--- Hasting and Tiffany go on a stakeout
--- Ren gives Miranda a message from Clay
--- Nan, Brock, and Priscilla discuss Jeremiah's death
--- Aron plans to visit Viola
Hasting leaned back in the vinyl covered booth and read the words painted above the grill: "Hazel's Famous Coffee Stop featuring Hazel's Famous Coffee". Hasting smirked. Famous or not, the coffee wasn't half bad, and he should know. He'd had enough of it to keep the entire police force awake for a couple of years. Every Tuesday and Friday afternoon, three to five, he sat at the same booth in the same diner. It had been his post for the last seven months, and hopefully it would soon pay off. Frances Baker was his target for the stakeout, but Hasting wasn't really after Frances. If he wanted to arrest Frances, he could do it anytime; the kid carried plenty of dope on him. But Hasting wanted more than a street pusher; he was after the guy behind it all. An informant had tipped him, but he couldn't prove anything. So every Tuesday and Friday afternoon, Hasting sat in the corner booth of Hazel's watching Frances across the street. He watched everything Frances did without ever seeming to watch him, and most important of all, he took notice of everyone Frances talked to. Hasting knew all their names, even the ones who stopped to ask Frances for directions or the time. He didn't take anything for granted, and he always did his research. Truthfully, Hasting had been near the breaking point. A week before, he'd almost been ready to hang it up, but then the break had happened. And they'd almost missed it. He and his partner were in a heated game of honeymoon bridge when he'd glanced up and noticed Frances speaking to someone, and not just any someone, but someone significant. The Saint, that's what his partner--- "Ex- partner," he thought, "she's my ex-partner, and I've gotta get used to the idea."
Last week was significant for that reason as well. Hasting had asked Lt. Van Buren for a new partner. He hated doing it, here they were so close to breaking the drug ring wide open, but he had no choice. His marriage was too important, and he had enough trouble taming his natural curiosity under the best of circumstances. It was too hard when he never saw his wife and was constantly tempted by--- "Tiffany," he said, "You aren't supposed to be here."
"That's what you think." She sat down opposite him, her usual seat.
She looked as good as ever, Hasting observed. He hadn't seen her in five days, and it felt like a year. For a split second he thought she might be a coffee-induced fantasy, but no, there she was, Detective Tiffany Watts in the flesh. And what great-looking flesh it was, golden and even and not a hint of makeup--- he knew enough about women to tell that. No, there was nothing fake about Tiffany. Well, maybe her hair, he wasn't sure about it. It was either naturally red or a very good dye job. "Only one way to find out," he thought, and the idea snapped him back into reality.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I've got a bone to pick with you, Hasting Bevins."
"Keep your voice down. Seven months, and you nearly blow our cover now?"
"You've already blown it," she whispered. "What will people think if after all this time, you start hanging out at Hazel's with a different coffee buddy? Do you think they'll just forget about me? It doesn't work that way, Hasting. You've got to follow through. Especially now. We know the Saint's in with Frances, and there's a straight line between him and our target. This is not the time to be a pussy, Hasting."
"You're right, which is why I'm telling you to get out. Nothing personal, Tiff, I just need someone with more experience. You've never handled a bust, and I need someone I can depend on."
"You need to get along with your wife. Isn't that what you mean?"
"Where the hell did you---"
"Kara asked you to get rid of me, didn't she?"
"No, she would never do that."
"I didn't think so. She's not the type to say what she wants. I knew it was your idea. How could you jeopardize this investigation just to appease a needy, little---"
"Don't talk about her like that, okay? She's just getting used to it all, marriage, motherhood. She didn't plan it like this."
"Did you?"
Hasting gave her a sheepish grin, hoping it would break her, but she didn't even blink. "You're a tough one, Tiff," he said. "Never would've thought it, growing up on Montgomery hill with all that old money rolling around---"
"You can cut that right now. I'm not a Montgomery, my mother just happened to marry one. You're not going to get to me."
"I believe it. You've got a real thick shell there, Princess---"
"Yeah, and I guess being the mayor's son is what made you such a pussy. Or was it your mama's 'Mind Your Manners' column? I'd love to know, but first let's get this straight. I am your partner. Don't go to Van Buren for a change because it's not happening. I've taken care of that."
