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Liz rose and walked wearily to the door. “I’m not your enemy, Nancy. Or your judge and jury. I just wish you weren’t so self-destructive.
For your sake, not mine.”

“Yeah, yeah, sis,” Nancy said, getting shakily to her feet and shuffling to the bed. “Go call Mama and tell her you’ve found
me, and I’m not going to disgrace her beloved family by doing something vulgar in public.” She yawned expansively and slowly
fell across the bed.

Liz went back, shifted Nancy’s head onto the pillow, and covered her. As she was about to turn, she saw Nancy’s eyes pop open.

“One of these days, we’re going to have to have a
real
heart-to-heart talk, big sister. And you ain’t going to like what you hear one damn bit.” Her eyes fluttered closed and she
was asleep in moments.

Frowning, Liz went downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. Maybe it would relax her. Coffee would only
keep her awake, and she had a feeling sleep wasn’t going to come easily tonight anyway. She took it into the den and sat on
the BarcaLounger, putting her feet up. She’d just taken the first sip when the phone on the end table rang. Thinking it was
probably Richard, she tried putting a smile in her voice as she answered it.

“Liz?” a deep voice asked cautiously. “This is Adam.”

Her heart literally stopped, then started again in a rush of emotion. “Adam, are you all right?”

“Yes. I know I shouldn’t be calling you, especially not so late. It’s nearly midnight there, isn’t it?”

“Ten to. Where are you?”

“I’m in Washington. I ran into Richard having a dinner meeting at the Hyatt tonight, so I thought you’d be alone.”
He paused, groping for the right words. “As I said, I shouldn’t be calling, but I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Liz closed her eyes. She should say a few polite words, then hang up. She should not let this go on. Yet she so badly wanted
to talk with him, too. “It’s good hearing from you.”

She wasn’t going to slough him off. He felt relieved, encouraged. “How have you been? I’m not quite sure why, but you’ve been
on my mind lately.” As he went from meeting to meeting, as he listened to endless speeches, as he tried to go to sleep, and
even in his restless dreams. Why, after all these years, was the memory of her, the need for her, suddenly so strong again?

“I’m all right.” She thought of Nancy upstairs, sleeping it off. “Getting by, I guess. I take it you’re recovered from your
accident?” She didn’t want him to know she’d spoken with Fitz just a week ago.

“So they tell me. My energy level isn’t like it once was. Remember how I’d put in eighteen-hour days, then come to your place
and we’d scramble some eggs and talk sometimes till the sunrise?” And inevitably, the long conversations had ended with even
longer sessions in her cozy double bed.

Memory lane. It was a road filled with potholes. “Yes, I remember,” she said softly, all too well.

“It’s snowing here,” he said, looking out his hotel room window. “I wish I were there with you, that we could take my boat
out on a calm sea and forget about the rest of the world.”

Liz pressed her lips together, unable to comment, memories rushing in on her. She was tired and vulnerable tonight, that was
all. Otherwise hearing from Adam wouldn’t have this effect on her, she told herself.

“Do you sometimes wish that, too, Liz?”

“Yes,” she answered honestly, feeling the guilt wash over her at the admission. She was another man’s wife, for God’s sake.
“Adam, I’m glad you’re all right, but I think I should hang up.”

“I understand.”

He sounded so terribly sad. She felt the pain of it twist her heart.

“Just one question and I’ll let you go. What went wrong with us, Liz? I ask myself that a lot these days.”

A dozen quick answers sprang to mind, but not the right one. “I wish I knew,” she whispered.

“Me too. Stay well.” Slowly, feeling more miserable than when he’d called, Adam hung up.

In Pacific Beach, Liz sipped her wine and stared unseeingly at the ceiling, wondering where all of them had gone wrong.

“He didn’t mean it, you know,” Claire Simpson said as Liz put antiseptic on a deep gash on her cheek. She winced at the stinging.

“This really should be seen by a doctor, Claire,” Liz commented as she reached for a gauze bandage.

“No.” The pale woman’s sunken gray eyes grew fearful. “No doctor and no hospital. Hank’d kill me if I went.”

“Why do you suppose that is, Claire? Why doesn’t Hank want you to get proper medical care if you’re hurt?”

