ear Birdie:

That conversation we had the other day has stayed with me. As usual, you're holding your troubles close to your chest, thinking I can't understand. Me being the wicked stepmother and all.

For years, I've let you run the show on who we are. I'm tired of that. Maybe it's because I'm old and you don't scare me like you used to. Or maybe it's because I'm alone now, and life looks different to me.

Believe me, honey, I know what it's like to be unhappy in your marriage. One disappointment feeds on another until one day you leave him. You become the trapped wolf who eats her own foot to be free.

But if you're like me, you discover that the world is a big, dark place. And love--even if it isn't what you'd thought it would be--is the only light for miles.

So, Birdie, darlin', I understand.

I don't have any advice for you. If there's one thing I've discovered in this life it's that deep truths are uncovered alone.

My prayers are with you and Jack and those beautiful girls.

XXOO

Anita

P.S. Don't bother writing back. I'm taking your advice and heading to the beach!

Elizabeth read the letter three times, then carefully folded it up, slipped it back into its violet-scented envelope.

She walked over to the French doors and stared out at the ocean. In those few words, Anita had managed to shake Elizabeth up, to cause a subtle shift in perception.

For years, she had monitored the progress of women--friends, strangers, celebrities--who'd left their marriages. Often, she'd watched with envy as these women picked up stakes and started over. She imagined them living shiny new lives, as different from her own as a quarter from a bottle cap. And she'd thought to herself, If only I could start over.

She'd never paid much attention to the women who stayed in their marriages, who hacked through the jungle of ordinary life and found a different kind of treasure.

At some point, Anita had left Edward. She'd packed a bag and moved away from Sweetwater. What had she been looking for... and what had brought her back? Had it really been as simple, and as infinitely complex, as true love?

Elizabeth felt a spark of kinship with her stepmother. She wished they could sit down and talk about their disparate and now oddly parallel lives.

She picked up the phone and dialed Anita's number. The phone rang and rang. Finally, an answering machine clicked on.

Her father's slow, drawling voice started. "Ya'll've reached Sweetwater. We aren't here right now, but leave a message and we'll return your call." There was a muffled sound on the tape--Anita's voice--then Daddy went on: "Oh... yeah... wait for the beep. Thanks."

Elizabeth was so rattled by the sound of her father's voice that she hung up without leaving a message.

Tears stung her eyes. She didn't bother trying to hold them back. It was a thing she'd learned in the last weeks. Grief would have its way. If she gave in to it, wallowed around in the loss for a while, she could go on.

She sat down on the edge of her bed. On the bureau, she saw a framed photograph of a little girl in a frilly pink dress, white tights, and black patent Mary Janes.

Her seventh birthday party. Later that night, Daddy had taken her to see the musical South Pacific in Nashville.

After the show, when he'd tucked her into bed, he'd said, Sugar beet, you were the prettiest girl in the theater tonight. I was danged proud to have you on my arm. Then he'd pulled her into his big strong arms and made her feel safe.

She needed that--needed him--now.

She sat there a long time, talking to her daddy as if he were sitting right beside her.

The week flew by.

After years of trudging through a gray, wintry landscape of other people's choices, Elizabeth had finally emerged onto a sunny blue day of her own.

Each morning she woke with a sense of expectation that made her smile, hum even, as she went about her daily chores. Then, at noon, no matter what else pressed at her to be done, no matter what was on her mental To Do list, she ignored everything and painted.

At first, she'd tried to fix her class project. She'd added brushstrokes and dabs of color, layer upon layer, trying to add a complexity to the image that she couldn't quite achieve.

Unfortunately, the old saying was true. You couldn't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

The problem with the orange was that it wasn't hers. The best in art revealed something of the artist's soul, and Elizabeth's soul had never cared much for fruit.

When she trolled around for something else to paint, she saw possibilities everywhere--and only one true choice.

The ocean.

She started slowly, methodically stretching the canvas in the way she'd been taught more than two dozen years ago. It came so easily, this beginning of it all, that she wondered if, for all these years, she'd been painting in her sleep, dreaming of primed and stretched canvases, of mixing medium and pigment, of colors slurried on a well-used palette.

