CHAPTER 1

Allison

May 2011

This wasn't the life Allison Kavanagh had imagined for herself,but it was what her life had become. Like it or not, she had to geton with it.

She turned the key in the lock.

Hidden away in the mountains north of Boise, the two-storylog house—built many decades before but completely remodeledon the inside—was open and airy with a state-of-the-artkitchen, modern efficiencies throughout, and spectacular viewsof the rugged Idaho mountains from every window. The placehad been left to Allison four years earlier in her great-aunt's will.Never in her wildest dreams had Allison imagined she wouldend up living in it one day. Perhaps Aunt Emma had seen thefuture a little more clearly than she had.

Welcome to your new home.

A lump formed in her throat, but she fought back the tears.She was weary of crying—it was all she'd done for monthsand months. Sometimes it felt like years and years. Setting hermouth, she dropped her purse onto the small table inside thefront door.

Some of her own furniture filled the living room. She wasglad of it. Made the place feel a little less foreign to her. Notthat it was foreign to her. She'd visited her aunt's home manytimes throughout her life, and after it had come into Allison'spossession, it had served as an occasional getaway, a place ofpeace when life's storms became too much to handle.

Dear Aunt Emma. The sister of Allison's maternal grandmother,Emma Carter had been considered somewhat of a"rebel" in the family. Never married and financially independentbecause of her success as a nature photographer, addedto sound investments and careful spending, she'd lived as shepleased. Oh, the stories Aunt Emma used to tell about WorldWars I and II, the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression. Ifever a woman was born with the gift of storytelling, it had beenEmma Carter. No wonder Allison had adored her.

"How do I get on with my life, Aunt Emma?" she whispered.

If Aunt Emma were still alive, she would have answered honestlyand directly. No mincing words. Emma Carter had neversugarcoated anything for anybody. Not even for her favorite—asshe'd always called Allison—and only—as Allison had pointedout in return—great niece. But Aunt Emma was gone. Allisonwould have to find the answers on her own or muddle along asbest she could without them.

She passed through the living room and walked down theshort hallway to the master bedroom. The new queen-sizedfour-poster she'd purchased sat against the opposite wall, bareof bedclothes other than a quilted mattress cover. Staring at thebed, she felt her aloneness afresh. It burned through her like saltin an open wound.

She looked away.

In a corner of the bedroom sat her large desk and credenza.It too was naked. Allison hadn't entrusted her MacBook, largeexternal display, or printer to the movers. Those importantitems were still in her car in the driveway.

A design deadline loomed closer. She'd best get her office setup and make certain the Internet was turned on as promised bythe cable provider. Her to-do list was too long to ignore, even fora few days. And besides, keeping busy took her mind off manyless pleasant realities. Immersing herself in work had been hersalvation. For years, really, but especially over the past elevenmonths. Ever since the day she'd uttered her ultimatum.

The lump in her throat returned. She swallowed again.

"Tough love" some would have called her take-it-or-leave-itdemand, and she'd been certain tough love was required inthe situation. But she'd believed what she said would be thatlast straw, that illusive bottom, those words that would changeeverything.

They had changed everything. Just not the way she'd hopedthey would. Not the way she'd wanted. Not for the better. Notas promised.

Why didn't You keep Your promise?

It was the most she'd said to God in a while. The ability topray seemed to have shriveled inside of her. One more loss addedto so many others.

With a shake of her head, Allison retraced her footsteps to theliving room, went out onto the wide redwood deck that circledthree sides of the house, and descended the steps to her pale goldSUV parked in the driveway. From behind the driver's seat shereleased her dog from his crate and set him on the ground. Gizmosniffed at his new surroundings.

"You stay close. I don't want an eagle or a bear having youfor lunch." The tricolored papillon perked up his ears, and shecouldn't keep from smiling. "You're such a good boy."

She'd bought Gizmo from a local breeder to help fill the vastemptiness that had surrounded her after her husband walked outthe door, leaving her and her ultimatum in the dust. Having anactive puppy around had helped ease the emptiness too. Therewas always something she needed to do for the little guy—feedhim, take him for a walk, give him a bath, let him out to do hisbusiness.

She'd read somewhere that owning a papillon meant nevergoing to the bathroom alone, and it was true. Gizmo followedher everywhere. He slept on the unused right side of the bed.He sat near her feet when she ate, a hopeful expression on hisface even though she never let him eat table scraps. He curled upbeside her on the sofa while she watched television. He lay in hisdog bed under her desk when she was on the computer. He washer constant and best companion, and she loved him for makingher feel less alone.