The thin woman shivered despite the May sunshine drifting in through the open window in the small cubicle at Helping Hands.
She shouldn’t have come, Claire told herself. If Hank found out… “It costs too much money, and doctors are real nosy. Hank
says what happens between us is no one’s business.”

Finished taping, Liz stepped back and sat down on the lone wooden chair in the partitioned area. “A doctor treating this cut
might get suspicious about who did this to you. He
might ask some questions. Do you think Hank suspects that and is afraid the police might get involved and go after him for
hurting you?”

Claire nervously brushed back her scraggly hair, then wrapped her arms around her thin frame protectively. “Don’t you see?
It’s all my fault. I get Hank so mad he can’t help hisself. He don’t want to hit me, but sometimes he just has to. He… he
warned me not to get pregnant, and I did. You can’t blame him for beating me, can you?”

Liz sighed, wondering how this poor soul ever got to this point. At Molly’s urging, Liz had been volunteering at Helping Hands
for a couple of months now, and she’d heard a similar pathetic story from any number of women. Try as she would, she couldn’t
seem to convince any of them that it wasn’t their fault that a man hit them. “Yes, I do blame him. And you should, too. You
didn’t get pregnant alone, now, did you? Maybe you should give some thought to the fact that Hank may take his anger out on
your child, too.”

Claire’s head shook in denial. “He wouldn’t do that.” But her voice lacked conviction.

Liz leaned forward, willing the woman to listen. “Let me set up an appointment with a trained counselor, Claire. She can help
you understand what’s behind Hank’s behavior, and we can help you remove yourself from a potentially dangerous situation.”

Claire looked startled, frightened. “You mean leave Hank?” She shook her head vehemently. “He’ll find me wherever I go. He
told me so.” She stood, then grabbed the headboard to steady herself as she struggled with light-headedness. “I got to go.
I just stopped by because I heard you people might be able to help. But I was wrong. No one can help me.”

Liz stood, urging her back to the bed. “Lie down and rest until you feel stronger. I’ll get you something to eat.”

Overcome by a wave of weakness, Claire complied. “Just
for a few minutes. Then I got to go. I got to be home when Hank gets there.” Wearily she closed her eyes.

Liz felt like weeping for Claire, felt like lashing out at men like Hank. To think that this intolerable situation was replayed
countless times a day in nearly every city from coast to coast made her want to scream at a society that allowed this sort
of thing to continue.

Leaving the stuffy little cubicle, Liz walked to the kitchen in the back and asked the volunteer there to take some soup to
Claire. She glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly time to pick up Sara at school. She’d been at the shelter over four
hours and was feeling as impotent as usual. So much was lacking and so little was available.

They desperately needed a better facility, a doctor or physician’s assistant who’d offer their services, a legal aid volunteer,
and funds for furniture, bedding, clothes, and food. Perhaps she’d mention Helping Hands to her mother, who was a pro at raising
funds for various charities. Maybe Richard could find someone who’d volunteer legal aid. She’d approach both of them soon,
Liz decided as she retrieved her keys from her purse.

“I’m leaving, Abby,” Liz called to the volunteer who handled the small front office.

“Will we see you tomorrow?” Abby asked, looking up from a ledger she’d been working on.

“Probably not till Friday,” Liz answered as the front door opened. Glancing over her shoulder, she had trouble hiding her
surprise as she recognized the blonde entering. Diane Cramer McKenzie, looking as if she’d been outfitted by the best shop
on Rodeo Drive, strode in confidently.

“Hi, Diane,” Abby said in greeting.

Could it be that the senator’s wife was a volunteer at a shelter for abused women? Recovering, Liz turned and managed a smile.
She wondered if Diane came because she wanted to help or because it was politically correct, then felt ashamed of the uncharitable
thought. “I had no idea you
were involved with Helping Hands,” she said in utter honesty.

“Mrs. McKenzie’s been coming here for years,” Abby volunteered.

Diane’s red lips parted in a superior smile. “Did you consider me totally unfeeling?” she asked Liz.

“Do you think me that unfairly judgmental? Of course I don’t consider you unfeeling.” Pragmatic, perhaps, but not unfeeling.
“It’s just that since you’re now living in Sacramento and Washington, I’d have thought you could find a shelter closer to
home.”

