"She can't play with us! Shit, she's just a namby-pamby little kid!"

Ouch. Whoever said names could never hurt you? From inside her Grandma's house, Savannah Alexander stood alone by the guest bedroom window, listening to and watching the big kids fight. Fight over whether to allow her to join their game. Tempers were hot; no mistaking the boys' stuck-out jaws and swinging fists. Almost as hot as the wispy breeze trying to ease its sluggish way through the open window. The baseball team's angry voices weren't as shy: coming from the vacant lot next door, impolite curse words made her turn strawberry red.

Savannah sucked in part of her lower lip. What would happen next?

"I count nine to eight," said Tommy, one of Savannah's cousin's friends. "Uneven, Jacko. She comes in or you lose one from your team."

Savannah held her breath. Jacko was something of a bully. Big with a sandy crewcut--he had a fist the size of a melon.

"C'mon, let her play, Jacko. She'll have fun. Besides, we need her, and she'll only be here for a few more days. It ain't forever." Her cousin, Drew, nervously tossed the baseball from hand to hand. He was a little afraid of Jacko. Even now Drew paled under his summer tan and darted his gaze at anyone and anything but Jacko. And Drew was fourteen!

But Tommy was also fourteen, and he didn't seem to mind Jacko staring him in the face and stomping his bare feet like an irritable bull. That in itself was amazing.

Then Jacko did the unexpected. He threw back his head and laughed. There was a meanness about it though. An uneasy feeling tingled down Savannah's spine.

"All right, Tommy boy. You punks can have the squirt on your team. Not that she'll be any good. Nine years old 'n she throws a ball like the prissy sissy she is!" Jacko pounded Tommy on the back, but the other boy didn't flinch.

Instead, Tommy pointed to Savannah's other cousin, Drew's sister Glenda-- the only girl outside with the boys. "Why don't you go find Savannah and ask if she wants t'play?"

"Ask if she wants t'play with us?" Jacko and some of his teammates hooted. "Why, what does she need, one of those engraved invitations since she's from Noo Yawk?" The snickering was downright disgusting.

Glenda, three years younger than Drew, bobbed her head, then ignoring the hubbub, sped off to Grandma's house, blonde pigtails flying behind her. Savannah didn't have much time. She yanked out the neatly tucked in tee-shirt from her matching shorts and pulled off her sneakers. Every kid in this small Missouri town went barefoot but her own feet weren't used to pebbles and grit. Maybe they wouldn't make fun of her if she wore sandals. Maybe not too much fun, anyway. Buckling them up, she was almost ready when Glenda burst through the front porch door.

"Savvy? Where are you?" A second later, she rushed into the bedroom. "Hey Savvy, guess what? We're gonna let you play ball with us. C'mon, the guys are waitin'."

It really was an honor to be with the big kids, but sometimes a girl had to draw the line at certain things. "I'm coming, but don't call me Savvy, Glenda."

Her cousin wrinkled up her freckled moon face. "Yeah, yeah, quit your jawin' and c'mon! What were Aunt Natalie and Uncle Hank thinkin', namin' you after a city in Georgia?!"

It wasn't a question, just something everybody, even the relatives, always asked Savannah. How many times did she have to tell them her name was a remembrance of where Mom and Dad met: some type of grassy land--in Africa, of all places? Having anthropologists as parents was really too weird. Why couldn't her dad be something normal--like a truck driver? And Mom...she sure was no Betty Crocker.

And if "Savannah" wasn't bad enough, with "Emma" as middle name, everyone always made fun of her initials. SEA. Gosh, sometimes it was really tough being a kid.

Glenda swung an arm around Savannah's shoulders and ruffled her short, curly hair. "Hey, after the game, why don't you 'n me go down to the drug store and get a pop, okay? Cherry Pepsi?"

"Okay!" Cherry Pepsi was Savannah's favorite soda. She couldn't get it back home. Now outside under the blazing July sun, she nodded at her new teammates, but saved a shy smile for Tommy. Out of all Drew's friends, she liked him the best. Wavy, dark hair; a big, friendly grin; strong arms...

Tommy winked at her, then gathered everyone together to go over the rules of the game.

Savannah sighed. She'd try her hardest, but she'd never played baseball before--not even stickball. Of all the rotten luck. If there was one person she didn't want to let down, it was Tommy. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed as hard as she could. Maybe she wouldn't embarrass herself too much.

* * *

Many people found shelter in the night. Wrapped in the cloak of darkness, they hid from the slings and arrows of the day. Not Savannah--she couldn't. Tonight, she was having that dream again; the same dream that had haunted her ever since she could remember. Only this time it was worse--much worse.

She couldn't move. Rooted in the bed, every part of her body weighed a million pounds. No matter how hard she concentrated, her eyelids refused to open. Held like a virtual prisoner, she was forced to relive this afternoon's humiliation. And it had been humiliating. Every time at bat, she struck out. In the outfield, she missed the ball. Jacko had laughed and laughed until his ugly face turned blue. Now, in the dream, he grew in size and strength until he seemed to fill the sky.

"You cannot escape, Selena. I will get what I want until there is nothing left of you. Do you hear me? Until there is nothing left of you!"

Savannah couldn't help but hear. His voice roared through her ears, blasting down into her soul. Her heart positively quaked. And still she was powerless to move--to wake up. He'd called her Selena, but he was talking to her. Now came the familiar part of the dream. The helplessness...the panic...the spreading horror that something unspeakable was about to happen. Maybe once a month, she'd have this nightmare. She'd wake up frozen with fear. But it had never been this vivid. Never this...close.

She had to get away. If only she could scream to call Mom and Dad. Or Grandma. Anybody! If only she could break free from this...this spell.

Wishing must've made it so, for suddenly Savannah was able to open her eyes. For a second she took stock of her surroundings. Still the same worn flowered wallpaper covering the guest bedroom walls; still the same cracked pitcher and bowl on the bureau waiting for someone to wash hands; still the same sweet picture of baby Jesus in his mother's lap, hanging over the cedar hope chest. Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed.

Except Savannah could have sworn she'd been someplace else. The urgent need to flee remained, however. Not caring she was barefoot, she jumped out of bed and, avoiding the creakier floorboards, left her room and opened the front screen door. She made her escape out into the starry night. Not looking back, she ran. Fast, faster, fastest. Away. Away. Had to get away.

The hot, humid air clung to her, trying to slow her down. Mosquitoes buzzed around her, glad for the chance to have a midnight snack. A symphony of sounds enveloped her--country noises. Humming, moaning, hissing. The singing cicadas were the worse. Some kind of bug, Dad had said. But Savannah kept going, disregarding the rocks, twigs, and slimy feel of muddy ooze beneath her feet.

"Ouch." In the dark, she missed the sharp, jagged stone in front of her. Falling on hands and knees, she cradled her wounded left leg in her arms. Blood seeped out from a two-inch gash while tears flowed freely from her eyes. A fine mess she'd made of things. How could she explain her muddied, bloodied babydoll pj's to Mom?

"What am I gonna do?" she sobbed softly.

A light bounced across the vacant lot next to Grandma's. The flashlight's beam zigzagged across the field, looking for someone, looking for her. More sooner than later it would find its mark. "Who's there?" a harsh voice whispered.

Savannah turned to stone. How could she have forgotten? The boys had constructed a tent house made of blankets and were all sleeping outside tonight. What if...what if she ran into Jacko?

The light exposed her crumpled form, coldly illuminating the mishap. "Savannah! What happened? Why are you out this late?"

It was Tommy, in frayed jean shorts and a white undershirt. His dark hair, indistinguishable from the night, ruffled up in an endearing way. He was, in a word, gorgeous.

She stopped sniveling to wipe the tears on her puffed up sleeve. If only she were thirteen.

"Savannah? You okay, kitten?" He bent down and examined her injury.

"I, um, I had a bad dream, that's all."

Tommy held her lower leg and scraped off some dirt and grass. Peculiar shivers vibrated up and down Savannah's insides. She felt so weird. Not bad, but not good...exactly. She stared at him, not knowing what else to do.

But she did have a question. "Why do you call me 'kitten'?"

He grinned. "'Cause you're so small and helpless." To her embarrassment, he got really close to her leg--peering at it from only an inch away.

"There, all the foreign stuff's out. We'll have t'wash it, though, or it'll get infected. Your granny's got a pump out back, right?"

Grandma's water pump was a throw-back to the old days. She even had an outhouse, but thankfully, that was no longer in use. Imagine sitting on a hole--

"C'mon." Tommy helped her up. "Your ma's probably missing you."

"Thanks, Tommy. I--"

He put his finger to her lips. "Shh. Jacko's sleeping right over there. We don't want t'wake him, do we?"

