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eyes again. Her heart constricted whenever she thought of her father. Despite the trappings of the good life, she sensed a vulnerability in him, as if something was missing. She wanted to protect him. It was selfish of her mother to take her away. He needed someone to take care of him. He needed Chloe. The sun had gone down during their argument. “I want to eat at Spagos.”
    Eric laughed. “You’re a spoiled brat,” he said. “I can’t believe your mother allows this kind of behavior.”
    â€œShe doesn’t. And I’m not spoiled. Spoiled brats don’t appreciate the gifts they’re given. I do. I’ve only eaten there once, with you. I want to go again.”
    He picked up his cell phone and shook his head. “You’re a smart girl, Chloe, too smart. I’m no match for you. I’ll see if I can get a reservation.”

Three
    N ola Ruth Delacourte reclined on a daybed pulled out on the porch of her big white house on the outskirts of Marshyhope Creek and looked across at the water, a finger of the Chesapeake. On the other side of the inlet, migrant workers picked peaches in Marshall Hadley’s grove. It had been a dry spring, drier than most she’d seen in her sixty-five years, and the summer promised to be dry as well. By eight o’clock that morning a relentless wet heat had settled over the land like a steam bath from which there was no respite. She squinted her eyes and smiled into the steamy morning. The workers, gathered together from other farms to help harvest the grove, were cooling themselves, bathing in the murky water. The sight of dark, bare-skinned bodies, shiny and water slick, reminded her of earlier, lustier days when she was young and hot-blooded and the nights held out promises of magic and romance and music.
    Sometimes, her faded hearing came back and her ears, too damaged to really listen to the conversations around her, picked up the old familiar strains of the blues. There was BoBo Jones with his sax and Johnny Fontana on the trumpet and Moss Daggett banging his spoons. The music was sweet and sharp and so achingly poignant it could charm the clothes right off a woman’s back. Those were years worth remembering, when she had her youth and her looks and her hearing, the absolute power of a young woman in full bloom with all of life ahead. Where had the time gone? Where had she gone? Who was that old woman looking back at her from the mirror? Life wasn’t fair. She didn’t feel any different, not until the stroke had suddenly pulled her into a dervish of helpless dependency, making even the smallest tasks insurmountable challenges.
    Lordy, Lordy, where was Libba Jane? Where was her precious, spirited, exquisite daughter? How had such an absurd argument come between them and grown until there was no going around it and seventeen years had blinked by? How could something as insignificant as a man have parted them? Somehow, their words had gotten away from them. Passions were high and things that shouldn’t have been said were said. Still, Nola Ruth was completely unprepared for the finality of their break. Libba had always been so sensible, with one exception. But she wouldn’t think of that now. It was water under the bridge. Libba was coming home with her child and without Eric Richards. Except for seventeen empty years, Nola Ruth couldn’t have planned it better.
    â€œNola Ruth.” Her husband’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Can I get you anything? Iced tea or lemonade, maybe?”
    She shook her head and didn’t look at him, hoping he would fade back into the dim hallway from where he’d come. Coleson Delacourte, as unresponsive to his wife’s moods as he’d been forty years ago, walked out on to the porch and sat down beside her.
    â€œThe doctor said you should use your voice as much as possible, Nola. Your speech will improve faster.”
    â€œMy speech is fine,”