The Secrets of Rosa Lee

Praise for the novels of
JODI THOMAS

“One of my favorites.”

—Debbie Macomber

“Packs a powerful emotional punch…. Highlights the author’s talent for creating genuinely real characters…. Exceptional.”

—Booklist

“Jodi Thomas is a masterful storyteller. She grabs your attention on the first page, captures your heart, and then makes you sad when it is time to bid her wonderful characters farewell.”

—Catherine Anderson

“Fantastic… A keeper!… A beautiful story about unexpected love. An exceptional storyteller, Thomas has found the perfect venue for her talent, which is as big—and as awe-inspiring—as Texas. Her emotionally moving stories are the kind you want to go on forever.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Jodi Thomas paints beautiful pictures with her words, creates characters that are so real you feel as though they’re standing next to you, and she had a deliciously wry sense of humor… Thoroughly recommend it.”

—The Book Smugglers

“A fun read.”

—Fresh Fiction

The Secrets of Rosa Lee
Jodi Thomas

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dedicated to Connee McAnear,

whose laughter will always live in my memories.

Special thanks to Linda Leopold

for helping me understand roses, and to

Natalie Bright and my fan club

for help and encouragement.

With fall, the wind takes voice in the Texas panhandle. It whispers through mesquite trees and hums in tall prairie grass. When winter nears, it howls down the deserted streets of Clifton Creek after midnight like a wild child without boundaries. But when it passes Rosa Lee Altman’s old place at the end of Main, the wind blows silent, no louder than a shadow crossing over forgotten graves.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

One

Sidney Dickerson fought down a shudder as she turned up the heat inside her aging Jeep Cherokee and stared at the oldest house in Clifton Creek. Rosa Lee Altman’s property. Sidney had lived in Texas for over a year, yet every time she drove down Main Street this one place drew her as if calling her home. In October’s evening shadows, the once grand dwelling looked neglected and sad. One of the gap-toothed shutters swung in the wind, making a second-floor window appear to be winking.

I’m coming inside, tomorrow. She almost said the words aloud to the house. After a year of watching and waiting, I’ll finally walk inside.

The Altman house had been built almost a hundred years ago. In its time, she guessed it had been grand sitting out on the open land by itself, with nothing but cattle grazing all the way to the horizon. Barns, bunkhouses, smoke sheds and kitchens must have sprung up like wild-flowers around a rose. A fitting house for Henry Altman, the town’s father.

When the railroad arrived a mile away, it had been natural for business to move close to the tracks. Sidney had read that Henry had donated the land for the rail station and the bank, then charged dearly for the lots nearby. The article said he thought to keep a mile between him and the town but, as years passed, folks built along the road from the train station to his mansion, developing Main Street right up to his front yard.

Sidney glanced back at the tattered little town of Clifton Creek. If it had grown to more than five or six thousand, the population would have surrounded the remaining Altman land. But, since the fifties, the town had withered with age and the Altman house sat on a rise overlooking its decline. The train still ran along the tracks but passed the abandoned station without stopping. Nowadays cattle and cotton were trucked to Wichita Falls. Eighteen-wheelers hauled in most supplies. Oil ran in pipelines.

The shadow of the old house reached the windows of her Jeep. Sidney huddled deeper into her wool blazer. She would be forty next week. The same age Rosa Lee had been the year her father, Henry Altman, had died. He had built an empire along with this house. Cattle and oil had pumped through his land and in his blood.

Sidney closed her eyes realizing the old man must have known his forty-year-old daughter would be the end of the line. He’d built the ranch and the ten-bedroom house for a spinster. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had encouraged his only child to marry, or had he kept her cloistered away?

Slipping on her glasses, Sidney stared at the house that had been Rosa Lee’s so long folks in the town called the place by her name. Wild rosebushes clung to the side walls as if protecting it. Old elms, deformed by the wind and ice, lined the property’s north border. The old maid had left the place to the town when she’d died two years ago, but it would be Sidney who would help determine the house’s fate.

