"It's not… it's not that," she ventured.

He nodded for her to continue, his expression patient, his crinkling blue eyes sincere. It was easy to talk to him, she discovered. Much easier than she would've thought.

"I was raised to be a wife," she told him. "A high-society wife. To create a beautiful home, throw lovely parties, always wear a smile when my husband is at my side. And be a good mother, of course. Raise the next generation of high-society wives."

Tristan nodded gravely.

"And then… then I got divorced. It's funny, I didn't notice it right away. I had Kimberly and Amanda to think about, and in all honesty, things had been rough for them. They needed attention. I needed to give it. I guess I went from being an extension of my husband to being an extension of my daughters. It seemed so natural at the time."

"Except little girls don't stay little girls forever," Tristan filled in.

"Kimberly went away to college three years ago," Bethie said quietly. "Things haven't been the same since."

She looked down at her lap. She couldn't help it. The music was blues jazz tonight, some older woman belting out the aching strains of "At last, my love has come along…" and Bethie felt the melancholy all the way down to her bones.

Her beautiful, empty brick town house. Room after room of so much silence. Four separate phones that rarely rang. Hallways lined with framed photographs that were all she had left of the people she loved.

And standing on that hillside a month ago, staring at that freshly dug, gaping black grave. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

She was forty-seven years old, and she didn't know who she was anymore. She was forty-seven years old, no longer a wife, no longer Mandy's mother, and she didn't know where she belonged.

Tristan's hand reached over, tangled with her own. He drew her gaze up and she saw he wasn't grinning anymore. Instead he wore a somber expression, not unlike her own. For an uncanny moment she had an image of him, waking up in the hospital after his transplant surgery, and discovering no one at his side. No wife or children to hold his hand. He knew, she thought. He knew.

Her fingers curled around his. The woman continued to sing, "My love has come along…" and the moment went on and on.

"Bethie," he said gently, "let's take a walk."

Outside, the air was heavy and hot, but the sun was beginning to set and Bethie had always loved this time of day. The world became muted, velvety, offering less color but also fewer sharp lines and hard objects. It comforted her.

They walked in silence, not heading anywhere in particular, but by some mutual understanding of the city, working their way toward Rittenhouse Square.

"My turn to ask a question," Tristan said abruptly. He had loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves in deference to the wet-wool humidity. He still looked elegant, and Bethie was aware of other people casting them covert glances.

"Ask," she prodded, becoming aware that Tristan was still studying her.

"You promise not to be insulted?"

"After two glasses of wine, you have to work very hard to get me insulted."

He stopped walking in the middle of the block, then turned her so she'd have to face him. "It's not just the kidney, is it?"

"What?"

"This. It's not only about me having your daughter's kidney, is it? I know it's a rude question, and I don't want to upset you, but this evening is going even better than I imagined, and well, I need to know. Some people think when you get someone's organ, you get a piece of her soul as well. Is that what this evening is about? Am I just a proxy for your daughter?" He added in a rush, "Because I'm seriously considering kissing you, Elizabeth Quincy, and I don't think a proxy for your daughter should be doing that."

Bethie felt dazed. Her hand fell free of his, fluttered at the base of her throat, toyed with the collar of her satin shirt. "I don't… Of course not! That's… that's foolishness. An old wives' tale. Silly superstition."

Tristan nodded with satisfaction. He seemed ready to resume walking, when she ruined her own argument by saying, "You don't… You don't feel any differently, do you?"

"Pardon?"

"We did run into each other by chance," she continued hastily, "and yet you knew who I was right away, even though I'd been pointed out to you only once before. That's a little odd, don't you think? God knows when I go to parties I have to meet someone three or four times before I can put a name to a face."

"You helped save my life. That's a bit more significant than some stuffed suit at a black-and-white soiree."

"There's something else."

"What?" He looked genuinely concerned now. The evening had been so beautiful. It pained her to say what she had to say next.

She whispered, "You know my nickname."

"What nickname?"

"Bethie. You've called me Bethie. Many times. Always Bethie, never Liz or Beth. I never told you that was my nickname, Tristan. And how many Elizabeths do you know who go by Bethie instead?"

The blood drained out of his face. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he appeared so horror-struck she wished she could recall her words. Simultaneously, both of their gazes slid to his side, where the scar still puckered pink and raw beneath the protective cover of his shirt.

"Blimey," he breathed.

Bethie had a chill. The night was hot, the humidity oppressive, and still she rubbed her arms for warmth.

"This was a bad idea," she said abruptly.

"No-"

"Yes!"

"Dammit, no!" He reclaimed her arm, his grip firm but not painful. "I'm not your daughter."

"I know that."

"I'm fifty-two years old, Bethie… Elizabeth. My favorite food is steak, my favorite drink Glenfiddich straight up. I run my own business. I enjoy fast cars, fast boats. Lord be praised, I have a deep and abiding love for Playboy, and it's not for the articles. Does any of. that sound like a twenty-three-year-old girl to you?"

"How did you know Amanda's age?"

"Because the doctors told me!"

"You asked questions about her?"

"Bethie… love, of course I asked questions. Someone had to die for me to live. I think about that. Hell, half my nights I lie awake thinking of nothing but that. I am not your daughter; I swear I'm not even the ghost of your daughter. But I am a man who's grateful."

Bethie was silent. She needed to think about this. Then, she nodded. "It's possible," she offered, "that someone once referred to me as Bethie. You know, in the hospital."

His grip loosened on her arm. "Yes, probably that's how it happened."

She had to know. "Did they tell you about the crash?"

"I know she was drunk, if that's what you mean."

"She'd being doing so well," Bethie said softly. "She'd joined AA just six months before the accident. I had such hopes for her."

He didn't say anything, but his expression gentled. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the curve of her cheek. His thumb stroked her jawline.

"She was so sensitive," Bethie murmured. "Even as a little girl. Nothing fazed Kimberly, nothing scared Kim-berly, but my Mandy was always different. Shy. Timid. Bugs scared her. Thanks to Hitchcock, birds scared her. One year, she was terrified of the slide at the school playground. We never knew why. She slept with a night-light on until she was twelve."

"You must have worried about her a great deal."

"I wanted her to feel safe. I wanted her to see herself as strong, independent, and capable. I wanted her to be able to dream bigger than I ever did."

"What happened to her isn't your fault," Tristan said. "That's what I try telling myself." She gave him a halfhearted smile. "I blame my ex-husband instead."

"Why?"

"His job. He joined the FBI when the girls were little, became a profiler, and for all intents and purposes, disappeared. Granted, he did important work, but I've always been a bit biased – I thought our children should come first. Silly me." She heard the bitterness in her voice and grimaced. "Sorry. You didn't need to hear all that."