Prologue
North Yorkshire, 1148 A.D.

He’d said he’d always be in Moon. It came as an unpleasant shock to see a strange car in front of Roland’s cottage. Sofi eased her foot off the accelerator, bringing her Lincoln to a crawl around the bend in Millwood’s drive. Suddenly she was afraid that things had changed while she was gone.

Everything looked the same. Tiger lilies still edged the driveway, their mottled orange blooms fluttering like tiny welcome banners. The trees in the apple orchard had sprouted small green apples as they always did in early summer. The colonial mansion cooled itself in the shade of two oaks, while the blue arm of Stutts Creek curled lovingly around it.

If it weren’t for two changes, Sofi could almost believe she hadn't left five years ago. Her daughter, asleep in the back seat was the most noticeable difference. Second was the car in front of Roland’s cottage where his truck ought to be. 

Gravel crunched under her car’s tires as she slowed to a stop. Her mouth felt dry. Her heart thudded in her chest as she took in Millwood’s coat of fresh paint, the manicured bushes, the swept front stoop. The house looked more welcoming than it had in her dreams. He had to be here.

Sofi parked her Lincoln in the shade then glanced over her shoulder at Colette, still asleep in her car seat. Not wanting to disturb her daughter, she lowered all four electric windows before cutting the engine. A salty breeze blew off the water to ruffle Colette’s flaxen curls. Sofi opened the car door and stepped out. Maybe Roland was behind the house, tending his favorite flowerbeds.

Her linen pants were wrinkled. The pink shell top, which was made of silk, began to stick to her back as she rounded the house. She’d forgotten how humid Virginia was in summer. 

The grass felt thick under her heels. She looked down as she walked, hardly able to believe that she was home, that the enormous burden had been lifted. She was home again!

She rounded the back corner of the house and drew to a halt. Her thundering heart suspended its beat. There was Roland Wind, down on his knees beside the flowerbed. With gentle sweeps of his hands, he spread mulch around the impatiens. The pink and red petals shuddered beneath a gust of wind. Roland’s straw hat tumbled off his head and in a quick movement he caught it. At the same time, he spotted her, standing as still as a stone, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

The space between them was a chasm. In five years, they hadn’t seen each other, hadn't even shared a letter. She’d been elevated to the realm of the elite. He’d been left to eke out a living from their negligence.

Sofi blamed herself for the rift. She'd been too proud, at first, to admit to her monstrous error. Later, she realized she had no right to ask Roland to suffer the way she’d suffered.

It was time to close the gap forever. She forced one foot in front of the other, advancing toward him. Roland surged to his feet. Her footsteps faltered at the sight of his naked, suntanned chest. She’d forgotten how big he was, how male. 

He grabbed a T-shirt off the wheelbarrow and stuffed his head inside it. “Sofi!” he exclaimed in astonishment, threading his arms through the sleeves.

She stopped a yard away, not knowing how to greet him. Her heart expanded with joy and sorrow, mixed. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, but she’d forgotten how.

Roland reached for her, swallowing her hands in his solid grasp. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”

She looked up into those deep green eyes, so filled with concern for her. There was no recrimination, no blame. Only love. “I’ve come home,” she said, so grateful to him for his kindness.

Her words left him visibly stunned. He searched her face for answers then dropped his gaze to their knotted hands. He immediately released her. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, brushing off the bits of cedar and dirt that had stuck to her.

She reached for him again, needing to feel him, to convince herself that he was real. “Things have changed,” she told him. She had so much to say. Where should she start? “Conroy is dead. He died in a car accident two weeks ago.”

Roland grew still. For a long time, he said nothing. “Oh, Sofi.” He searched her eyes for grief.

She didn’t know what else to tell him. She was trembling again. She’d trembled for fourteen days, and she couldn’t stop. “I’ve come home,” she blurted, for that was all that mattered. And then he did exactly what she needed him to do. He pulled her in his arms. Sanctuary, at last! He smelled of soap and cedar. He felt as solid as a tree. 

Relief rushed up like a tide. Tears stung her eyes, and she was amazed to feel their moisture. It had been so long since she cried she thought she’d forgotten how. A sound escaped her, something between a laugh and a sob. She pressed her face against his shoulder, embarrassed. 

“It’s all right,” he murmured in her ear. "Cry, Moonbeam. You can cry on me."

But she couldn't. As quickly as they'd moistened her eyes, the tears dried up. With a hopeless sigh, she stepped from his embrace and forced a smile. “Come and see my daughter,” she invited. 