Demolish or restore? The choice seemed easy, considering its condition. Even the grand white pillars that once guarded the double-door entry were yellowed and chipped. Sidney loved the historical significance of Clifton Creek’s founding father’s house, but she couldn’t ignore how desperately the town needed money. An oil company had made what seemed a fair bid for the land and the mayor had told her the crest, where the house sat, would be the ideal spot for drilling. Sacrificing a house for the town seemed practical, but she couldn’t help but wonder if anyone but her would miss the old place at the end of Main.

She flipped open her briefcase on the passenger seat beside her. Beneath stacks of freshman History papers and a file on everything she could dig up about the house, she found a wrinkled old card, water spotted, corners bent. On the front of the card, her grandmother had pasted a recipe clipped from a Depression-era newspaper of Clifton Creek. On the back was one sentence written in a shaky hand. “Never forget the secrets of Rosa Lee.”

Sidney fought frustration. How could she remember something she never knew? Once, Sidney had heard her mother say that Granny Minnie had worked in Texas as a nurse until her husband had found a job in Chicago. But, Sidney couldn’t remember the name of the town.

She flipped over the card as she had a hundred times before. Two years ago, her mother and Granny Minnie had been killed in a car wreck a hundred miles south of Chicago. Her mother’s and grandmother’s wills had been standard—except for one item. Minnie had left Sidney a safety deposit key. Locked away, Sidney had found only an old recipe box. An unorganized mixture of forgotten recipes shuffled in with cards and notices for baby showers and weddings that Minnie must have collected over years.

Sidney had looked through the box a few days after the funerals, wondering what had been so important. Why would she have left Sidney, her only grandchild, a worthless box filled with forgotten memories?

This card had to hold the answer. The secret her mother had never taken the time to pass on. A secret her grandmother had thought they must never forget.

Sidney shook her head. She’d taken a teaching job here at Clifton College because of this one card. She had moved halfway across the country in search of a secret she would probably never find.

As darkness settled, Sidney knew she would not sleep tonight. The house waited for her. Tomorrow the mayor’s handpicked committee would meet to decide what was to be done about the place.

She smiled, remembering the list of committee members. Like her, most were well-known in town…well-known and without influence. It had taken her several days to determine why the mayor had chosen them. At first, she had been honored, thinking he had noticed the articles she’d written about the house in the local paper. But when she’d met with him, she’d known the real truth.

Most folks might only see her as a middle-aged, shy professor, but behind her glasses was a sharp mind. Sidney knew enough about politics to realize that this was an election year, and Mayor Dunley didn’t plan to do anything to lose votes. If he decided the fate of Rosa Lee’s house, some group in town would be upset. But if he let a committee do it—a committee made up of people connected to everyone in town—no one would contest the outcome.

Red and blue lights blinked in her back window. Sidney glanced in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. It was too dark to make out anything but a tall shadow climbing from the police car. She didn’t have to see more. She knew who it was.

Sheriff Granger Farrington leaned near as Sidney rolled down her window.

“Evenin’, Dr. Dickerson.”

Sidney smiled. The man seemed as proper and stiff as a cardboard cutout of the perfect small-town lawman, all starch and order. She might have believed his act if she hadn’t seen him with his wife. “Good evening, Sheriff. Is there a problem?”

“No, just making sure you weren’t having car trouble.”

“I’m fine. How’s Meredith?”

A grin cracked his armor. “She’s taking it easy. Doc says another month before she’ll deliver. I’m thinking of buying stock in Blue Bell. If she eats another gallon of that ice cream, the baby will be born wearing a sweater.”

“She craves it, and you supply it.”

“Yeah, we’re in a twisted relationship. She’s a Blue Bell junkie, and I’m her contact.” He laughed, then straightened. “I’m surprised you’re here after dark; haven’t you heard the stories about this place?”

“I heard about them from a few students after I wrote the articles on the house. A madman running through the garden. Chanting in hushed tones drifting through the air, coming from nowhere. Old Rosa Lee’s ghost circling the garden, dripping blood over her roses.” Sidney laughed. “You believe any of them?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything but kids parking out here on Saturday night. Adams caught some football players smoking pot in back of the house a year ago.”

