Follow the Stars Home

MORE RAVES FOR LUANNE RICE AND
Follow the Stars Home

Cloud Nine

Home Fires

Blue Moon

MORE CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR
Luanne Rice

True Blue

Safe Harbor

Summer Light

Firefly Beach

Dream Country

Cloud Nine

Home Fires

Blue Moon

Secrets of Paris

Stone Heart

Crazy in Love

Angels All Over Town

For
Andrea Cirillo,
my beloved friend and amazing agent,
with love and gratitude

I would like to thank Sam Whitney, a girl I've known since the Thanksgiving Day she was born. Sam is an intrepid writer, mountaineer, explorer, and nurse. She trekked the Nepal Himalaya, worked with Mother Teresa in Calcutta, and now she's a full time O.B. RN taking a full load of graduate courses. Her help was invaluable in my research on Rett Syndrome. Sam is spiritual, compassionate, and hilarious, and I am proud to have babysat for her. She is a seeker of great spirit.

The people at Bantam are wonderful and supportive. I am shepherded through the publications of my books with their kindness, belief, and insight. I ask that Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Christine Brooks, Barb Burg, Susan Corcoran, Gina Wachtel, Betsy Hulsebosch, Carolyn Willis, each person on the incredible sales force and in every office, please accept my thanks, affection, and a bouquet of herbs from Point O'Woods.

Lucinda was inspired by my mother and the librarian of my youth: Mrs. Virginia Smith of the New Britain Public Library. With deep appreciation to librarians everywhere.

Thank you to Juanita Albert. She inspires me with stories of family, devotion, and faith. She has been a true friend through grief and joy.

Point O'Woods is a place in Connecticut of sea, sand, tall pines, and golden salt marshes. It is in my heart and soul forever. My parents met there, and their spirits—along with Mim's—inhabit our house and herb garden. My mother helped me learn to love to write at our old oak table, and I write there still. May my family and neighbors know how much I love them.

Snow was falling in New York. The flakes were fine and steady, obscuring the upper stories of Midtown's black and silver buildings. Snow covered the avenues faster than city plows could clear it away. It capped stone monuments and the Plaza's dormant fountain. As night closed in, and lights were turned on in every window, the woman stood with the young girl, breathing in the cold air.

“The snow looks so magical in the city!” Amy, twelve, said in amazement.

“It's so beautiful,” Dianne agreed.

“But where do the kids go sledding?”

“In Central Park, I think. Right over there,” Dianne said, pointing at the trees coated in white, the yellow lights glowing through the snow.

Amy just stared. Everything about New York was new and wonderful, and Dianne loved seeing the city through her eyes. Fresh from the quiet marshlands of eastern Connecticut, they had checked into the Plaza hotel, visited Santa at Macy's, and gone ice skating at
Rockefeller Center. That night they had tickets to see the New York City Ballet dance
The Nutcracker.

Standing under the hotel awning, they took in Christmas lights, livery-clad doormen, and guests dressed for a gala evening. Three cabs stood at the curb, snow thick in their headlights. At least twenty people were lined up, scanning the street for additional cabs. Hesitating for just a moment, Dianne took Amy's hand and walked down the steps.

Overwhelmed with excitement, her own and for the child, she didn't want to risk missing the curtain by waiting in a long taxi line. Standing by the curb, she checked the map and weighed the idea of walking to Lincoln Center.

“Dianne, are we going to be late?” Amy asked.

“No, we're not,” Dianne said, making up her mind. “I'll get us a cab.”

Amy laughed, thrilled by the sight of her friend standing in the street, arm outstretched like a real New Yorker. Dianne wore a black velvet dress, a black cashmere cape, a string of pearls, and her grandmother-in-law's diamond and sapphire earrings: things she never wore at home at Gull Point. Her evening bag was ancient. Black satin, stiff with years spent on a closet shelf, it had come from a boutique in Essex, Connecticut.

“Oh, let me hail the cab,” Amy said, dancing with delight, her arm flying up just like Dianne's. Her movement was sudden, and slipping on the snow, she grasped at Dianne's bag. The strap was very long; even with Dianne's arm raised, the bag swung just below her hip. Nearly losing her balance on the icy street, Dianne caught Amy and steadied them both.

They smiled, caught in a momentary embrace. Although Thanksgiving had just passed, Christmas lights glittered everywhere. Beneath its snowy veil,
the city was enchanted. A Salvation Army band played “Silent Night.” Bells jingled on passing horse-drawn carriages.

“I've never been anywhere like this,” Amy said. Her enormous green eyes gazed into Dianne's with the rapture of being twelve, on such a wonderful adventure.

