The door was open to the noise of preparation for a birthday party, hammering and hollering, swearing and sawing wood.

Outside on the deck, a man in coveralls folded his ladder, having finished the chore of nailing strings of lights around the roof of the tower room.

Inside, Addison Winston stood by the bed, looking down at the face of his unconscious wife. "It's amazing that she could sleep through that racket." Though he should not call it sleep, this drunken stupor. He turned to Isabelle. "Well, now you know why she's been so cheerful today." He got down on his knees to drag an empty bottle out from under the armoire. "Where is she getting it from?"

"The maid?"

He shook his head. "Hilda gives her one drink for breakfast and one for lunch. That girl knows better than to cross me."

The workman carried his ladder down the tower stairs, and Isabelle closed the door behind him. " Addison, it's long past time to put Mom in rehab."

Worst possible timing." The lawyer walked out onto the deck. In the yard below, the workmen were breaking for lunch. Ah, peace. He was no longer troubled by the cawing and flapping of birds. They had learned not to come near him.

Isabelle joined him at the rail. "Why did you marry my mother? Was it because she was so beautiful?"

"She's still beautiful," he said, insistent on this. "But no, that wasn't it. Back in your mother's college days, do you remember how she supported you?"

"I think she had lots of different jobs."

"Well, you were only four years old. Belle, she literally sang for your supper. Such brave songs-brave because your mother couldn't sing very well. And she didn't play that guitar worth a damn. The first time I ever saw her, I was a visiting lecturer at UCLA, She was standing barefoot on the grass, and you were curled up in a little ball, fast asleep in a patch of afternoon sun. Students were coming and going all around you.

"The young can be very savage, but they never ridiculed Sarah-even though she played all the wrong chords and sang every damn note off-key. A truly awful performance, but the students dropped their loose change into her open guitar case. They weren't pity donations-more like showing respect. Sarah was so daring, hanging herself out on public display-and she even knew that she didn't have one shred of talent. I emptied my wallet into her guitar case, and that was the first time we said hello."

Addison leaned over the rail and pointed down at a long silver vehicle as it parked by the paddock near the old stable. "Keep your eye on that one.

The driver opened a door at the rear of the narrow trailer and lowered a plank. Led by a rope halter, a silver stallion emerged, tossing his head and shying at every loud sound around him as his handler guided him into the paddock and released him.

"Remind you of anyone we used to know?"

"He looks a lot like old Nickel." Isabelle picked up the binoculars for a closer look. "Exactly like Nickel." Her old horse had died the year after her mother had packed her off to a boarding school in Europe.

More trucks arrived in the yard below to disgorge lumber, long tables and round ones, linens and folding chairs. The stallion ran round the paddock, mad to escape.

"It took me a long time to find a horse with that same odd coloring," he said. "Call it a reward because you stayed for more than half a day this time. Your mother won't need you for a while, but that poor beast down there could use some company."

The day he had bought her the first stallion, she had instantly fallen in love with the horse. And Addison had believed that ten-year-old Belle had finally come to love him, too-for a day.

When she had flown down the tower stairs, leaving him alone on the deck, Addison resumed his puzzle of Sarah's most recent stupor and her secret stash of booze. Where did she keep it? He had looked everywhere. And now he searched the lay of his land. The garage was far enough away that the start-up of automobiles would not disturb the lightest of sleepers. The expensive engines purred so softly in motion; they could covertly sail past the lodge and down the drive.

Perhaps he should not be looking for secret bottles but a secret set of car keys.

He turned back to the open door of the tower room and raised his eyes to the high shelf of journals-an excellent hiding place.

Isabelle entered the stable's tack room to find her old saddle waiting for her on a sawhorse. And the leather saddlebags were right where she had left them after her last time out with old Nickel. She filled both bags with her mother's journals. Once upon another summer, they had been packed with her own birder logs and lunches for treks along the forest paths.

Years ago, Oren Hobbs had hiked those same trails. Aided by one of her mother's telescopes, she had caught glimpses of him from the deck at the top of the house. And she had risked encounters with that beautiful boy-risky because sometimes wishes came true, and, a time or two, she had thought of running him down with her horse and pounding him into the ground.

Saddlebags slung over one shoulder and bridle in hand, she carried her saddle out to the paddock to make the acquaintance of the second Nickel. If birds would not come to her, horses had always liked her well enough, and this one trotted toward her with some urgency. The sight of the saddle must have given him hope that she would take him away from this place.

"I know just how you feel." She held out one flat palm to offer him the solace of a sugar lump grabbed from the kitchen. His breath on her hand was a warm memory of better days.

While Isabelle saddled the horse, intending to rescue them both for some quiet time in a calmer place, a yellow Rolls-Royce was heading toward her. Most visitors parked in the circular driveway at the front of the lodge. Ferris Monty had probably assumed that no one would be at home to him, and he was right. The car stopped by the paddock, and the driver waved to her. He stepped out, leaving the door hanging open, perchance to make a fast retreat. With all his money, she wondered why he did not buy a better hairpiece that would blend more gracefully with his thick gray eyebrows.

"Hi there." He hesitated at a distance, lifting off the balls of his feet, saying on tiptoe, "I was hoping to have a word with your mother."

Isabelle, having nowhere to hide, resented being cornered this way, but she recalled a lesson in journalism learned at Addison 's knee: Always toss a bone to the dogs of the Fourth Estate. If you make them work for their supper, they'll turn on you and eat you alive. And so, because her mother was too fragile to be chased down for an interview, Isabelle bestowed a smile on the worm-white little man. "Mom's kind of busy right now." She gestured toward workmen on ladders, nailing up lights to frame every window. "Its quite a production. Will I do?"

"Oh, yes." He rushed forward, grinning.

And she took one step back.

His cologne was repulsive, though she recognized the brand as a wildly expensive one. No doubt Monty had bought it for status only. Certainly he had never realized that personal body chemistry added something to the mix of every wearer. In his case, the blend of his natural odor worked an unfortunate effect: riding just below the signature scent was a faint smell of piss, as if he had recently wet himself.

The little man pulled a notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his blazer, and his eyes slowly narrowed with a catlike smile. Later in the day, she would remember him with restrained claws and faint purring.

"It's about the birthday ball," he said. "I was so looking forward to attending this year. Assuming I'm welcome. Your father was-"