She didn’t stop until she came to the spectacular cliff above the Mediterranean where she used to take Quentin to watch the boats. The salty, fishy smells of the sea mixed oddly with the tangy scent of lemons, and she collapsed onto her knees in the tall grass, her packets spilling out of her arms. What was she going to do now? Where would she go? She couldn’t imagine sticking it out with the French police. Calling in lawyers, making denials, thinking up new ways to explain the past thirty years.

“It’s over,” a voice said behind her, and she wondered if it were her own-her conscience. Then the voice went on, “You can’t win this time, ma belle.”

Annette rolled back onto her heels and watched Jean-Paul limp to her. He was using a cane; she could see where his thigh was bandaged. She thought perhaps they’d both gone to hell, but far be it from Jean-Paul Gerard ever to die.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ll take you back to the mas.”

“I killed Gisela, you know,” she said, feeling the warm breeze in her hair.

“Yes.”

“She told me you knew I was Le Chat from the beginning-that you only took up with me to get her Jupiter Stones back.” She blinked at him in the bright sun, remembering how they’d made love here on this spot. “Is that true?”

“Partly. I never expected to love you as much as I did.”

“Were you Gisela’s lover, as well?”

Jean-Paul shook his head sadly, moving closer. “No, Annette.” His warm eyes locked with hers. “Gisela was my mother.”

Annette fell back onto the grass and stared up at the sky, laughing. “Of course!” She giggled now as it all made sense. “Hungarian baroness-she was nothing but a French whore with a bastard child. To think of all the regrets I’ve wasted on her over the years-it’s ridiculous.”

“She tried to help you.”

“She tried to blackmail me. She offered a ‘deal’ in which I’d return the Jupiter Stones, drop you, and promise not to steal anymore. In return, she wouldn’t blab to the police about me. Can you imagine? Gisela ‘Majlath’ trying to wring me dry.”

Jean-Paul’s face reddened, the only indication that her words disturbed him. “She only wanted you to give back what was hers-”

“And what poor slob did she steal them from?” Annette sat up, feeling gloriously free. She picked bits of grass from her hair and looked out at the ocean. “You can imagine how furious I was, having someone like that interfering with my life, making threats. I gave her a good shove-just out of anger, really. Well, she slipped. She tried to hang on, but she knew better than to ask me to help her. I thought about it, though, but there was no way I was going to risk toppling over the edge myself. After all, I had a little boy at home.” Annette brushed the flat of her hand over the very top of the grass, letting it tickle her palm. “Finally she just let go.”

Jean-Paul shut his eyes and said quietly, to himself, “Aah, Maman…I should have been there to help you.”

Annette climbed wearily to her feet. “You know, I’ve always thought that if it came to it, I’d be able to do the same-just drop silently into the sea.”

Instantly alert, Jean-Paul put out a hand to stop her.

But she had already made up her mind, and he couldn’t move fast enough on his injured leg. He threw down his cane and lunged for her, but she was running, laughing as she came to the edge of the cliff.

She didn’t make a sound as she disappeared into the wind.

Forty

Mai was sitting up in her bed in a guest room at the Eliza Blackburn House. Despite her bruises and stitches, she looked mischievous and every bit the kid Jared couldn’t live without. His mother, horrified by what had happened, had come down from Nova Scotia and insisted on spelling him, although he’d refused to leave Mai’s bedside in those first crucial, terrifying hours after Rebecca had pulled her from the water. Now, ten days later, the doctors had told him Mai could travel soon, and he could take her home.

Home…was that still San Francisco for her?

“You’ve got to tell Granddad to cut it out,” she said. “He’s sent me flowers, balloons, a singing telegram-and now the nurses say he’s sending them flowers and balloons to make sure they’re taking good care of me. It’s so embarrassing.”

“Has he told you that you don’t have to pay back the money you swiped?”

“No…”

“Then I wouldn’t complain if I were you.”

Mai decided a prudent change of subject was in order. “Have you heard from Rebecca Blackburn?”

Jared shook his head. He’d gotten used to single parenthood and knew he couldn’t leave Mai, but he’d have gone to France with Rebecca and Quentin if he could have. R.J.-he thought about her all the time. She hadn’t come back to Boston after Annette’s death. Shattered by the events of the past days, Quentin had brought his mother’s body home and buried her in a quiet ceremony. His wife was sticking by him. Jared had offered to provide moral support for his cousin in any way he could, short of giving up Mai, but that, Jane assured him, wasn’t on the docket.

With the guidance of a psychologist, as soon as she was well enough, Jared had told Mai everything. She took it all in stride. The therapist explained that given Mai’s interest in Amerasians and the Vietnam War-the fall of Saigon, in particular-she knew more about what went on there than most. “It’s been in the back of her mind for a long time that your name on her papers doesn’t mean a lot,” the therapist had said. “She’s aware you’re uncomfortable about talking about her mother or what really happened in Vietnam. Jared, she knows people got out with false papers. She knows what life was like for so many beautiful young Vietnamese women like Tam. She’s not a baby you need to shelter. Give her some credit.”

He was trying.

Mai took her box of Godiva chocolates-courtesy of Maureen Sloan-off her night table and picked out the fattest one she could find. “You’re still in love with Rebecca, aren’t you?”

Jared grabbed the box of chocolates from her. Naturally she’d taken all the semisweet ones. “Stay out of my love life, kid.”

“Why? You meddle in mine.”

“You’re fourteen and I’m pushing forty.”

She popped the chocolate in her mouth. “Time you got married, Dad.”

It was the first time she’d called him Dad since he’d told her about Quentin and Tam.

She caught his expression. Chocolaty saliva dribbled out of the corners of her mouth, and she suddenly looked very frightened. “You’re still my dad, right? No matter what?”

“Mai…yes. I’m your dad. Forever.”

He swept her into his arms and held her.

For the first time since her husband’s death twenty-six years earlier, Jenny O’Keefe Blackburn came to Boston. First she visited her husband’s grave at Mt. Auburn Cemetery. Then she visited her father-in-law in his “hidden” Beacon Hill garden. His head was still bandaged, but he was doing just fine, sitting at a small wrought-iron table.

“Someone should have knocked you on the head a long time ago,” Jenny said, smiling as she set a pot of pink geraniums on the brick courtyard. “I remember you consider cut flowers a waste. You can plant these in your garden and see what becomes of them. Thomas-” She began to cry; she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. “Can you forgive me?”

He waved a bony hand in dismissal. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I wanted someone to blame-”

“You didn’t do or say anything I wouldn’t have. Jenny, there hasn’t been a day I haven’t wished I’d gone on that trip instead of Stephen.”

“I know.” She pulled up a chair and sat beside him, taking his hand. “It’s been so long, Thomas, and I don’t mind saying I’ve missed you, in my own way.”

He squeezed her hand. “How are the children?”

“They’re fine. I brought pictures. And my father sends his best. He says you’re invited to come down and sit on the front porch with him and drink iced tea anytime you want.”