Sidney started the Jeep, guessing the sheriff wouldn’t leave until she proved the engine would turn over. He’d given her Jeep a jump twice last winter and, knowing Granger, he’d probably heard about the time one of his deputies had helped her when she’d run out of gas along Cemetery Road. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was on his duty roster. Something scribbled in among the orders, like “watch out for the dingy professor who can’t seem to keep her Jeep running.”

The sheriff tapped the canvas roof as the Jeep’s engine kicked in. “You know, Dr. Dickerson, when you get ready, Whitman will give you a good trade-in on a car. He’s got new Cadillacs, but the trade-in lot’s got a little of everything.”

“I’ll think about it.” She started to ask one more time if he would call her Sidney. They were about the same age, and he was as close to a friend as she had in this town that welcomed newcomers with the same enthusiasm as they welcomed fire ants. “Good night, Sheriff.”

He touched his hat with two fingers and disappeared back into the shadows.

Sidney glanced once more at the old house. Cloaked in shadows, it looked romantic, mysterious, haunted. She could almost believe that Rosa Lee, who’d lived all ninety-two years of her life there, still watched over the place.

“Never forget the secrets of Rosa Lee,” Sidney whispered and wondered what waited behind the solid double doors.

Doors that had kept out the world for a lifetime.

Across town in the Clifton Creek Hotel, Sloan McCormick dropped his leather duffel bag on the tiny hotel bed and growled. He hated sleeping with his feet hanging off the end. At six foot four, it was the rule rather than the exception when traveling.

He also hated small towns with their cracker-box hotel rooms, where neon signs blinked through the thin drapes all night long and sheets had the softness of cheap paper towels.

Emptying his pockets on the scarred dresser, he tried to think of one thing he liked about this assignment. He thought he’d grown used to being alone, but no place made him feel more alone than a small town, and Clifton Creek was a classic. In a town over fifty thousand or so, he could blend in, look familiar enough so that folks returned his smile or wave. But in a place this size, people knew he was a stranger and treated him as such.

“Get the job done and get out.” He repeated his rules. “Never get personally involved.”

Sloan pulled a pack of folders from his bag and walked to where one of the double lights above the headboard shone. In the dull glow, he went over the list of committee members.

The Rogers sisters would be no problem—he could probably charm them. Both were retired schoolteachers. From what he’d gathered, they were much loved in the community. Though they lived modestly—small house, used van—he was surprised to discover close to eight hundred thousand in their combined savings accounts. A nice little nest egg for the two ladies.

He flipped to the next file. The professor, Sidney Dickerson, would not be as easy to convince. He had listened outside her classroom. Facts, not dreams, would interest her. But, he wasn’t sure how to get to her. Dr. Dickerson’s interest in the Altman house was far more than mild curiosity. She’d proved that in the half-dozen articles she’d written for the paper.

He flipped to the next member of the mayor’s committee. The preacher, Micah Parker, might be convinced “for the good of the community.” Sloan had rarely seen a man above thirty so squeaky clean. The private eye he’d hired couldn’t dig up a single whisper on the widower, not even in his hometown.

The last two folders belonged to the troublemaker, Billy Hatcher, and the ad executive, Lora Whitman. Both would probably go for money if he offered. Hatcher worked at the lumberyard and did odd jobs around town. Except for one brush with the law, he’d stayed below the radar. Lora Whitman was another story. She appeared to have lived her life in the public eye ever since she was six and had posed for her father’s car ads. When Sloan had flipped through the weekly paper’s archives, he’d seen several pictures of her. Homecoming queen, cheerleader, fund-raising for one cause then another. Her wedding picture had covered half a page.

Sloan spread the members’ fact sheets across the bed. He only needed four to swing the committee. But which four?

He grabbed his Stetson and headed toward the bar he had seen a few blocks away. “Time to go fishin’,” Sloan mumbled.

Two

Micah Parker didn’t believe in ghosts. He reminded himself of this fact as he jogged toward the edge of town, but there was something strange about the old Altman house. It drew him the way ambulance lights on a highway lured curious drivers.