Perhaps she would become that crazy old lady who lived in alog cabin in the mountains, talking only to her dog. Or dogs. Shecould get Gizmo a friend or two. Or maybe she should acquire ahalf-dozen cats. She could give herself a funky haircut and let itgo all frizzy and kinky. She could dress in bright, baggy clothes.But then, who would know if she was crazy or not? Who wouldsee her? A dense forest separated her from her nearest neighbors,and she was miles up a winding highway to the nearest town.Not to mention that her only child, Meredith, lived halfwayacross the country.

A crazy old lady. She closed her eyes and released a sigh.Forty-five wasn't old, but some days it seemed like it. Some daysforty-five felt like ninety.

She went to the back of the Tribeca and opened the rear door.Her LED computer display was in its original box with a handle.She grabbed it along with her laptop case and headed into thehouse. And for the next several hours, while she hooked upelectronics in the bedroom and the living room and otherwisesettled in, she managed to keep her thoughts from returning tothe sad place they too often traveled to.

That was no small victory.

Allison

It was the silence that awakened her the next morning. She'dforgotten how quiet the forest could be, especially in the springbefore vacationers found their way to the campgrounds that dottedthe area and in the fall when the hunters were out in force.In Boise the sun would already be full up. Here, it took longerbefore it topped the eastern ridge. But there was still enoughlight in the room to see Gizmo staring at her, silently asking tobe let out.

"All right," she grumbled. "All right. I'm getting up."

Gizmo barked and jumped off the bed.

Allison reached for her robe as she sat up. It might be Mayon the calendar, but there was a wintery chill in the morning air.

"I need coffee," she whispered as she headed toward thefront door.

She stood on the deck, hugging herself to keep warm whileshe kept an eye on Gizmo. When he returned, they went straightto the kitchen. She grabbed her favorite mug, plopped a K-Cupinto her Cuisinart coffeemaker, and pressed Brew. When hercoffee was ready, she carried the mug into the living room andsettled onto her favorite chair. Watching sunlight kiss the topsof tall trees, she let her thoughts meander through time, at lastsettling on her parents.

Robert and Margaret Knight. Bob and Maggie to their closefriends. If ever two people loved each other, it was her mom anddad. Growing up, when her dad's car pulled into the drivewayat 5:40 p.m. each weekday, her mom's eyes lit up. She acted asthough she hadn't seen him in nine days instead of nine hours.Dad was the same way with her.

Allison and her brother, Chuck, had golden childhoods.They truly did. They were loved and encouraged and supported.They had everything they needed and plenty of whatthey wanted. Their mom had hauled them all over creationfor their various activities—ballet, football, piano, track,Brownies, Cub Scouts—and she'd beamed with pride over theiraccomplishments. And their dad had been the rock at the centerof their home. He still was.

Allison's extended family had never been huge, but all ofthem—"in-laws and outlaws," her dad used to call them—wereclose. They used to gather together for birthdays andThanksgiving and Christmas and Easter. They used to havesummer barbecues and weekend card parties. They'd gonecamping together, the whole lot of them, sometimes in the forestbehind Aunt Emma's log house.

Good food and lots of laughter. Those had been two constantsthroughout Allison's growing up years. Foolishly, she'd thoughtthat was how it was in every family. Naively, she'd thought thatwas how it would be after she married Tony and they had a familyof their own.

It hadn't turned out quite that way.

Tony Kavanagh. Star quarterback and president of the highschool debate team. Straight-A student all the way through hisschooling. Tall, dark, and handsome. A walking cliché. Whateverhe'd touched in those early years had turned to gold. She'd lovedhim almost from the first moment she laid eyes on him as hewalked across the Boise State campus.

Did she love him still? No. Although she still loved thememo ries of the good times they'd had as a family. Mostly, whatshe felt now was grief. The dream of a happy, lasting marriage haddied a slow and painful death, and she'd buried it and mournedit. Mourned it even now.

She gave her head a shake, hoping to dislodge the sad thoughts.She should get off her fanny and get to work. She had a websitedesign to finish by the end of next week. The client had beenpatient, understanding when Allison needed an extra few weeksbecause of her move. But she didn't want to miss the new deadline.She prided herself on being on time.

And yet, even knowing this, when she rose from the chair,she didn't head for her desk, nor did she walk to the bathroomso she could shower and dress. Instead, after brewing a secondcup of coffee, she wandered up the stairs. She looked into thetwo bedrooms, empty except for boxes she needed to go throughagain and the treadmill she hadn't used in weeks. She'd givenaway and donated many possessions before the move, but therewas still so much stuff. How had she accumulated it all? Howhad they accumulated it all? She needed to get rid of even more.

But not today. I don't want to go through it today.

