Prologue

The little boy on the television screen was busily getting into trouble with his next door neighbor, something he seemed to do during every show, and Margaret Mary Haswick held a flowered pillow to her face so that her giggles did not wake her baby sister, Victoria, who had fallen asleep beside her on the couch.

Ruthie Baxter, their own next door neighbor and sometimes babysitter, had been having trouble getting baby Stephen to sleep, which was why three-year-old Victoria had been allowed to remain downstairs past the magic hour of eight o’clock, much to Margaret Mary’s disdain.

After all, she was eight whole years old, and even she had a strict bedtime of eight-thirty. It wasn’t fair that Victoria got to break the rules, just because stupid Stephen had colic, or whatever it was called. He sure did cry a lot, that much Margaret Mary knew. She hadn’t asked for a brother, and she still wasn’t so sure that her mother was right, and one day she’d be glad to have a big strong brother to watch over her and protect her.

But Victoria wasn’t so bad, even if sometimes she got into Margaret Mary’s bedroom and messed up her dollhouse and stuff. And she was kind of funny, always following her around and climbing on her lap and calling her Mar-Mar, because she couldn’t say Margaret Mary.

Her mother said she should be proud that her little sister so clearly loved her and looked up to her, and that she, Margaret Mary, should always set a good example. Whatever that was. She did kind of like it when her mother teased her and called her Little Mother, just because she helped Victoria with her buttons and things.

Thoughts of her mother reminded Margaret Mary that her parents had told her just before they left for dinner that they would bring home a special dessert she and Victoria could share tomorrow. She hoped it would be strawberry shortcake. Strawberry shortcake was her very favorite dessert in the whole world.

The television show ended, but still Ruthie hadn’t come back downstairs, so Margaret Mary got up and turned off the set, because now the grown-up shows would come on, and she and Victoria weren’t allowed to watch the grown-up shows.

"Come on, Victoria," she said, giving her sister’s shoulder a small shake. "Time to go upstairs to bed." Her sister didn’t respond except for the slight frown that came and went on her sleep-flushed face, and Margaret Mary sighed, knowing that her sister could sleep through thunderstorms and Stephen’s crying, so it would be pointless to try to wake her with a simple shake on the shoulder.

"Wake up, Victoria! Time for bed! Get up and come upstairs with me, and I’ll read you a story, okay? You know you like —"

Margaret Mary looked toward the door, as if she could see who had just knocked on it this late at night. The door was locked, because Mommy and Daddy always reminded Ruthie to lock the door after they left, and to never open it for anybody, but just to call her mother if anyone did come to the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Baxter would be right over to see who had knocked.

But Stephen was still crying, and Margaret Mary didn’t think Ruthie could have heard the knock. Margaret Mary twisted her hands together nervously, wondering what to do.

The knocking came again. This time it was louder.

Margaret Mary ran into the kitchen and pulled over a chair so that she could climb onto it and reach the phone that hung on the wall, and on her second try, managed to push all the correct numbers so that she could tell Mr. Baxter to please come over right away. And maybe call the police, or something.

Her heart was pounding so hard. It was dark outside, and it was snowing, and nobody should be knocking on the door. Eight-thirty at night was too late for visitors, so it had to be somebody bad, trying to get in. Mommy wouldn’t have said to lock the door and not let anyone in if it was all right for someone to knock so late.

She ran back into the living room and gathered the sleeping Victoria tightly into her arms as she heard voices outside on the porch.

And then Mrs. Baxter’s voice got very loud and shrill, and Margaret Mary could hear every word she said: "Oh, no, officer! Those poor sweet babies! What will happen to them now?"

#

The woman in the wheelchair, a bright pink cast reaching from her left foot to her knee, wasn’t a stranger; she couldn’t be, as they seemed to have the same face, the one Tory Fuller had seen in her mirror every day for the past fifty-five years.

Right down to the distinctive salt-and-pepper hair Tory would have, if she hadn’t begun taking refuge in hair coloring at least two decades previously.

Realizing she’d been standing still in the foyer of the fantastic beach house, like some human statue or some such silliness, Tory thanked the severe-looking woman who had opened the door for her, and began slowly walking across the expansive marble floor, moving toward the seated Peggy Longwood.

Margaret Mary Longwood.

A smile bright as a thousand suns lit the older woman’s face as she held out her hands in welcome. "Victoria," she said quietly. "It’s you. After all these years …"

Tory nodded, not trusting her voice. Tears were running down her face now, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. She went to her knees beside the wheelchair and took one of her sister’s hands in both of hers. "Mar-Mar," she managed at last. "I called you that, didn’t I? I’ve forgotten so much, but somehow I’ve always remembered that. Mar-Mar."

And then the sisters were embracing, and the long years they’d been torn apart from each other fell away as if they’d never happened …