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dessert. Got it." His hand curved around her elbow and he propelled her toward his car. "Let's go."
    "Just for an hour," she qualified. "I need to call several contractors before they disappear for the weekend."
    "I'll have you back by two." Nicholas opened the passenger door, waited politely while she slid in. Then, he walked around to the driver's side, reaching into his pocket for the ignition key as he did.
    He cast a quick glance at the house.
    One hour.
    He had his work cut out for him.

5
    ROLLING HILLS LOOKED MORE LIKE A COUNTRY CLUB than a sanitarium.
    With lush, sweeping grounds, an eighteen-hole golf course, an indoor swimming pool, and an enormous clubhouse - with one large room dedicated to bridge players, another to social gatherers - Rolling Hills was a resort-lover's dream, the uniformed staff and heavily secured front gates being the only indicators that this was indeed a place of confinement.
    Stuart Falkner took an absent bite of his turkey club, watching as the nurses escorted a new patient over to the group playing croquet. The RNs introduced her around, encouraging her to join in. She was about forty, Stuart noted, wearing the same dazed, jittery expression all patients wore when they first arrived at Rolling Hills.
    This place worked wonders.
    "Sweetheart? Are you all right? You've scarcely touched your sandwich."
    Stuart turned, smiling at the fragile-looking woman sitting in the lawn chair beside him. She was over sixty now, but with her soft brown hair, artless gray eyes and flawless complexion, she looked like a young, uncertain girl. She still was uncertain, in so many ways. The memory lapses, the occasional periods of fading out and retreating to her own little world - all that was still there, though greatly diminished in frequency and severity. The doctors had cautioned that chunks of her memory might never return. To Stuart's way of thinking, that was just as well. Bringing certain things to the surface would cost her nothing but pain, and she'd had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. She'd come such a long way from the broken woman he'd brought here seven years ago. Thanks to the incomparable treatment at Rolling Hills, she hadn't had a drink in ages or swallowed any pills other than those prescribed by the doctors in order to ensure her continued mental health.
    Yes, Camille's physical and mental state had been on an upswing - until two weeks ago when her husband died. True, she'd known he'd had a heart condition. She'd also known his strength wasn't what it used to be. Not to mention that she hadn't truly lived as his wife for years. None of that had mattered. She'd fallen apart.
    Stuart had expected it. Besides his own sense of grief and guilt, he'd been sick with worry over his mother's reaction to losing her beloved Harlan. He knew he had to be the one to tell her, but he'd dreaded it.
    The doctors had been on hand. He'd told her gently, with as few details as possible. It hadn't helped much. She'd gone to pieces right in front of him. She'd lived on sedatives for the first few days, with Stuart spending every waking moment by her bedside. She'd alternately wept, stared endlessly off into space, and murmured endearments to Harlan.
    It took a full week before she finally started to come out of it. And now, these past few days, she'd been almost herself again. The worst of the setbacks were over, the doctors assured him. She was eating her meals again, sleeping without the aid of sedatives, even doing a little reading. Those were all good signs.
    The best sign of all was seeing her sitting beside him, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.
    "I'm fine, Mother," he assured her, covering her hand with his. "Just not terribly hungry. I ate a huge breakfast with Tracy."
    Camille's face lit up. "Tracy's in town?"
    "Um-hum. And she'll be over to visit with you later. This way we don't have to share you. I have you as a lunch companion, and Tracy gets to spend dinner with you."
    "How lovely."