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baritone, and Olga, who had a good contralto voice, sang harmony. Abilene felt the tears welling when they sang “Candle in the Wind.”
    She turned away, hoping Donovan wouldn’t notice and torment her about it.
    But it was never a good bet, to hope that Donovan wouldn’t notice.
    When the last notes died away, he went for the throat. “Abilene. Are you crying? ”
    She blinked the dampness away, drew her shoulders back and turned to him. “Of course not.”
    â€œLiar.” He held her gaze. His was blue and cool and distant as the desert sky on a winter afternoon. “Your eyes are wet.”
    She sniffed. “Allergies.”
    He refused to look away. She felt herself held, pinned, beneath his uncompromising stare. She also found herself thinking how good-looking he was. How compelling. And how totally infuriating. “It’s winter in the desert,” he said. “Nobody has allergies now. You’re crying. You protect yourself by pretending to be cool and sophisticated. But in your heart, you’re a complete sentimentalist, a big bowl of emotional mush.”
    It occurred to her right then that he was right. And she wasn’t the least ashamed of it. “Okay, Donovan. I plead guilty. I am sentimental. And really, what is so wrong with that?”
    â€œSentimentality is cheap.”
    Ben, sitting beside her, shifted tightly in his chair. “Cut it out, Donovan.”
    â€œBen.” She reached over and clasped his arm. “It’s okay.”
    He searched her face. “You’re sure?”
    â€œI am positive.” She turned her gaze on Donovan. “A lot of things are cheap. Laughter. Honest tears. Good times with good friends. A mother’s love. A baby can have that love by the mere fact of its existence. Of its veryvulnerability, its need for affection and care. Cheap is not always a bad thing—and I’ll bet that when you were a child, you used to pull the wings off of butterflies.” She regretted the dig as soon as it was out. It wasn’t true and she knew it. Whatever had shriveled his spirit had happened much more recently than his childhood.
    He totally surprised her by responding mildly. “I was a very nice little boy, actually. Sweet-natured. Gentle. Curious.”
    The question was there, the one that kept eating at her. She framed it in words. “So then, what is it, exactly, that’s turned you into such a bitter, angry man?”
    He didn’t answer. But he did look away, at last.
    And for the rest of the evening, he was quiet. The few times he did speak, he was surprisingly subdued about it, almost benign.
    Â 
    Ben brought her red velvet cake that night. “I figured you deserved it, after that dustup in the music room.”
    â€œIt wasn’t so bad, really. I shouldn’t have said that about him torturing butterflies.”
    â€œIt got him to back off, didn’t it?”
    â€œYeah. But…”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI don’t know. Sometimes, in the past few days especially, I don’t feel angry with him at all. I only feel sorry for him.”
    Ben put on a frown. “So then you don’t want this cake….”
    She grabbed for it, laughing. “Don’t you dare take that away.”
    He handed over one of the plates and she gestured him inside. They sat on the couch as they always did when he brought dessert.
    She took a couple of slow, savoring bites. “I don’t know how Anton does it. Red velvet cake always looks so good, you know? But as a rule, it’s a disappointment.”
    He nodded. “I know. It’s usually dry. And too sweet.”
    â€œBut not Anton’s red velvet cake.” She treated her mouth to another slow bite. “Umm. Perfect. Moist. And the cream cheese frosting is to die for. So good…”
    Ben laughed. “You should see your face.”
    â€œCan you tell I’m in heaven? Good company and a