She trembled. "No."

Tommy curved his arm around her and walked her over to Grandma's backyard. She'd never felt so...safe and protected in all her life.

"I didn't think so, Savannah. I bet anything he's the one who gave you the nightmare in the first place."

Never fond of her own name, she drank it in when Tommy used it. A giggle bubbled up and refused to be held back. "You're right! How'd you guess?"

"Hey, he gives me nightmares, too!" Tommy primed the hand pump a few times, and then water began to flow. "Here, stick your leg in."

The sensation of him running his hand up and down her lower leg in no way could compare with Mom's touch...or Dad's. For some reason, Savannah wanted to jump out of her skin from the sheer pleasure of it.

"Okay, it's clean." He glanced at her dirty pajamas, then down at his undershirt. Without saying a word, he whipped the shirt off and started drying her leg.

The only time Savannah had seen the unclothed upper part of a boy was at the beach back home, or at the pool near Grandma's house. To be truthful, she'd never really paid much attention. But Tommy's body. Well, he was beautiful.

Something unusual coursed through her veins. Something that hadn't been there before. Something grown-up.

"You...you should be a doctor," she offered timidly.

"Me? Nah. I'll be lucky if I graduate high school." He handed her the shirt. "Keep this in case it bleeds some more--so you don't dirty your granny's sheets."

Their hands met and he looked at her, eye to eye. She wanted that moment to last forever.

"Er, you'd best get back t'bed, Savannah. And no more bad dreams."

He couldn't go! Not just yet. "I, um, I'll get your shirt washed and give it back to you, Tommy."

"Nah, throw it away." He turned and headed toward the blanket house. "See you tomorrow, kitten."

It sounded like a promise. Hugging the shirt to her chest, Savannah skipped back into her bedroom. Slipping under the cotton bedsheet, she sank into the mattress and sighed. It really was a miracle that everyone still slept.

Tomorrow. She was going to see him tomorrow.

As it turned out, Savannah never saw Tommy again. Until...

"Nooo! Get away from me!"

Savannah woke up, jumped out of bed, and raised her fists to a fighting position--all in the same second. He was coming after her; she had to defend herself; he--

Reality hit. As did vertigo. Her mind reeling, she quickly sat on the hotel bed and lowered her head between her knees. She didn't need to turn on the light to know that she was alone.

Man, oh man. Not again. Not now. Not in St. Louis.

The adrenaline pumping from the horrors of her dream and her head, light from the suddenness of her leaping out of bed, she stayed put. Soon her body would return to normal.

Why was that awful nightmare coming back? The nameless menace looming over her, the eerie desperation paralyzing her with fright...It had been so long since she'd last had to deal with this terror. So long. The last time was when she'd been fifteen; now she was twenty-eight--too old for this kind of thing. That monster-under-the-bed stuff was just something that happened to kids.

Or so she'd thought. Evidently pure evil had no age limit.

She sank back down on the pillow. Why now? Why here?

A knock on the hotel door pulled her back into the tastefully decorated but impersonal hotel room. "S.E.? S.E.? Are you all right?" came a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

Lizzie. Darn. Had she heard Savannah's ramblings from the dream? Had she been that loud? After all, she hadn't screamed or anything.

Or had she? Savannah's cheeks burned. Drat. These hotel walls were really thin.

"S.E.?"

"Coming, Lizzie." Not forgetting to put on her slippers, Savannah hurried to the door, switched on the light, then let her coworker and friend in.

Lizzie took no time at all taking charge. "Sheesh! You scared the living daylights out of me, kiddo. I heard all this noise, like a fight going on, and--"

Grey eyeballs bulging, Lizzie placed her pudgy hands on her rapidly vanishing waistline. "Holy moly! You look like you've gone ten rounds."

"I just had a bad dream." An understatement if ever there was one.

Lizzie wouldn't be pacified. She pulled on Savannah's arm and carted her over to the standard issue hotel mirror. "Take a look at yourself. Ordinary dreams don't do this!"

Reluctantly, Savannah obeyed. With Lizzie, a person didn't have a choice. "Let's see, thong slippers, skinny legs, crumpled nightshirt, not much chest to speak of. What more do you--"

"Higher!"

When Lizzie got a maggot in her brain, there was no stopping her. Savannah continued her perusal. "Scrawny neck, stringy this-way-and-that brown hair, and..."

Who wouldn't have paused at the sight of the creepy, undead-looking reflection staring back at her? It was that bad.

"Oh my gosh!" Savannah's normally healthy complexion had gone white-- bloodless. Smoky blue bruises appeared under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept in a week. And her eyes, usually a soothing, peaceful brown color, were wide open and wild--still shocked at what she'd just seen, just experienced in her nightmare. She'd make a great extra in a low budget vampire movie.

With her hand, she flicked strands of hair back to their correct shoulder-length position. "So I'm a mess. What else is new?"

Lizzie wasn't buying the flip attitude. She had a classic Type "A" personality. "Sit down, S.E. Or you'll fall down. Look at you. Your hands are shaking like you're holding a grenade. What gives?"

Savannah sat--gladly. Her hands did tremble a bit. Well, to be truthful, much more than a bit. Not a good trait for someone in her business. As a conservator for New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art, she was a part of the team of people responsible for maintaining and restoring the museum's vast art collection--about four million separate items at last count. Savannah's specialty was in Egyptian art. Usually museum couriers, like Lizzie, supervised the unpacking, installation, and repacking of the loan items at the borrowing institution. But Savannah was so engrossed in her field, she often traveled to help set up the special art exhibitions touring the country...and the world.

Which was why she and Lizzie were here in St. Louis. "Predynastic Egypt: The World Before Pharaohs" was scheduled to publicly open at the St. Louis Art Museum on Tuesday, with a Friends of the Museum preview on Sunday. Plus there was a gala Members-only fund-raiser reception Saturday night. Here it was, Thursday night. Most of the unpacking, checking for transit damage, and setting up was done, but how could Savannah finish the remaining tasks...with unsteady hands? These artifacts were five thousand years old and more. Each and every piece deserved handling from competent professionals--not from someone suffering from some kind of weird psychosis.

Lizzie plopped down beside her. "I've never seen you so rattled. Something else must've upset you. Tell me about it."

"It was just this dream. A recurring bad dream. I...I haven't had it in a long while, though. It's foreboding. Something horrible is going to happen."

Savannah could bet her life on that. Unfortunately her sixth sense agreed: her very life was going to be at stake. She shuddered.

"Holy moly, you've turned white again!" Lizzie dashed to the sink and poured some water into a glass. "Here, it's not Perrier but drink this."

While Savannah complied, Lizzie tapped her fuzzy-slippered foot. She looked like a pink, cuddly teddybear. "Listen, you're a big girl. You don't need me to tell you what to do. But--"

Savannah smiled. With Lizzie, there was always a but.

"But if you don't shake this thing, you'll be in no condition to take care of Dumbo and his buddies, S.E.," she continued.

Sighing, Savannah finished the water, then fluffed up her pillows. She leaned against the headboard, allowing all her muscles to relax. Dumbo was the museum nickname for a small pottery elephant, with big ears, of course. It easily could've been the oldest object in the Egyptian collection.

"It's my job, Lizzie. And I love my work. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize the exhibit."

"I know, kiddo. And there's no other conservator quite like you either." Lizzie stood, then pulled the summer-weight blanket over Savannah. "You go back to sleep now and try to forget this dream. But promise me if you have it again, you'll go see someone about it."

"When I get back to New York--"

"Here. You'll see someone here. My gut tells me that if you don't, you won't make it home." A cuddly teddybear didn't quite describe Lizzie's demeanor. It was more like a drill sergeant's.

A shiver zigzagged its way down Savannah's spine, chilling her to the bone. The funny thing was, she had that same feeling, too.

"Promise, S.E.?"

"Okay, I promise." She slid further under the blanket. Not looking forward to the possibility of another dream, she closed her eyes anyway. So tired.

"You'll be fine then?"

"Yeah, thanks a lot, Lizzie."

Lizzie walked over to the door and hung out the "Do not disturb" sign. "There's not that much else left to do. St. Louie's staff and I can finish. Don't worry. It's no big deal."

No big deal? To use Lizzie's word, sheesh!

The light switch flipped off and the room was plunged into darkness. Lizzie, however, wasn't done with her free advice yet. "You know what your problem is, kiddo? You lavish your love on these artifacts. These things are special, of course, but they belong to a world long since dead and buried. What you need is a good husband and family."

With the timing of a Broadway actress, she dramatically closed the door, not allowing Savannah a chance to retort.

