In the distance a door closed and the silence settled around her, and suddenly Charly was overwhelmed by feelings, most of which she didn’t understand. How, she wondered, could it all seem so familiar, and yet so strange? Everything was exactly as she remembered, including the smells-a mix of lemon furniture polish and old wood and dusty draperies and pipe tobacco. She felt as if she’d been caught up in a time warp and hurled back into her own childhood. Except that, since she was no longer a child, she didn’t belong in this time, in this place. She was a stranger here. And standing in the house she’d grown up in, she knew a terrible sense of alienation, and loss.

Panic seized her. Lord, she couldn’t face him like this! Not in so vulnerable a state, standing here in the entry hall like a charity case-like somebody come collecting for the heart fund or the March of Dimes!

On the verge of flight, she was suddenly aware of warmth on her cheek, like a kind and comforting touch. Turning, she saw through the open arched doorway on her left that the formal living room-the “front room,” Aunt Dobie had always called it, though the judge preferred “the parlor”-was awash with the last golden light from the setting sun. It was that light, slanting into the hallway, that had reached out to Charly where she stood. Like an omen, perhaps? If she believed in such things.

But maybe, she thought, her panicked heartbeat slowing and her breathing becoming calmer, that would be better. She could confront him there, with her back to the windows so her face would be in shadow, his in the light. Basic interviewer’s strategy. That way he’d be the one at a disadvantage.

She walked through the archway and instantly felt a sense of safety, inspired, perhaps, by the almost awesome gentility of the room. This was too lovely and formal a setting for angry words and recriminations. No memories here of emotional scenes and bitter confrontations.

She turned slowly, taking in the elegance of the high ceilings and wood moldings, the warmth of the beautiful old mantelpiece and hardwood floors, the graciousness of stunning antiques perfectly set against a backdrop of soft spring colors, cream and green and mauve. Here, too, it seemed that nothing had changed, except that maybe now she had a better appreciation for the beauty of it.

But then the arrangement of photographs on the mantelpiece caught her eye. At last here was something that was different. She remembered the candles in their silver candlesticks, and the clock that used to mark the quarter hours with advancing phrases of the Westminster chimes, with the complete chime on each hour following by the tolling. And fresh flowers in the cut crystal vase, picked by Aunt Dobie from whatever the yard and the season had to offer. But in Charly’s memory there had been only one photograph there, the formal portrait, framed in silver and black velvet, of her mother, Elizabeth, who had died the week after Charly was born.

But now there were other pictures there, too. Curious, since she’d never known the judge to be sentimental, she went to take a closer look. The photographs all seemed to be of a boy, the same boy at different ages and stages: a laughing toddler with golden curls, posed with his favorite toy, a top-eared, black-and-white-spotted dog, clutched to his heart; a gap-toothed Little Leaguer in his uniform, holding a glove almost as big as he was; a proud and handsome high-school graduate in cap and gown, the golden curls shorn and darkened to a sandy brown.

How odd, Chatty thought. She stared at the pictures. Who is this? I don’t know this person.

But her world had gone strange and still, like the quiet that precedes a violent storm. She felt it shift, and put out a hand to steady herself, but didn’t feel the mantelpiece beneath her fingers.

But I do. I know this child. I know…

Her body was cold…so cold. She didn’t recognize that phenomenon yet for the symptom of shock it was but only felt pleased that she could be so calm, pleased that she wasn’t falling apart, that her hands were steady, that she felt no pain. She felt nothing at all, in fact. Just that strange, all-consuming, allenveloping cold.

She must have heard something-some sound, a faint gasp, an indrawn breath. She felt herself turn within that cold, silent cocoon to face the man who had come to stand in the arched doorway. Some part of her mind must have recorded the fact that he was heavier than when she’d last seen him, that his hair was whiter, that there were jowls and eye pouches and a slight stoop to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. That he’d grown old. But none of that registered then. Her world, her perspective, had narrowed to a single laserlike beam, from her eyes to his-eyes that, though she’d always hated to acknowledge the fact, were so very much like her own.

