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would once again blame the demise of her career on that shoulder injury. To be forced out of competition by a physical injury was somehow all right; after all, one couldn’t help that. To willingly withdraw—because of lack of drive, no less—was unacceptable. “Why the talk of tennis all of a sudden?”
    Eleanor sighed. “No special reason. It just came up along with talk of Reggie. And I do think about it from time to time. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. I still believe that if you’d wanted, you could have been right up there with Reggie.” When Danica opened her mouth to argue, Eleanor went right on. “Tennis has come into its own in the past decade. Women are doing much better.”
    “My Lord, I don’t need the money.”
    “Of course you don’t. All right. Forget competing. What about playing for fun? It’s wonderful exercise.”
    Danica smirked. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
    “Don’t be silly, darling. You’re as thin as ever. I’m merely suggesting that exercise is good for you.”
    “I get exercise. I walk wherever I can.”
    “I’m talking about organized exercise.”
    “I have ballet class three times a week.”
    “That’s not a particularly social activity.”
    Finally Danica understood. “You’re wrong there too, Mom,” she offered gently. “I’ve met some wonderful people dancing. Granted, they may not be the same type I’d be playing tennis with at the club, but they’re every bit as stimulating, if not more so. They’re refreshing. I like them.”
    If she had been trying to make a statement, it went right over her mother’s head. Eleanor had evidently written off that particular subject. “Well, I hope so. By the way, did you know that Hiram Manley’s brother died?”
     
     
     
    Later, walking back across the Public Garden, more slowly this time, Danica thought about the two hours she had just spent with her mother. She had looked forward to them as she always did. As always, though, anticipation exceeded reality. She wished Eleanor was the type of mother with whom she could share her heart and soul, but she wasn’t. Eleanor wouldn’t understand. As a result, Danica felt the same frustration, the same loneliness she always felt where her parents were concerned.
    All her life she had hoped it would change. When she was a young child in the care of hired help, she had dreamed of the day when she would be old enough to travel with her parents. But when she had been old enough, she’d been sent to boarding school, then to live and train at Armand Arroah’s tennis academy, then to college. Even now, a grown woman married to a good friend of her father’s, she found family warmth to be elusive.
    Pausing at the apex of the footbridge over the pond, she was staring into the dark water when a movement at its edge caught her eye. A young child, his mother kneeling beside him, was offering torn bits of bread in jerky thrusts to the congregating pigeons. From time to time he stole a bite himself, then fed one to his mother. Both were bundled against the wind, which ruffled the water in random gusts. Neither seemed to mind the chill.
    Danica guessed the little boy to be three and tried to remember what she had been doing when she was three. She couldn’t. But she’d been in nursery school when she was four, and she had vague memories of that. By the time she was five she was enrolled in an exclusive private school in the suburbs of Hartford and was spending her summers at a select day camp. Her memory made little differentiation between the two. There were loud groups of children at each and a certain amount of regimentation. She played at friends’ houses, had friends home to play at hers. There was a jumble of birthday parties and clowns and magic shows, frilly dresses and Mary Janes.
    When it came to memories of specific events, she had very few. She did remember going to Elizabeth Park to feed popcorn to the fish, though. Now she wondered what kind of fish ate