"And just how did you manage that?"
She smiled. "I'm persuasive. Haven't you figured that out?"
Hasting sighed. "Yeah," he said, "I sure have."
"Is it really that much of a problem, Hasting? Couldn't you have talked to me about it?"
"I tried. I don't know what else to say to you, Tiff."
"I can't stop being me."
"Yeah, but can't you... I dunno. I wish you'd move on."
"Move on from what? We've never had a relationship."
"I know, but---"
"But what? I want you? Sure, I've never lied about my feelings. Only one of us is doing that."
"Look, even if I have feelings for you, and I'm not saying I do, but if I do, Kara's not the only problem. You're my partner. We could both get fired."
"There are plenty of swimmers in the office dating pool, and you know it. That wouldn't stop you. Kara's the problem. Just admit it."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I don't either. If you'll just admit it, we can move on."
"I love Kara. I love our son."
"That's it, isn't it? It's not Kara at all. It's Zach."
Hasting didn't answer.
"Okay, just tell me this. Would you have married Kara if she hadn't been pregnant?"
"I... It's not that easy. I---"
"Shhh!" Tiffany grabbed his arm.
"What?"
"Check out Frances," she said. "He's talking to the Saint."
**************** 
Ren placed the sculpture next to his terrace door. It was called 'Man in Mid Run', and he'd bought it at a gallery in San Francisco just before he'd returned to Carmine Falls. The human form was barely distinguishable; the six-foot statue was a harmony of smooth planes. Just looking at it reminded Ren of his glory days as the star of Carmine Falls High's track team. He smiled and wondered what his father would think of it. "It's too basic," he thought. "Luc likes lots of colors and shapes, all fighting for attention in one piece. He's a Renaissance man." Luc was always trying to enlighten Ren about art, trying to broaden his horizons. "You like the boring, Lorenzo," he would say. "Why not try something complicated?" Ren would politely decline. He liked his tastes and was glad that he had his own mind, about art and everything else. He'd realized long ago how easy it would be to get sucked into Luc Sidarus' world. So he'd preempted the possibility. At eighteen he'd set out for California. He'd finished his undergrad at Stanford in three years, and immediately went for his MBA. After business school he'd started an internet magazine with two college buddies. Then, after five years, at the height of the magazine's success, he sold his shares in the company to his partners, left his gorgeous home in San Fran, and moved back to Carmine Falls. Luc, like everyone else, was stunned by Ren's decision and smart enough to be suspicious. "No, Luc," Ren had assured him, "there's no reason other than homesickness. I know what you're thinking: since when did I get homesick? Well, maybe since I'm approaching thirty. It's time to settle down, and I want to do something on my own. Do you know that no national magazines are based in Carmine Falls? Impossible, but true. No one knows about our city, and I am coming back to change that. What do you think about 'Platos'? Great title, huh? It will be a thinking man's magazine, a cross between Esquire and Yale Lit Review."
Ren was excited about his new magazine. He'd been dreaming it up for years, but he'd always planned to base it in California, which had been his home for his entire adult life. But about a year ago, he started getting worried about Viola. He was always worried about her, of course. She was his twin, and she'd always been sensitive, too sensitive, and so easily led by Luc. "But lately," he thought, "it's been worse. She took that nosedive a few years back, right after Aron Hasting went off to seminary, but I really thought she was bouncing back." But Viola wasn't bouncing back, and Ren knew it. She'd even quit sculpting, and that was the final sign Ren needed. Viola was the real reason he was in Carmine Falls. The magazine was just an excuse, but no one needed to know that.
"Ren?" Miranda's voice startled him. "Ren, answer your damn door!"
He opened his front door and greeted his baby sister.
"Didn't you hear me ring?" she asked in her favorite tone, the demanding one.
"No, I dismantled the bell last night."
"Why the hell did you do that?"
"I find doorbells disruptive. Back in the day, people knocked, you know."
"Yes, I know, that's why someone got smart and invented doorbells." Miranda walked past him and into the large living room of his penthouse. "Starting to shape up in here."