“I'm so glad you came with me,” Dianne said.

“I wish Julia were here,” Amy said.

Bowled over with affection for the girl, and missing her own daughter, Dianne didn't see the cab at first.

Spinning on the ice, the taxi clipped the bumper of a black Mercedes limousine. A snowplow and a sand truck drove by in the opposite direction, and the Yellow Cab caromed off the plow's blade, crushing its front end, shattering the windshield. Dianne lunged for Amy.

The violent ballet happened in slow motion. Pirouetting once, twice, the cab spun on the icy street. Dianne grabbed the child. Her low black boot fought for traction. Glass tinkled on the pavement. Onlookers screamed. Arms around Amy, Dianne tried to run. In the seconds it took to register what was happening, that she wasn't going to get out of the way fast enough, she wrapped her body around the child and tried to shield her from the impact.

The taxi struck the crowd. People flew up in the air together, tumbled apart, and landed with separate thuds. Skidding across the pavement, skin scraping and bones breaking, they slumped in shapeless heaps. For one long moment the city was silent. Traffic stopped. No one moved. The snow was bright with red blood. Down the block, horns began to blare. A far-off siren sounded. People closed in to help.

“They're dead!” someone cried.

“So much blood …”

“Don't move anyone, you might injure them worse.”

“That little girl, did she move? Is she alive?”

Five people lay crumpled like broken toys, surrounded by people not knowing what to do. Two off-duty New York cops out for the evening with their wives saw the commotion from their car and stopped to help. One of them ran to the wrecked taxi. Leaning through the shattered window, he yanked at the door handle before stopping himself.

The driver was killed, his neck sliced through by a sheet of door metal. Even in death, the man reeked of whiskey. Shaking his head, the cop went to the injured pedestrians.

“Driver's dead,” he said, crouching beside his friend, working on the girl.

“What about her?” he asked, pulling open Amy's coat to check her heartbeat.

With the child their first priority, the two policemen had their backs to Dianne. She lay facedown in the snow. Blood spread from her blond hair, her arm twisted beneath her at an impossible angle. Moving quickly, a stranger bent down beside her. He leaned over her head, touching the side of her neck as if in search of a pulse. No one saw him palm the single diamond earring he could reach, or pull the pearls from her throat.

By the time he grabbed her bag, a woman in the crowd noticed. The thief had the strap in his hand, easing it out from under the fallen woman's arm.

“Hey,” the observer yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

The thief yanked harder. He held the bag, tearing at the clasp. It opened, contents spilling into the snow. A
comb, ballet tickets, a crystal perfume flacon, some papers, and a small green wallet. Snatching the wallet, the man dashed across the street, disappearing into the dark park.

One victim, an old man, was dead. A wife lay motionless while her husband tried to crawl closer to her. Bending over the child, one policeman barely looked up. The other moved to the woman-had to be the girl's mother-noticing the blood pumping from her head. Taking off his jacket, he pressed it to the open wound. Police cars arrived along with an ambulance, and the technicians turned the blond woman over. She was lovely, her face as pale as ice. The policeman saw a lot of death, and the chill that shivered down his back told him the mother was in bad shape.

The crowd stood back, everyone talking at once. “The taxi … out of control … skidded on the ice … five people hit … mother tried to save the little girl… scumbag stole her wallet.”

“Crackhead got her ID?” the ambulance driver asked. “No. Shit, no. You mean no one knows their names? We got no one to call?”

“That's right,” one of the cops said. He knew the ambulance driver wasn't necessarily being altruistic, imagining someone waiting for these two somewhere with no way to get in touch with him. Unidentified victims were a paperwork nightmare.

“Goddamn,” his friend said, watching the EMTs load them into the ambulance. The lady was so pretty, delicate and petite. Bystanders were saying she had curled her body around the child to protect her from the runaway cab. Ten to one she was from out of town, staying at the Plaza for a special holiday treat, nailed by some celebrating cabbie on his way back to the garage with a bellyful of cheer.

Throwing the useless handbag into the ambulance,
they watched the vehicle scream down West Fifty-ninth Street, heading for St. Bernadette's Hospital.

Speeding crosstown, the ambulance driver ran every light carefully, easing through intersections. Storms brought out the worst in New Yorkers. They panicked at the first sign of snow. The driver stayed steady, focused on avoiding the slow traffic and numerous fender benders. Aware of his critical passengers, he called ahead to alert the emergency staff.