His face reflected wonder. “She’s here?”

So Roland already knew of Colette. Conroy must have told him on one of his trips to Moon. “Come on,” she urged, gesturing for him to follow as she moved toward the front of the house.

In three strides he caught up with her. Sofi cast him a sidelong glance as they passed beneath the magnolia tree. She felt overwhelmed by his size, by his vitality. In faded cut-off jeans and a T-shirt, he seemed so vigorous and strong. His tan skin and black hair were such a contrast to Conroy’s ghostly complexion. Her gaze slid to his capable hands. She loved the dirt on them. 

Colette was crying. Sofi broke into a run. “Mommy’s here!” she called. She yanked the car door open. “See, I’m here.” The soon to be four-year-old looked bewildered at waking up alone.

“It’s okay, honey. Let’s get you out of the car.” Sofi unbuckled her daughter and pulled her free, heaving her up and into her arms. “Look, there’s someone here for you to meet.”

Roland had pinched himself a dozen times, but he could only conclude that he was dreaming. One miracle was enough—-seeing Sofi after all these years. He was staggered by the vision of her wild brown curls and big, gray eyes. She’d appeared just the way she had in his dreams, without warning.

Time had been kind to her, sculpting her oval face into more delicate lines, carving new depths into her eyes. The moment she appeared, his vain hopes were resurrected. He had no right to feel so suddenly elated. For God's sake, she'd just lost her husband!

Yet here was another miracle. From the circle of Sofi’s arms, an angel studied him through the same gray eyes as her mother. Roland felt hurled back in time. “She favors you exactly,” he croaked. Even the tanned toddler legs poking out of the pink dress looked familiar. He looked at Sofi’s face and found her watching him. 

“She has her father’s hair,” she said, as though apologizing.  

“Yes, she does,” Roland agreed. Someone had attempted to tame the wild curls with a barrette.

“Colette, this is Ronno,” Sofi said. 

Roland darted her a look. Ronno. Sofi had called him that when she herself was a toddler.

“I told you he was real. See, we’ve come to live near him. There’s his house,” she said, pointing at his little cottage. “And here’s ours.” She flicked a negligent finger at the mansion.

Colette barely glanced at Millwood. Her gray eyes had widened to the size of nickels at the mention of his name. She scrutinized Roland from the top of his head to his dirty shoes. He must have met her expectations, for she decided to address him.

“Look,” she said, as one who was used to commanding adult attention. With pudgy fingers she grasped the chain about her mother’s neck. Sofi’s hand interfered then dropped away. Colette lifted a pendant from underneath her mother’s collar and showed it to Roland triumphantly.

He heard a buzzing in his ears. It was the quartz arrowhead he’d given to Sofi on her sixteenth birthday. Silver wire was coiled around its base so she could wear it on a chain. Roland thought the breeze would lift him away.

Sofi’s cheeks were tinged with pink. “I’ve always worn it,” she admitted, not meeting his gaze. “Well, shall we go in?” she asked brightly.

“Right.” He brought himself to earth again.

“I have some luggage in the trunk.” She lowered her daughter to the ground and ducked into the car to fetch her purse and keys.

Glancing into the Lincoln’s immaculate interior, Roland thought of his ’89 Chevy and cringed.

Sofi moved to the back of the car, and he followed her. He was surprised to see just one suitcase in the trunk—-the enormous one she’d toted off to college. There was also a smaller bag monogrammed with Colette’s name. Roland reached for the bigger bag. It weighed at least fifty pounds.

“Careful,” Sofi advised. “I almost threw my back out getting it in there.”

He pictured her struggle, wondering why the McKrelle’s hired help hadn’t managed the luggage.

“The house looks great,” she said, cheerfully. She shut the trunk and carried Colette’s bag as they approached the front door. “You’ve done a wonderful job of keeping it up.”

"Thank you," he said automatically. He darted her a look. She obviously didn't know he wasn’t supposed to be tending Millwood anymore. Conroy had fired him years ago. "It's locked," he said, patting down his pockets for the key he carried.

“Wait, I’ve got one.” Her fingers shook as flipped through the keys on her key ring and inserted one into the lock.

Poor Moonbeam, he thought. She’s still in shock.

The big oak door swung open silently. He’d oiled the hinges just last week. The cool foyer sucked the hot air in, yet Sofi hesitated. By the look on her face, this was a momentous act for her. She seemed to relish the moment as she stepped inside.