In the blackness of the room, Savannah had the last word. "Husband and family? Get real. I'd rather have a good hole in the head."

* * *

The next day, in the Museum's lower level special exhibition gallery, Savannah put the finishing touches on the display case containing a buff colored, earthen vessel of the predynastic period. Even though the lighting intensity level had been determined, Savannah checked it again. It was extremely important to make certain the indirect lighting was low enough to prevent heat buildup. If damage were to occur, all too often it was irreversible.

Although the large room fairly hummed with activity, a calm and peaceful quiet filled her as she observed the ancient pottery piece through the glass. Distinct female figures with long, close skirts were painted in red on the surface. Some Egyptologists theorized this meant they were goddesses or priestesses. Positions of power and responsibility.

Savannah circled the pedestal and reflected on that thought. What would it have been like to be a goddess or a priestess in those times?

As if answering, a deafening roar thundered through her skull. Hands to her ears, she staggered back, trying to escape.

"You cannot escape, Selena. Don't you know that by now? I will capture you...and imprison you...and exploit you...forever! Until there is nothing left!"

Laughter--male laughter--wickedly echoed louder and louder. "Until there is nothing left!"

Her eyes squeezed shut, Savannah stuffed her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming. She couldn't think, she couldn't speak, she couldn't do anything with that inhuman monster invading the privacy of her mind. Taking another step back, she found her way blocked by something. If she pushed harder...

"Ms. Alexander, what's wrong? a concerned male voice questioned.

"S.E.! Snap out of it!" Someone else--Lizzie--roughly shook her.

Savannah opened her eyes. Two of the Museum's staff were staring at her as if she'd just sprouted horns and a tail. Lizzie, on the other hand, looked mad enough to spit fire.

Savannah knew her friend Lizzie better than any person on earth. Looking mad meant she was scared as hell.

"She's okay, you guys. You can go back to work. I'll take care of S.E." Lizzie flicked her imperious plump wrist, indicating dismissal.

Puzzlement on the two men's faces, they shrugged and walked back to their previous workstations. Although she had only been here a short while, everyone learned fast not to argue with Queen Lizzie.

Savannah wasn't capable of arguing, even if she wanted to. She allowed Lizzie to escort her out into the hallway, down past the Museum gift shop, and over to the nearby women's restroom. Fortunately, no other visitor lingered in the lounge. She and Lizzie could speak freely.

Glancing into the mirror, Savannah shuddered. Her auburn hair appeared obscenely dark against the nonexistent color of her skin.

"That dream again?" Lizzie prompted.

"Yeah." Savannah turned her back on her disturbing image and rested against the washroom counter. "But technically speaking, since I was awake, it couldn't have been a dream."

Lizzie's sparse lips thinned further. "You're going to see a doctor."

Denial was immediate. "No, I'm all right. I--"

"Kiddo, technically speaking, one more push on that display pedestal, and your beloved Egyptian pottery piece really would have become ancient history."

That stopped Savannah cold. Had she come that close to doing the unthinkable? Visions of red-on-buff broken shards from the vessel haunted her very soul.

Lizzie didn't lie. Savannah needed help...and fast.

"I took the liberty of scheduling an appointment with a Dr. Bacardi. Specializes in psychiatric medicine, so I'm told. To get you in quickly, I had to promise my firstborn. Fortunately, Howie gives me so much trouble, it's no great loss."

"Lizzie! How could you?" Not the joke about Lizzie's son, but an appointment with a shrink? This time she went too far.

"Presumptuous of me, I know." Lizzie also rested her bottom against the counter. The added weight caused the marble top to groan. "Listen, I'm worried. Haven't thought much about anything else since last night." She took Savannah's hand. "Will you go?"

Lizzie was right--as usual. And who knew? Maybe this Dr. Bacardi could help. "Bacardi. Isn't that a brand of rum?"

"Maybe that's what he prescribes, S.E. A tipsy patient is a happy..."

Savannah laughed--which was a wonderful release after that terrifying incident. Awake, the "dream" had been a million times worse. And why did this nightmare guy, whomever he was, insist on calling her Selena?

"You win, Lizzie. So when's my appointment with Dr. Rum-and-Coke?"

Although Lizzie smiled in response, her grey eyes remained clouded. "One thirty, so you'd better get ready. He's at some medical center close to here. I'll call a taxi."

After her friend left, Savannah turned back to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. Who would've believed she'd go off the deep end, in broad daylight, around her peers?

That she almost destroyed the Egyptian pottery was inexcusable. She had to get to the bottom of these dreams.

One session with this psychiatrist wasn't going to cure her, but perhaps he could suggest ways to make the nightmares stop. She had to try. Dear God, she had to try.

Lucius Bacardi was a tidy little man. His hands folded in front of him, he sat behind his massive, organized desk, listening intently as Savannah gave him an overview of her troubles. His thinning hair was precisely combed to hide most of his balding pate. Every strand knew its place. Heaven forbid if any strayed! Aware of the drill, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows curved into smooth semicircles around his brown eyes. The trim, dapper mustache didn't dare infringe upon the man's upper lip. He obviously liked things orderly. Too bad Savannah's problem couldn't be neatly catalogued, assigned a cure, then filed away.

He frowned. Dealing with her bizarre waking nightmare on a Friday afternoon was probably not his idea of a good time.

"So, Ms. Alexander, I hear you saying you fear the man in your dreams. The one who calls you Selena."

Even the mention of that name sent Savannah's heart racing. "Yes. I do."

"Am I correct in assuming you have never married?"

What did that have to do with anything? She stiffened in her chair. "That's right. I do a great deal of traveling because of my job. Serious relationships like a husband and children deserve better than a part-time wife and mother."

She should know. Her own parents were never home more than three weeks at a time when she was growing up. If it hadn't been for her dear nanny...

Dr. Bacardi steepled his manicured fingers. "Have you ever considered hypnosis?"

Panic welled in Savannah's throat. "No! I can't do that." Her voice sounded shrill. She stopped to take a few deep breaths. "No. Hypnosis is not an option."

Hypnosis would be like opening Pandora's box. Or maybe worse. Although she'd never thought about going into a trance before, she felt as if a ten alarm fire bell had suddenly sounded in her head. Hypnosis was out of the question.

"I see," Dr. Bacardi said soothingly.

Of course he saw nothing of the sort.

The telephone intercom buzzed. Glad for the interruption, Savannah glanced down at her hands. Drat. Noticeably shaking. She buried them in the deep pockets of her blazer jacket. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Bacardi," came the receptionist's reedy tones, "but Dr. Patterson's just arrived and I know you wanted to speak with him before he left on vacation."

Dr. Bacardi ran his hand over his greying head. How he didn't disturb a single hair was truly amazing. "Ms. Alexander, would you mind if I--?"

"Not at all. Please do."

His military mustache lifted his lips in an engaging smile. "Be right back."

With her gaze, she followed the doctor's jaunty progress through the office and over to the reception desk. A tall man, standing with his back to the door, turned around and shook Dr. Bacardi's hand.

Savannah half rose out of her chair. As if the man was a magnet, she felt drawn to his side. "Oh my God, I'm losing it," she whispered, then sank back down.

The man--Dr. Patterson--was a hunk like she'd never seen before. Or maybe she had. Something wild and woolly zipped up and down her veins. Whether it was recognition or animal lust, she couldn't tell. Content to stare, she drank in the sight of him. He was casually dressed in a short-sleeve knit shirt and beige chino pants which, even at this distance, revealed long, powerful thigh muscles. A lock of wavy dark hair hung low on his forehead and his lantern-jawed face had the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow.

She couldn't even sigh. Every movement he made caused a fire to sizzle deep within her. She'd never seen him before, she was sure of it, and yet something touched her as she'd never been touched before. It was scary. Almost as scary as that dreaded dream.

He must have felt her gaze on him because he looked over at her. Dear heavens! The intensity of the connection almost scorched her eyeballs. Embarrassed at having been caught like a voyeur, Savannah gave a faint smile, then turned back around in her chair.

The short hairs on her neck stood at attention. He still looked at her. She was as certain of that as she was of her own name. What was happening to her? Ever since arriving in St. Louis, she was slowly falling apart.

"Ms. Alexander?" Dr. Bacardi had stealthily entered the office and was now back at his desk. "Are you feeling all right? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine." Nothing could've been further from the truth.

"I see."

She gritted her teeth. Who wanted a complete stranger to look inside her soul?

Dr. Bacardi reviewed her file again and wrote down some notes--he didn't scribble, but meticulously wrote. "Since you won't consider hypnosis and in all likelihood I won't be seeing you again, there's little I can do for you, Ms. Alexander. I don't believe in prescribing drugs for patients with complaints such as yours."

