About the Author Barbara Johnson wrote the successful The Beach Affair and Bad Moon Rising, a mystery series featuring lesbian insurance investigator Colleen Fitzgerald. She's also the author of the Regency romance Stonehurst and has short stories in six Naiad anthologies: The Mysterious Naiad, The First Time Ever, Dancing in the Dark, Lady Be Good, The Touch of Your Hand, and The Very Thought of You. She is currently working on the third Colleen Fitzgerald mystery, Sanctuary. Chapter One The ringing doorbell roused Amalia from her doze on the couch. She sat unmoving, waiting for Sheba to start barking, but then remembered her beloved golden retriever would never bark again. The cancer that had eaten away at Sheba for a year had finally claimed her life. With a deep sigh, Amalia pushed up from the couch and went to the door. She couldn't help but smile when she saw the delivery man loaded down with boxes and bags from Macy's. Her new vacation wardrobe had arrived. She had the man set the parcels down in the bare dining room and quickly paid him a tip. She felt like a schoolgirl again as she sat on the polished hardwood floor and unpacked box after box, delighting in the rustle of tissue paper and flash of brightly colored resortwear. She could almost forget the pain and heartache of the past two years ? almost, but not quite. It lingered along the edges of her consciousness, ready to creep out like the imaginary monsters under the beds of her childhood. But she had taken one of the many steps toward a full recovery, toward a new life, a life without Kathy. Amalia left the clothes scattered across the floor and scampered up the stairs, carrying the new swimwear. She paused briefly outside one closed door, feeling the pain grab at her, but she shook her head and entered her bedroom instead. Quickly stripping off her jeans and polo shirt, she slipped into the flower-patterned bikini first. She felt her breath heavy in her chest and had to take two great gulps of air before she could turn to face the full-length mirror propped against one newly painted wall. She didn't realize she had her eyes closed until the darkness behind her eyelids turned blood red. She opened them slowly and gazed at the figure reflected before her. She was still thin, but she no longer looked like some emaciated fashion model. She was eating right again, and the physical therapy and exercise had finally paid off. She actually had some shape to her body. The doctors had done a good job of putting together her shattered bones. Her legs were long and lean and would become more muscular as her strength and stamina increased enough to let her once again run for miles through the countryside. She was beginning to feel like a woman again. The doctors had not lied to her; the scars that crisscrossed her body were barely noticeable, except for one. She ran her fingernails along the vertical scar that started above her left breast right at the bra line and continued down her belly to disappear into the bikini bottom. The scar was pink now, like summer's first blush rose. She could still recall the first time she'd seen the mark of the incision ? an angry, mottled, crimson welt that split her body in two and seemed to pulse with a life of its own. She'd buried her face into her mother's comforting bosom and sobbed until she had no tears left. She traced it almost lovingly now, feeling the slight ridge in its center. She viewed it as a battle scar, proof of her endurance and strength. She cocked her head to one side, feeling the silken strands of strawberry-blonde hair move across her shoulders, soft, like a lover's touch. She decided the scar was still too noticeable and stripped off the bikini to put on the blue-and-gold one-piece. She nodded; this one was much better. She next tied a matching blue sarong around her waist. Rising up on her toes, Amalia danced to the tune in her head. The light cotton sarong fluttered against her legs, tickling. After a few minutes, she stopped and laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh again. The creaking of the old house caught her attention. "Settling noises," Kathy had always said, ever the practical one. Amalia's more fanciful nature, and her Irish grandmother's influence, made them into leprechauns scampering through the air ducts. Well, this time she heard only an old house creaking. She sat on the bed and looked around the room. What now served as her bedroom was to have been the guest room. It was very pretty, with pale lavender walls and matching carpet. The big bay window let in sunshine and fresh air, the sheer lavender curtains billowing slightly in the breeze. The window seat held white cushions adorned with tiny lavender flowers. It had been Kathy and Amalia's intention to match the bedspread and draperies to those cushions, but only the cushions had been done before the accident. And Amalia had forgotten where to find the