Evelyn woke to the soft rap of the nurse on the door, then the woman entered to take her vital signs. Smiling, she dragged herself slowly to a sitting position to make things easier for her caregiver, and whispered a polite, “Hello.” “Good morning.” She shook the mercury down in the thermometer and provided the tired instruction, “Under your tongue. Don’t bite the glass.” Holding her wrist still, Evelyn let her head shift towards the hard chair where Andrew was still sleeping, slumped over uncomfortably to one side, his shoulder hunched to keep his head on the chairback. Keeping her voice low so not to wake him, Evelyn asked the nurse, “What time is it, please?” since there was no clock in her room. Not having one had added exponentially to the sensation that she’d lost time and critical parts of her life. It didn’t help in the least that under morphine, her sleep schedule was erratic, leaving further gaps in her memory since she’d arrived at the hospital. “Just after seven. I’m so

“But—she was just—I don’t understand. How?” Stunned, Evelyn stumbled over her words, completely at a loss for what to say. Charlotte had been an unpleasant woman, but everything about her life seemed pitiful and tragic, even her sudden end. As if her words were the heaviest thing to bear, Andrew closed his eyes. “An automobile accident. Apparently, she had driven herself here. She lost control of the car on the Taconic. Collided with a truck head-on.” “The Taconic State Parkway? But I thought she was in St. Louis?” Confused, her brows drew together. There hadn’t been much time for her to catch up on what had happened during the week she’d spent in the hospital, but she was certain he had told her the private investigators had found Charlotte there and were able to serve the divorce petition. Opening his eyes, he nodded. “She was.” He rose, releasing her hand to come around to his side of the bed. Sitting on the side, he slipped off his shoes and stretched out

“Mr. James!” “Andrew James!” A flurry of jackets and fluttering paper greeted him as he and Alexander descended the courthouse steps. Andrew flinched at a bright camera flash, frowning as white spots blinded parts of his vision. The press. Just what he needed. Alexander clapped an arm around his shoulders. “I warned you,” he said softly. “Just get me out of it.” “Mr. James, is it true your wife was killed after meeting with you?” a reporter demanded, shoving in close with a large cluster of others. “Were you arguing about the divorce?” “Ladies and gentlemen,” Alexander cut in, steering Andrew toward the street and a line of awaiting cabs, “these questions are of no consequence. Mrs. James died tragically yesterday afternoon. Mr. James has just dropped his divorce petition to take care of his wife’s remains and final estate matters.” “Your court documents state Mrs. James has been residing in St. Louis since sometime ove

As it had the previous morning and early Monday afternoon when Andrew had brought her home, the shower Wednesday morning took longer than Evelyn ever recalled either of them spending in it previously. In fact, she felt confident in saying it took longer than it did when she ran a bath, then washed, then rinsed with clean water. She was pleased to have done without the chair entirely, happy to find herself able to stand for the duration despite the drawn out washing process. And the excessive drying process which inevitably took longer than it needed too. When at last Andrew hung their towels over the rack in the warm and humid bathroom, a lazy smile still curling his lips and his half-lidded mutable blue eyes glittering with green, he wiped the steamed-up crystal face of his wristwatch and commented, “See? We’re finished with time to spare before the children get up to get ready for school.” Evelyn took a step back, her index finger raised between them, as he

“Oh my word!” Evelyn exclaimed, pivoting on the dressing table stool as the bedroom door opened, despite the command from the hairstylist that she remain still. “Is that my Sarah? Turn around! Let me see!” Beaming, the girl paused, gave a pert curtsey, then turned around in her ruffled white dress, modeling. “Isn’t it pretty?” “Well, yes, the dress is pretty, Sarah, but the person wearing it is much prettier. You look like a young Mary Pickford. My word, your curls just shine like satin.” “Wait until you see Aunt Lily!” Sarah bounded onto the bed, perching where Evelyn could see her in one of the tri-fold mirrors on the dressing table. “She looks like Jean Harlow!” “Does she?” Evelyn asked, straightening on the stool and sighing deeply as the stylist got back to work. “I always thought she looked more like Priscilla Lane, but bright as her hair is, you’re probably right. She’s been turning heads for years.” “I can hardly wait!" Sarah giggled. "Uncle Justin’s going to flip when he