He leveled his ball-point pen at her. "However, I find I concur with your friend-- Lizzie, is it? Quite a character over the phone. I also believe in the urgency of your situation. My advice to you is to take a vacation. Get away from work. Complete isolation. Do nothing for at least two weeks."

Savannah smiled. That was easier said than done.

"I'm not telling you this for my health, Ms. Alexander. My professional opinion is--if you don't take a sabbatical, you will, to put it bluntly, go over the edge."

She swallowed down hard. "I--I understand. Um, thank you, Doctor."

His harrumph indicated he was flustered by her thanks. In a daze, she found the door, waited by the reception desk, then timidly looked around. Good, that man--Dr. Patterson--was gone. Her nerves were more than shot. She couldn't have handled whatever he was intentionally or unintentionally dishing out.

Dr. Bacardi was right: she did need a vacation. After the exhibit's two month stay in St. Louis, the predynastic collection would travel on to the New Orleans Museum of Art. That's when she'd be needed the most--during transit. If she bit the bullet now and took a break, hopefully she could conquer whatever it was that haunted her and be able to function in time for the next move.

Savannah paid the bill, then walked through sliding glass doors out into the hot July afternoon. The tree-lined street welcomed her, shaking leafy branches as gusts of humid air rustled their forest green foliage.

Pretty, but right now she was blind to their beauty. Where would she go on vacation? Shoulders slumped, she scanned the busy street, looking for a taxi. She'd be able to think better at the hotel.

A bright yellow cab responded to her outstretched arm and pulled along side the curb. Large red letters proclaimed it to be "Granny's Taxi Service." Inside, the driver looked old enough to be Granny herself.

Savannah sat inside and requested her hotel as her destination. Then inspiration struck. Granny! Of course! Grandma's house was only a three hour drive or so from here. She had passed on long ago, when Savannah was fifteen, but Dad still owned the house in that small town. Kept it rented too, and partially furnished. The new tenants weren't scheduled to move in until September.

What a coincidence! Smiling, she settled back on the cab's plush cushions. If anyplace felt like home, it was Grandma's house. Complete isolation, Dr. Bacardi had said. Yeah, nothing to do but pull weeds out of the garden. Sounded heavenly. This would be the best vacation Savannah ever had.

* * *

Tom Patterson turned on the radio, allowing the fiddle-laced twang of Country singer George Jones to fill the inside of his truck. As usual with C and W music, the song lamented about some aspect of human relationships. This time it was on some female being lonesome again.

Lonesome. Tom passed an old farm vehicle transporting bales of hay, then returned to the driving lane of Interstate 55. Sure, he could relate to "lonesome."

"Daddy, are we there yet?" Wendy, his seven-year-old, looked up from her word-search game, blew a gum bubble, then popped it. Wisps of coal-dark hair sought freedom from her pony tail and fanned back in the breeze from the open window.

She was a curious child. A mixture of naïveté and streetwise smarts. Too innocent to be bored with the world, and yet at her young age, she'd already been through an emotional wringer. Having a mother who deserted her child at age three could do that to a girl. Hell, it would toughen anyone up. Balance that with a dad whose life revolved around his work. Not that he wanted it that way. Somehow things just seemed to conspire against him.

Tom sighed. No, it wasn't easy being a single parent.

"Daddy?"

"No, honey. We're still in Missouri. Nashville's about three hours away."

"Tell me about it again. Tell me about the hotel 'n the rides." She leaned back and stretched her arms out in front of her. "Just you 'n me. We're gonna have so much fun!"

Then she spoiled the moment by cracking her knuckles. "Sorry," she muttered before he had a chance to express disapproval.

Noting the bright green sign advertising the upcoming exit for Sikeston and Interstate 57, Tom checked his directions. Fifty-seven to Highway 60, then Interstate 24 straight into Nashville.

"Yep. We're right on track. What did you say, hon?"

"The vacation, Dad. The vacation." Wendy huffed. Unfortunately, she was used to her father's inattention."

"Okay, the hotel--well, the Opryland is huge. Like a tropical paradise and it's all indoors. The place is so big, we'll get lost inside it--I promise you. And the theme park--it's right next door and has just what you like. Rides, rides, and more rides."

It didn't take much to make Wendy happy. He reached over and tugged on her hair. "We'll have a great time, darlin'."

"The best part is that it'll just be you 'n me. No work, no phones--"

His cell phone had other ideas. It interrupted. Wendy flung out her hand, preventing him from picking up the accursed instrument. "You promised, Daddy. You promised we'd be together." Her light blue eyes puddled with tears.

"It's only a call, sweetheart. It doesn't mean--"

"They always take you away from me. Why can't they leave you alone? It's not fair! It's just not fair." Sniffing, she folded her arms across her meager chest and stared out her window--not that there was anything on the road that was interesting to look at.

The cell phone only rang because of business. So not answering was tantamount to being AWOL. Septimus Corporation had an extremely generous pay plan...and Tom's project was on the cutting edge, to be sure. However, family time didn't factor into the equation. And one of the stipulations to this trip was that he was on call twenty-four hours. But he was way overdue for a vacation, and they had promised...

He pulled over on the interstate's shoulder and put on his flashers. "I have to take it, Wendy, but it won't make any difference to our plans." Fingers crossed, and if he could, toes crossed, too.

Like an automaton, he lowered the music and picked up the phone. His life was torn between trying to please two mistresses: work and Wendy. Good thing he wasn't married anymore.

"Patterson here."

"You need to make a detour."

Terse and to the point. Tom drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "What the hel-- what is it this time, Defranco?"

"Don't fly off the handle on me, bub. I don't make the decisions, I just relay 'em. One of Septimus' biotech execs--some new guy--just returned from a trip to Scotland. You know, the Roslin Institute. He wants to meet with the head of the clonin' project, namely you, and get briefed on the latest developments."

"Now?" Tom's heart sank. How was he going to explain this to Wendy?

"Yep." It almost seemed as if Defranco took perverse pleasure in Tom's misery.

"Why can't I answer this man's questions over the phone?"

"In person. That's what he wants. Don't blame me, like I said, I relay the messages. But there's a silver linin'. Where are you now?"

"About to take the Sikeston exit."

"Beautiful. This guy, his name is Zeuch, is visitin' family in a town near there. Keep goin' on 55, then get off on State Road 80 East. You can swing by, answer his questions, then be on your way. One day delay, tops." Defranco's harsh laugh irritated.

Eighty going east. That sounded awfully familiar. A cold chill invaded his spine, sending throbbing bursts of unease clear down to his toes. He hadn't felt this odd since...well, actually, it had been earlier today in Lucius Bacardi's office. The sight of that lovely woman with the sleek, dark hair had set off emotional explosives--not of unease, but of recognition, desire, and longing. Of course she had been a complete stranger, but the connection between them had been so damn peculiar.

"Patterson?"

Tom exhaled slowly. An 18-wheeler thundered by, noticeably rocking his small pickup. He waited until it had passed. "What's the name of this place?"

"East Prairie. Shouldn't be too hard to find."

Hell. Tom slumped over as if someone had taken a cheap shot to his midsection.

"Daddy? Are you okay? You look kinda sick."

He reached over and lightly grazed his fingertips over Wendy's smooth, soft cheek. "I'm fine, hon." Into the phone, he barked, "Give me Zeuch's address. I'll give the man one day. Period. After that, I'm off-duty, do you understand?"

It wasn't hard to imagine Defranco shrugging. "No skin off my nose, Patterson. But you know the Company. They demand their pint of blood."

Actually that was a pretty apt phrase for a corporation specializing in cloning research.

Tom wrote down the address, then terminated the call. East Prairie. Memories flooded back. So many years ago, he'd spent summers swimming and fishing at Big Oak Tree Park, watching stars brighten the night skies, and saving up money to go to the old movie theater. And saving up cash to help pay the bills. He hadn't minded being so poor. Well, maybe a bit, but he'd loved it there. Then his father got restless, as he always did, stole some money, and dragged his family from the only place they could call home.

Damn, how could he ever go back there, knowing what his father had done?

"Daddy?" Wendy's eyes blinked back her tears. "Does this mean we're not going t'Nashville?"

"I promised you Opryland and we're going to go to Opryland. You can count on that, darlin'." He turned off the blinkers, then rolled back onto the interstate. "But first we have to make a stop in a town where your daddy grew up. It'll still be like a vacation, though, 'cause we'll spend the night in a motel."

Wendy must have been satisfied for she resumed her word-search, gnawing on her pencil top. "Good! I like t'collect little motel soaps. Maybe they'll even have free bottles of hand cream and shampoo."

