abrielle knelt beside her grandfather's old leather recliner and rubbed warm ginger oil into his aching hands. Franklin Breedlove's knuckles were inflamed, his fingers gnarled from arthritis. The gentle daily massages seemed to bring him a measure of relief.

"How's that, Grandad?" she asked, looking up into his heavily lined face, pale green eyes, and bushy white brows.

He slowly flexed his fingers as best he could. "Better," he pronounced and patted Gabrielle on the head as if she were his old bow-legged beagle, Molly. "You're a good girl." His hand slid down her shoulder to the armrest, and his eyes drifted shut. He did that more and more often. Last night he'd fallen asleep in the middle of dinner, his fork poised before his lips. He was seventy-eight, and his narcolepsy was getting so bad that he only wore his pajamas. Every morning he changed into a clean pair before he headed down the hall to his study. The only concession he made to the day were the wingtips on his feet.

For as long as Gabrielle could remember, her grandfather had worked in his study until noon, then again late at night, doing what she'd never been quite sure, until recently. As a child she'd been led to believe he was a venture capitalist. But since she'd been home, she'd intercepted calls from men wanting to place five hundred or two thousand on such favorites as Eddie "The Shark" Sharkey or Greasy Dan Muldoon. Now she suspected him of bookmaking.

Sitting back on her heels, Gabrielle lightly squeezed his bony hand. For most of her life, he'd been her father figure. He'd always been abrupt and cantankerous, and he didn't care for other people, children, or pets. But if you belonged to him, he would move the heavens and earth to make you happy.

Gabrielle stood and walked from the room that had always smelled of books, leather, and decades of pipe tobacco—comforting and familiar smells that helped promote healing in her mind-body-spirit since the night a month ago when her mother and Aunt Yolanda had picked her up on the back porch of her house and driven north for four straight hours to her grandfather's home. That night seemed so long ago now, and yet she could remember it as if it had happened yesterday. She could recall the color of Joe's T-shirt and the blank look on his face. She could remember the scent of roses in her backyard, and the cool rush of air blowing across her wet cheeks as she'd sat in the passenger seat of her mother's Toyota. She remembered Beezer's soft fur in her fingers, the cafs steady purr in her ears, the sound of her mother's voice, telling her her heart would mend and her life would get better in time.

She moved down the long hallway to the parlor she'd turned into her studio. Boxes and crates of essential oils and aromatherapies were stacked against the walls, blocking out the September morning sun. She'd kept herself occupied since the day she'd arrived with little more than a bag of domes and her oils. She'd thrown herself into work, keeping her mind busy, letting herself forget sometimes that her heart was broken.

Since she'd come to stay with her grandfather, she'd traveled to Boise only once to sign papers offering Anomaly for sale. She'd visited Francis, and made sure her lawn was mowed. She'd set her sprinkler system to come to life every morning at four, so she didn't need to worry about her grass dying, but she'd needed to hire a lawn service to mow. The time she'd been in town, she'd gathered her mail, mopped the layers of dust off her furniture, and checked messages on her answering machine.

There hadn't been any word from the one person she wanted to hear from most. Once she'd thought she'd heard the squawk of a parrot, but then the tape had filled with the sound of a telephone ringing in the distance and she'd dismissed it as a prank or a telemarketer.

She hadn't heard from Joe or seen him since the night he'd stood on her porch and told her she'd mistaken sex for love. The night she'd told him she loved him and he'd backed away from her as if she had had an airborne illness. The ache in her heart was a continuous thing, with her when she woke in the morning and when she went to bed at night. Even in her sleep, she couldn't get away from his memory. He came to her in her dreams, as he always had. But now when she awoke, she felt hollow and lonely and without the urge to paint him. She hadn't picked up a brush since the day he'd barged into her house looking for Mr. Hillard's Monet.

Gabrielle walked into the parlor and moved to the worktable where all her bottles of essential and carrier oils sat. The shades in the room were drawn against the damaging rays of the sun, but Gabrielle didn't need to see in order to choose a small bottle of sandalwood from the rest. She took off the cap and held it to her nose. Immediately his image filled her head. An image of his face, his hot, hungry eyes looking at her from beneath lowered lids, his lips moist from kissing her mouth.

