I don’t want to be medicine, Tessa thought crankily. She couldn’t bear it that her father was so happy, humming along with Britney Spears and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, happy for his father, happy for Tessa, happy for himself, and totally not caring how upset her mother was going to be about all this. She knew her father wasn’t moving to the farm simply to drive her mother crazy, but he had to know that’s what would happen, and he had to know that it would be Tessa who would have to try, somehow, to make things right.

  When she grew up, if she grew up, she was never having children.

  Mont Madison was out in the vegetable garden, weeding. He’d been there since six, with a break for lunch. After Madeline’s death, he’d just let the garden go, unable to summon up the energy to give a damn about anything, but now that Randall and Tessa were moving out to the farm, he realized he couldn’t expect them to feel comfortable with him sitting around with a long face, and besides, if he ever got to heaven, Madeline would kiss him first and slug him second, for allowing her beloved garden to go to pot.

  Hearing the Jeep’s tires crackle on the gravel, Mont straightened, pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, and wiped the sweat off his forehead and neck. He never could believe how Tessa’s face lit up when she saw him. The sight of his wrinkled old mug in a mirror always made him shake his head in despair.

  Tessa jumped out of the Jeep. “Hi, Grandpops!”

  She came toward him, all long legs and dangling arms, a scarecrow of a girl. Why did they let that child get so thin? He didn’t want to be an interfering old pain in the ass, but it took all his willpower not to pounce on Randall about it.

  “Hi, Tester,” he said. Just this year, perhaps because of the divorce or perhaps because of her own inner clock, his granddaughter had become less physically affectionate. She didn’t run to squeeze him in a rib-cracking hug anymore, and she seemed in general more hesitant about any kind of touching. Now he reached out and ruffled her hair.

  She looked around. “How are the raspberries?”

  “Not ready yet. Maybe next week. But I’ve got these for you.” He held out a bowl of peas, which she loved to shell from the pod and spill into her mouth like tiny green candies.

  “Yum.” Tessa grabbed a handful and tore into them.

  “Hey, Dad.” Randall crossed the grass and leaned on the wire fence that kept the deer and rabbits out.

  “Hello, son. Come on in the house. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Closing and latching the garden gate, Mont crossed the yard and led them through the cool, dark house, past all the clutter, up the stairs. He still slept in the front bedroom where he’d spent most of the adult years of his life, in the old brass double bed that had once seemed too small, and that now, without Madeline, was far too large and lonely.

  Randall’s old room was on the left, pretty much unchanged from his tenure as a boy.

  Mont opened the door to Evangeline’s room. He’d closed it on purpose, earlier that morning, so he could do this with a flourish. The room was empty of furnishings but full of light, the old wide pine floorboards glowing glossily in the sunshine.

  “Wow,” Tessa said.

  “Where’d you put all Eva’s stuff?” Randall asked.

  Madeline and Mont had left it all there, like a Museum of Evangeline, the good solid oak furniture overwhelmed by its purple walls, batik bedspread, posters of Van Morrison and Joan Baez, mirrors, photographs, postcards, and great shaggy tufts of wool from a Scottish farm which once Evangeline had intended to card and spin and weave into a sweater.

  “I cleared it out. Oh, don’t worry, I phoned Evangeline, and got her permission. She told me it was about time. She is forty-five. Anyway, I moved her bed into your mother’s old sewing room. That will be a guest room. This is your room, Tessa. I sanded and polished the floor and washed the windows, but I was waiting for you to tell me how you want it decorated. What color would you like it painted? Or would you prefer wallpaper? And what kind of furniture? I thought of buying you a canopy bed, but then I thought you might prefer something completely different.”

  Tessa turned in a full circle, slowly, savoring the empty space.

  “Is it okay? Would you prefer that I go ahead and furnish it—”

  “No, no, Grandpops, it’s great. It’s perfect.”

  “It’s wonderful,” her father told Mont.