"If not, I'll buy you some, sweetheart." His daughter's acceptance of the detour eased his mind. Picking up speed, Tom continued south, a strange excitement building in his veins. Reluctant or not, he was headed for East Prairie, the home of his boyhood heart. It was almost as if Fate had played a hand in these alternate plans.

Downright uncanny. For the first time since leaving St. Louis, he broke into a wide grin. The music on the radio reinforced his mood, and he let out a good- natured whoop. John Denver's easygoing tones rang out with, "Thank God I'm a Country Boy!" Amen to that!

* * *

Everything looked so different--newer, more modern--and yet after a few hard stares, Tom recognized East Prairie as the same town he'd left almost twenty years ago. A shiver of pleasure raced through his heart. Home. After all this time, he was finally coming home.

Stopping at a traffic light, Tom turned off the radio. Home? That was ridiculous. Home was St. Louis now, and before that it was in Chicago, and before that...Hell, home was wherever Septimus Corp. sent him.

"Daddy, show me where you grew up. I want t'see the house." With some difficulty, Wendy rolled down her window and stuck her head out for some unimpeded gawking. "I like it here."

On the sidewalk, a young girl pushing a hefty toddler plus a bag of groceries in a stroller, suddenly stopped, wiped her forehead, then waved to Wendy.

Wendy returned the wave. "Gee, no one's this friendly back home."

Tom continued down Main Street. "Yep, small town life does have its charms, doesn't it?" He pulled out his notepad and checked the address he'd written down. "Now where's this Zeuch fellow again? Hmmm, Sycamore Street."

Wendy tugged on his sleeve. "Daddy, your old house first. Please?"

When she batted her blue eyes at him, he couldn't refuse her anything. "Okay, darlin', since it's only six o'clock, we'll go for a little tour of the neighborhood before taking care of business. We'll see if we can find a motel for the night, too. If not, we'll have to drive back to Sikeston, I guess."

He made a left onto Lincoln Avenue. "If I remember correctly, we turn here, then make a right, and..."

Pine Street. No, that wasn't it. But these houses, worn by time, looked so familiar. Wood siding that had seen better days; screened-in front porches with two-seater swings to watch the world go by; uneven cement steps that obviously had shouldered more weight than the builders intended. One house in particular held his interest. Tannish-grey, it sat next to a vacant lot.

"Well, hey! If that isn't my buddy Drew's house. No, his granny's--old Miz Alexander. I wonder if--"

From the opposite direction, a child darted out between two parked cars, chasing after a brightly colored ball. Tom screeched his truck to a halt. "You best be more careful, son," he called out. "Else you might end up as flat as a hot cake."

The boy, no more than four, gave him a toothless grin and scampered back to his toy-strewn yard.

Tom's heart returned to the safety of his chest. That had been much too close for comfort.

Wendy, though, remained uncharacteristically quiet. "Are you okay, honey? You didn't bump your head, did you?"

She turned to him, with the oddest expression on her pixie face. "There was a woman back at that beige house. Real pretty, too. I think I kinda know her from somewhere."

Tom glanced in the rearview mirror. No one remained in sight, but parked in front of the house were two white compact cars--one with some advertising on it. He strained his eyes to read part of the words. Real estate.

No, he guessed Miz Alexander didn't live there anymore. Probably hadn't in a great many years. After all, nineteen years was nineteen years. Everything changed. Out with the old and in with the new. In this case, probably a brand new renter lived at this address.

Slowly accelerating the pickup, he replied, "Most likely you saw a woman who reminded you of someone. That's all. Now let's see. My old house should be just around the corner."

Again, Wendy stayed silent. He glanced over to find her turned in her seat, staring at the receding scenery. "Wendy, honey?"

"What? Oh, sure, Daddy. You're probably right."

As she faced front again, Tom gave his daughter a fond smile. Of course he was right--about that, anyway. However, he was wrong about his former home's location, and now he was as lost as a fish out of water. And about as helpless, too. Darn his male pride, but he'd have to throw in the towel and ask someone for directions.

* * *

"Well, I'm here. So now what?" Savannah dropped her suitcase in the guest bedroom and looked around. Musty smells of neglect greeted her so she wrinkled her nose. Opening the window, she watched as a gust of air buffeted its way through worn, lacy curtains as if overjoyed to have access to the house.

The fresh scent of honeysuckle entered with it. The room was very much as she remembered it--only so much older. The cedar chest was gone, along with the framed picture of baby Jesus. But the tattered flowered paper lining the walls was the same, as were the much-scuffed, sagging floorboards. A newcomer to the room, but not to the house--a wide oval-mirrored bureau--stood guard next to the bed. She touched its battered walnut finish. It had once been Grandma's own special dresser.

For some reason, tears welled up in her eyes.

"Good grief, what are you bawling about?" Savannah scolded herself. "Of course things have changed. You can't expect the house to stay the same. Time marches on. Everything...ages. It's a wonder so many of Grandma's things are here."

But there was no reason for such deterioration. Her father should have seen to updating the house. By not taking care of it, he was behaving like an uninterested absentee landlord.

"I'll make him fix this, Grandma. You wait and see."

Walking out into the large eating room, Savannah pulled out a Windsor-back chair and sat. She could never call the area a dining room because that was so formal. This room was the heart of the house, at the center--like a lifeline. All the other rooms surrounded it as a moat protected a castle. Grandma's huge round table still filled the area, though.

The Knights of the Round Table. Savannah smiled. She always thought of the Alexander clan that way. Only today the chairs were empty of bottoms except for hers.

Man, oh man, she was lonely. Maybe because she was used to this house always being jam packed with relatives. Now she only had memories for company. If only she could have real live people as well.

She slumped back in the chair. Maybe a vacation here wasn't such a good idea.

"Yoo-hoo! Miz Alexander!" called a voice from the front porch.

Who in the world...? Savannah quickly made her way out of the eating room, through the living room to open the screen door. The real estate agent stood on the other side, a pleased grin on her rubbery face.

"Mrs. Kirby, hi. Please come in. Did I forget to sign some papers?" Not likely, since back at the woman's office, Savannah had scribbled so many "John Hancocks" her wrist grew sore. But Mrs. Kirby only left fifteen minutes ago, so why had she returned? Funny how she remembered Grandma...and even Grandpa living in this house.

"Oh no, thank you kindly, Miz Alexander. Pardon me for interruptin'. I just thought t'myself, seeings how you just arrived, 'n all, that you wouldn't feel like makin' a proper supper." The matronly lady offered two big white bags previously hidden out of view. "So I rode on down t'Frankie's Bar-B-Q and got you some of his mighty fine ribs. All the fixings, too. My daughter Megan works there, don't you know?"

The aroma of barbecued pork ribs had Savannah salivating. "Gosh, Mrs. Kirby, thank you so much. This is wonderful!" Accepting the bags, she licked her lips. "Why, there's enough here to feed an army, isn't there?"

"Oh tosh! Just some meat t'put on your own ribs!" The woman patted Savannah's shoulder. "Men do like paddin', dearie." She then descended the three rickety front steps one foot at a time.

"But, Mrs. Kirby, wouldn't you like to stay and have dinner here?" Somehow, the thought of eating alone at that gargantuan table was making Savannah lose her appetite.

"Not tonight, dearie. Mr. Kirby has a cow if supper's not on the table by six thirty." The older lady brayed laughter and eased her bulk into her four door sedan. Through the open window she shouted, "It's so good t'have an Alexander back at the house."

A tinge of unrest flashed through Savannah's core. "It's only for two weeks," she called out.

"Of course it is," the woman replied back. "Take care now."

As Savannah watched Mrs. Kirby drive down Pine Street, loneliness invaded her heart again. How sweet of the real estate agent to bring her a meal. Going back inside the house, she set the two heavy bags on the table. Pork ribs, home fries, baked beans, coleslaw, even three apple dumplings and three covered sodas were included.

Three? I wonder why Mrs. Kirby bought three?

No matter. The quiet was beginning to get on Savannah's nerves. If she didn't find a radio in the house, first thing tomorrow, she'd go buy one.

A search in the kitchen yielded a set of mismatched plastic dishes--definitely not Grandma's. Grabbing one, she heard a ringing sound.

The telephone? But she hadn't had time to request service yet. And no one knew she was here, except...

Savannah ran into the living room and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"S.E. Thank goodness you made it. You were supposed to call me when you arrived, remember?"

Lizzie. Savannah smiled and sat down on the arm of an old Colonial style sofa. "And hi to you too. How's everything going?"

"Quit evading the question. You promised to--"

"I'm fine, Lizzie. Don't worry. Everything's great. I just got settled in a little while ago. And guess what? I'm sitting down to a feast of Frankie's barbecued ribs. Care to join me?"