She sighed and was about to retrace her steps but stopped whenshe noticed the trapdoor that led to the attic. Aunt Emma hadn'tallowed Allison and Chuck to go up there when they were children.Allison had never asked to do so as an adult. And it hadn'toccurred to her to explore the attic after the house came into herpossession. To be honest, she'd forgotten it was even accessible viathe door in the hall ceiling. She hadn't looked up until now.

Had Aunt Emma kept anything in the attic? Had she emptiedit before her death?

A short rope was strung from a handle, the opposite endlooped around a hook screwed into the wall. Allison unwoundthe loop, took a breath, and pulled downward. The trapdooropened with surprising ease and the wooden ladder slid tothe floor. As she put her foot on the bottom rung, she halfwayexpected to hear Aunt Emma scold her from downstairs.

"Wait here, Gizmo."

Her dog lay down, resting his muzzle on his paws.

When Allison's head rose above the insulated opening, shediscovered morning light streaming through windows on boththe front and back ends of the attic room. A naked lightbulbhanging from the ceiling told her the room was wired for electricityshould she ever want to be up here at night. She doubted thatwould happen, but a brief glance around located the light switch.

There were numerous cardboard boxes stacked at one end ofthe room. A dress form stood guard near one window, a measuringtape draped around its neck. Beside the dress form was anold treadle sewing machine. When Allison was a little girl, bothof those items were in Aunt Emma's bedroom, where Allison'sdesk sat now. It must have been a good twenty-five years sinceshe'd last seen them.

She climbed the rest of the way up the ladder and stood inthe center of the attic. To her left, against the sloped sides ofthe attic, were two battered steamer trunks and one cedar hopechest. Instinct told her the cardboard boxes would hold "things"while the trunks and chest would hold keepsakes. She was drawnin the latter's direction.

CHAPTER 2

Emma

1917

The United States declared war on Germany on Emma IsobelCarter's tenth birthday—April 6, 1917. Forever after, even whenshe was older and knew better, Emma would have the strangefeeling she'd been the cause of one of her family's greatest sadnesses.But on that particular birthday, all she knew was that theadults wore grim expressions and her birthday party, completewith cake and ice cream, felt sad.

Although Emma had hoped for books for her tenth birthday,the gift from her parents was a doll, identical to the one hersister, Elizabeth, had received on her ninth birthday two monthsearlier. Emma didn't play with dolls, but Mama never seemed tonotice. Emma would much rather tuck herself in a corner somewhereand read a book about foreign places. Or climb a tree.Or skip rocks on the pond. Or ride her horse bareback in thepasture.

Emma knew, even at her tender age, she would never be aspretty as her sister. Elizabeth—younger by ten months—wasmore than pretty. She was beautiful. Everyone said so. Liza, asEmma called her sister, had golden ringlets and sky-blue eyesand a smile that melted hearts, Emma's included. Liza was sweetand charming without even trying; it came as natural to her asdrawing breath.

That night, well after Liza had fallen asleep, Emma got out ofbed and went downstairs to get a drink of water. That was whenshe overheard her parents talking in the parlor.

"Will you have to go, Roger?"

"I don't believe so. Not unless the war drags on."

"It's already dragged on. England's been fighting in Europefor years. So many men have died and still it goes on."

"Don't worry, Pearl. They'll call up unmarried men first.Younger men. I don't think I'll have to go."

"But my brother will. Won't he?"

"Yes, Stewart would be called up. If there's a conscription,they'll take the younger and single men first. But I imagine he'llvolunteer before that could happen."

Her mother's voice fell to a whisper. "You don't really thinkhe'll volunteer, do you?"

"I think he might, Pearl. Young men always seem eagerto rush off to war, and your brother has a strong sense ofpatriotism."

Her mother started to cry.

Emma returned to her bedroom without getting a glass ofwater from the kitchen. She'd lost her thirst. She didn't understandeverything her parents had said, but she understood UncleStewart was probably going away. Her uncle was the one adultwho seemed to like Emma just the way she was, and now he wouldbe leaving.

She stood at the window, looking out at the moonless night.A tomboy—that's what Mama called Emma sometimes—andshe didn't make it sound like a good thing to be. But one time,when he'd heard what Mama said, Uncle Stewart winked atEmma and whispered, "You go right ahead and be a tomboy.Climb those trees. Ride those horses. Read all those books. Go ashigh as you can as fast as you can and learn as much as you can."

When she heard Uncle Stewart's voice saying those thingsin her head, she wasn't afraid to do anything, try anything, beanything. But when she couldn't hear his voice, when he wasn'taround to encourage her with a grin and a wink, it was easier tojust do what others, like Mama and Liza, wanted her to do andto be what they wanted her to be.