He caught himself circling past the place each night when he ran. Something must have occurred there years ago and left its impression on the very air—it was not sounds, or odd sightings, but more an emotion that settled on the passerby’s skin, thick as humidity just before a storm breaks.

Like most of those chosen for the mayor’s committee, he couldn’t wait to go inside and have a look. And tomorrow, he’d get his chance. Reverend Milburn had talked him into another civic committee, this one to decide what to do with Rosa Lee Altman’s place. As associate minister, Micah followed orders.

Even though a relative newcomer in town, Micah had heard the stories about the old maid who had lived to be ninety-two. She’d lost her wealth—first a section, then a block at a time until nothing had remained in her name but the house and gardens. Some said she’d never ventured beyond her gates. She had had no life outside her property, and folks said no one, not even a delivery man, had stepped beyond her porch.

Micah studied the house as he crossed the street, his tennis shoes almost soundless. Even in the streetlight he could see that weather had sanded away almost all paint, leaving the two-story colonial a dusty brown. The same color as the dirt that sifted through everything over this open land.

Smiling, he waved at the house. It seemed more than brick and board. Some places have personalities, he thought with a grin. If this one had a voice it would say, “Evenin’ Reverend Parker,” in a Texas drawl.

He slowed in the darkness and stretched before turning about and heading back through town. The temperature had dropped during his run. Time to get home.

As he stepped into the street, a movement in the gutter caught his attention. He stumbled trying to avoid a collision.

A tiny, muddy, yellow cat, not big enough to be without its mother, curled against a pile of trash the wind had swept in the grate. Its long hair stuck out in all directions, but the little thing didn’t know enough to crawl away from the pile of discarded cups and packing paper.

Micah leaned down. “Now, what have we here?” He lifted the shivering pile of bones and hair.

The animal made a hissing sound but didn’t fight as he warmed it with his hands.

“How about coming along with me, little guy?” Micah carefully tucked the kitten into his jacket pocket and turned toward home. “I’ll share the leftovers from the men’s prayer breakfast with you.”

The animal didn’t sound any more excited about the meal than he was, but their choices were limited. Thanks to his late meeting at the church tonight, his son Logan had already eaten dinner with their neighbor, Mrs. Mac. Micah could go grocery shopping at the town’s only store and probably run into half a dozen people he knew, all of whom he’d have to talk to. Or, he could eat out alone and have everyone who passed by look as if they felt sorry for him. Or, he could finish off whatever lay wrapped in the aluminum foil the breakfast cleanup committee had insisted he take. Leftovers seemed the best choice.

When Micah entered the back of the duplex he shared with his seven-year-old son, he lowered the kitten into a basket of dirty laundry and motioned for it to be quiet.

The cat just stared up at him, too frightened to make a sound.

Micah closed the utility-room door and silently moved down the hallway. Sometime during the fifty-year history of this place, someone had cut a door between the two apartments.

He leaned his head into the other apartment and whispered, “Thanks, Mrs. Mac.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered without turning away from her TV. “No trouble.”

Micah closed the door connecting the apartments without bothering to lock it, then moved down the hallway to Logan’s room. Over the past three years they’d worked out a system. He helped Mrs. Mac carry in her groceries, mowed her side of the lawn and did anything her arthritis wouldn’t let her do. She watched over a sleeping Logan while Micah ran, and babysat on the rare occasions Logan couldn’t accompany Micah to a church meeting.

Micah carefully crossed the cluttered floor of Logan’s room and knelt to pull the cover over the boy’s shoulder. He brushed sunny-blond hair away from Logan’s forehead and whispered, “We love you, son,” as if Amy were still alive and helping him raise the boy.

He backed out of the room slowly, knowing one more day of Logan’s childhood had passed.

A little after seven the next morning, Micah checked on his furry houseguest. After crying half the night, the kitten must have licked up all the warm milk in the chipped saucer Micah had left in the laundry basket. The tiny houseguest now lay curled up beside his oldest sweatshirt.

“I want that shirt back,” Micah said as he poured himself coffee. He thought of moving the basket to the garage but decided it was too cold. With luck, the cat couldn’t jump out and would be fine until he came home for lunch with kitty litter.