The sun had been bright and shining on that day she began to put her love of the sea on canvas. She took her new easel and primed canvas and her paints and brushes out to the edge of the yard. There, she laid out an eight-by-ten sheet of thick blue plastic and set up the easel on it.

The sleeping blue ocean stretched out as far as the eye could see. Today, she saw it in tiny increments, in slashes of hue and texture, in light and shadow. She saw each component that comprised the whole; and just that, seeing it as she'd once been able to, made her feel young again--hope-filled, as opposed to the lesser, more common, hopeful.

She held a brush in her now steady hand and stared out to sea, noticing the blurry shapes that came forward and those that remained background. She studied the various tints of light that coalesced into sand and water, rock and sky, then, very slowly, she looked down at her palette and chose a base color.

Cobalt blue.

The color of Jack's eyes.

The thought came out of nowhere and surprised her.

She dipped her paintbrush into the color and began.

Day after day, she returned to this very spot, dragging her easel with her, setting up her work. Each day she added a new layer of color, one atop another, until it was impossible to tell that she'd started with the cobalt. Gradually, she'd felt it return, her own potent magic. The painting--her painting--revealed everything that she loved about this view, and everything that she longed to be. Dangerous, rough-edged, vibrant.

Tonight, at last, she would take her work to class. She couldn't wait to show it to Daniel.

She had worked her ass off--though all that hard work had produced not a pound of weight loss (there was something cosmically wrong with that)--to get a piece ready for tonight. It had been the homework assignment. Begin a work of your own. Any work.

At four o'clock, though it wasn't yet done, she checked that the paint had dried--it had--then wrapped the canvas in cheesecloth and carefully placed it in the backseat of her car. She took a shower, brushed her hair until it shone, and dressed in a black jersey tunic and straight-legged pantsuit that she'd bought from Coldwater Creek's last catalog. A chunky turquoise-and-silver necklace was her only accessory.

All in all, she looked good.

She got to the classroom and found it empty. When she looked down at her watch, she saw that she was almost twenty minutes early.

"Idiot," she said aloud. Now she was trapped. If she walked away, she might meet up with someone from class, or worse, Daniel, and then have to explain why she was leaving. If she stayed, however, Daniel might come to class early and wonder how long she'd been standing there by the door like a bridesmaid waiting for her turn.

"Did you say something?"

And suddenly he was there, standing in front of her, filling the open doorway. His smile seemed too big for his face; it crinkled his blue eyes and carved leathery quotation marks on his cheeks.

"I came early," she stammered.

"A great quality in a woman, coming early." His smile broadened, showcased a row of white, even teeth. "Do you have something to show me?"

Elizabeth couldn't tell if he'd meant that "coming" comment as a sexual innuendo or not. She might have asked him, but when she looked up into his handsome face, her mind went blank. "Huh?"

Idiot.

"I asked you if you brought me something."

He knows, she realized. He knew she was trembling and sweating like a teenager trapped beside the best-looking boy in school.

No wonder he was smiling. What young man wouldn't be amused by a middle-aged woman's runaway lust?

"The painting," she said quickly. "You told us to paint something that moved us. I chose the view from my house."

"Let me see."

She waited for him to turn and go inside, but he just stood there, arms crossed, smiling down at her.

Finally, she turned sideways and sidled past him, hoping her ass didn't skim his hips. She went to the blackboard, where an empty easel waited.

Her fingers shook as she set her canvas on the easel.

Daniel came up beside her, moving so quietly she didn't hear his footsteps. Suddenly, he was just there.

"It's Tamarack Cove," he said, not smiling anymore. "I used to kayak down there with my grandfather. There a great tide pool, over--"

"By the black rocks, yes." When she realized that she'd finished his sentence, she wanted to smack her own face. "I didn't know that was the name of my cove. I should have known, I guess, since I live there, but I don't spend a lot of time reading maps. Although I'm interested in tide charts."

Shut up, Birdie.

She clamped her teeth together. They hit with an audible click.

"You really don't know how talented you are, do you?" His voice was soft as beach sand.

The compliment filled her up inside, made her feel about twenty years old. "You're nice to say that," she said, praying her cheeks didn't turn red.