Just like the day before, and the day before that, grief rolled through her before she screwed the cap back on the oil and sat it on the table. No, she wasn't over him. Not yet. It still hurt, but maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe tomorrow she would feel nothing. Maybe tomorrow she would be ready to go back to her home in Boise and face her life again.

"I have your mail," her mother said as she breezed into the parlor. Claire Breedlove had a basket of fresh-cut herbs and flowers hanging from one elbow and a big manila envelope in her hand. She was dressed in a brightly embroidered Mexican dress with a serape thrown over the top to ward off the morning chill and a necklace of worry dolls to ward off misfortune. Sometime during her trip to Mexico, she'd gone nativo and never come back. Her long auburn braid hung to her knees and had liberal streaks of gray. "I received a strong sign this morning. Something good is going to happen," Claire predicted. "Yolanda found a monarch on the lilies, and you know what that means."

No, Gabrielle didn't know what seeing a butterfly in the garden meant, other than the fact that it was hungry and searching for food. Ever since her mother had fated her a dark passionate lover, her psychic predictions were a sore subject. Gabrielle didn't ask about the butterfly.

Claire offered anyway as she handed the envelope to Gabrielle. "You're going to hear good news today. Monarchs always bring good news."

She recognized Francis's handwriting as she took the package from her mother and tore it open. Inside were Gabrielle's monthly utility bills for her home in Boise and various junk mail. Two pieces of mail caught her immediate attention. The first was an engraved envelope with Mr. and Mrs. Hillard's return address scripted on the back. The second was from the Idaho State Correctional Institution. She didn't need to see the address to know who'd sent the letter. She recognized his handwriting. Kevin.

For a few unguarded seconds, joy filled her, as if she were hearing from an old friend. Then just as quickly anger and a spot of sadness replaced her joy.

She hadn't spoken to Kevin since before his arrest, but she'd learned through her attorney that three days after Kevin's arrest, he'd struck a bargain with the prosecuting attorney's office. He'd sung like the proverbial canary, giving information, naming names, and plea bargaining in return for a reduction in the charges against him. He'd named every collector and dealer for whom he'd ever brokered a deal, and he named the thieves he'd used to commit the Hillard theft. According to Ronald Lowman, Kevin had hired two Tongan brothers who'd been out on bail and awaiting trial for some residential burglaries they'd been later found guilty of committing.

For his cooperation, Kevin had been sentenced to five years in prison but would be out in two.

She handed her mother the engraved enve-lope from the Hillards. "You can read this if you're interested," she said, then took her letter and moved across the hall to the morning room. She sat on a lumpy chaise lounge, and her hands shook as she opened the fat envelope. A four-page letter written on legal paper fell out, and she skimmed the slanted script by the light pouring through the windows.

Dear Gabe,

If you are reading this then there is hope you will give me the chance to explain myself and my actions. First let me say that I am extremely sorry for the pain that I most certainly have caused. It was never my intention, nor did I ever imagine, that my other businesses would impact negatively on you.

Gabrielle paused. Businesses? Is that what he called fencing stolen paintings and antiques? She shook her head and returned her attention to the letter. He spoke of their friendship, and how much she meant to him, and the good times they'd shared. She was beginning to almost feel sorry for him when the letter turned in a new and remorseless direction.

I know that a lot of people view my actions as criminal, and perhaps they are right. Receiving and selling stolen property is against the law, but my only TRUE crime is that I have wanted too much. I wanted the good things in life. And for that I am serving a harsher sentence than men convicted of assault. Wife beaters and child abusers have lighter sentences than me. My purpose in pointing this out is that when put in perspective, my crimes seem truly minor in comparison. Who was hurt? Rich people who are insured?

Gabrielle dropped the letter in her lap. Who was hurt? Was he serious? Her gaze quickly skimmed the rest of the letter filled with more rationalizations and excuses. He called Joe a few choice names, hoped she'd been wise enough to realize that Joe had only used her to get to him, and he hoped that she'd dumped him by now. Gabrielle was surprised he hadn't learned of her involvement, and toward the end of the letter, he actually asked her to write to him as if they were still friends. She dismissed the idea, and with the letter in her hand, she walked into the parlor once again.

"What was in your envelope?" Claire asked from where she stood at the worktable, blending fresh lavender and roses with a mortar and pestle.