  “There are some good curtains in the attic, and some of your grandmother’s quilts. Would you like those?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”

  Randall took his father by the arm. “Let’s go down and have some coffee. Give Tessa some time to get used to it.”

  Tessa flashed her father a grateful smile. Sometimes he seemed to know exactly what she needed.

  “Thanks, Grandpops,” she said.

  “You’re more than welcome, sweetheart.”

  Mont nodded to his son. “What about your room?”

  They went out, shutting the door, leaving Tessa alone.

  Tessa sank down onto the floor, cross-legged, and just sat. She breathed so deeply her stomach swelled out like a Buddha’s. Looking up, she saw that Grandpops had even taken down the glow-in-the-dark stars Evangeline had plastered all over the ceiling. What a wonderful room this was, she thought. It was all hers. Even the air was hers, without anyone else’s emotions crowding in like dark clouds around her.

  Randall’s bedroom was still a boy’s, with Red Sox pennants on the wall, and charts of the circulatory and digestive systems of the human body, and a few empty spaces where he’d hung glossy photos of sexy women: Farrah Fawcett, he remembered with a rush of embarrassment, and Bo Derek. He’d taken those posters down long ago.

  “I assume you’ll want to make some changes, too,” Mont said.

  The two double beds which could be stacked to make bunks lay side by side, covered with matching quilts. On the desk by the window sat a dusty brass telescope, a globe of the world, and the Incredible Human Male model he’d put together, with meticulous attention, in high school. On his closet shelf his old baseball sat in the palm of his old leather catcher’s mitt. There had been a time when he’d dreamed of passing this and other guy treasures along to his son, but those times had passed. A pang pierced his heart, and for a moment he let himself mourn the son he’d wanted but never had. These spells of sadness possessed him a lot recently, no doubt because with his divorce he was reminded of just how old he was, just how many dreams he had and had not seen come true.

  And yet—he might still have a son. He might still have a wife who loved him.

  “I say we clear it all out,” he announced.

  “All of it?”

  “Down to the last Monopoly card. Give what’s worth it to the thrift shop, take the rest to the dump.”

  “You better think about it.”

  “I don’t need to. Remember, Dad, I’ve got a ton of furniture in my apartment that I’ll want to bring here. I’ve got the handsome old walnut bed and bureau you gave me, and a grand leather recliner.”

  Talking, they wandered into Mont’s room.

  “Speaking of clearing out …” Randall said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Dad.” Randall gestured around the room. His mother’s perfumes, comb and brush, and jewelry box sat expectantly on the bureau, as if any moment she would come in to use them. On her side of the bed waited a pile of books, a floral box of tissues, and the hand lotion she rubbed on just before turning off the light. “It’s been over three months. This is too much, somehow. Too much like brooding.”

  Mont drew himself up straight. “I expect to brood every day of my life over the loss of your mother.”

  “Dad, I loved her, too. You know that. I’ll miss her every day of my life as well. But look at you. You’re only seventy-seven. You’re healthy. You’re handsome. You might even want to get married again.”

  Mont recoiled as sharply as if his son had spat at him. “How dare you.”

  “I’m thinking of you, Dad. But of Tessa, too. How will she feel when she sees all her grandmother’s things here, just as if she were still alive?”

  Mont strode angrily across the room, folded his arms over his chest, and glared out the window. He was just about ready to have a heart attack and he rather wished he would, it would serve his damned impudent son right.

  “And come on, Dad. What is this?”

  Mont turned. Randall was pointing to the bed. Madeline’s pink slippers waited obediently, side by side, on the floor, while her pink-and-white robe draped itself in readiness over the bedpost, where Mont usually kept his plaid wool robe.

  “Are you wearing her things, Dad?”

  Mont felt his lip quiver.

  “Dad.”

  Mont couldn’t trust himself to speak.

  Randall sucked in a deep breath, blew it out. “Well. You know, I’m longing for a good strong cup of coffee. I bought Tessa some lunch on the way out here, and I should have gotten some coffee for myself. I think I’ll go on downstairs and grind some beans and brew up something strong.”