“I’m in San Diego often, and I help out wherever I can, sugar. Adam and I both feel strongly about women in need of special
help.” Diane had taken great pains since leaving home to keep her troubled childhood under wraps, yet memories of her abusive
father and downtrodden mother still haunted her, which was her real reason for trying to help in several shelters. However,
she wasn’t about to reveal anything about her past to Adam’s old love.

People did change, Liz thought. She hoped, for Adam’s sake, that Diane had. She certainly wouldn’t question her motives, especially
in front of Abby, who was watching their exchange with avid interest. “I’m glad to hear that.” She skirted Diane and reached
for the doorknob.

“Did you hear that Adam and I have adopted a baby boy?” Diane asked, swinging about so she could see Liz’s expression.

Liz’s smile was genuine. “I’m so glad for you.”

It was Diane’s turn to be surprised, but she was a master at covering it. “We pick him up Friday. He’s only two weeks old.”
That fact had Diane scared witless. She knew absolutely nothing about babies. She’d been interviewing nannies all week. “I
think every man wants a son, don’t you?” she asked Liz, hoping to hit a nerve.

“So I’ve heard.” Pointedly Liz checked her watch. “I’ve got to run.” With a smile to Abby, she left and hurried to her
car, hoping Diane would never learn that the adoption had been her suggestion. She couldn’t help but be pleased for Adam.
Remembering how melancholy he’d sounded when they’d talked last, she hoped the baby would give him new zest for life.

“Mommy,” the excited three-year-old shouted, “flower for you.” Holding out a bedraggled geranium, Keith Adam McKenzie ran
on chubby legs across the sun porch to where Diane sat.

Glancing up from her magazine, Diane moved her features into a frown. “Where did you get that, Keith?” She raised her eyes
to her husband, trailing in behind the little boy. “Adam, did he pick that from our front yard?”

“Simmer down, Di, it’s only a silly flower.” Adam dropped onto a lounge chair. He’d been helping Keith learn to ride his bike
with training wheels for the past hour, and he was pleasantly tired.

“I just had those planted this week. Our yard’s a disgrace as it is, very unprofessional for the home of a senator’s family.”
She hated the Sacramento house Adam had moved them to since the adoption. It was in a neighborhood with a hundred other children,
all of them constantly outside, noisy and screaming. “I try to brighten things up and you let him yank out the flowers before
they’ve taken hold.” She hated the shrillness of her own voice, but it seemed she was constantly annoyed these days.

“He’s only a baby.” Noticing that the happy smile had disappeared from Keith’s little face, he motioned the boy over. “It’s
okay, sport. Mommy’s not mad.”

“The hell she’s not.” Diane jumped to her feet, grabbing her cigarettes. She could never win an argument with Adam where Keith
was involved. “And he’s
not
a baby. He’s three years old. It’s high time he learned right from wrong.” She flounced out of the room.

Noticing that the boy was about to cry, Adam rolled off
his chair and onto the floor, gently tackling Keith and taking him down with him. He was disgusted with Diane and would have
loved to go after her and pursue this, but his son’s feelings came first. “Got you,” he said, tickling Keith.

The boy giggled, then laughed out loud. Quickly he rolled over and tried to get his little hands in Adam’s sides to tickle
him, a game they often played. Rosie the cat came wandering in and joined them. The three of them rolled around the floor,
laughing and tickling.

“I win, Daddy,” Keith declared when Adam pretended terror of him as he straddled his father’s chest.

“Yes, you sure do.” Adam tousled his blond curls, then pulled the boy into a fierce hug. He’d not known three years ago what
he’d been missing without a child in his life. He loved Keith so much that sometimes it frightened him.

If only Diane loved him as much. Sighing, he sat up as Keith shifted his attention to the declawed cat now rolling around
under the coffee table. Adam supposed that Diane tried. She simply wasn’t mother material. She took care of Keith’s physical
needs and always had him clean and kept him healthy, but when it came to loving things, like reading him stories or talking
with him or playing games, she was bored, and it showed.

That was why Adam spent as much time as possible with Keith, and so did Fitz. Together they lavished the freckle-faced little
towhead with lots of love. Adam had hoped Diane would warm up to the boy as time went on. But that hadn’t happened so far.

For the life of him, he didn’t know what to do about it.

“I coming to get you, Rosie,” Keith said, scrambling after the cat. But the cat was quicker, and in his haste to grab her,
Keith bumped the table. The cut-glass vase on top went over onto the floor, water, flowers, and all.