"I'm a vegetarian, did you forget?" She still sounded peeved.

"How'd you get this number, Lizzie? I was going to contact the phone company for service on Monday."

"Simple. Called directory assistance and asked for Alexander. Only one listed and here you are."

A legion of goose bumps rose all over Savannah's body. Grandma had been gone for thirteen years and as far as Savannah knew, all the Alexanders, including Drew and Glenda, had moved away. So who was listed in the phone book?

Maybe her father kept the account. But why? That would really be odd.

"S.E.?"

The silent, tired out furniture in the room seemed to mock her. She shook herself. Nerves, again. "Yeah, Lizzie, here I am. Listen, how's the exhibit going? Ready for the reception tomorrow night?"

Lizzie snorted. "Everything's on target, and sure, I know you regret missing out on the faux fun."

As Savannah chuckled, she detected another sound--something like a floorboard creaking. Quickly stilling her laughter, she got to her feet and did a 360. Frayed, yellow lampshades; high, antiqued end tables; an old rocker that had seen better days. But nothing moving. Nothing out of place. Just an old house talking. Or perhaps it was ghosts...

"Everything okay, kiddo?"

"Fine." Savannah shrugged her unease away. "Well, thanks for calling. Have a turn on the dance floor for me!" Some people liked to put on the Ritz, so to speak, and hobnob with the cream of society. But not her, and certainly not Lizzie.

"I just might. Your Dr. Bacardi is scheduled to attend."

Savannah coughed. "My Dr. Bacardi?" Drill sergeant Lizzie interested in the analytical psychiatrist? No way! Her friend's imagination must've been working overtime. "Make sure every strand of hair is in place then. Lucius doesn't tolerate sloppiness."

Determined to have the last word, she hung up the phone but not before she heard Lizzie mutter, "Lucius?"

Savannah's stomach growled. Picking up her discarded plate, she returned to the table. How strange that although she'd had qualms about being by herself in this house, so far she hadn't been alone. First, Mrs. Kirby visited, then Lizzie.

The oil from the barbecued ribs had started to seep through the bag. As she reached out to open it, another knock at the door sounded.

She couldn't help sighing. Grand Central Station wasn't this busy. An exaggeration, of course, but still, she'd certainly gotten her wish about not being lonely.

Walking back into the living room, she spotted her caller through the screen door. An elfin-faced young girl, complete with a raven ponytail and a handful of flowery weeds, stood waiting on the other side.

Savannah gasped aloud. She knew this girl's face as well as she knew her own...and yet they'd never met. She was certain of it.

Something really weird is going on here. Holding that thought, Savannah opened the door.

"Hi there. Are you my new neighbor?" Savannah opened the door and allowed the young girl to step inside the porch.

The child wasn't shy. She looked out from under a heavy fringe of dark, wavy bangs and offered a mass of daisies and tiny purple flowers. "These are for you. For moving in. You are, aren't you?"

The feeling that Savannah knew this girl was so strong. She looked about seven or eight and had cute, chubby cheeks with large aquamarine eyes.

"Why, yes, thank you. This is so sweet. What's your name?"

"Wendy." Owl-eyed, the girl didn't take her gaze off Savannah for an instant. Dressed in an oversized tee shirt and shorts, Wendy appeared to be all skinny arms and legs, and she had a great bush of a ponytail brushing her neck whenever she moved her head.

"And I'm S.E. Would you like to come inside while I put these flowers in a vase?"

Wendy wrinkled her small nose. "Essie? You don't look like an Essie." Evidently, she didn't think much of the nickname.

Savannah didn't correct the girl. I wonder what name I look like to her?

Wendy then stuck her hands in her pockets. "Okay, let's go inside."

They entered the living room, leaving the porch door to shut with a thud. Walking through to the back kitchen, Savannah grinned at her new friend. With her huge eyes, Wendy solemnly took inventory of everything she saw.

"So which house do you live in, Wendy?" Savannah reached into the cabinet under the sink and pulled out an empty pickle jar. She filled it with water, then stopped. How in the world had she known right where to look for a makeshift vase?

"Daddy 'n me are just visiting." The girl jumped up on the counter and dangled her skinny legs against the cupboard. "My mom's dead. Been dead two years."

Oh, how awful. Savannah walked over and laid her hand on the child's knee. "I'm so sorry, sweetie."

Wendy shrugged. "I didn't know her much anyway. She left us when I was three."

Poor little thing.

"We need t'find a hotel for the night," the girl continued. "Then tomorrow we're gonna go t'Opryland."

Savannah gave the girl's knee a final pat, then went through the doorway to set Wendy's flowers in the middle of the eating room table. "Sounds like fun. But I don't think there are any hotels or motels here. I didn't see any driving in."

Wait a minute. She gnawed on her lower lip. "If you're not a neighbor, how did you know I'm new here?"

Wendy pawed the floor with an untied sneaker-clad foot. "I kinda saw the real estate lady here a while ago. 'N the car outside--yours?"

Savannah nodded.

"It has rental plates," the girl concluded.

What a strange child. "You notice a lot for someone who's only eight."

"Seven."

"I see." Savannah laughed. Now she sounded like Dr. Bacardi. "And you just decided to give a stranger flowers?"

As a reply, Wendy's spindly shoulders bobbed up and down. "I'm thirsty. Could I have a pop?"

"A soda? Sure. I just happen to have..." Savannah pulled out the three covered containers, courtesy of Mrs. Kirby. "Orange, looks like 7-Up, and some kind of cola."

"7-Up's my favorite. Could we sit out on the porch swing?"

Choosing the cola, Savannah stuck in straws. "Sure. Your father knows where you are, right?"

Wendy didn't answer until the porch door slammed and she sat on the two- person wooden swing. The lazy back-and-forth motion was soothing, so Savannah joined her.

"Yeah, he knows. I'm big enough t'take care of myself though. Lots of times I do."

Savannah sipped at her drink. Cherry Pepsi. What a coincidence. Her favorite too. "So where are you visiting from, Wendy?" Idle talk for an idle summer's day. She could wait to eat. It was so relaxing to just rock here with this interesting little girl. There was little traffic down this average-looking street. Lots of children at play. All the houses sat up on the lawn, their "skirts" hidden by wood grating. No basements obvious in this area. Maybe it was a flood zone.

Savannah didn't agree with Wendy being able to take care of herself though. Her dad probably had his hands full being a single parent.

Using her foot, Wendy urged the swing to move faster. On the backwards motion, it almost hit the house. "We live in St. Louis now."

"Really? I just came from there, on business." Savannah steadily regarded her young visitor. "What a coincidence. Almost eerie, even."

"What's eerie mean?"

Savannah had to think for a moment. "Um, strange...weird."

"Eerie. I like that!" Smiling, Wendy's eyes crinkled. "Know what else is eerie? I think I know you from someplace, but I don't know where."

Soda caught in her throat, causing Savannah to cough. "Good g-gosh, really?" She stared at the girl. "This is really weird, but I feel the same way."

Wendy's grin widened. She liked that coincidence. But Savannah didn't. Something extremely odd was going on here. Too many random events were coinciding for a particular reason. She tapped at her chin. It was up to her to figure that reason out.

Maybe it has something to do with my dream.

A shudder the size of New England vibrated down to her bones. Man, oh man. Not that terrible dream.

"You okay, Essie? You look kinda white."

Savannah gripped the swing's side arm until her knuckles went white. Banish the fear. Be brave. There's nothing to worry about.

Two deep breaths later, she smiled at Wendy--a shaky smile no doubt. "I'm fine, sweetie. Just a little peaked. N-no problem."

It was just hunger, that's all it was. After Savannah ate, she'd feel better. "Um, maybe you'd like to ask your dad if you could have dinner with me, Wendy. I've got plenty of ribs and fries."

The girl was quick with a response. "I dunno. Let me think on it."

Savannah pulled in her lower lip. Wendy was hiding something. The way she darted her gaze and folded her stick-like arms across her chest almost screamed the fact. But what was she hiding...and why?

* * *

As he sat in the truck, Tom cursed his bad luck. He'd only left the vehicle for five minutes. Ten at the most. After he finally found Zeuch's house, he'd walked up to the tidy, little green box of a rancher to speak with the man, only to learn Zeuch wasn't expected back until later. Out carousing, the older lady, maybe his mother, had said.

So after exchanging telephone numbers and promising to call later, Tom had returned to his truck. That Wendy wasn't immediately visible didn't cause him concern. She always liked to jump in the back area of the pickup cab and hunker down out of sight; she was small enough to get away with it. But after a cursory inspection, no ponytailed little girl grinned her infectious grin and yelled, "Surprise."

