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his blue gray eyes that seemed to see into her heart, his lips, too full, perhaps, for a man, but sensually thrilling to her. Especially when he kissed her, when he kissed her lips, when he kissed her there , the delirious prelude to that moment when he lowered his lean, hard body onto hers and she gave herself up to him so utterly.
    I mustn’t think of this, she told herself severely. I mustn’t remember. From the kitchen she heard the rattle of cups and silverware as her mother set the table. She started to throw the card away again, but her hand refused to do her bidding. Instead, she dropped it into the pocket of her denim skirt.
    She ran her fingers through the shapeless fringe of reddish blonde hair just beginning to grow back in over her scars. He wouldn’t find her so desirable if he saw her now, she thought grimly. And, probably, that was just as well.
    She followed the aroma of lamb stew into the kitchen.

CHAPTER THREE
    Summer became autumn. The house stifled her. Everywhere she looked she found memories of Becky. She tried to watch television, and instead of Oprah, she found herself watching Becky’s one time favorite show, Daffy Danny’s Alley. It was a passion that Becky had shared with a great many pre-teens and one that (thankfully so far as Catherine was concerned) she had quickly outgrown. Catherine had come into the den one day to discover Becky watching cartoons instead.
    â€œNo Daffy Danny?” she had asked.
    Becky’s answer was brief and to the point: “He’s smarmy.”
    An opinion Catherine shared. Danny was Danny O’Dell, host and hand-puppeteer, an altogether too fey young man—or, probably not really so young, but who worked hard at that illusion—who wore too-short trousers and a too-tight checked jacket and a tam with a red pom-pom and who mugged a little too outrageously for the benefit of the squealing girls in the studio audience.
    In the past she had gritted her teeth while Becky sat enrapt, from “Kids, what time is it? It’s Daffy Danny time,” through every “daffy laffy,” to the last “daffy bye-bye,” delivered with a big kiss thrown at the television screen.
    Now, of course, she would have kissed Danny O’Dell herself if it could have brought her daughter back to her.
    She clicked off the television with an angry gesture.
    * * * *
    She went back to work finally at Dean and Summers, Publishers, half days to start, both glad to have her time occupied, and sorry to have to face the well-meant expressions of sympathy, the worried glances that she pretended not to see when she went past people. As if the jungle drums had alerted them, everyone seemed to know when she was coming, were waiting for her appearance in the drama of their lives.
    Alden Summers had passed away years back, but the firm still carried his name on the masthead. She went first thing to Fermin Dean’s office. Fermin’s secretary waved her in with a friendly but guarded smile.
    â€œCatherine,” Fermin greeted her with evident delight. He was tall and gaunt, silver haired, one of those people who seem to be in motion even when sitting still. He bounded up from his chair and came round his desk to clasp her hands. “It’s good to have you back. Though when you see the load on your desk, you’ll know just how much I’ve missed you.”
    â€œI’ll be glad for the work. I can use the occupation,” she said.
    â€œDon’t overdo it. And, I mean this, Catherine, make your own hours, please, come and go as you want.”
    Even with his warning, she was not quite prepared for the workload waiting for her despite everyone’s obvious efforts to keep things moving along. As chief editor for their art books divisions, one of Dean and Summer’s major divisions, her input was nearly indispensable. Books that ought to have been in production by now had been held up for months and newer projects waited