LITMIR.BIZ

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this your first teaching position?” he asked when they were seated.

      “Uh, no. I taught for almost five years in Denver.”

      “So what brought you to San Francisco?”

      Her hesitation was noticeable. “I have friends here,” she said. “They arranged things for me.”

      Disappointment hit him. “A boyfriend?”

      She glanced at him, then shook her head. “A fellow teacher, actually. She’s a friend of a friend of the artist who owns the other town house.”

      “Miss Hanson,” Stacy informed her father.

      “Yes. Rachel and my…”

      Again the pause, as if she wasn’t sure if she should disclose this much, Cade noted.

      “Rachel and my brother thought I needed to get away.”

      “From Denver?” he asked.

      She nodded.

      “Why?” He realized he sounded like a lawyer before the court, trying to wring information from a witness.

      “My…my mother died after a long illness. In the winter. She loved the spring in Colorado and the wildflowers. She used to say flowers and children were the only consolations life offered.”

      This last part was said with such sadness, Cade felt like a heel for making her speak of it. “I’ve caused you pain,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

      “No, no, it’s okay.” Her smile bloomed once more. “I thought it was time for a change, too. Meeting Stacy today convinced me this move was the right thing.”

      Again he had an overwhelming sensation of déjà vu, as if they’d talked like this before, as if they’d shared secrets, laughed together. It was damned odd.

      “The rolls are ready,” Stacy announced.

      Cade served the rest of the meal, then they opened a can of chocolate icing and finished the cake. “Let’s sing Happy Birthday,” Stacy requested.

      “It isn’t anyone’s birthday,” he reminded his daughter.

      “Mine was back in the spring,” Sara told them. “No one made me a cake, so this can be a belated one.”

      He thought of all she didn’t say—her grief over her mother, the loneliness in those eyes, the fragile quality that brought out something protective in him.

      “Great,” he said. “Stacy, start us off.”

      Stacy began. “Happy birthday to you…”

      He joined in, harmonizing with her childish soprano. Their guest looked at him in surprise. He smiled, pleased that he’d managed to break through the reserve that surrounded her.

      “How old are you?” Stacy demanded while he cut the cake, then served their guest first.

      “Twenty-nine.”

      “Stace, you’re not supposed to ask a woman her age,” he chided.

      “Why?” she asked.

      “Yes, why?” Sara echoed.

      He pretended to think. “Darned if I know,” he finally said. “Someone told me it was rude, that women don’t like admitting how old they are.”

      “We don’t mind being old, do we, Sar—Miss Carlton?”

      “Not at all. Age makes one wiser, I’ve heard.”

      A full, unforced smile appeared on her sensuous lips. Cade couldn’t take his gaze from them. “I’ve seen that smile before,” he said. “Where have we met?”

      Sara was unprepared for the question or his intent perusal. After twenty-five years, she hadn’t expected him to make any connection to her at all. She tried to maintain the smile, but it was impossible.

      “Long ago,” she said in a low voice, “we were in kindergarten together. You and I and your twin sister, Emily. Here, in San Francisco.”

      His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “Yes,” he said after a thoughtful silence. “Sara Carlton. Yes. That explains the eyes. And the smile. I knew I’d seen them somewhere. I had a terrible crush on you. Then one day you left without a word. I was heartbroken.”

      “We moved away.”

      He nodded. “I remember. Your father died. A boating accident or something,” Cade said.

      Or something, Sara echoed to herself, that something being the murder of her father by his. She bit the words back with an effort. She hated subterfuge and lies, but in this case it was necessary.

      “A hard year for you,” he murmured. “For everyone,” he added on an introspective note.

      His smile was sad as well as sympathetic. She knew his mother had been sent away “for health reasons” later that same year.

      She rejected pity for him and his family. After all, she was here for revenge….

      No, it was justice she sought. She was here to see that Walter Parks paid for his crime.

       Chapter Two

      Sara sat on the sofa in the den Thursday night and watched a bead of moisture gather, then meander down the window, gaining speed as it collected more water.

      No rain fell. With darkness, the fog had rolled in off the ocean and tumbled over the low hills like spirits released on the unsuspecting city folk. It condensed on the panes and formed the droplets.

      Inside, she had a fire going in the grate, which held artificial logs, the flames fed with gas rather than wood. But it was still cozy and cheerful.

      She needed cheering.

      During the day, her first full one in the city, she’d kept busy. There’d been groceries to buy and errands to run, then she’d walked over to Lakeside School for the Gifted to be sure she could find it come Monday.

      The private school was housed in elegant brick quarters, which had been a donation from the school’s founder in memory of his son, much as Stanford University had been established.

      On her walk along St. Francis Boulevard, she’d passed the California Scottish Rite Temple and a forest preserve called the Sigmund Stern Grove. Directly across the street from the preserve, she’d found the school.

      She’d also discovered that street names often changed at a cross street for no discernible reason. Junipero Serra became Portola Drive which became Market Street as it neared downtown. However, the area was interesting and lovely, with the ocean, several parks and golf courses, plus three universities within a two-mile radius of her temporary home.

      Like Rome, San Francisco was built on hills. Mt. Davidson at nine hundred and twenty-seven feet was the highest peak in the vicinity while Twin Peaks, a short distance north of it, was next at nine hundred and ten feet. They were nothing like the rocky, snow-covered crags near her old home in Colorado.

      During the fall and winter, she’d often sat for hours and gazed at those lofty spires as she’d waited for her mother’s life to be over….

      “Sara?” the feeble voice said in a whisper.

      “Yes, Mom?” Sara rose from the hospital chair, which also made a bed, and went to her mother’s side. It was the day after Christmas.

      Marla Carlton gazed intently at her daughter. “You remember everything I told you? Kathleen and the twins…they know, don’t they?”

      Sara took her mother’s restless hand. It felt like a skeleton’s, it was so thin and bony now. “Yes, they know. We all know.”

      “Find my brother. Find Derek.”

      “He’s here, Mother. He arrived this morning. He’ll

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