She’d tried not to plan what she would say to him, knowing that the first words out of his mouth would send it all flying out the window anyway. As it turned out, it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d written a speech and tattooed crib notes on the palms of her hands. Now nothing mattered. Except…

The words came quietly from her mouth, but in more than a whisper. Almost a growl. “Who is this?”

She realized only men that she was clutching the graduation portrait in both hands, holding it before her like a shield.

Judge Charles Phelps drew himself up, breathing in through his nostrils in a way she’d seen him do so many times before when he was about to deliver a pronouncement-a broadside, an edict, an ultimatum, a sentence. Though he was wearing no jacket or tie, just shirtsleeves and suspenders on this warm June evening, she could almost see his judicial robes.

For once the old intimidation tactic failed to have its intended effect on her. Still focused with that laserlike intensity on one thing, and one thing only, she repeated it. “Who is this?”

His eyebrows bunched and lowered, but he didn’t answer her question. So she tried once more, her voice a guttural croak, forced between tightly clenched teeth. “Is…this…my…son? Tell me. I have a right-”

The judge’s voice boomed out then, as shocking in that sun-washed room as thunder on a cloudless day. “You have no right!” The next words came like its rumbling echoes, slow and measured, the handing down of a sentence. “None whatsoever. Any right you may have had, you signed away twenty years ago.”

Charly flinched, then braced herself. “Is this my s-?”

“You have no right, and you have no son!” His voice bludgeoned hers to silence. “You gave up the one when you gave away the other!”

“Gave up? Gave up?” How long had she been crying? Her face was wet, and her throat felt raw, as if she’d been screaming. “You made me! You took him away from me.” She swiped a hand across her eyes and then could see, with the shimmering edges of her vision, that Dobrina was crying, too, standing behind the judge with both hands pressed to her mouth, folded as if in prayer.

“I wanted to keep him,” Charly whispered, trying so hard to suppress sobs, her eyes clinging desperately to the face of the man she had once both feared and idolized. With every ounce of her strength and will she searched for some, for any sign of softening, wanting to believe that, just this once, she could make him hear. “You know that. I would have kept him if you’d let me.”

With a single bark of laughter the judge’s demeanor changed from an almost Biblical wrath to icy disdain. “Kept him? How did you propose to do that? You were a selfish, irresponsible-”

“I was sixteen!”

“You were not fit to raise a child then, and to all appearances, you have not changed. And now, if you have any decency-” His voice suddenly faded, and he turned away.

In despair Charly shot out a hand and clutched at his arm. “I want to see him.”

The judge’s eyes flicked downward, then slowly rose to her face. Chilled to the bone, she snatched her hand away.

“Young woman,” he said, in the quiet, impersonal voice of a trial judge, a voice with the cutting power of steel, “I would be obliged if you would leave my house.”

That, finally, was too much for Dobrina. With an anguished cry she threw up her hands and fled. Unable to believe what she was hearing, Charly shook her head and whispered, “My God. I’m your daughter.”

“I have no daughter!” On the last word the powerful voice broke, and once more, this time with finality, he turned away.

She saw then the signs of weakness she’d been hoping for-the trembling hands and bowed shoulders, a tinge of gray pallor-but instead of triumph it was fear she felt, a little girl’s fear, fear that struck her like a blow to the belly, taking her breath away. She held out a hand like an abandoned child and heard herself whisper, “Daddy…”

But he continued on down the hallway as if she hadn’t spoken. As if she wasn’t even there.

She had no way of knowing how long she stood there frozen and trembling. It was a small thud followed by the tinkle of broken glass that shocked her into motion and some degree of awareness, if not reality. Not reality. She told herself it couldn’t be real, that it wasn’t happening. Somehow she’d gotten caught in her worst nightmare, and now she couldn’t seem to wake up.

The graduation portrait had slipped from her fingers and lay ruined at her feet. She thought there must be a kind of symbolism in the handsome young face smiling confidently up at her through a crisscross of glass shards, but the pain that engulfed her in the same moment was so overpowering she couldn’t grasp it. She found herself kneeling on the floor, trying to gather up all the broken pieces. Except that she was crying so hard she couldn’t see them. And then she was outside, running as if wild dogs were chasing her, across the porch and down the steps.