“I’ll stop by and get some cat food, so consider it a date for lunch.” He lifted his cup to the sleeping guest. “I promise not to try to cram any more of the church’s scrambled eggs into you.” The nuked eggs worked only slightly better than the warmed hash browns. Last night Micah had ended up making a sandwich out of a leftover biscuit and sausage. “I’ve no doubt you’re a Baptist. Any self-respecting Methodist would have downed the eggs.”

“Who you talking to, Pop?”

Micah smiled. His son had turned a corner a month ago—calling him Daddy was now too babyish.

Lifting the kitten, Micah faced his son. Logan, thin, blond and full of energy, was a miniature of himself except for one thing. The eyes. The boy had Amy’s green eyes. And right now they danced with excitement.

“Where’d it come from? Can we keep it? What’s its name? Is it a boy or a girl?”

Micah laughed. “Slow down, partner.” He laid the kitten in his son’s lap. “I found it last night when I was running. I don’t think Mrs. Mac allows pets, but she’ll probably let us keep it for a few days until we fatten it up a little and find it a home. I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl cat, but I do know its name.”

Logan wasn’t listening. He sat cross-legged on the floor with the cat in his lap.

Micah felt a tug at his heart. A boy should have pets, but after Amy had died, Micah had all he could handle taking care of Logan.

Standing, Micah washed his hands and poured Logan’s Cheerios, then sliced a banana into another bowl. “I thought we’d call him Baptist—you know, after John the Baptist.”

Logan nodded.

“Better wash your hands and eat, son. Jimmy’s mom will be here soon.” Micah poured the last of the milk in a small glass and set it beside the cereal. Logan never mixed food. Not anything. Mrs. Mac told Micah once that a mother would never put up with such nonsense.

“Will Baptist be here when I get home?” The boy put the cat back in the basket.

Micah tossed Logan a towel to dry his hands and directed him toward the table. “I’ll pick up some food today. We’ll be like a hospital and take care of him until someone adopts him.”

He didn’t miss the pain that flickered in Logan’s eyes. For the boy, a hospital was a place to die. First his mother, then his only grandparent. Micah knew he shouldn’t have said the word, but sometime Logan would have to understand and learn not to be afraid of words. Words like hospital and cancer.

Micah reached over and petted the cat as Logan downed his breakfast.

“I’m going to Jimmy’s after school, remember?” the boy mumbled between bites.

“I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Seven, please. Jimmy’s dad’s cooking out. Said it’s for the last time this year. The grill’s going into the garage for the winter. He cooks the hot dogs on a stick and lets me eat them like a corn dog without the bun or anything.”

“All right, seven.” Micah couldn’t blame Logan. His choice at home was usually a kid’s TV dinner or fast food.

Jimmy’s double tap on the door sounded and Logan was off like a racer hearing the gun. He grabbed his backpack and jacket, slapped a high five on his dad’s hand and ran for the door.

Micah scraped the half-full bowl down the disposal and reached for the old leather backpack he used as a briefcase. He knew at thirty-four it was long past time to switch to a briefcase, but the bag he had carried since college still felt right on his shoulder. He hated change. There had been so much change in his life, he clung to the familiar in small ways whenever he could.

“You need anything before I go?” He glanced toward the basket, but the cat was sound asleep.

He felt stupid talking to a cat, but it beat the silence of the house. “See you at noon, Baptist.”

If he hurried, he’d have time for breakfast at the Main Street Café before the committee meeting. No one thought it strange when a man ate breakfast alone, Micah thought. He’d be safe from sad looks, for once.

With coffee cup in hand, he grabbed his coat and headed toward his car. A blast of sunshine and cold air hit him as he ran the ten feet to the old garage. He tried to hold the coffee and pull on his coat. Brown spots plopped along the walk. By the time he got to his car, the half cup of coffee he’d managed to save was cold. He drank it anyway while he waited for the heater to warm. This time of year, by midafternoon, he’d need the air conditioner. Nothing made sense to him anymore, not even the weather.