material. She lay back on the bed, suddenly exhausted. She was proud of the work she'd done over these last few months, but no one really knew how it nearly drained what life was left in her. After she'd gotten out of the rehabilitation hospital, her friends had convinced her that finishing the renovation of the old stone farmhouse would be the best therapy for her shredded emotions and shattered dreams. In a way, her friends had been right. Part of healing and accepting Kathy's death was to transform the neglected structure into the beautiful showcase it could be, to make their dream come true. They'd scrimped and saved every penny, each taking two jobs. How ironic that money from the accident settlement was what paid for the renovation. Finishing the house was Amalia's final tribute to Kathy and the love they'd shared, and now it was time to let it go. Most of the furniture was gone. She only had the few pieces necessary to be comfortable, but tomorrow the movers would come and take it to storage. The house was rewired, repaired, and repainted. New copper plumbing ran throughout, and the hardwood floors had been refinished to their original sheen. New windows, new carpeting in the upstairs bedrooms, new bathrooms. New owners. Amalia suddenly beat her fists against the bed in frustration and rage. "Damn you, Kathy," she screamed, "why did you have to die?" She turned and wept into her pillow. She'd thought she had no tears left, but still they came, day after day, night after night. The aches in her body reminded her daily of her ordeal, of her loss. She fought hard against the memories, the anguish. Her lesbian psychiatrist kept telling her she was making good progress. It made Amalia laugh. Today, she had thrown away the doctor's business card and the pills. One more step toward becoming a whole person again. Amalia didn't know when she stopped crying or when she'd fallen asleep, but the shrill ring of the phone jolted her awake. "Hello?" she mumbled. "Amalia, darling," Alexander said, "you must be so psyched up." She smiled at his choice of words. "Actually, I was sleeping in my new bathing suit. Practicing for those lazy days on the beach." "You can't fool me. I know you've been soaking your pillow again. I hear it in your voice. Do you need me to come over?" She sat up. "That's okay. I'll be seeing you later tonight, at dinner." "But I'll have to share you with all those dykes. And then you'll be off to Hawaii for God knows how long." He clicked his tongue. "Really, how many people go to Hawaii with a one-way ticket?" She chuckled. "You know why I have to go, Alex." "Yes, I do. And you know I only like to tease you. It's good to hear you laugh. I'm just jealous. All those gorgeous Hawaiian boys over there, and me stuck here. Well, you'll have to squeeze one into your luggage when you come back." "You can count on it." "See you tonight, sweetheart." Amalia hung up the phone and got out of bed. She would miss Alexander terribly. He seemed to be the only person in her world right now who didn't treat her like some fragile doll. Everyone still tiptoed around her, afraid to even mention Kathy's name. But they all jabbered incessantly about Sheba, as if the death of a pet was somehow a more acceptable topic of conversation. Even her parents couldn't seem to grasp that the dog's death had reached deep inside her and wrenched her heart out. But Sheba and the house had been the last physical reminders of Kathy, and tomorrow it would be over once and for all. She took off the bathing suit and put her jeans and shirt back on. She had to pack the clothes that had come from Macy's. It took more than one trip, but she finally had everything piled on the bed. She put a CD of Hawaiian music in the stereo to get her in the mood. She couldn't help but sway to the music, which convinced her that she'd sign up for hula lessons once she got settled on the island. Finally, everything was carefully folded or rolled and packed in the suitcases. She decided she'd wear her jeans on the plane, but she chose a new Hawaiian print shirt and the sparkling white Keds to go with them. The only thing left to do in the morning was the carry-on bag. As she locked the last suitcase, the photo on her bedside table caught her eye. Kathy's brown eyes looked shyly into the camera, her head tilted slightly downward. Her dark blonde hair was parted in the middle, with bangs feathering back from her face. The longest layer brushed gently against the back of her neck. She wore an orange T-shirt with a red bandanna circling her throat. The smile was tentative, yet mischievous. The day it was taken, they'd gone on a picnic with Alexander and his lover at the time to Lake Linganore up in Frederick County. Alex's lover was studying to be a fashion photographer and had cajoled them all into posing. As usual, Amalia hated the photos of her...
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