn’t hate her, either, though I’m sure some psychiatrists would find me dysfunctional for being so accepting. She was who she was, and I would never be that. Knowing exactly where I stood made it easier for me to be with her. And, I figured, for her to be with me.
    I started up the stairs, following the pattern of the Oriental runners. The house seemed so still in the early morning, the soft moan of the wood beneath the patterned wool sounded loud to my ears, though the way my heart hammered noisily in my head it was a wonder I could hear anything at all.
    I briefly poked my head into Daddy’s old study. Mother