"A letter from Kevin. He wants me to know that he's sorry, and that he's not really that guilty. And besides, he only stole from rich people." She paused to drop the letter into the trash. "I guess the butterfly that told you I'd hear good news today was full of it."

Her mother looked at her in that calm, composed way she had. Clear of judgement, and Gabrielle felt like she'd just kicked a peace-loving love child.

She guessed she had, but lately she just couldn't seem to help herself. She just opened her mouth, and all the anger she had inside her soul poured out.

Just last week her aunt Yolanda had been raving about her favorite subject, Frank Sinatra, and Gabrielle had snapped, "Sinatra sucked, and the only people who didn't think so are women who paint on their eyebrows."

Gabrielle had immediately apologized to her aunt, and Yolanda had seemed to accept and forget about it, but an hour later she'd accidently appropriated a turkey baster from the IGA market.

Gabrielle wasn't herself at all, but she didn't have a real clear sense of her own identity anymore. She used to know, but having her trust and heart broken by two different men on the same day had knocked her belief in herself and her world out of whack.

"The day isn't over yet," Claire said and pointed the pestle at the small engraved envelope on the table. "The Hillards are having a party. The invitation says they want everyone involved in the recovery of their painting to come."

"I can't go." Just the thought of seeing Joe made her stomach feel all fluttery, like she'd swallowed that mystical monarch from her mother's garden.

"You can't hide out here forever."

"I'm not hiding out."

"You're avoiding your life."

Of course she was avoiding her life. Her life was like a black hole, stretching ahead of her and filled with nothing. She'd meditated and tried to visualize her life without Joe, but she couldn't. She'd always been so decisive in her unconstrained life. If something wasn't working, she turned and headed in a new direction. But for the first time, everywhere she turned seemed worse than where she stood.

"You have closure issues."

Gabrielle picked up a sprig of mint and twirled it between her fingers.

"Maybe you should write Kevin a letter. Then you should think about going to the Hillards' party. You need to confront the men who've hurt you so much and made you so angry."

"I'm not all that angry."

Claire simply stared.

"Okay, I'm a little angry."

She'd dismissed the idea of writing to Kevin out of hand, but maybe her mother was right. Maybe she should confront him so she could move on. But not Joe. She wasn't ready to see Joe, to look into his familiar brown eyes and see nothing looking back at her.

When she'd come to stay with her grandfather a month ago, she and her mother and Aunt Yolanda had talked about Kevin, but mostly she'd talked about her feelings for Joe. She hadn't mentioned that Joe was her yang, though, nor did she intend to. Her mother knew anyway.

Her mother believed that soul mates and fate were intertwined, inseparable. Gabrielle wanted to believe her mother was wrong. Claire had coped with the loss of her husband by changing her life completely. Gabrielle didn't want to change her life. She wanted her old life back, or at least as much as possible.

But maybe her mother was right about one thing. Maybe it was time to go home. Time for closure. Time to pick up the pieces and live her life again.

Joe plugged the tape into the VCR and pushed play. The whir and click of gears filled the silent interrogation room as he leaned his behind against a table and folded his arms across his chest. The film flickered and jumped, then Gabrielle's face filled the television screen.

"I'm an artist myself," she said, and hearing her voice after a month was like feeling sunshine on his face after a long, cold winter. It poured into all the cracks and crevices and warmed him from the inside out.

"Then you can understand Mr. Hillard is quite anxious to get them back," his own voice spoke from off camera.

"I would imagine so." Her big green eyes were filled with confusion and fear. He didn't remember her looking so scared and trying so hard not to show it. He saw it now because he knew her so well.

"Have you ever seen or met this man?" he asked. "His name is Sal Katzinger."

She bent her head and looked at pictures before shoving them back across the table. "No. I don't think I've ever met him."

"Have you ever heard his name mentioned by your business partner, Kevin Carter?" Captain Luchetti asked.

"Kevin? What does Kevin have to do with the man in the picture?"

The captain explained the connection between Katzinger and Kevin and their suspected involvement in the theft of Hillard's Monet. Joe watched Gabrielle's gaze dart between Luchetti and himself, and every imaginable emotion was right there on her beautiful face. He watched her push her hair behind her ears and get all squinty-eyed as she fiercely defended a man who didn't deserve her friendship. "I would certainly know if he were selling stolen antiques. We work together almost every day, and I could tell if he were hiding a secret like that."

"How?" the captain asked.

