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that didn't stop her from thinking about it, and it didn't keep her from worrying about him. She would sneak out of the house late at night and watch his house, praying that he was safe, asking God to watch out for him.
    Even now, years after the fact, it still hurt her to think about the kind of childhood Dean had had. He had been her protector, but there had been no one to protect him, and she found the inequity difficult to swallow. She not only wanted the beatings to stop, she had wanted Dean's stepfather to pay for what he had done. She had wanted the police to take him away and lock him up for the rest of his life.
    Dean hadn't killed his stepfather as his English teacher had predicted, but he had gotten big enough and strong enough to make the man think twice about picking a fight.
    And eventually Dean's stepfather walked out, leaving before he could get what he deserved. Whitney had never told Dean, but that part still bothered her. Even though she knew the man was an alcoholic and probably lived in his own special brand of hell, it still infuriated her that Dean's stepfather had never been made to pay. Someone should have been held accountable for the theft of Dean's childhood.
    "I'll make it up to him," she said to the night To the stars. To God. "I'll make him happy, I swear I will. When we're married, I'll make sure his life is full enough and happy enough to make up for all the bad."
    He might be dating Barbara What's-Her-Face now, he might even be sleeping with her, but someday that would change. Whitney knew that in her heart.
    Someday she and Dean would be together. They had to be.
    Heracles shifted beneath her slightly, and as she watched, a light came on in the house with the antique weather vane.
    She felt her muscles relax and seconds later she stifled a yawn. She could go back to Sweet House now, and this time she would be able to sleep. Dean was home.

Chapter 3
    W hitney sat in the front passenger seat of her mother's dove-gray Mercedes. Anne was driving, her white-gloved hands holding the big steering wheel in a death grip.
    The sight of her insubstantial mother behind the wheel of a car always struck Whitney as slightly preposterous. It was a little like watching a cartoon character—Mr. Magoo or the little old woman who owned Tweetie Bird—step off the screen into real life.
    The fact that Anne's beigy-cream features were obscured by a wide-brimmed, mint-green hat added to the feeling of unreality, but of course Harcourts always wore hats. Whitney's own—navy blue with big white polka dots—matched her gloves and the bow at the neck of her white dress.
    Whitney had planned on attending Dean's church today. It was a friendly, comfortable place where people said amen out loud and the music had some spirit to it. But Anne had felt that a show of Harcourt unity was essential on this particular Sunday, so Whitney had found herself going to church with them. All the Harcourts had been present at the regular Harcourt church, nodding with just the right amount of noblesse oblige as the minister thanked Uncle Ames from the pulpit for his generous contribution to the building fund.
    "I don't think she was there," Anne said to Whitney as they were driving back to the estate. "I looked for her. Unobtrusively, of course. It's all well and good to say that another individual's opinion of one doesn't really count, but to be accused of slighting a friend hurts, darling. I had my mind made up that I would greet her, but not fulsomely."
    "And then she didn't show up?" Whitney asked. Her voice was sympathetic even though she didn't have a clue as to the identity of the mysterious "she." "That's tough. Such a good plan, too."
    "Yes, it's annoying. The minute Madelaine mentioned it, I told myself I couldn't let it slide this time. I said to myself, 'Anne, this has gone on long enough. This time you simply misttake strong action.'"
    Whitney nodded, her expression earnest, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Talking to