He missed the green of East Texas, but he couldn’t return. Not yet. When he had moved to Clifton Creek and accepted the associate pastor’s position at First United Methodist Church, he’d decided to give his grief a year to mend before returning home. But Amy’s memory hadn’t faded. In a few months, she’d be gone three years. His heart and body still ached for her. Some nights, he ran miles trying to outdistance the emptiness of his life. Logan was all that gave him reason to breathe most days.

He sat at the edge of the counter at the café, ordered pancakes and strawberry pie and pretended to read the Dallas paper while he tried to figure out when he’d have time in the day to shop. When he’d finished eating, he paid out, speaking to almost everyone in the place.

He elected to walk to his meeting a few blocks away at the edge of town.

Micah smiled and waved as the plump Rogers sisters climbed from their van. He’d become an expert at smiling…at hiding…at pretending to live.

The Rogers sisters were so short they tumbled out of the Suburban like beanbag dolls. Micah thought of suggesting they drive a smaller vehicle. Since neither had children, he saw no need for six extra seats. But maybe, to them, the van was like some of the old men’s pickups around town. Farmers who moved in from their farms wound up hauling nothing more than groceries around, but they thought they still had to drive a truck. Maybe the sisters had needed the van when they’d taught school and had simply become used to it.

“Look Beth Ann, it’s that young Reverend Parker,” the smaller of the sisters whispered in a voice Micah could easily hear. “He’s so handsome it makes me think of changing religions.”

Micah fought down a laugh. He certainly wasn’t young at thirty-four, and no one but Amy had ever thought him handsome. “Morning, Miss Rogers.” He offered his hand to the one who’d spoken. If she’d called the other Beth Ann, then she must be Ada May. He turned to the other. “Miss Rogers.”

Both women smiled, but it was Ada May who spoke again. “You get on this committee, too?”

Micah nodded. As the associate, part of his job was to serve on every committee and charity board that came along. This one didn’t seem to require much. They only had to vote on what to do with the old place. He hadn’t even gone inside and had already made up his mind. They needed to tear it down before it fell. Micah envisioned a park in its place, maybe with a running track.

“Isn’t it exciting?” Beth Ann finally found her voice. “I’m sixty-four and, to my knowledge, no one’s ever been past the door of this place in my lifetime. There’s no telling what we’ll find.”

“Mice,” Ada May mumbled. “Maybe even rats and spiders. Rattlers, if it’s warm enough.”

Beth Ann shuddered and pulled a purse, big enough to use for a sleepover, from the van. “We came early, hoping to walk around the grounds before the meeting started. Would you like to join us, Reverend?”

Micah offered each an arm. “I’d love to, ladies. I planned to do the same thing.” He didn’t add that he had been early to everything for three years.

Stones still marked the path through what had once been a fine garden. Huge bushes of twisted twigs looked misshapen. Micah guessed in spring they’d bloom once more as they had for almost a hundred years. A stand of evergreens along the north property line blocked the wind and cast a shadow over part of the plants, making them appear gray and lifeless.

Ada May tugged on Micah’s arm. “The garden seems to have no order, twisting and turning, but if you stay on the path, you’ll make it back to the house. All paths turn back on themselves and lead to the rear of the house.”

“Now, how do you know that, sister?” Beth Ann asked from just behind them.

“Everyone knows that,” Ada May snapped. “Young folks bring their dates here and have for years. Lovers walk the path at twilight.”

“Well,” Beth Ann interrupted. “We’ll know if it’s fact after we walk it. I don’t go around telling anything that I don’t know to be true, until I check it out for myself. I’ve heard tell that evil roams these gardens. As a child, I heard of people being chased out of the gardens by a crazy man with long white hair flying like a sail in the wind behind him. But, I don’t know that for a fact, mind you.”

Both women paused as if waiting for him to say something, but Micah guessed it would be dangerous to come between the sisters. He wondered if any man had ever been brave enough to try. Since they weren’t sure where the path ended, he figured neither had ever made this journey at dark when lovers came out.

As they walked along, it occurred to him that he felt as dead inside as the winter gardens that hadn’t known a human touch in years. He didn’t much care as long as he could hide his feelings from everyone. Like an actor, he’d played the same role so many times that the words no longer made sense.