He took a step toward her, came so close she could see a thin scimitar-shaped scar on his temple. She had a sudden, stupid urge to reach up and touch it, to ask him when he'd been hurt.

That's it, no more romance novels.

"Come have coffee with me after class," he said.

She stepped back so fast her butt slammed into a desk. "I'm married." She lifted her left hand, wiggled her fingers. "I mean, I am. We're separated right now, but that's not a divorce. Though he said 'divorce,' I don't think he meant it. So, yes, I'm married." She tried to shut up, but couldn't. The silence would be horrible, awkward. "I have two daughters. With my luck, they're your age. Oh, God, maybe you know them. Stephanie is--"

His touch stopped her.

"Oh," she sighed.

"It's just coffee," he said.

If possible--and frankly, she doubted it--she felt more idiotic. "Yes. Coffee. It's a beverage, that's all. You don't care if I'm married."

"Not for coffee."

Her cheeks were on fire; she was certain of it.

"I don't know what got into me. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just meet me after class. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

She nodded. He undoubtably thought she was a moron. Mrs. Robinson after a head trauma. "Sure. Coffee would be great."

Jack had received one of the coveted tickets for the opening night premiere of Disney's newest blockbuster movie. He'd dressed carefully, chosen a black Armani mock turtleneck sweater and charcoal gray wool slacks. According to Sally, dark colors set off his newly blond hair and tanned skin to perfection, made his eyes look "Paul Newman blue."

He was just about to grab his coat when the phone rang. It was probably the car service, letting him know that the car had arrived. He answered quickly. "Hello?"

"Dad?"

Jamie. He'd been missing her calls all week. "Hey, baby, how're you doing?"

"You didn't return my last call."

"I know. I'm sorry, too. I've been so busy lately. How about you, how're things going? I meant to call after last Saturday's swim meet, but you know me. I can't remember why I left the house half the time."

"Yeah, Dad. I know."

He glanced at the clock. It was 6:37. The car service would be here any second. Damn. "Look, honey, I've got--" His second line beeped. "Just a minute, I have to put you on hold." He depressed the button and answered. "Hello?"

"Mr. Shore? Your car is here."

"Thanks, Billy. I'll be right down," he said, going back to Jamie. "My car is here, honey. I've got to run."

"But I need to talk to you."

He looked around for his coat. Where had he left it? "What is it?" he asked, checking under the bed. It wasn't there. He kept looking. For a small apartment, he seemed to lose an awful lot of stuff in it.

"I'm quitting the swim team."

Ah, there it was. He grabbed the black lambskin blazer off the kitchen table. Then it hit him. He stopped. "You're what?"

She sighed again; her favorite form of communication lately. "I'm quitting the swim team."

He glanced at the clock again: 6:43. The movie would start in seventeen minutes. If he left right now, he'd be on time. Any later... "You're just having a rough time, honey. You've had them before, but you know how much you love the sport. Back when I was playing for the--"

"Not another football anecdote, please. And I don't like swimming. I never did."

It was 6:46.

He sat down on the end of the bed. "You're exaggerating, as usual. Believe me, it's hard to be the best. I know. And sometimes the--"

"--training rips your guts out. I know, Dad. I've heard it all before. But you're not listening. I'M QUITTING! At the end of this season, I'm done. Over, finished, wet no more. If I never see another nose plug, it'll be too soon. I would have discussed it with you last week, but you never called me back. I'm going to tell coach tomorrow."

"Don't do that." He didn't know what to say and he didn't have time to think about it now. "Look, honey, I have to run. Honest. I've got important business tonight. People are counting on me. I'll call you back tomorrow, and we'll talk about this. I promise."

"You do that." She paused. "And, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Strangers aren't the only people who count on you. How come they're the only ones that matter?" Before he could respond, she hung up.

What in the hell did she mean by that?

Then he remembered what Elizabeth had said to him on the phone. Something like, I can't keep you and your daughters on track anymore. Your relationship with Jamie is up to you.

They both acted like he'd been distant, unaware of what was going on in his own family. But that was ridiculous. He'd known what was important--to give his girls all the opportunities he'd never had. He'd worked sixty to seventy hours a week to make a good living, and then he'd coached every sports team Jamie had joined.