She was no where to be found.

"Where the hell did she go?" First on foot, he ran down the network of streets near Sycamore, the one he was on. Asked passersby and people out mowing their lawns if they'd seen his little girl. No luck. Then someone suggested the nearby park and swimming pool. Tom bullied his way inside the pool area to scan wet, gleaming bodies in the water and on cement, looking for a matchstick female. Again, no luck.

Fear now replaced anger. Tom returned to the truck and dug his fingers in his hair. "Damn it, darlin', where are you? Why'd you leave?"

The world was not as innocent as it had been when he was a kid. A little girl on her own became easy prey. Hell and damn, where was his baby?

About to move the stick shift into first gear, he then looked over on the passenger side of the cab. The back cover of Wendy's word-search book caught his attention. He flipped it over and spotted her printed note.

"Daddy I went to see that prety lady. The one in the baj haus. Plez dont be angry."

Thank the Lord. His heart started beating again. He slumped over and rested his forearms and head against the steering wheel to say a silent prayer.

"What am I going to do with you, Wendy? I can't watch you every minute of the day."

Well, hold that thought for later. First he had to remember what pretty lady and what beige house Wendy was talking about.

The answer blared loudly through his brain. Miz Alexander's house on Pine Street. Wendy had said something about a pretty woman. But why the devil did she take it into her determined little head to walk back all those blocks to visit a complete stranger?

"Wendy, my girl, what am I going to do with you?" Zipping down the streets as fast as the speed limit would allow, he found his way back to Pine and the familiar tan house. Only one white car was parked in front now; the realtor was gone. And on the porch, through the screen, he spotted his wayward child casually rocking on the wooden swing as if she belonged there.

Hands on hips, Tom strode across the browned lawn, opened the door, and stood in front of his daughter. Strong emotions hampered the words he wanted to say.

"Hi, Daddy. You're not angry, are you?" The incorrigible sprite had the audacity to bat her pubescent eyelashes at him.

He sat down in the vacant spot next to her, causing the bench's ceiling bolts to quiver from the increased weight. "Wendy Patricia Patterson. You scared the hell out of me."

She shook her finger at him. "You shouldn't say that word, Daddy."

Instead of replying, he pulled her into the safety of his arms. "Aw, honey." She responded by tightening the hug.

After a moment, he set her aside. "Now, why don't you tell me why you decided to add ten years to your father's life, hmmm?"

Wendy splayed out her grubby hands in front of her. "I can't explain, Daddy. Something from inside, in here..." She thumped on her heart. "...made me come see Essie."

"Essie?"

"Not a pretty name, I know. But she...she's beautiful! Just wait 'til you see her. She's getting some fries for us t'eat."

A rustle at the inside screen door signaled an end to their solitude. His interest piqued, Tom turned around to meet this paragon of womanhood. Wendy was an acknowledged tomboy and never had any use for females and female accouterments.

"Wendy, maybe you'd like to try some ribs, too--"

Their gazes met at the same time...and froze. By all that was holy, Wendy's pretty lady was that woman whom he just saw today in Lucius Bacardi's office! He was certain of it.

She must have recognized him too, although her reaction was a bit extreme. She immediately paled and stepped back, bumping into the door.

Tom sprung to his feet and straightened the plate of barbecued pork that threatened to spill on the porch. "Here, let me help you."

She remained mute, watching him with her dark, expressive eyes. Although back in St. Louis he'd only caught a brief glimpse of her, she was even more exquisite than he remembered. Her hair, auburn brown and silky smooth in texture, fell in soft waves to frame her oval face. Tall and slender, she might have been a sophisticated model straight out of one of those New York magazines, like Vogue or Glamour. Not that anything to do with New York was a plus in his book. In fact, it was a damned minus.

But still, he could admit to a stirring in his loins. Hell, he'd admit to anything to taste those sweet juicy lips.

Cool it, Patterson. She looks ready to jump out of her skin.

Maybe he stood too close for her comfort. He backed away, regretting the distance between them. Her flowery scent of fragrant jasmine hardened more than just his resolve to get to know her.

"I apologize for startling you." He kept his voice low, hoping to reassure her that he meant no harm.

Wendy leaped up off the swing. The impetuous action caused it to thump hard against the house. "Essie, are you sure you're okay? Daddy, she keeps turning white. Maybe you should check her out."

If only I could! Tom kept his comment to himself but couldn't help the heat of a flush from staining his cheeks. "What my headstrong daughter means is that I have a medical license."

The women nodded. "You're Dr. Patterson, aren't you?"

In her excitement, Wendy pulled on the woman's arm. "You know Daddy?"

"Whoa there, sweetie. I don't feel so steady on my feet right now." She then raised her gaze to him, roasting his innards to 150 degrees. "Lack of food, I think. Why don't you and Wendy join me for dinner? I have plenty."

"Can we, Daddy, please?" Wendy bobbed up and down like a jack-in-the- box.

Good manners demanded that he refuse, however he went with his gut instinct. "If you're certain, Miss..." At least he hoped she was a miss.

She opened the door and held it for them to enter. "Just call me S.E."

Walking through the living room into the dining room, Tom reconciled what he saw now with his childhood memories. Not much had changed since Miz Alexander's time. Especially good to see was the same round table filling the eating area. It was like an old friend.

S.E. gestured for him to sit, and before he did, he yanked on Wendy's oversized shirt to plunk her down beside him. If he knew his child, this underfed sprite had been about to play peeping tom with the rest of the house.

"This is really nice of you to invite strangers in for supper, S.E. Although I did see you in Lucius' office, so technically we do know each other."

She passed him a plate filled with ribs, coleslaw, fries, and whatever else went with a barbecue. When he smiled at her, a rosy blush diffused over her cheeks. Perhaps she felt embarrassed at being seen in a psychiatrist's office? No shame in that.

He held out his hand to shake hers. "And I'm honored that you remember my name. You heard it from the receptionist, right? Tom Patterson, at your service."

Touching her hand produced a warm, tingling sensation that pulsed up his arm. She must have felt it too, for he heard her soft gasp. Regretfully, she broke the connection.

"Wendy, would you bring in our sodas?" After the hooligan dashed from the table to comply, S.E. set a full container in front of him. "I only have orange left. Is that okay?"

"It's my favorite."

What the hell-- If she didn't lose color again.

"Is it really? I mean, you're not just being polite?" she asked in a whisper.

He frowned. What the devil was she seeing Lucius Bacardi for? "No, I assure you, I prefer orange and Wendy's usual choice is 7-Up."

"How...interesting."

Wendy zoomed back in with the drinks, then sat down to tackle an extremely meaty rack of ribs. "Isn't it kinda eerie you and Daddy met in St. Louis and now here we are eating together?"

He lifted his eyebrow. "Eerie?" When had Wendy added that word to her vocabulary?

S.E. gently took a bite from her own rack. He envied the ribs' proximity to her lips.

"Yes, I'd say it was definitely eerie, Wendy. Why are you visiting East Prairie, Dr. Patterson?"

"Tom, please. And the reason for our visit isn't eerie, S.E. It's business. By this time tomorrow though, Wendy and I will be back on our way to Nashville."

"Opryland. Wendy told me."

"Just Daddy 'n me," Wendy piped up. "You could come too, S.E."

Tom nearly choked on some baked beans. Out of the mouths of babes.

The woman laughed--a full, throaty, sexy laugh. Good Lord, she had quite an aphrodisiac effect on him. It was almost as if he knew her--knew what it was like making love to her.

With that thought, he blinked. Maybe Wendy was right. Maybe being here was eerie.

"You can relax, Tom. I don't intend to take your daughter up on her generous offer! I'm spending my vacation right here, not doing much of anything."

She got up to clear the plates, so Tom also rose. "No, please. Just sit back. There's not much to clean."

Wendy bounced up and down on the hardwood chair, like she had ants in her pants. "S.E., may I be excused to explore?"

"Wendy..." Tom admonished.

"It's okay, Tom. Old houses have secrets just begging to be uncovered. Wendy, go ahead and see what mysteries you can find. Later we can eat apple dumplings for dessert." S.E.'s voice grew pensive. "Strange, Mrs. Kirby must've known I'd have company tonight."

Wendy lost no time in bounding up the stairs to the attic, so Tom followed S.E. to the kitchen. "Who's Mrs. Kirby?"

"Just as I thought, no dishwasher." Sighing, S.E. filled the sink with soapy water, then slipped the plates and utensils in. "My real estate agent. She's responsible for this sumptuous feast."

Something was happening to Tom. Something he didn't understand. Maybe it was the domestic routine or perhaps the homey atmosphere. He'd wanted to find those things when he'd married seven years ago, but marital bliss had eluded him.

