Through a blur of tears she saw Dobrina waiting for her beside her rental car. She looked like an ancient goddess, Charly thought, standing straight and tall and proud with her arms folded under her apron. Except that, although the bright colors of June were drowning in sunset shadows, Charly could still see the shine of tears on the woman’s cheeks.

She held out one imploring hand. “Baby…oh, baby, please don’t be goin’-he doesn’t mean what he says. You know he doesn’t mean it-”

Charly had both of her hands out, too, and was holding them up as if to ward the other woman off. The car keys were already in her hand-another Los Angeles habit. She fumbled for the door handle, muttering, “No…no…I have to get… out of here.”

Dobrina’s fingers closed around hers. “Where you think you’re goin’, child?”

“Anywhere,” Charly growled with a prolonged sniff, “as long as it isn’t here.”

“You’re in no condition to be drivin’!”

“I’m fine. At least I will be. Aunt Dobie…” But her voice gave way. She turned in a rush and clutched the other woman in her arms, whispering into the downy softness of her close-dropped hair. “I’m sorry, Aunt Dobie. I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Oh, God, the tears had started again. Somehow she managed to get the car door open and herself inside. She kept trying futilely to stern the flow with the back of her hand, blotting her streaming eyes with her sleeves so she could see to get the key in the ignition and locate the headlights.

As she put the car in gear and drove away, the last thing she saw in the rearview mirror was a shimmery image of Dobrina, still standing in the driveway, straight and tall as a pillar with her arms once again folded beneath her apron, the very image of dignity in the midst of overwhelming grief.

That was when the pain really hit her. It woke and grew inside her like a living thing. But all she cared about at that moment was getting away, as far away from Mourning Spring as it was possible to get, and as fast as she could possibly get there. Then maybe, she told herself, just maybe, the pain would go away…

Of course it would. Just as it had before. Once before, so many years ago.

Oh, yes, she knew this pain, these tears. Knew them very well, like old friends-or enemies. And she knew what was causing them. They were the natural consequence of a broken heart. Once, long ago, this town, these people had broken hers. But what she was finding out only now was that in all those years, it had never really mended.

And she thought she’d done so well! She’d been proud of the way she’d healed, not without scars, but like a tree re-forming its bark around an old wound and growing up tall and strong and spreading its branches in spite of it. Now she wondered how she could actually have thought she could come back here and face down the town, these people, her father on equal terms, as the successful adult she’d become. What a fool she’d been. Two hours in this place, and it was as if she’d never left. Just like that, in the blink of an eye she was sixteen again, terrified, heartbroken, and alone…

Okay, not quite alone. Those headlights in her rearview mirror were awfully close. Too close.

Damn redneck drivers, Charly thought, dashing furiously at her tears and hating all things Southern with a passion that would have astounded her closest friends. Good old laid-back Charly-she knew that’s what they thought of her. Charly the cool one, the sophisticated one, renowned for her dry and often acerbic wit. That’s what they all thought-even Mirabella.

What would Bella think if she could see her now?

She reached up and, with a flourish of defiance and a few choice swear words, flipped the mirror’s dimmer switch.

Then she glanced down at the speedometer and muttered, “Oh, hell,” under her breath. All right, so it seemed she’d been toddling down the highway at just under forty miles per hour. When had she left the town behind? For that matter where was she? Dusk had deepened into darkness while she wasn’t watching, and suddenly nothing looked familiar.

Plus she was still crying like a baby-couldn’t seem to stop. Could barely even see. And those damn headlights were still right on her tail. Why didn’t they just pass, for God’s sake?

Charly was never sure exactly what happened next. One minute she was looking in the mirror at the shimmering lights, and the next minute she was looking ahead into the path of her own headlamps and seeing nothing but trees. Her heart jumped into her throat, and she jerked the wheel hard to the left-too hard; she was used to her own car, a nice, solid eight-year-old Mercedes. The lighter rented Ford responded to such brutal handling by careening wildly back and forth across the highway, while behind her the headlights suddenly seemed to break up and began to flash rainbow colors.