He slammed the phone onto its cradle and left the apartment. By the time he reached the lobby, he was pissed off. He slid into the town car's backseat and shut the door.

Strangers aren't the only people who count on you.

He flipped open his cell phone and punched in his daughters' number.

Stephanie answered. "Hello?"

"Hi, honey, is Jamie there?" He realized a second too late that he'd been abrupt. Stephanie wore her fragile emotions on her sleeve; her feelings needed Woolite care. Unfortunately, he always seemed to remember that a split second too late. "I'm sorry, babe. Your sister just called. She threw me a real curve ball. I didn't mean to be rude."

"I understand. No one can make you crazier than Jamie."

"Is the princess at home?"

"She just left with her boyfriend."

"Keith?"

"Keith is so yesterday, Dad. You'll have to call more often if you want to keep up with Jamie's love life."

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "Here we are, Mr. Shore."

"Thanks. Hang on a minute, Steph." He signed the voucher and got out of the car. Marquee lights tossed yellow streaks across the rain-slicked pavement. A throng of celebrity watchers and paparazzi milled in front of the theater. They stood cordoned behind a red velvet rope. Jules Asner was interviewing some man in a tuxedo.

As Jack emerged from the town car, camera lights flashed in his face. He smiled, waved, and kept walking.

In the lobby, he found a quiet corner. "Stephanie?"

"I'm here, Dad. What's all that noise?"

"It's a film premiere. There's a real crowd."

"Cool. Any movie stars?"

"George Clooney is supposed to show up, and Danny DeVito. And one of those teenybopper girls; I can't remember her name."

"That sounds awesome. Have fun."

"We'll talk tomorrow, okay, honey? You can tell me everything that's going on with--" genetics... microbiology... physics. He knew she'd changed majors, but he couldn't remember which it was now. Shit. "--your life."

"You promise?"

"You bet. And tell Jamie I'll talk to her, too."

"Okay. We'll be home tomorrow morning until eleven. Will that work?"

"It's a date. Love you, Steph." He snapped the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

Inside the theater, he found a seat on the aisle.

The theater filled up quickly. Finally, a young man walked onto the stage; his ponytail was at least six inches long and thinner than a pencil. He wore a wide-ribbed red turtleneck sweater with sleeves that hung past his fingertips, and a pair of wrinkled brown corduroy slacks. His shoes were clogs. Clogs.

A hush fell over the crowd.

"I'm Simon Aronosky. I directed the film you're about to see. True Love is the tragic, yet ultimately uplifting story of a woman in a coma. The deepness of her sleep is a metaphor for life itself. The film explores the hard choices a husband must make to keep his family together. After the show, I'll be available to answer a few questions. Oh, and be sure to fill out the comment cards on your way out. The mice at Disney want to know what you thought."

The theater lights dimmed. The credits started.

A Northwest Diversified Entertainment production... A Simon Aronosky film...

George Clooney.

Thea Cartwright.

The film, shot in black and white, opened on a close-up of Thea's face. She was sitting at a kitchen table, making out a grocery list. She was illuminated by a single candle. Her blond hair, long and a mass of curls, seemed to be woven of a dozen shades of gray and white. But it was her eyes that held the camera. Big, smoky-dark eyes that seemed to promise the world.

God, she was beautiful.

Jack tried to concentrate on the film, but he'd never liked black and white much, and it was definitely one of those chick tearjerkers that no one really liked but made a shitload of money.

He was awakened by the sound of applause.

The lights came up.

Simon walked, slump-shouldered, back onstage. He was smiling and laughing. "Thanks. I'll answer any questions you have, but first I'd like to introduce you to our star. Ladies and gentlemen, Thea Cartwright."

Jack straightened.

Thea walked onto the stage, and even from this distance, she was radiant. Flashbulbs erupted, cameras clicked and whirred, people applauded wildly.

She wore a skimpy black top that plunged almost to her nipples, and a pair of skintight, flare-bottomed low-rise jeans. Her belt buckle was a rhinestone-studded T. Her black sandals had knife-sharp stiletto heels.

