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      "This is the master bedroom." Silent Mike stood in the hall with his armload of female clothing and jerked his head toward the door on his left.
      "Please no more shag."
      "Hardwood."
      "Thank God." She vaguely remembered this room as something special—some memory associated with it . . . She pushed in and groaned. Old -lady heaven. A canopied bed with an eyelet cover, lace doilies on every flat surface, porcelain cherubs, keepsake boxes, a Jesus wall clock, the ugliest possible blue -and-brown wallpaper on two walls and the remaining two painted, one blue, one brown, gag her.
      In the corner, there, the three -story dollhouse—smaller than she remembered, but she'd been smaller then, too— impeccably furnished down to soup ladles hanging over the stove, and tiny crocheted pot holders. She'd played here with someone . . . someone local.
      Who knew? Who cared?
      "How special is this?" She dumped her armful of clothing on the eyelet bedspread, expecting a cloud of dust. Not a speck. "Clean, anyway."
      "Yes." He dumped his load next to hers and tramped off to get another, she imagined. Nice of him.
      She lingered, crossed to the dollhouse, and picked up the tiny figure of a girl, blond thread hair, carefully stitched clothes, tiny padded legs with wire inside so she'd pose. Emily ?
      Jesus, she freaked herself out. Hadn't even thought of this doll in thirty years and the name popped into her head.
      Whatever. She put the doll down and left the room, trying to make it down the blue shag staircase without wincing. She had big jobs ahead of her. This house needed shaking up. So did Mike.
      And so, she had a feeling, did Kettle.

Four

    Excerpt from Sarah Bannon's valedictorian speech

    Kettle High graduation

    And so I send you off today, exhorting you to turn your energy outward on the world, not only to benefi t yourselves, but to make it a better place, with hard work, honesty, kindness, and beauty. The world might see us as young and inconsequential, but it needs and deserves the power of our youth and ideals. I leave you with this quote from Amy Bankson, a Kettle suffragette in the fi rst part of this century. "The power to make a difference is not handed to us, nor is it innate. It is something we must want badly enough to go forth and grab for ourselves."

    "Amber, honey?" Sarah sugarcoated her voice, her body tensing the aggravating way it always did when she had to confront her daughter. Sarah was the boss; she shouldn't fi nd this so diffi cult.
      "What, Mom?" Amber managed to inflict an image of weary eye rolling into every sentence. Sometimes it was hard to remember the sweet child who tried to copy everything Sarah did.
      "Were you planning to wear that to school?" She tried hard to hold back the over-my-dead-body tone that always set her daughter off. But Amber looked like a slut in her current outfi t—tight blue hip -hugger pants and an equally tight knit top that didn't quite meet her jeans, and left nothing to the imagination in the breast department. Somehow Amber had evaded Sarah's genes and managed to grow beautiful breasts, which was wonderful for her, of course, but no daughter of Sarah's would show up in public looking like a slut.
      "No, I put it on just to eat breakfast."
      "I could do without the sarcasm. And you're not wearing that to school."
      " Mo-om ."
      Sarah's head started to throb. It should be illegal for children to draw out the mom syllable in that particular protesting tone. "Where did you buy that outfi t?"
      "At the mall last weekend with Tanya. Please Mom, all the other kids dress like this, it's no big deal." Her daughter shrugged and looked down at herself, her beautiful, chin length, auburn hair falling in wispy, fl ippy clumps that made it look as if random hairdressers had taken random snips whenever the mood struck them.
      Disapproving of today's styles made Sarah feel old. And looking at her daughter's lush,