"Katie, come over here!"

But Katie Battenkill was otherwise engrossed. The queue at the weeping Madonna had dissolved into a loose and excited swarm, buzzing toward the moat.

Shiner's mother shrugged. "Crying time. You better get a move on."

Mary Andrea found herself feeling sorry for the wacko in the wedding dress. It couldn't be easy, competing with a weeping Virgin. Not when all you had was a plate of cold eggs in Tabasco. Mary Andrea slipped the woman another five bucks.

"You wanna see Him again?" Shiner's mother was aglow.

"Maybe some other time."

Mary Andrea began working her way to the house. She walked on tiptoes, trying to spot Katie among the surging pilgrims. Even in their fervor they remained orderly and courteous; Mary Andrea was impressed. In New York it would've been a rabid stampede for the shrine; like a Springsteen concert.

Suddenly Mary Andrea found the sidewalk blocked – a tall man lugging, of all things, an aquarium filled with turtles.

Boy, she thought, is this town a magnet for crackpots!

Mary Andrea stepped aside to let the stranger pass. He was lifting the tank high, at eye level, to protect it from the jostle of the tourists; apologizing to them as he went along.

Through the algae-smudged plate of aquarium glass Mary Andrea recognized the man's face.

"Thomas!"

Curiously he peered over the lip of the tank. Her husband.

"I'll be damned," he said.

Cried Mary Andrea Finley Krome: "Yes, you will! I believe you will be damned!"

Angrily she snapped open her pocketbook and groped inside. For an instant, Thomas Paine Krome wondered if irony could be so sublime, wondered if he was about to be murdered for real, with an unexplained armful of baby cooters.

30

Leander Simmons and Janine Simmons Robinson were miffed to learn Bernard Squires had withdrawn his offer for their late father's property. In a conference call with Clara Markham, the siblings said they didn't appreciate getting jerked around by some fast-talking Charlie from up North. They'd gotten their hopes sky-high for a bidding war, and now they were stuck with one buyer and one offer.

"Which," Clara reminded them, "is more than you had two weeks ago."

She didn't let on that JoLayne Lucks was sitting in the office, listening over the speakerphone.

Leander Simmons argued for rejecting the $3 million offer, as the old man's land obviously would fetch more. All they needed was patience. His sister argued strenuously against waiting, since she'd already pledged her share of the proceeds for a clay tennis court and new guest cottages at her winter place in Bermuda.

They went back and forth for thirty minutes, the bickering interrupted only by an occasional terse query to Clara Markham on the other end. Meanwhile JoLayne was having a ball eavesdropping. Poor Lighthorse, she thought. With kids like that, it was no wonder he spent so much time skulking in the woods.

Eventually Janine and Leander compromised on a holdout figure of $3.175 million, to which JoLayne silently assented (flashing an "OK" sign to Clara). The real estate agent told the siblings she'd bounce the new number off the buyer and get back to them. By lunchtime the deal was iced at an even three one. The new owner of Simmons Wood got on the line and introduced herself to Leander and Janine, who suddenly became the two sweetest people on earth.

"What've you got in mind for the place?" the sister inquired cordially. "Condos? An office park?"

"Oh, I'll leave the land the way it is," JoLayne Lucks said.

"Smart cookie. Raw timber is one helluva long-term investment." The brother, endeavoring to sound shrewd.

"Actually," JoLayne said, "I'm going to leave it exactly the way it is ... forever."

Baffled silence from the siblings.

Clara Markham, brightly into the speakerphone: "It's been a joy doing business with all of you. We'll be talking soon."

Moffitt was waiting outside. He offered JoLayne a lift, and on the way apologized for searching her house.

"I was worried, that's all. I tried not to leave a mess."

"You're forgiven, you sneaky little shit. Now tell me," she said, "what happened between you and Bernie boy – how'd you scare him off?"

Moffitt told her. With a grin, JoLayne said, "You're so bad. Wait'll I tell Tom."

"Yeah. The power of the press." Moffitt wheeled the big Chevy into her driveway.

"How about some lunch?" she asked.

"Thanks, but I gotta run."

She gave him a kiss and told him he was still her hero; it was a running gag between them.

Moffitt said, "Yeah, but I'd rather be Tom."

Which gave JoLayne a melancholy pause. Sometimes she wished she'd fallen for Moffitt the way he'd fallen for her. He was one of the best men she'd ever known.

"Hang in," she said. "Someday you'll meet the right one."

He threw his head back, laughing. "Do you hear yourself? God, you sound like my aunt."

"Geez, you're right. I don't know what got into me." She slid from the car. "Moffitt, you were sensational, as usual. Thanks for everything."

He gave a mock salute. "Call anytime. Especially if Mister Thomas Krome turns out to be another sonofabitch."

"I don't think he will."

"Be careful, Jo. You're a rich girl now."

Her brow furrowed. "Damn. I guess I am."

She waved until Moffitt's car disappeared around the corner. Then she jogged up the sidewalk to the porch, where the mail lay stacked by the front door. JoLayne scooped it up and unlocked the house.

The refrigerator was a disaster – ten days' worth of congealment and spoilage. One croissant, in particular, had bloomed like a Chia plant. The only item that appeared safe for consumption was a can of ginger ale, which JoLayne cracked open while thumbing through letters and bills. One envelope stood out from the others because it was dusty blue and bore no address, only her name.

Ms. Jo Lane Luckswas how it had been spelled, in ballpoint.

Inside the blue envelope was a card that featured a florid Georgia O'Keeffe watercolor, and tucked inside the card was a piece of paper that caused JoLayne to exclaim, "Oh Lord!"

And truly, devoutly, mean it.

Amber kept the engine running.

"You feel OK about it? Tell the truth."

Shiner said, "Yeah, I feel pretty good."

"Didn't I tell ya?"

"You wanna come in? It don't look like she's home." All the lights were off, including upstairs.

Amber said, "I can't, hon. Gotta get back to Miami and see if I've still got a job. Plus I've already missed way too much school."

Shiner didn't want to say goodbye; he believed he'd found his true love. They'd spent two more nights together – one at a turnpike rest stop near Fort Drum, and the other parked deep in the woods outside of Grange. Nothing sexual had occurred (Amber sleeping in the back seat of the Crown Victoria, Shiner in the front) but he didn't mind. It was rapture, being so near to such a woman for so long. He'd become intimate with the scent of her hair and the rhythm of her breathing and a thousand other things, all exotically feminine.

She said, "We did the right thing."

"Yep."

"But I still wonder who that was in the other car."

I don't know, Shiner thought, but I guess I owe him. He bought me a few more hours with my darling.

The first time they'd cruised past JoLayne Lucks' place, the other car was idling at the crub, a squat gray Chverolet sedan. The buggy-whip antenna said cop. Shiner had cussed and stomped the accelerator.

They'd tried again later, with Amber at the wheel. This time the watcher had been parked around the corner, by a newspaper rack. Shiner had gotten a pretty good look at him – a clean-cut black guy with glasses. "Don't stop! Keep driving!" Shiner had urged Amber. He'd been too freaked to go directly home. He feared that the Black Tide (and who else could it be, lurking around JoLayne's?) would ransack his house and kidnap his mother to the Bahamas. Amber had been anxious, too. To her, the guy in the gray sedan looked like heavy-duty law enforcement – and he could be looking for only one thing.