Sofi paused in the foyer, all of her senses rushing out to meet the home she knew so well. The grandfather clock ticked steadily in the parlor to her right. The hardwood floor gleamed with a fresh coat of beeswax. The smell of lemon oil layered the musty scent of permanence.

She heard the wheels of her suitcase settle on the foyer rug. Roland was awaiting her reaction. Colette babbled outside the door at the discovery of a butterfly. Sofi’s gaze plumbed the depths of the parlor. Her mother’s burgundy sofa had faded. Viola’s portrait still hung above the mantle, preserving her in youth and splendor. The hearth was swept. Its marble mantle glinted with an assortment of cut glass.

Her focus returned to the foyer, where the grand staircase made a broad sweep to the second and third floors. Her gaze rose, following the curve of the banister, only to halt on the landing where an urn of flowers sat on a three-legged table. They were silk flowers. The kind her mother-in-law amassed in her stone mansion.

Colette’s suitcase slipped from Sofi’s grasp and thudded to the floor. Without pausing to consider what she looked like, Sofi raced up the half-flight of stairs and snatched the flowers from the vase. She held them at arm’s length, despising their false perfume. Not until she came down the steps did she notice Roland’s astonishment.

“I’m allergic to dust,” she lamely explained. “I’m just going to...throw these away.” She turned and marched through the dining room, to the kitchen. Behind her, she heard Roland calling Colette into the house and hastened her step.

Sofi loved Millwood's kitchen. It had been added to the big house at the turn of the century. Tall pine cabinets, painted woodsy green, rose from floor to ceiling. Oak planks spanned the floor. The room smelled like a forest, with herbs from Roland’s garden hanging in colorful clumps from the exposed beams.

Sofi threw the silk flowers in the trash. She turned around just as Roland strode in after her, bearing Colette in his arms. “Look, Mommy! I’m up so high!” Colette cried.

It was good to see her daughter smile again. Sofi felt Colette’s disappointment as Roland put the girl down. “Oh, please, up again!” Colette pleaded.

“Later,” Roland promised her, patting her gently on the head.

“Let’s have a drink,” Sofi said to distract her. “Aren’t you thirsty?”

“There’s nothing to drink here,” Roland said quickly. “I’ll go get some lemonade from the cottage. Yes?” he asked, glancing down at Colette for her approval.

“Yummy!” Colette clapped her little hands.

He looked to Sofi for approval then slipped quietly out the kitchen door.

Sofi headed for the refrigerator. She doubted there was anything to eat either. They would have to go shopping soon. She found the refrigerator empty, except for a single bottle of champagne. Why champagne? she wondered, staring at the bottle blankly. She couldn’t come up with an answer.

Shutting the refrigerator, she went in search of cups. Rinsing three glasses, she placed them on the table. Colette had already climbed into a chair. She was busy opening and closing the shutters of the bay window.

“Oh, leave them open, sweetie, so we can see the pretty river,” Sofi suggested.

“River?” Colette noticed for the first time the river behind the house. “Oh!” she cried, staring at the ribbon of blue that edged the green lawn. “I wanna go swimmin'!”

It was music to Sofi’s ears to hear her daughter express a zest for life again. I did the right thing to bring her here, she told herself. She ignored the twinge of guilt she felt for taking Colette from her grandparents so soon after Conroy’s death. But their devastation did nothing to ease her daughter’s loss. Despite the small amount of time Conroy spared for his daughter, he and Colette had been close, as most fathers and daughters were. Now all Sofi wanted was for Colette to forget.

Roland reappeared just then, pushing through the screen door with his arms full. Sofi rushed over to help him. He’d brought a pitcher of lemonade and a pie. She took the pie and carried it to the table. The scent of sugared apples made her mouth water. “Did you bake this?” she asked. Roland was a good cook, but she didn't recall that he baked very often.  

He hesitated as he put the pitcher down. “No,” he said, and he turned to the sink to scrub his hands.

Sofi’s gaze went from the dark hair at Roland’s nape to the flaky piecrust. “Who made it?” she asked. Thoughts of the past disintegrated, and now she could only think of the present and how much things might have changed since she went away.

He didn’t answer, perhaps pretending he hadn’t heard her with the water running. She found herself admiring his broad back, noticing how the muscles under his T-shirt flexed as he soaped his hands. 