Oxygen masks covered the victims' faces. The attending EMT pulled away the woman's cape, searching for a heartbeat. Checking her blood pressure, he felt shocked when her eyes opened. She lay still, her lips blue. The intensity in each small movement was frightening to behold as she opened her mouth to speak one word: “Amy,” she said.

“The little girl?” the technician asked.

“Amy …” the woman repeated, panic apparent in her eyes and in the effort it took her to whisper.

“Your daughter?” the EMT asked. “She's right here beside you, she's just fine. You're both going to be just fine. Lie back now, there you go. Just-” he said, watching her unimaginable distress behind the oxygen mask before she slid back into unconsciousness.

The kid's arm's a mess, he thought, silently chastising himself for the blatant lie.

The trauma unit was ready. Intercepting the ambulance beneath the wide portico, they slid the woman and girl onto gurneys. IV lines were hooked up. Blood and plasma were ready, just waiting for blood samples to be typed. Nurses and doctors in green surrounded the victims, assessing the worst of their injuries. Woman and child were wheeled into separate cubicles.

While the doctors worked, an EMT brought the black satin handbag to the desk. The head nurse checked it for ID, but the police report was right: The wallet was missing. She found two tickets for the ballet, two Amtrak ticket stubs originating in Old Say-brook, and two business cards, one for a lumberyard in Niantic, the other for a fishing boat called
Aphrodite.

“Find anything?” a young nurse asked, coming from the injured woman's cubicle. “It would be awfully good to call someone.”

“What's her condition?” the head nurse asked, glancing up.

“Critical,” the younger woman said, discarding her gloves. She was thirty-eight, about the same age as the woman she'd just been working on. She had children herself, including a ten-year-old daughter, just a little younger than the girl, and nothing made her count her blessings and fear the universe like a badly injured woman and child. “Both of them. Extensive blood loss, bruising, concussion and contusions for the woman, fractured humerus and severed artery for the girl. They're prepping her for surgery.”

“There's nothing much here,” the head nurse replied. “Cards for a lumberyard and a fishing boat …”

The head nurse squinted, taking a closer look. She saw a fine zipper she had missed the first time, along the seam of the bag's lining. Tugging it open, she reached inside and fished out a small card filled out in elegant handwriting:

In case of emergency, please call Timothy McIntosh (203) 555-8941.

“Connecticut number,” the young nurse said, reading the card. “Think it's her husband?”

Dialing the number, the head nurse didn't reply.
She got a recording: The area code had been changed. Using the new numbers, she learned that the phone was out of service. She tried the lumberyard: no answer at this hour. Frustrated, she looked at the last card and wondered what good could come from calling a fishing boat at the end of November. Since she had no options, she called the marine operator and requested to be put through to the
Aphrodite.

Waves pounded the hull and light snow sifted from the dark night sky. Tim McIntosh gripped the wheel, steering a long course due south. He had been lobstering in Maine, saving enough money to last the winter in Florida. He wore thick gloves, but even so his hands were chapped and rough. His leather boots were soaked through, his feet blocks of ice.

He glanced at the chart, illuminated by light from the binnacle. Point Pleasant, New Jersey, was his destination. He'd put in at Red's Lobster Dock for one night, then leave on the dawn tide for his trip south. Tim had had enough winter to last him for the rest of his life. Malachy Condon had once tried to talk him out of leaving for good, but that was before their final breach. Tim was heading for Miami.

A foghorn moaned over the sound of waves crashing against the steel hull. Checking his loran, Tim swung right into the Manasquan Inlet. The water grew calmer, but he could still feel the Atlantic waves pounding in his joints. He had traveled a long way. Great rock and concrete breakwaters flanked either side of the channel. Houses looked warmly lit; Christmas trees twinkled in picture windows, and Tim imagined other sailors' homecomings.

The radio crackled. Tim's ears were ringing from the constant roaring of the wind and throbbing of the Detroit diesel, but nevertheless he heard the high seas operator calling him.

“Aphrodite,”
the voice said. “Calling vessel
Aphrodite
…”

Tim stared at the set. His first thought was that Malachy had relented. Tim felt a quick spread of relief; he had known Malachy couldn't stay mad forever, that he wasn't cold enough to just banish Tim from his life. Malachy Condon was an old oceanographer, scientific as they came, but he had a family man's romantic vision of the holidays. Malachy believed in setting things right. He would want to fix things between them, press Tim to change his ways toward his daughter, her mother, Tim's brother.

“McIntosh, aboard the
Aphrodite
,” Tim said, grabbing the mike, ready to greet the old meddler with “Happy Thanksgiving, what took you so long?” A click sounded, the operator connecting him to the caller.