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Matt and I even have anything in common anymore."
"You do." Cherry caught her hand. "Some things never change. And some people are meant to be
together."
"If that's so," Avery said, forcing lightness into her tone, "we'll know."
Instead of releasing her hand, Cherry tightened her grip. "I can't allow you to hurt him again. Do you
understand?"
Uncomfortable, Avery tugged on her hand. "I have no plans of hurting your brother, believe me."
"I'm sure you mean that, but if you're not serious, just stay away, Avery. Just...stay...away."
"Let go of my hand, Cherry. You're hurting me."
She released Avery's hand, looking embarrassed. "Sorry. I get a little intense when it comes to my
brothers."
Without waiting for Avery to respond, she made a show of glancing at her watch, exclaiming over the
time and how she would be late for a meeting at the Women's Guild. She quickly packed up the picnic
basket, insisting on leaving the thermos of coffee and remaining biscuits for Avery.
"Just bring the thermos by the house," she said, hurrying toward the door.
It wasn't until Cherry had backed her Mustang down the drive-way and disappeared from sight that
Avery realized how unsettled she was by the way their conversation had turned from friendly to
adversarial. How unnerved by the woman's threatening tone and the way she had seemed to transform,
becoming someone Avery hadn't recognized.
Avery shut the door, working to shake off the uncomfortable sensations. Cherry had always looked up to
Matt. Even as a squirt, she had been fiercely protective of him. Plus, still smarting from her own broken
heart made her hypersensitive to the idea of her brother's being broken.
No, Avery realized. Cherry had referred to her brothers, plural. She got a little intense when it came to
her brothers.
Odd, Avery thought. Especially in light of the things she had said about Hunter the night before. If Cherry
felt as strongly about Hunter as she did about Matt, perhaps she'd had more interaction with Hunter than
she'd claimed. And perhaps her anger was more show than reality.
But why hide the truth? Why make her feelings out to be different than they were?
Avery shook her head. Always looking for the story, she thought. Always looking for the angle, the
hidden motive, the elusive piece of the puzzle, the one that broke the story wide open.
Geez, Avery. Give it a rest. Stop worrying about other people's issues and get busy on your own.
She certainly had enough of them, she acknowledged, shifting her gaze to the stairs. After all, if she got
herself wrapped up in others' lives and problems, she didn't have to face her own. If she was busy
analyzing other people's lives, she wouldn't have time to analyze her own.
She wouldn't have to face her father's suicide. Or her part in it. Avery glanced up the stairway to the
second floor. She visualized climbing it. Reaching the top. Turning right. Walking to the end of the hall.
Her parents' bedroom door was closed. She had noticed that the night before. Growing up, it had always
been open. It being shut felt wrong, final. Do it, Avery. Face it.
Squaring her shoulders, she started toward the stairs, climbed them slowly, resolutely. She propelled
herself forward with sheer determination.
She reached her parents' bedroom door and stopped. Taking a deep breath, she reached out, grasped
the knob and twisted. The door eased open. The bed, she saw, was unmade. The top of her mother's
dressing table was bare. Avery remembered it adorned with an assortment of bottles, jars and tubes,
with her mother's hairbrush and comb, with a small velveteen box where she had kept her favorite pieces
of jewelry.
It looked so naked. So empty.
She moved her gaze. Her father had removed all traces of his wife. With them had gone the feeling of
warmth, of being a family-
Avery pressed her lips together, realizing how it must have hurt, removing her things. Facing this empty
room night after night. She'd asked him if he needed help. She had offered to come and help him clean
out her mother's things. Looking back, she wondered if he had sensed how halfhearted that offer had
been. If he had sensed how much she hadn't wanted to come home.
"I've got it taken care of, sweetheart. Don't you worry about a thing."
So, she hadn't. That hurt. It made her feel small and selfish. She should have been here. Avery shifted her
gaze to the double dresser. Would her mother's side be empty? Had he been able to do what she was
attempting to do now?
She hung back a moment more, then forced herself through the doorway, into the bedroom. There she
stopped, took a deep breath. The room smelled like him, she thought. Like the spicy aftershave he had
always favored. She remembered being a little girl, snuggled on his lap, and pressing her face into his
sweater. And being inundated with that smell and the knowledge that she was loved.
The womb from her nightmare. Warm, content and protected.
Sometimes, while snuggled there, he had rubbed his stubbly cheek against hers. She would squeal and
squirm then beg for more when he stopped.
Whisker kisses, Daddy. More whisker kisses.
She shook her head, working to dispel the memory. To clear her mind. Remembering would make this
more difficult than it already was. She crossed to the closet, opened it. Few garments hung there. Two
suits, three sports coats. A half-dozen dress shirts.
Knit golf shirts. A tie and belt rack graced the back of the door; a shoe rack the floor. She stood on
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