onnecticut, August 1989

"I thought I'd feel better after the sentencing, but I don't, I really don't, Daddy."

My father was silent for a moment, and then he said, "I know what you mean. It's a bit of a letdown in a way, anticlimactic."

"I wanted the death of my family avenged, but even consecutive twenty-five year sentences don't seem to be enough, not to me!" I exclaimed. "They might be incarcerated, but they still can see the sunlight. Andrew, Lissa, and Jamie are dead, and those bastards ought to be dead too. The Bible got it right."

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," my father murmured quietly.

"Yes," I said.

"There's no death penalty under New York State law, Mal," my father pointed out.

"Oh, I know that, Dad, I've always known it. It's just that… well…" Leaving my sentence unfinished, I jumped up, walked to the edge of the terrace, and stood staring out across the lawns. Agitation was suddenly gripping me again, and I tried to clamp down on the feeling, to demolish it completely.

I stood very still, breathing in the beauty of the landscape. It was a lovely August evening, not too hot, with a soft breeze rustling through the trees. In the distance the foothills of the Berkshifes loomed up, lush and green against the fading sky. It was dusk. Twilight was descending, and behind the dark hills the sun had sunk low. Now burnt orange bleeding into lilac and mauve, it slowly disappeared below the horizon.

"I'd like a drink, Dad, would you?" I asked, turning around to face him.

"Yes, I would. I'll go and fix them. What would you like, Mal?"

"A vodka and tonic, please. Thanks."

Pushing himself to his feet, he nodded, then went into the sunroom heading for the kitchen.

I sat down on one of the chairs under the big white market umbrella, waiting for him to come back. I was glad that he was with me, that we had this opportunity to spend the weekend together before he went back to his project in Mexico.

My father returned within minutes, carrying a tray with the drinks on it. He sat down opposite me at the table, lifted his glass, and touched it to mine. "Chin-chin," he murmured.

"Cheers," I answered, then took a long swallow.

We sat quietly together for a few minutes, and finally I said, "I have this terrible rage bubbling inside me. Dad. It erupted yesterday in the courtroom. When I saw the defendants, I thought I would go out of my mind. I wanted to do physical damage to them, even kill them. The hatred just overwhelmed me."

"I experienced something very similar myself," my father confided. "I think we all did. After all, we were just a few feet away from the men who attacked and murdered Andrew, Lissa, and Jamie in cold blood. Wanting to strike back is a natural impulse. But, of course, we can't go around killing people. That would bring us down to their level, make animals of us all."

I know…" I stopped and shook ray head, frowning worriedly. "But the rage won't go away. Dad."

My father reached out, covered my hand with his. It was comforting. He said quietly, "The only way it will dissipate is if you let go of it, darling."

I stared at him, saying nothing.

After a moment, my father went on slowly, "But that's not easy. I know exactly what you're going through. You're very like me when it comes to your emotions. Sometimes you have a tendency to mask your feelings, as do I. Certainly you've been suppressing your anger for months, but it had to come out eventually."

"Yes," I agreed. "It did."

My father looked at me for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. "And it is all right for you to be angry, Mal, it really is. You'd be abnormal if you weren't. However, if you allow it to, it will eat you up, destroy you. So… just let it go, darling, just let it go."

"How, Dad? Tell me how."

He paused, then he leaned forward and stared into my eyes. "Well, there is one thing you could do."

"There is?"

He nodded. "When we were at Kilgram Chase in May, I asked you where you had scattered the ashes, and you told me you hadn't done so. You confided that you had bought a safe and locked the ashes inside it. 'To keep them safe,' you said to me, and you added, 'Nothing can ever hurt them again.' I'm sure you remember that conversation, don't you?"

"Of course I do," I said. "You're the only person I ever told about the safe, Dad. Why I wanted it."

"And are their ashes still in the safe here? Still upstairs?"

I nodded.

"I think it's time to put your family to rest, Mal, I really do. Maybe if they're at peace, you might be able to little yourself. Anyway, it would be a beginning…"

The following morning I got up at dawn.

I had taken my father's words of the night before to heart, and in the early hours, unable to sleep, I had come to a decision.

I would do as he had suggested.

I would put my family's ashes in their final resting place. It was fitting to do so now.

I dressed quickly in a pair of cotton pants and a T-shirt, and then I went downstairs, heading for the basement. Only last week I had purchased a large metal cash box for the shops, and it was ideal for what I had in mind.

Carrying the box, I returned to my little sitting room upstairs. Putting it down on the sofa, I went into my walk-in closet. The key to the safe was in a hatbox on the top shelf; climbing up on the small stepladder, I retrieved the key, got down, and opened the safe.

First I took out Andrew's ashes and Trixy's; then I went back for the small containers that held Jamie's and Lissa's. I placed the four cans in the metal box, closed it, and took it downstairs with me.

I had always known in my heart of hearts that if I ever buried their ashes, I would put them under the ancient maple tree near my studio.

The tree was huge, with a wide, gnarled trunk and great spreading branches, and it must have been three or four hundred years old. It grew on the far side of my studio and sheltered the building from the fierce heat of the sun in the summer months, yet without blocking the light.

The tree had always been a favorite of Andrew's, as had this shady corner of the property, where we had often had picnics. The twins had loved to play near the tree; it was cool there under its leafy green canopy on those scorching hot, airless days.

I dug a deep hole under the tree.

When I had finished, I straightened, stuck the spade in the earth, and went to get the box.

Kneeling down at the edge of the grave, I placed the box in it, then paused for a moment, letting my hand rest on top of the box. I closed my eyes and pictured them all in my mind's eye.

You'll be at peace here, I said to them silently. You're forever in my heart, my darlings, always with me. Always.

Standing up, reaching for the spade, I began to shovel the earth on top of the box, and I did not stop until the grave was filled.

I stood there for a few moments, then I picked up the spade and went back to the house.

Later that morning I told my father what I had done.

Then I took him down to the maple tree to show him where I had buried their ashes.

"If you remember, we used to have picnics under the tree sometimes, and the twins often played here, especially when I was in the studio painting."

My father put his arm around my shoulder and held me close to him. He was visibly moved and could not speak for a few moments.

At last he said, "And there shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed."

I looked up at him, my eyes filling. "That's lovely…"

He held me tighter against his body. "Rupert Brooke."

"What's the rest of it? Do you know the whole poem, Dad?"

My father nodded. "But it doesn't really apply."

"Why not?"

"Because it's to do with a soldier's death. An English soldier's death. Rupert Brooke wrote it before he died en route to the Dardanelles in the First World War."

"But Andrew was English, and the twins were half English, Daddy. So it is appropriate. Please, I'd love to hear you recite it, the way you used to read to me."

"Well, if you really want me to."

"Please."

My father began to speak slowly, softly, and I leaned into him and closed my eyes, listening.

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air.

Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.