“Mommy can I have some?” Colette stuck a finger through the crust.

“Yes, in a minute, angel. Who made the pie, Roland?” she persisted, as he turned with a drying towel. 

He made a visible attempt to remember. “Kaily Mitchell,” he said, at last. “Shall we cut it?” He turned to fetch plates and a knife.

Kaily Mitchell. Sofi knew the name. She pieced together an image of dyed-blond hair and sun-worn skin. Kaily was closer to Roland’s age than Sofi. Kaily and Roland had gone to school together.

With quick fingers, Roland sliced three pieces of pie and swept them onto plates. He gave Colette a spoon to eat hers with.

Sofi crossed to the table and sank into a seat by the window. From her vantage she could see across the room and out the front windows to Roland’s cottage. She looked at the strange car parked where his truck should be. “Is that Kaily’s car?” she asked, accepting the plate Roland handed her.

“Yes,” he said, lightly. “She’s showing a house today. It’s back in the woods on a muddy road, so I offered her my truck.”

Sofi cut off the point of her pie with the side of her fork. “Then she’s a real estate agent?” she asked, just as casually. Maybe Roland was simply being thoughtful.

“That's right.” He took a seat next to Colette. He wouldn’t meet Sofi’s gaze. That tell-tale sign told her everything.

Roland had a girlfriend.

She laid her fork down, her appetite gone. She reached for her lemonade and nursed the tart-sweetness of the drink. Or was he married? Her stomach clenched and her gaze flew to his left hand. 

No, he would wear a ring if he were married. Thank God.

Still...still, he wasn’t her Roland anymore.

She watched him chat with Colette and chew his pie politely. He handed Colette a napkin to wipe her face.

My heart is breaking, Sofi considered, somehow detached from her own pain. She knew it was breaking. She simply couldn’t feel it. Maybe she didn't have a heart anymore. Maybe Conroy had killed it.

What did she expect, anyway? That Roland would wait for her all these years? How could he have known since the day she went away, she'd dreamed of nothing else but coming home?

Roland felt Sofi’s silence deep down to his bones. He glanced her way to see her staring at the top of the table, her thoughts turned inward. He took note of her weary posture, the dark smudges underneath her eyes. She looked haunted. She looked ill. He wanted to touch her, but her hands were clasped in her lap.

“Sofi,” he called, and her gaze jerked to his. “Why don’t you rest this afternoon, while I take Colette to the store? I’ll buy some things to stock the kitchen.”

A glimmer of wonder drove back the bleakness in her eyes. “Why would you do that?” she asked, very softly.

“So you can rest,” he repeated. She must be very tired, if she couldn’t understand him.

“I want to go to the store!” Colette piped in. “Can I go with Ronno, Mommy?”

Roland watched Sofi struggle with her decision. She looked back and forth between man and child. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and glanced at her pocket book, sitting at the end of the table. “Okay,” she said, dragging it closer. She began fishing out her wallet.

Roland noticed the purse was made of genuine leather. The wallet said Gucci on it. Sofi angled it so he wouldn’t see how much money she had. She pulled out two twenty-dollar bills. “Don’t buy too much,” she cautioned. She began to say more, but she pursed her lips and handed him the money.

He took it, if only to keep her from feeling obliged to him. “Promise me, you’ll try to sleep,” he coaxed. She was visibly fading on him. “Sleep as long as you like. Colette and I will play.”

He glanced with pleasure at the little girl. She tossed him the same gamin grin that had softened his heart more than twenty years ago. He pushed his chair back. “First I’m going to carry the suitcases up,” he announced. “Where will Colette sleep?” he inquired of Sofi.

Her fingers flexed with indecision. She looked incapable of making a decision.

“What about the sewing room?” he suggested. “Your mother’s nurse left a bed in there. The room’s just the right size for a child, and it’s right across from yours.” It occurred to him, then, that Colette might have had an enormous room in her father’s home.

Sofi’s nod reassured him. “That’s perfect,” she said. “She hasn’t been sleeping well at night.” 

From what he could tell, neither had Sofi. “All right. I’ll be right back for you,” he said to Colette. He carried some dishes to the sink and left them there to carry the bags upstairs.

“I like Ronno, Mommy,” he heard Colette say, and he slowed his step to catch Sofi’s reply.

“Didn’t I say you would?” she murmured.

“I thought he was make-believe,” Colette admitted.

There followed a moment of reflective silence before Sofi whispered, "I was beginning to think so too."