  Gratefully Mont cleared his throat. “The hazelnut beans are in the freezer.”

  “Super. I assume you want a cup, too?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be right down.”

  “Take your time.” Randall went off down the hall and down the stairs, whistling and stomping and making as much noise as he had when he was a clumsy, scatterbrained adolescent.

  “Grandpops? I think I know what color I’d like my room to be.”

  Mont turned to see his granddaughter in the doorway, her amazing blond hair flying out around her like angel’s wings. And she was a kind of angel to him, the angel of life, a reason to remain alive.

  Eight

  THE BARNSTABLE COUNTY COURTHOUSES were located on Route 6A, a two-lane road winding past historic clapboard homes which, with their carriage houses and barns, glowed in picture-postcard perfection behind stone walls or white picket fences. High on a hill, in somber majesty, sat the distinguished granite building, green lawns flowing from it like skirts from a Victorian regent.

  Behind the original courthouse, up on the hill, the parking lot accepted the vehicles of the modern world. Early Monday morning Kelly parked her car and headed for the new building housing the Probate Court.

  She was glad she was going to work that was compelling and absorbing. She’d tossed and turned all night, her thoughts yo-yoing between elation and despair. She was sleeping with one man while engaged to another! But, oh, what she had with Randall was so sweet! She wasn’t being completely truthful to either man—but the only truth that mattered was how she felt in Randall’s arms.

  A fine judge you are, she chastised herself silently as she entered the judge’s chambers.

  “Good morning, Judge MacLeod! Ready to start the day?”

  Petite and energetic, with glittering black eyes, a pointed nose, and shaggy auburn hair, Judge Parsons resembled a fox. Walking rapidly on stiletto heels that would have made Kelly lame, but which Judge Parsons undoubtedly used to provide an illusion of height, the judge clicked her way into her courtroom, shooting brief bullets of information at Kelly as she went.

  “This courthouse is smaller than what you’re used to up in the big city, but we’ve got the same kinds of problems and just as many.”

  Kelly settled next to Judge Parsons behind a pale elegant judge’s bench, thinking that her grandparents would have loved this handsome room, with its spare, clean, sharp lines, and its glowing pale oak.

  “What have you got for us today?” Judge Parsons asked her clerk, and the week began.

  Reverend Christian Christopher resembled a crow with his beaky face and black suit brightened only slightly by the white collar at his neck. Monday morning he folded himself into a chair, tucked his jacket around him like wings, clasped his hands on his knees, and presented Dr. Lawrence with a look of lugubrious anticipation.

  “Thank you for coming in, Reverend Christopher,” Dr. Lawrence said. “May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’d like to make this brief. Although, of course, I want to do what I can to help.”

  “I appreciate that. Anne Madison, as you know, suggested I speak with you about the recent changes in her family, especially as it impacts her daughter.”

  “Ah, yes,” the minister sighed. “I’m always saddened when the home of one of my parishioners is broken apart. Divorce is the scourge of our society.”

  “And yet a fact of life. Fifty-five percent of all marriages end in divorce. We can’t change that, so we must do what we can to help those involved in a divorce, especially the children.”

  “True.”

  Dr. Lawrence consulted his notes. “You’ve known the Madisons for several years?”

  “Indeed. I married them.” A smile sliced jaggedly over his face. “They were an exemplary young couple. Absolutely glowing with goodwill. I had great hopes for them.”

  “They both seem to have accomplished a great deal, professionally.”

  “True. And Anne, I’m certain, will go on to even grander accomplishments in public service.”

  “You know Tessa.”

  “But, of course. She’s a lovely child. I christened her. I’ve watched her grow. She attends our Sunday School.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  The minister spread his hands, palms up. “Not a great deal. I see her only once a week, if that often. She seems like a pleasant young girl, amiable and obedient. Intelligent.”

  “Does she like Sunday School?”