He ran his hand through his hair. That failure was in the past. Tonight, his bizarre frame of mind was due to S.E. He agreed with his daughter; the initials didn't do the woman justice. She was beauty personified, looking cool and luscious in a silk designer blouse and sexy crepe slacks.

Standing in back of her as she efficiently handwashed the dishes, he fought an urge to spin her around and kiss the living daylights out of her. Madness! What the devil was wrong with him?

To prevent his hands from wandering over her tempting body, he jammed them into his pockets. "My thanks to you and Mrs. Kirby, then. Odd how life weaves its tangled web. This morning, who would've guessed Wendy and I would be here in East Prairie tonight, having supper in this house, with a beautiful stranger?"

He hadn't intended to mention the word beautiful but it just slipped out. Holding his breath, he waited for S.E.'s reaction.

It was slow in coming. She finished rinsing off the dishes, then dried her hands on a towel. "If that's a compliment, Dr. Patterson, I thank you."

Their gazes held. This time, when he lowered his voice, it was to convey his desire. "No, I thank you."

Her lips parted. It was a sign; she wanted him, too. At least he hoped that was so. He closed the scant distance between them and placed his hands on her shoulders. Dear Lord, the merest touch of her made his head reel. He leaned closer. "S.E., I--"

The blasted phone rang. S.E. arched her feathery eyebrow and whispered, "It's for you."

To be inches from paradise, then ripped away. Tom literally saw red. "How could it be for--"

The phone rang again. It was his cell phone attached to his belt. Every bit of his self restraint went into not hurling the damnable object out the kitchen door.

"I'll go see what Wendy's up to." S.E.'s departure from the kitchen took her smile and warmth and her jasmine fragrance with her.

He savagely hauled out his phone. "Patterson."

"Zeuch here. Seems Ah missed you earlier today. Pity."

Tom frowned. The man's pitch was flat and devoid of emotion. Needless to say, his timing was damned lousy. "I understand you have questions for me. It's not too late. Why don't we get started on them now?"

"Now?" A female giggle in the background gave testimony to what Zeuch was carousing with. "No, Patterson, Ah'm taking care of personal business, if you catch my drift."

Hell and damnation. Trust Septimus Corp. to hire another horny, good-for- nothing executive. "First thing tomorrow then. No excuses. I'm on vacation and I'll be heading out of town no later than five."

"Hot under the collar, aren't you, Doctor?" Zeuch barked out his laughter, and his companion joined in. "See you at seven thirty in the morning then, Tommy boy." The line went dead.

Tom looked at the phone. Tommy? No one had called him that in years.

He exhaled his frustration. The bigger problem was Zeuch's timing--on tomorrow's meeting. The nearest motel in these parts was in Sikeston. He'd have to get Wendy up awfully early. Unless...

Tom rubbed his hand over his chin. Would it be too much to ask S.E. if Wendy could spend the night? He checked his watch. It was eight o'clock already. Time seemed to slip by.

Walking into the dining room, then out into the living room, he saw S.E. and Wendy browsing through an old photo album. S.E. looked up and gave him a smile. "Why so glum, chum?"

Good Lord, his heart just leaped up and fell over on its side. "Well, that was business--"

"Phooey. It's always business." Wendy wrinkled her pert little nose.

"Quiet, scamp. You go ahead and look at those pictures. I, er, have a favor to ask of S.E." He helped her out of the sofa, again marveling at the way even the merest touch of her excited him.

Wendy lost interest in him and turned back to the album. "S.E. and I found this upstairs in the attic. It belonged to the old lady who used to live here."

S.E. agreed. "That's right. Hard to believe, but it belonged to--"

"Let's go in the kitchen." It would be easier to ask with Wendy out of hearing distance.

Once there, S.E. tapped her chin with her finger. "What's this about? I'm all ears."

He couldn't help grinning. "Not hardly." Then he couldn't help flushing. "But seriously, uh, I have to meet with my business associate at seven thirty tomorrow morning, and I was wondering if--"

"Of course you can spend the night. This house has enough beds."

He stood flabbergasted. The woman was absolutely amazing. He took her hand, marveling how dainty and small it was in his own. "I was just going to ask if Wendy could. You might feel uncomfortable with a strange man staying over."

"I thought we decided we're not strangers." Lifting that eyebrow again, she wagged her finger. "Unless you're telling me you really are strange!"

In that moment, he was ecstatic--happier than he'd ever been in his entire life. "You know," he said huskily, "when we're both through with our vacations, we need to get together in St. Louis."

She reclaimed her hand. "I don't live in St. Louis, Tom. I was only there on business--at the art museum. I live quite a ways from here...in New York, actually."

"City?" he questioned.

She nodded.

The ground beneath him opened up. Emotional scars and childhood insecurities surfaced as if those traumas had occurred just yesterday. She was one of those sophisticated New Yorkers, complete with a gold-plated chip on her shoulder? Someone like his ex-wife had tried unsuccessfully to emulate? One go- round on that ride to hell had been more than enough. No thanks, sister.

He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "I see." How could he bow out gracefully?

"What's wrong? You sound like your friend, Dr. Bacardi, now."

She brushed back perfectly coiffured hair with her pink, manicured fingers. Silk blouse, crepe pants, culture with a capital "C." An aristocratic phony down to her bones--he'd met enough of those types to spot them a mile away.

Tom took a step toward the doorway. "You know, as a matter of fact, I promised my, uh, aunt, next time I was in town to stay with her. She lives close-by. Out on State Road 105." That was true ten years ago--but not anymore. "So Wendy and I'd better get going."

The puzzlement in the woman's liquid brown eyes stabbed at his conscience.

"Uh, thanks again for your hospitality, S.E." A high fashion plate like her had no use for a country hick like him...and vice versa. He walked passed her into the living room.

She pulled on his arm. "You just gave me the brush-off, didn't you? And for what? Because of where I live?"

Sharp. Damn it, but there was no pulling wool over those luscious eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He shrugged. What else could he do? It was better this way. Those New York snooty types could take a guy like him for all he was worth. Something about this woman beckoned, like a siren luring a sailor to his death. He couldn't afford involvement, either emotional or financial. He'd already been to the cleaners once.

Her nostrils flared and her gaze hardened. "I don't believe you. You're right, though. You shouldn't stay here."

Wendy chimed in on the latter part of her sentence. "Stay here?" Ponytail swinging, she looked from one to the other. "Could we, Daddy? S.E.?"

Hell and damn. The fat was in the fryer now.

S.E. leaned over and kissed his daughter's fringed forehead. "Sorry, sweetie. Your father has other plans."

He fingered the collar on his shirt. Damn, she really must hate him.

"Oh, Daddy, we've just got t'stay. Don't you see, it's meant t'be. Look, I even found a picture of you in the album."

"I don't think so, honey." The odds of finding a snapshot of him would be out of the realm of possibilities. "Now, put the book down and let's go."

S.E. agreed. "That's preposterous, Wendy. Why would a picture of your father be in one of my grandmother's albums?" She walked over to the screen door. "Now, if you don't mind, it's been a very long day."

Tom gave her a once-over. Grandmother's albums. S.E. was just a renter. What were her grandmother's photos doing upstairs in the attic?

"No, look! Here you are, Daddy, playing baseball." Wendy jerked on his sleeve, then pointed to one of those ancient photos with a scalloped white edge around it.

The musty odor of decay rose up to greet him. About to ignore his daughter's plea and close the album, he stopped. Something did look familiar about the picture. Tom peered down to check it out. "Well, I'll be! Darlin', you've got eagle eyes."

A much younger version of himself stared back at him. He was arm-in-arm with his old buddy Drew, baseball bat in the other hand. Well, if that didn't beat all. Damn, but that snapshot took him back.

From the door, S.E.'s voice wavered. "You must be mistaken."

She swayed like a reed in a windstorm. Concern for her overrode all other thoughts. He'd been a heel to cause her distress. Even if she turned out to be a condescending snob as he branded all New Yorkers, she hadn't been rude to him or Wendy. Anyway, his past experiences were no excuse for him to act so discourteously.

Besides, the woman wasn't well. Anyone could see that, even a frustrated doctor turned microbiologist. No one blanched white over peculiar things as she did. Plus the fact she sought psychiatric care while on business in another city. But why was she disturbed over the fact that his picture appeared in the album?

"Look for yourself, Essie," Wendy insisted.

Their hostess did. Lips quivering, she made her way back to the sofa, bent over Wendy, then stared at the black and white print.

"That's Drew and that's...um, Tommy." S.E. stood up straight and gawked at him. "Oh my God. You must be Tommy."

With those words, she fainted dead away.