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I'd never known Bart to do such a thing. Regret for setting up the performance that ruined his brother's legs, and cost him his career? Regret for driving Cindy away? Did Bart know how to feel regret? I didn't know. I stared blankly at Joel

as he paced the'floor, seeming terribly upset, when what difference did Bart's behavior make to him?

The old man followed us as usually he followed Bart. "He should know better," muttered Joel. "Whores and harlots hang out in bars, though I've warned him about them."

His words intrigued me. "What's the difference between a whore and a harlot, Joel?"

His smeary eyes turned my way. As if light blinded him, he shaded those eyes with his gnarled hand.

"Are you mocking me, niece? The Bible mentions both nouns, so there must be some difference."

"Perhaps a whore is worse than a harlot, or vice versa? Is that what you mean?"

He glared at me, telling me with his glittering, faded eyes that I was tormenting him with my silly questions.

"Then's there's a strumpet, Joel, and today we have hookers, call girls and prostitutes--do they come between harlots and whores, or are they the same?"

His eyes hardened to rivet on me with the piercing glare of a virgin saint. "You don't like me, Catherine. Why don't you like me? What have I done to make you distrust me? I stay to save Bart from the worst in himself, or I'd leave today because of your attitude, and I am more Foxworth than you are." Then his expression changed, and his lips quirked. "No, I take that back. You are twice the Foxworth I am."

How I hated him for reminding me! Still, he did manage to make me feel ashamed, as if I'd misconstrued the silent messages he sent out. I didn't defend myself, or protest to convince him otherwise. Nor did Chris say a word to prevent this confrontation he'd already sensed would come sooner or later.

"I don't know why I distrust you, Joel," I said in a kinder voice than I customarily used with him. "Perhaps you protest too much about your father, making me doubt you are one whit better or different."

Without another word, but with a sad look that I think he feigned, he turned and shuffled off, his hands again tucked up those invisible brown monk sleeves.

That very evening, when Melodie insisted on dining in her room alone again, I made up my mind. Even if she didn't want to go, and fought against me, I was driving Melodie to see Jory!

I stalked into her room and removed her almost untouched dinner tray without saying a word. She wore the same shabby robe that she'd worn for days. I pulled her best-looking summer outfit from her closet and tossed it on the bed. "Shower, Melodie, and shampoo your hair. Then get dressed--you are going to visit Jory tonight, whether or not you want to."

Instantly she jumped up and protested, acting hysterical as she said she couldn't go yet, wasn't ready yet, and I couldn't make her do anything she didn't want to do. I overrode everything she said, shouting back it seemed she'd never be ready, and I didn't care what excuses she offered, she was going.

"You can't make me do one damned thing!" she yelled, very pale as she backed away. Then, sobbing, she pleaded for me to give her more time to become adjusted to the idea of Jory being crippled. I said she'd had enough time. I'd adjusted, Chris had, Cindy had . . . and she could pretend; after all, she was supposed to be a professional used to playing roles.

I had to literally drag Melodie to the shower and shove her inside when she wanted the tub. But I knew about Melodie in a bathtub. There she'd sit until her skin puckered, and visiting hours would be over. Waiting outside the shower door, I urged her to hurry. She stepped out, swathed in a towel, still sobbing as her blue eyes pleaded for mercy.

"Stop crying!" I ordered, shoving her down on the dressing room stool. "I'm going to blow-dry your hair while you put on your makeup--and do a good job of concealing that red puffiness around your eyes, for Jory will be very perceptive. You've got to convince him that your love for him hasn't changed."

On and on I talked to convince her that she would find the right words to say, the right

expressions to wear, as I dried her pretty honey-blond hair.

Her hair had marvelous sheen, more depth to the color than mine had. No red in mine at all. The texture was stronger than my frail, fine hair of flaxen color. When I had Melodic dressed, I sprayed her lightly with the perfume Jory loved most, as she stood as if in a trance of not knowing what to do next. I hugged her before I pulled her to the door.

"Come now, Melodie, it's not going to be that bad. He loves and needs you. Once you're there and he looks at you, you'll forget his legs are paralyzed. You'll instinctively do and say the right things. I know you will because you love him."

Pale beneath the makeup, her large eyes stared at me bleakly, as if she had her doubts and knew better than to bring them up again.

By this time Bart had come home from whatever bar had served him enough to make his legs limp and his eyes unfocused. He slouched in a deep chair, legs sprawled forward, and behind him in the shadows, Joel sagged limp as a dying palm. "Where yuh goin'?" Bart asked in a slurred voice, as I tried to slip Melodic down the hall to the garage without him noticing us.

"To the hospital," I said, pulling Melodie toward the huge garage. "And I think it's time you went to visit your brother again, Bart. Not tonight, but tomorrow.

Buy him a gift that will entertain him . . . he's going mad in there from doing nothing."

"Melodic, you don't have to go if you don't want to," Bart said, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Don't let my dominating mother push you around."

She was trembling, hanging back to plead mutely with him. Ruthlessly I pulled her on and forced her into the car.

Bart came staggering into the garage, calling out to Melodie that he would save her . . . and then he lost his drunken balance and fell to the floor. I pushed the electric button to open one of the huge garage doors and backed out of the garage.