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threshold into the cafe, it was as if I was back in Chicago. Tables were laid out with traditional red-checked tablecloths and overhead, the ceiling was decorated with rows of Chianti bottles strung on wires. I parked on the street and dashed in to place a pizza order for this evening. I ordered a large cheese pizza with pepperoni on half of it, just in case Rosario would be home for dinner, and if not, then I could always munch on the rest of the pizza the next day.
    I drove up and into the driveway at Blackthorne House B&B, parked in the back and went in through the kitchen. The place was empty. Good thing, because I was hoping to make contact with Eric.
    After stashing Rosario’s gift in my bedroom and setting my purse and portfolio on my bed, I went back down stairs to the front parlor and stood facing the large oak and glass-front curio cabinet that had a few of Eric Blackthorne’s personal items on display. I closed my eyes and whispered his name.
    “As you wish,” he whispered in my ear.
    I turned to face Eric; he stood easily within arm’s reach. “Borrowing from Alex’s wardrobe closet, again?” I teased. When Eric dressed in Alex’s clothes, the two men were nearly identical. Eric’s hair was a tad longer and his neatly trimmed sideburns reached the bottom of his earlobes. Alex kept his sideburns shorter, about mid-ear. But the blackish dark hair, leading-man features and dark expressive eyes were the same and both Blackthorne men shared characteristically Scottish features of a strong chin and jaw line. Also, as soon as Eric spoke, it was a dead giveaway, because his strong Scottish burr was a stark contrast to Alex’s acquired California accent that was occasionally laced with a light burr. Though, the timber and tone of their voices were the same.
    Looking into Eric’s eyes, it occurred to me that Eric died at the age of thirty and Alex was approaching his thirtieth birthday, this made me wonder if Alex would continue to resemble Eric as he grew older. And if Alex did, how would I ever know, not having an older Eric to compare Alex to. Hmm, a thought to ponder on a day when I had more time.
    Eric had been studying me, as I had him. He smiled. “Yes, and Alex does not mind. I do have a penchant for this blue sweater that you gave him for his birthday. I have surrendered my objection to wearing these gold-rush trousers. They are quite durable and after one is accustomed to the heavy fabric, quite comfortable, as well. Though, in my day, I’d not be caught dead in them. My, how men’s apparel styles have changed.”
    “They’re called jeans, Eric. And some men would die to have the fit you have in them, so no complaints on my part, nor should you complain. Please, let’s sit down, no one will be here for at least an hour. And I want to pick your brain, if you will allow me to?”
    We sat on the large tapestry covered divan, on the opposite side of the room from the window, where this divan’s twin was. The last thing I needed was for a passerby to look up at the window and see me talking and gesturing to myself. “Eric, do you remember a young woman named Andalyn Dixon?”
    He closed his eyes momentarily and upon opening them said, “I recall a young lady with coppery auburn hair, not unlike yours, Shannon. Seems to me she was a fashion model and I believe she was involved with high society.” Then he cupped my chin in his hand and said, “If I recollect correctly, you have a remarkable resemblance to Andalyn Dixon. Though I believe her eyes were dark blue, not nearly as expressive as your sparkling emerald green eyes. And her hair was long, down to her waist, such was the style then.”
    “Eric, Andalyn Dixon died on her twenty-first birthday, she was about fours years younger than me. So, you knew her, personally?”
    “No. I met her once or twice, at social affairs. I do know that Andalyn Dixon was a popular hat model. I believe she began modeling in her late teens.”
    “I see. Eric, I