She stepped inside, a gust of wind almost sucking the screen door from his hand. The air smelled like rain. “Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?” he asked.

“I needed a change of scenery. That motel room-” She swallowed and made a nervous gesture with one hand. “It gets smothering at times.”

She seemed a little keyed up. A little distracted and nervous.

Without waiting for an invitation, she dropped the sack on the coffee table, then sank into the floral-patterned couch with a sigh.

“This room is just so heavenly,” she said, eyes closed.

He shut the solid wooden door, silencing the wind.

He and Beau didn’t hang out in the living room much, but their mother had. She used to sit in the very spot where Cleo now reclined. He could still picture her curled up in the corner with her reading glasses slipping down her nose, poking a needle through the hoop she always carried. Counter cross-stitch was what she called it, because that was what Beau called it. She could never convince him otherwise, so she’d just joined his camp. When it came to Beau and his stubborn streak, that was usually the best way to go.

Daniel had never thought about the room being heavenly. But now, as he looked at it with fresh eyes, he could see that it was definitely a woman’s place, from the African violets Beau so patiently cared for, to the doilies scattered here and there.

Cleo was so quiet and so still, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. What did she want? What was she after? With Cleo, he got the feeling things didn’t just happen by chance. Everything she did, everything she said, seemed to be part of a greater plan. So what was she up to now?

Her hair was tied back, but some of it had escaped to curl wildly about her face, the red of those strands contrasting with the porcelain paleness of her skin, which in turn set off the color of her full lips. Her eyelashes, pale and devoid of mascara, rested childlike against her cheeks, casting shadows.

While he stared at her, she opened her eyes.

“Where’s Beau?” she asked, glancing around.

“Working.”

“Oh.”

Was she thinking what he was thinking? Was that the reason she’d come?

“You’ve got a strange look on your face,” she said.

“I was thinking of the saying third time’s a charm. You familiar with that?”

She gave him a lazy smile, lifted her arms above her head, and stretched. “How about this one? ‘Three on a match.”

She got to her feet as if preparing to leave. He wanted her to stay.

“That was quite a show you put on today,” he said.

She tipped her head to one side and looked boldly into his eyes, trying to find the truth in there somewhere. “You liked it?”

“You had those people eating out of your hand.”

“But not you.”

“Never me.”

“You knew I was faking?”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t say anything.”

“I’ve warned them, but they won’t listen.”

She came close enough to stand directly in front of him. He could see the starlike pattern in her eyes-green shot with black. “You’re not saying words they want to hear,” she whispered. Her hands were at her sides, her head tilted back so she could retain eye contact. Scarce inches separated them.

After last night, he wouldn’t have thought she’d want to breathe the same air as him, let alone stand so close. “Why did you come here, Cleo?”

She slid a sandaled foot between his bare feet, hooking a thumb in the belt loop of his low-slung shorts in a way that seemed way too familiar. He liked it. “I’m not entirely sure, but I think I came to see you.”

He smiled then, a smile that began deep inside him, a smile that was suddenly reflected in Cleo’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said.

He felt the weight of her pressing against him. He had to do something to make up for last night. A thought came to him. A great thought. So great, he marveled at his own brilliance. He took her by the shoulders and set her away from him. Her smile immediately faded.

“I have an idea,” he said. “Wait here.” He turned and hurried down the hallway, opened the storage closet, clicked on the light, and began digging.

Cleo stood in the living room, arms crossed at her chest, watching as Daniel disappeared into a walk-in closet. She heard things sliding across the floor.

Why did you come here, Cleo?

She thought she’d come to get away from the motel room and to bring Premonition’s things, but had she really come to see Daniel one last time before leaving? Had she become so accustomed to subterfuge that she could no longer see into her own heart?

Daniel must have found what he was looking for, because he emerged from the closet, a black box in his hands, then disappeared immediately into another room. A few seconds later, she heard running water. Then he was back with the same box. “Wait there.” He dove into another room off the long, narrow hallway, shutting the door behind him.

She couldn’t imagine what he was up to. While waiting, she wandered around the living room, lifting framed pictures and putting them down, easily picking out Daniel and Beau.

Their mother had been beautiful, with a sweet, angelic face, a kind face. She looked like a real mother. There was a picture of a man who might have been their father, but the photo was faded and of poor quality.

A door slammed and Daniel reappeared in the living room. “Ready?”

She moved down the hall with trepidation, while he opened the door and stepped aside.

In the bedroom, he’d given her the darkness she’d asked for the night before. And in that darkness, he’d lit perhaps a half dozen candles. From the far side of the room came a steady whooshing sound she couldn’t identify. Drifting out the door, swirling around her ankles, was fog.

“Fog machine.” He applied gentle pressure to her shoulders. She moved forward, stirring the fog around her ankles. He shut the door behind them. “I came across it at a garage sale back when Beau was putting together a magician’s act. He never did get the hang of any magic tricks, but he sure could wow ’em with the special effects.”

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, pressing a flat hand to her lower belly. She felt his breath against her ear, his lips against her neck.

Fog. Imagine that.

She turned in his arms, loving the solid warmth of him, loving the smoothness of his satiny skin under her palms. His lips found hers, and the kiss was a tender surprise.

Clothes were shed.

She was weak, shaking. She sank into the fog, sliding along his body. He followed her down until they were knee to knee, chest to chest. She felt his fingers against her bottom and against her neck. She heard his labored breathing, felt his trembling muscles.

He pressed her down until she was lying on her back, the fog swirling around them, enveloping them. At one point, he laughed, a low sound, full of wonder and delight, that filled her head, that melded perfectly with the tone of their coming together.

This time there was no anger. No resentment. No holding back. It was all sweet, open, aching vulnerability, a hoping, a wanting, a dreaming in a dark room with no walls, in a dark room with no color, with magic swirling about them.