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Bermuda?”
    If Steve Jennings hadn’t resisted describing what hehad seen, I might not have been concerned. But I didn’t like the possibility, which occurred to me at once, that the rousing knock on the door might have been intended for Diana’s room. Surely she would not open the door without checking the peephole. But she might assume that her brother was in the hall…
    I definitely wanted to know what Steve Jennings saw in the deserted garden late last night. I ignored his question. “Perhaps you should inform Mrs. Worrell—”
    His interruption was sharp and final. “I couldn’t do that. Absolutely not.”
    How odd. Wasn’t the manager the first person who should be informed if someone played a malicious prank on a guest? And “malicious” seemed apt. Being awakened late at night to find no one at the door is disturbing. But Jennings’s response to my suggestion was immediate and I thought its sharpness and finality out of proportion. Why would it be unacceptable to inform the manager? I was dealing with nuances I didn’t understand.
    Jennings shrugged. “Sorry I brought it up.” His tone was brisk. “Believe me, it doesn’t matter—”
    Didn’t it? What had he seen in the garden? Why wouldn’t he tell me? After all, my grandchildren were staying in the hotel. I intended to be certain no danger threatened them. But clearly I would not find out anything from Jennings. However, I had no compunction about speaking to Mrs. Worrell.
    â€œâ€”and I’m sure it won’t happen again. Is this your first visit to Bermuda?”
    This time I answered his question. “No.” I remembered the warmth of the sand beneath our feet as Richard and I walked hand in hand on Windsor Beach, alone together with only the crash of the surf and thecry of the seabirds and the sand that shimmered a delicate, elegant pink in the late-afternoon sunlight.
    Perhaps it was a result of my recent illness, perhaps it came from the turmoil of emotions accompanying this journey, but sudden tears burned my eyes. I do know that grief ambushes the heart without warning, triggered by a scent, a sound, a memory.
    Jennings looked at me kindly.
    I blinked and managed a smile. “My late husband, Richard, and I came here several times. We always stayed at the Rosedon. The garden…” The Rosedon’s garden is extraordinarily beautiful. Richard and I often walked just after dawn to watch the sun spill over the horizon and touch the gorgeous plants with glory.
    Jennings looked away. It was a moment before he spoke. “I’ve never known whether memories help or hurt.”
    I drank my coffee. “Both.”
    We looked at each other with understanding.
    He stared toward the water, but I knew his gaze went far beyond St. George’s Harbour. “This is the first time I’ve been back since…” He stopped, took a sip of his tea. “My wife, Ellen, died last April. Ellen and I started coming here almost thirty years ago with R.T. and Margaret. Margaret was R.T.’s first wife. They were only married a few years when she died. R.T. worked like a madman but I was always able to persuade him to come to Bermuda with Ellen and me. When he married Connor—”
    I attached the identities to the names. Ellen had been Steve Jennings’s wife. R.T. must have been R. T. Bailey, Connor’s husband. R.T. had been married previously to Margaret, who predeceased him.
    â€œâ€”we picked up the old habit, Ellen and I and R.T.and Connor. We didn’t come the year that R.T. died, but the next year Ellen and I encouraged Connor to come with us. We continued to come every January. I suppose we took Connor under our wing. She was much younger than R.T. and was left a widow very early. Actually”—his eyes narrowed—“I was surprised when Connor and Lloyd decided to get married here.”
    We were silent. I