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"I know, honey." She sat beside me and took my hand. "I know ya wouldn't have let anythin' happen if ya could stop it. Love jist gushed outta ya and outta him. Can't blame nurther of ya fer it. Ya were both drawn ta one another at an early age, and like two flowers in the forest, hidden from everyone's shoes and sight, yer love grew free and wild until ya entwined. Yet, it's all wrong, so ya got ta untwine. It's goin' ta be somethin' painful, and fer it ta happen atop'a all the rest, it's goin' ta be doubly hard fer ya, butIll be here ta help ya get through it, Annie."

"But Luke," I cried. He had no one to help and to comfort him.

"Ya got ta let him go his own way, Annie. I told ya. He ain't jist got Luke Casteel's name; he's got his blood. I loved ma pappy, but he was a man with a man's fire burnin' hot and heavy beneath those pretty eyes."

"Aunt Fanny, I feel so sick inside, so empty and alone. I just can't stand it," I moaned. She put her arms around me and held me to her for a few moments. Then she kissed my forehead and held me out at arm's length.

"Come on, Annie. I'll help ya back ta bed. Ya gotta think of yer own health now."

I let her help me. After I was under the blanket again, she leaned down and kissed me on the forehead and stroked my hair just like my mother used to.

"Git yerself some sleep, Annie. be here with ya and help ya till ya get yerself on yer feet again."

"Thank you, Aunt Fanny."

"Us women gotta stick together now," she said, smiling and straightening her shoulders to indicate we would tough it out together.

She kissed me again and then she left me alone in the darkness with only the echo of Luke's voice beside me. I could still see his eyes close to mine.

"It isn't ugly; it can't be ugly," I chanted, and fell asleep with the memory of his kiss still on my lips.

TWENTY-THREE The Secret of the Cottage

. The next week and a half was difficult for me. In some ways it was even harder than the time I had spent at Farthy. Not that anyone was cruel to me; far from it. All of the servants and my aunt Fanny couldn't have been more concerned, loving, and considerate. But now, so soon after I had lost my parents, I had lost Luke, the one person in the world who I thought would always be there for me, the one person who made the struggle and the pain worthwhile. He was gone, and I felt as dead and as lost inside as I had when I had lost my parents.

Days were bleak and dark no matter how brightly the sun shone. I was forever cold and tired, wrapping my blankets around me and spending hours and hours simply staring up at the ceiling, not even wanting to put on the lights when twilight came. At times I felt numb, and at times I cried and cried until my chest ached. I cried myself to sleep, only to awaken to the realization that now all the people who had been close to me were gone. I had never felt so alone, not even when I was shut up in Farthy. At least when I was there, I still had my fantasies, my dreams.

Now even the dreams were gone. There were no more fantasies to pass the dreary time away. What was even worse, my memories of Luke and myself now seemed tainted. We were living a forbidden love, and all that had once been wonderful and beautiful to remember now seemed evil and wrong. That tore my heart and filled me with agony.

How horrible it was not only to lose the ones you love, but to lose the pleasure and joy of the memories of them as well. Fate had plundered my heart, come into my garden and plucked every blossoming flower, leaving only a plot of weeds and stems stripped naked of their beauty, their reason to be.

Many of my parents' old friends paid belated condolence calls, belated because I had been too far away for them to do so before. I appreciated their sympathy, but each time someone visited, I relived the tragedy, felt my loss afresh.

Some of my mother's friends broke into tears in my presence, and their sorrow cut into me sharply, opening wounds where scabs had formed.

Nevertheless, I found myself being the stronger one and by necessity comforting them.

"It's jist what Heaven would do," Aunt Fanny remarked after one such episode. "In a pinch no one was stronger than yer ma. I was the one whinin' and bitchin', but it was her and Torn got us the food when we was nearly starvin', and it was her who nursed and cared for Our Jane when she was sickly."

These stories about my mother and stories like them gave me the determination and strength to work on my recuperation after Luke and Drake had run out on me. Aunt Fanny said Luke called frequently to ask about me, but each time she asked him if he wanted to speak to me, he told her he would speak to me another time. At least a half-dozen times I tried to compose a letter to him, but whenever I looked at what I had written, I tore it up because nothing seemed right, nothing expressed how I truly felt.

Doc Williams stopped by often to check on my progress. My legs grew stronger every day, and he assigned me a physical therapist to help me build them up, until I reached the point where I no longer needed the walker. Doc Williams gave me a cane to use just to keep my balance. A few days later I navigated stairs by myself and finally went outside by myself and sat on the gazebo, t

hinking about all the things that had happened to me and Luke. Aunt Fanny came out after me, insisting I put on a sweater.

"There's a chill in the air and ya still ain't fatted up ta where ya should be."

Autumn had crawled in quietly under the shadows, moving around us like a sleek, cool cat. Suddenly one morning I noticed that the leaves were nearly all rust and gold.

I remembered how much Mommy loved the fall. She told me it was especially pretty in the Willies. "I loved to wander through the forest then. Above me the trees were dazzling in the sunlight, the different trees different shades of yellow: amber, lemon, saffron; and different shades of brown: chestnut, ginger, and dark mahogany. Go to the forest in the fall, Annie," she told me, "and you'll get all your ideas for colors in your paintings."

She was right about that, but thinking about the forest and walking through the woods only reminded me of Luke because we had done that so many times together. How I wished he was with me now, now that I was back on my feet. But he was back at college trying to forget.

I began a painting of Luke. First, I drew the gazebo, and then I drew him standing in it, looking over the grounds thoughtfully. While I worked on my painting of him, I eased the pain of his being away from me some, but as soon as I drew closer to finishing it, I felt a terrible loss. I delayed completing it, finding this and that to do, adding a detail here and changing something there. But soon I had no more to do and no way to avoid finishing it. When I finally put down my brush and stood back, I loved and hated the painting at the same time.

I had painted it from my heart and had captured him well, captured the way he always tilted his head a bit to the right whenever he grew deeply thoughtful, captured those strands of hair that always seemed to be over his forehead, captured the look in his eyes when he gazed at me and saw the love I had for him.

But the picture teased and tormented me. It made me long to hear his voice and feel his presence. This was the artist's passion and agony as well, I thought, to fall in love with what you create and yet never to truly possess.