Joe recognized the look she gave Luchetti. It was the look she reserved for the unenlightened. "I just would."

"Any other reasons?"

"Yes, he's an Aquarius."

"Sweet baby Jesus," Joe heard himself groan. He heard his exasperation and listened to her explanation about Lincoln being an Aquarian, and this time he laughed. She'd certainly made his head spin that day. Then about every day afterward too. He chuckled as she explained about the time she'd stolen a candy bar but felt so bad that she hadn't really enjoyed it all that much. Then he watched her cover her face with her hands, and his laughter died. When she looked up again, tears swam in her green eyes and wet her lower lashes. She wiped them away and looked into the camera. Her gaze accusing and hurt, he felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach with a nightstick.

"Shit," he said to the vacant room and hit the eject button on the VCR. He shouldn't have watched it. He'd avoided watching it for a month now, and he'd been right. Seeing her face and hearing her voice brought it all to the surface again. All the chaos and confusion and desire.

He grabbed the tape and went home for the day. He needed to take a quick shower, then head over to his parents' house for his father's sixty-fourth birthday celebration. On the way there he planned to stop and pick up Ann.

He'd been spending time with Ann lately. Mostly in her deli. He'd stop by for breakfast, and a few times when he couldn't get away from his desk, she'd bring him lunch. And they'd talk. Well, she would talk.

He'd dated her twice now, and the last time he'd taken her home he'd kissed her. But something hadn't felt right, and he'd ended it almost before it began.

The problem wasn't Ann. It was him. She was just about everything he'd always looked for in a woman. Everything he'd thought he wanted. She was pretty, smart, a great cook, and she would make a great mother for his kids. Only she was so boring that he couldn't stand it. And that really wasn't her fault, either. It wasn't her fault that when he looked at her he wished she would say something really weird that would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Something that would set him back on his heels and make him look at things in a whole new light. Gabrielle had done that to him. She'd ruined his view of what he wanted. She'd turned it on its head, and his life and his future were no longer so clear to him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was just going through the motions. That he was standing in the wrong place, but if he just stood there long enough, waited long enough, everything would click and his life would return to the old, familiar rhythm.

He was still waiting that evening. When he should have been having a great time with his family, he couldn't. Instead, he stood alone in the kitchen staring out at the backyard and thinking about Gabrielle's interrogation tape.

He could still hear her appalled voice when she'd been asked to take a lie detector test. If he closed his eyes he could see her beautiful face and her wild hair. If he let himself, he could imagine the touch of her hands and the taste of her mouth. And when he imagined her body pressed close to his, he could recall the scent of her skin, and it was probably a very good thing she wasn't in town.

He knew where she was, of course. He'd known two days after she'd left. He'd tried to contact her once, but she hadn't been home, and he hadn't left a message. She probably hated him by now, and he didn't blame her. Not after that last night on her porch, when she'd told him she loved him and he'd told her she was confused. Maybe he'd handled everything badly, but typical of Gabrielle, her announcement had shocked the hell right out of him. Coming when it had like that. Right out of the blue on one of the worst nights of his life. If he could go back and handle things differently, he would. He didn't know exactly what he would say, but it didn't matter now anyway. He was fairly certain he was one of her least favorite people these days.

His mother walked through the back door, and the screen slammed behind her. "It's about time for the cake."

"Okay." He shifted his weight to one foot and watched Ann conversing with his sisters. They were probably telling her about the time he'd lit their Barbies on fire. His nieces and nephews ran around the big yard, hosing each other with squirt guns, screaming at the top of their lungs. Arm fit right in, like he'd figured she might.

"What happened to the girl in the park?" his mother asked.

He didn't need to ask what girl. "She was just a friend."

"Hmm." She took out a box of candles and stuck them in a chocolate cake. "Of course, she didn't look like a friend." Joe didn't respond, and his mother continued just as he knew she would. "You don't look at Ann the way you looked at her."

"How's that?"

"Like you could look at her for the rest of your life."

In some respects, the Idaho State Correctional Institution reminded Gabrielle a bit of high school. Maybe it was the speckled linoleum or the plastic chairs. Or maybe it was the smell of pine cleaner and sweaty bodies. But unlike high school, the large room where she sat was filled with women and babies and a sense of depression so suffocating that it pressed down on her chest.