  Reverend Christopher smiled. “It’s a challenge these days, to keep young people interested in the church. We do have a Youth Club that meets on Wednesday and Sunday evenings. Tessa has come perhaps twice. It doesn’t meet during the summers—too many families are off on vacation. So I haven’t seen Tessa for a while, but I haven’t seen a lot of children.”

  “Is there anything you could tell me about Tessa and her parents?”

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I’m trying to be fair. It’s difficult not to prefer Anne simply because she is more assiduous in her church attendance, and I might add, in her financial generosity. On the other hand, Dr. Madison is not, in general, playing golf or laying about on Sunday mornings. He works very hard and does a great deal of good, especially with the elderly. His benevolence is highly praised by those in the helping professions.”

  Dr. Lawrence leaned back in his chair, twiddling a pencil between his fingers. “So,” he mused, “we’ve got two fine adults, engrossed in their work, their significant work. One child, twelve years old. Two parents who both want full custody of the child. What’s the answer?”

  “I suppose you could always, like Solomon, threaten to cut the child in half and give half to each parent.” Noting the startled expression on Dr. Lawrence’s face, Reverend Christopher hurried to add, “I don’t mean to be flippant. It often seems to me that this is what divorce does to a child, cleaves her in half. It would take the wisdom of a Solomon, Dr. Lawrence, to decide which parent should have custody. I do not have such wisdom.”

  Dr. Lawrence nodded. “I’m grateful for your honesty.”

  The minister rose from his chair, as thin and brittle as a magician’s wand that had telescoped and now was unfolding. The two men shook hands. At the door, Reverend Christopher turned back.

  “It was Anne Madison who asked me to see you. It is Anne Madison whom I know best. I admire her enormously. I must stress that. I do admire her enormously. But she is a tough taskmaster. Most severe on herself. But the standards which she seeks—close to perfection—are difficult to attain.”

  “Let me ask you this,” Dr. Lawrence suggested. “Do you think that Tessa is happy?” Reverend Christopher looked away. His mouth tightened. Then, reluctantly, he said, “No.”

  The register called the first case. Judge Parsons said, “All right, counselors, what’s up?”

  “I’m Tim Feldmar, Your Honor, representing the plaintiff, Georgina Weld.” Tim Feldmar was a young man in a rather wrinkled suit. He’d nicked his chin in several places and had dark circles beneath his eyes. Kelly would have bet fifty dollars there was a new baby in his home.

  “Georgina Weld, Your Honor.” The wife spoke softly. Very plump, with lots of black hair back-combed to fright-wig volume, her face was marred by a swollen eye and bruises.

  “Judge, I’m George Weld. I’m representing myself.” The husband was short, stocky, and muscular in the way of weight lifters. His jeans were filthy and ripped—not fashionably—and frayed at the cuff. His hooded sweatshirt bore signs of food, dirt, and something darker that might have been dried blood. His hands were cuffed behind his back.

  “George and Georgina, huh,” Judge Parsons said. “All right, let’s swear you in. Please raise your right hands. Mr. Weld, you raise your right shoulder.”

  The register read the oath: “Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you shall give in the case now in hearing shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do,” said Georgina Weld.

  “I do,” said George Weld.

  Judge Parsons looked at her folder. “Okay. I see here we’ve got a motion for DNA testing. What’s that about?”

  “Your Honor, may I speak?” George Weld said.

  “Please do.”

  “I have reason to believe, Your Honor, that my wife committed adultery and gave birth to a son that she claims is mine but is really the son of Landon Frank.”

  “How old is this child?”

  “One year, Your Honor.”

  “One year. What makes you doubt your paternity now?”

  “I found letters, Your Honor.”

  “Go on.”

  “You see, we was renting one house down on Fox Lane, and it sold, so we had to move, and I was packing up all our stuff and I found this box at the back of Georgina’s side of the closet, full of letters. They was love letters, Your Honor. And they was pornographic!”