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"Only one thing," he whispered. "What?"

"Let's not tell my parents any of this just yet, especially right before their party. okay?"

"Why not?" I asked, pulling back, a flutter of alarmed butterflies tickling under my breast like little warnings.

"Trust m

e. The less they know, the better we'll be. They have lived lives with no pain, no worries, no conflicts so long, they crack over a corky-tasting wine. The last thing my mother could handle is being the target of any gossip. Imagine what the Carriage sisters will do with this," he added. smiling.

"I'm tired of hiding the truth. Thatcher, and I don't care a damn about the Carriage sisters."

"After the party, there will be plenty of time for the truth. Hey," he said. "here, as you know, the truth is often something with a bitter taste. People can take it in small doses only and never all at once. Illusions and deceptions are so much more digestible."'

He went for my suitcases. "Well?" he asked, turning.

The two voices within me began debating again, the one urging me to stay, the other urging me to flee.

"You can always leave," he continued, seeing my indecision, "That's easy. It's not always as easy to return."

It stopped the debate. I nodded and turned slowly to go back up the stairway. hoping I had not made a more serious error of judgment,

.

Thatcher and I spent the night together, lying side by side in my bedroom this time. He asked me so many questions. It was as if my telling him the truth had opened the door to his caring more and wanting to know more. I described what my early life had been like, told him about Amou in more detail and especially about my adoptive mother and how severe she could be. He wanted to know a lot more about my father, and he was intrigued with the story of him and my mother.

It does sound like they were truly in love and," he added. "later in a great deal of pain. I think it helps me understand Grace more, why she is the way she is, why she has been so introverted. I've always liked her and hated the ridicule and the cruel things people say about her. It's why I wanted to help her with her legal problems. why I was proud of myself for being able to do that.

"I even tried being a friend to Linden at different times. I'm really the one who engineered his exhibits in the galleries here. He doesn't know that If did, he wouldn't have let the paintings be hung and sold. He doesn't want anyone's help, especially anyone from Palm Beach.

"Once. I even tried to go sailing with him. He came close to agreeing. I talked about the boat and asked his opinions and invited him aboard. It was almost as if he was fighting with someone inside him, some other Linden, who unfortunately won out."

"I do that. too." I said.

"What?"

"Argue within myself, two voices."

"Uh-oh, is this a family thing?" he asked semiseriously.

"Maybe, but probably not. You don't talk to yourself, argue with yourself?"

"We're all a bit schizophrenic, is that it?"

"Yes," I said.

'Well. I don't believe that,'" he said. "Yes. I do, No. I don't, Yes. I do."

I slapped him on the arm. "Stop teasing me. Thatcher Eaton."

He laughed and reached out to pull my lips to his. We kissed, and then. when I leaned back, I saw he still had his eyes closed and wore a smirk of satisfaction.

"What are you thinking, Thatcher Eaton?"

"I'm thinking how miserable I would have felt if someone had told me you were my sister." he said. "I might have rejected the truth and risked incest."

"You're such an idiot," I said, and kissed him again.

We made love, and this time, we stayed with each other until the morning light came bursting through the windows, exploding on the walls like the opening of a dark curtain and the beginning of a new performance. I could almost hear the applause greeting us. How I hoped it wasn't premature.