She folded her hands in her lap and waited like the rest of the women. Several times over the course of the past week she'd tried to write Kevin, but each time she'd stopped before she'd written more than a few lines. She needed to see him. She wanted to see his face when she asked him the questions she needed answers to.

A door to her left swung open, and men in prison blue jeans and identical blue shirts filed into the room. Kevin was third from the last, and the minute he saw her, he paused before he continued into the visiting area. Gabrielle stood and watched him walk toward her. His familiar blue eyes guarded, red flushed his neck and cheeks.

"I was surprised you wanted to see me," he said. "I haven't had many visitors."

Gabrielle took her seat, and he sat across the table from her. "Your family hasn't come to see you?"

He looked up at the ceiling and shrugged. "A few of my sisters, but I'm not real big on seeing them anyway."

She thought of China and her best friend Nancy. "No girlfriends?"

"You're kidding, right?" He returned his gaze to her, and a frown wrinkled his brow. "I don't want anyone to see me like this. I almost didn't agree to see you, but I figure you probably have some questions, and I owe you that much."

"Actually, I only have one question." She took a deep breath. "Did you purposely choose me as a business partner to use me as a front?"

He sat back in his chair. "What? Have you been talking to your friend Joe?"

His question and the anger behind it surprised her.

"The day I was arrested he came in and said I'd used you. He actually had the balls to act all pissed off about it too. Then the next day he came to my holding cell, and he goes off on me about how I took advantage of you. Isn't that a laugh, especially when he used you to get to me?"

For a moment she considered telling him the truth about Joe and herself and her part in his arrest, but in the end she didn't. She supposed because she didn't have the energy to discuss it, and it didn't matter now anyway. Nor did she feel she owed him anything. "You didn't answer my question," she reminded him. "Did you purposely choose me as a business partner to use me as a front?"

Kevin tilted his head to the side and studied her for a moment. "Yes. In the beginning, but you're smarter than I originally thought, more observant, too. And I didn't end up doing as much business out of the store as I'd originally planned."

She didn't know what she'd expected to feel. Anger, hurt, betrayal, maybe a little bit of all of those things, but mostly she felt relief. She could move on with her life now. A little older, a bit wiser. And a lot less trusting, thanks to the man sitting across the table from her.

"In fact, I was thinking about going completely legit until the cops stuck their noses in my life."

"You mean after you had the money from the sale of the Hillard Monet?"

He leaned forward and shook his head. "Don't shed any tears for those people. They're rich and they're insured."

"So that made it all right?"

He shrugged without the least bit of remorse. "They shouldn't have had such an expensive painting in a house with such a lousy alarm system."

Stunned laughter escaped her lips. There was no accountability for his own actions, and even in a society that liked to blame lung cancer on tobacco companies and death from handguns on gun manufacturers, blaming the Hillards for the theft of their own painting went beyond superlatively appalling straight to sociopathic. But the truly scary part was that she'd never seen it before.

"You need mental help," she said as she stood.

"Because I don't feel bad that a bunch of rich people get their art and antiques stolen?"

She could try to explain it to him, but she figured her words would fall on deaf ears, and she just didn't care.

"And you didn't come out so bad. The government took everything I own, but you get to keep the shop to do with as you please. Like I said, not bad."

Gabrielle took her keys from the pocket of her skirt. "Please don't write me or try to contact me in any way."

As she walked through the prison gates, a feeling of freedom brushed her spine that had nothing to do with the chain link and razor wire she'd left behind her. She'd closed one part of her past; now she was ready to start her future. Ready to turn in a new direction and see where life would take her.

She would always regret the loss of Anomaly. She'd loved her store and she'd worked hard to make it succeed, but she had a new idea churning in her brain that woke her up at nights and had her reaching for a legal pad. For the first time in a long time, she was excited and charged with positive energy. Her karma had taken a turn for the better, and it was about time, too. She was real sick of accumulative punishment for past misdeeds.

Thinking of her new life brought her thoughts around to Joe Shanahan. She didn't even try to delude herself. She would never be completely over her feelings for him, but each day got a bit easier. She could look at the paintings of him in her studio without feeling as if her heart had been ripped from her chest. She still felt a bit hollow at times, but the pain had lessened. She could go for hours now without thinking of him. She figured by this time next year, she'd almost be ready to look for a new soul mate.