Something in Charly’s mind-the answer to a silently screamed prayer, perhaps-told her to tromp on the brakes. This she did, but too late. The Taurus was already tilting and lurching, bucking and banging its way down an embankment. Somehow she managed to keep her foot on the brake and hold on to the steering wheel-mere wasn’t much else she could do, except maybe pray, and she was sure it was way too late for that, as well.

She heard things snapping and crashing all around her, and the sound of glass breaking, and then the air bag blew up and hit her in the face.

And there was darkness. Stillness. Silence.

She heard herself whimpering, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Which she told herself wasn’t actually praying, no matter what it sounded like.

Then she heard more rustlings and crashings and thumpings. Something rapped against the car window barely inches from her head. She jumped when a flashlight stabbed at her through the glass.

A voice, strangely muffled, called out, “Ma’am? Hey, you okay in there?”

Charly shook her head, but not in response to the question. She didn’t know if she was okay or not. She felt as though she was-nothing hurt or anything-but then she’d heard stories about people in shock running around on broken legs, having horrendous injuries and not even knowing.

The door beside her was wrenched open. The light slapped across her eyes, making her wince again, then moved on. Hands touched her, not gently. Quickly and efficiently exploring.

A voice, young and male, said, “Okay, ma‘am, you just sit tight now, y’hear? We’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.” She heard the click of her seat-belt buckle, and felt the release of pressure. “You hurt anywhere?”

“I don’t think so,” Charly said, rubbing her chest. It did hurt where the seat-belt strap had crossed it, but since it was probably what had saved her life, it didn’t seem like something she should complain about.

“Can you tell me your name?” That was a different voice, also male, also young.

“Charly…uh…” Damn.

“Ma’am?”

She ground her teeth silently, but there was no help for it. “Charly…Phelps.”

She’d hoped that might get past them, but she could see it wasn’t going to. The first young man, hunkered down in the open doorway, exchanged a look with the second young man, who was peering over his shoulder.

‘Phelps, huh? Charlie, you say?” He slanted a look back at Charly. ”You know, we got a judge in this town by the name of Charles Phelps-now, how’s that for a coincidence?”

“Wow,” said Charly weakly.

“Ma’am, you know where you are?” It was the second young man again, the one with all the questions.

“Yeah… Mourning Spring, Alabama.” She sighed and closed her eyes. Because it had just registered that both of the young men giving her aid and comfort were wearing uniforms-law-enforcement uniforms, complete with thick belts and guns and things that creaked and clanked when they moved. And that the colorful flashing lights on the edges of her vision were not some sort of residual effect from the accident or her recent crying jag, but the lights on top of a patrol car.

Under her breath she muttered softly, “Damn, I hate this place.”

“Ma’am. I’m gonna need to see your license and registration.”

“Oh-yeah, sure.” She pawed at the deflated air bag until she got it out of the way and reached for her purse with shaking hands-at least for the place where it should have been, just across the center console, on the passenger seat. Then she realized that of course, everything would most likely have been thrown onto the floor during the accident. Mumbling “Just a minute,” she leaned over as far as she could and groped for it on the floor.

A strong odor, one she recognized instantly, filled her nostrils. She registered the thought. But that’s impossible.

“Ouch!”

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing-I cut myself. I think…there’s something…broken down here.” Cautiously now, she got a hand on it and pulled it out Sat holding it, staring at it, winking in the beam of the young patrolman’s flashlight-a squarish bottle minus its neck and its contents, wearing a black label with Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 boldly printed on it in white.

“But,” said Charly firmly, “that’s impossible.”

The two patrolmen exchanged another long look; they had to have gotten a whiff of the whiskey by this time. One of them took the bottle gingerly from her hands. The other said politely, “Ma’am, if you can, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the car.”

“I don’t know where that came from,” Charly said. “It isn’t mine.”

Neither of the patrolmen seemed to feel that required an answer.

The one not holding the bottle put his hand under her elbow and thoughtfully murmured, “Watch your head,” as he helped her from the car.

“I’m telling you, that bottle is not mine,” Charly insisted. “Look, if you’ll just let me…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Okay, she thought, I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but… “That judge you mentioned-Charles Phelps?” She let the breath out in a rush. “Okay, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m his daughter. I just left his house. Somebody there will vouch for me. If you’ll just-”