She waved to the crowd, then ran a hand through her chopped blond hair. "Hey, New York," she said, grinning, "how'd you like my movie?"

The audience went wild.

"Who wanted to try kissing my character to wake her up?"

More applause. For the next thirty minutes, Jack watched her seduce a room full of strangers. By the end, they were eating out of her hand. There was something in her luminous black eyes that made every man--including Jack--think she'd singled him out, that her smile meant something.

"Well, guys," she said, lowering her voice to a sexy, disappointed purr, "I've got to run now. They've scheduled me for a few more things tonight. Ciao."

And she was gone.

The director came back onstage. Jack couldn't hold back a groan. The last thing he wanted to do was listen to Mr. Generation-X wax poetic about art in a chick flick. He left the theater. There was an after-premiere party scheduled at a nearby restaurant. He'd go, have a drink, then head home.

He was the first one to arrive at the restaurant. A guard at the door asked for his invitation, looked it over, then nodded. "Go on in."

Jack walked past an open-air, stainless-steel kitchen where chefs in white hats were working their magic. The tables were empty now; waiters in tuxedos stood around, waiting for the party to start.

He walked up to the bar, ordered a Dewar's on the rocks.

Someone came up beside him. "Hey, Jack. I see you got my invitation."

He turned, and there was Thea, smiling at him. "You put me on the guest list?"

"I needed something to look forward to at this grinfest. So, where's your handler?"

"Sally?" He laughed. "She's running down facts for an upcoming show. She wanted to see your movie, too. It was... good, by the way."

She smiled, a little too brightly to be real. "I hope so. My last one bombed so fast I saw it on the airplane on the way to the premiere. I need a hit." As if she realized what she'd just revealed, she laughed easily and took a sip of her cosmopolitan.

In the other room, a band started to play. Soft, romantic mood music that no one would be able to hear when the crowd hit.

"Dance with me," she said, putting her glass down on the bar.

"Thea..." His mouth was so dry he couldn't manage more. He understood suddenly why a man lost at sea would finally drink the ocean water.

She snuggled closer, slipped her arms around his neck.

They stood eye to eye. She moved slowly, seductively. He couldn't help himself; his arms curled around her. He frowned, noticing how thin she was. Bony, even.

It was the first time in more than a dozen years that he'd held another woman, and it reminded him of his old life. Images of other women tumbled through his mind, memories of long, hot, wet nights spent in hotel beds.

And of the night it had come to an end.

He'd been at Tavern on the Green with a woman he couldn't now remember. Another pretty blonde. It had been one of those flawless late spring days in New York; the smog and humidity of summer hadn't yet arrived.

They'd been outside, dancing cheek-to-cheek beneath the light of a hundred Chinese silk lanterns. The band had been playing "My Romance." That, he wouldn't forget.

Jack had heard a sound, something out of place. He'd turned, and there was Birdie, standing on the edge of the grass with her handbag clutched to her chest and tears streaming down her cheeks.

Before he could get through the crowd, she was gone. When he'd gotten home that night the house was empty. She'd taken the children to a hotel.

There was no note. Instead, on their big king-size bed, Birdie had left an open suitcase beside a framed picture of their family.

Her point had been obvious: Choose.

He'd stared at the open suitcase forever.

Then he'd closed it and put it away.

Thea drew back. "Is something wrong?"

He was saved by a sudden noise. People streamed into the restaurant in a buzzing, chattering throng.

"Damn." She eased away from him, smoothed her hair. "I'm staying at the St. Regis, Presidential suite. I'm listed as Scarlett O'Hara. Come see me after the party."

He wanted to say yes.

We're separated, for God's sake. And at Birdie's insistence. That gives you carte blanche, Jacko, said his bad side, the part of him that had been quiet for years.

But he knew.

He knew. Some boundaries remained.

"I don't think so, Thea."

"What do you mean, you 'don't think so'?" She sounded harsh, as if she hadn't been denied something in a long time.

"I can't."

"There she is!" someone cried out as the crowd pushed toward them.

As Thea went to greet her fans, Jack got the hell out of there.

Because if he stayed, he'd finish that Scotch, and then drink another and another, and sooner or later, he'd forget the reasons not to go to Thea's suite.