"I think so."
"What's that thing?" she asked, indicating Man in Mid Run.
"A sculpture. It arrived a while ago, but I just unpacked it. Like it?"
"It's big."
Ren laughed inside. He would never let Miranda know she amused him. She tried so hard to be offensive, it would kill her if she found out she only succeeded in being funny.
He didn't understand why she couldn't just be what she was: the sixteen-year-old daughter of the richest man in town. She had everything going for her. She was smart, even though her grades didn't show it. She was gorgeous in a very contemporary way, not what Ren preferred, but he could recognize it. Her naturally blonde hair was currently streaked with fuchsia, and inexpertly streaked at that. Her mouth looked oversized at first, but somehow when taken with her other angular features, it looked just right. She was pretty when she smiled, but she rarely did.
Miranda plopped on his leather sofa. "Yeah, it's starting to look okay in here," she said graciously. "It'd be perfect for a bachelor playboy."
"Well then it's perfect for me," Ren said as he sat in an armchair, "because that's what I am."
Miranda smirked. "Bachelor maybe."
"And playboy."
"Sure, when was the last time you had a date?"
"If it were any of your business, I'd tell you."
"It is my business. You're all up in my love life. Didn't any of those dates you had ever teach you to reciprocate?"
"Very clever, little bit, and I'm up in your love life because you asked me to help you, not because I'm interested. I could care less what you and Clay do."
Miranda sprung up. "Don't say his name!" she demanded. "If his father finds out---"
"Easy, there. My apartment's not bugged, Miranda. Besides, I think you're underestimating Clayton Montgomery. He always struck me as a reasonable man. Just because our father likes to control everything we do doesn't mean everybody's does."
"Trust me, Mr. Montgomery would keel over if he thought Clay was even thinking about anyone named Sidarus. It's weird enough that his ex-wife's our stepmonster. He'd freak if he found out his son was playing with the darkside. We've got to keep everything on the down-low, at least for a little while."
"At least for a little while? So now you're thinking about a future with Romeo?"
"NO! I told you, it's just---"
"I know, I know, let's not rehash that. There are some things a man prefers not to know about his sweet, little sister."
"Gag. Anyway, have you got the message?"
"Right here." Ren pulled a folded piece of notebook paper out of a drawer in his coffee table. "Slipped under the door, Monday afternoon, like clockwork." The outside of the paper was marked "S & M" in green highlighter. It was Clay's code for Miranda Sidarus. "Young love," thought Ren as Miranda greedily opened the message.
It was a simple pencil-written note: "Thursday night at 8. The river right by the falls. Get yourself there or I'll come after ya. The M.C." Miranda forgot herself for a moment and smiled broadly.
"Good news?" Ren asked.
"Whatever." Miranda stuffed the note in her pocket. "I've got places to be. Thanks, Ren." She let herself out.
"No problem," Ren said to himself. "You get awfully intense about this, little bit. I don't believe you when you say it's no big deal. Well, why not? If it'll end this ridiculous feud, I'm all for it."
**************** 
"One, two, and turn. And one, two, and turn. And one, two, and turn." Priscilla kneaded the bread dough with machine-like precision. And why not? She'd been doing it every day for the past thirty-five years or so, ever since she first came to the Montgomery estate, when young Anna Rayburn was the lady of the house. Every day, after the lunch things were attended to, Priscilla set about making the next day's bread. Sure, she moved a little more slowly lately, but she had yet to skip a day. She baked bread regardless of the festivities occurring in the house, and there had been some happy times! On Christmases and Easters, birthdays and Thanksgivings, Priscilla made sure there'd be bread for the next day. And on the sad days, too. The day Miss Anna packed up and left, as little Annette cried for her mother, Priscilla brought the toddler into the kitchen and gave her a lesson in grieving--- and in bread making. Many years later, when little Julia got sick and couldn't seem to get well, while the family gathered around her bedside and prayed, Priscilla made bread. And lo and behold, the prayers worked, and the next day Julia ate a piece of that very loaf. So thank God Priscilla'd made it; it was her own form of prayer. And on that saddest day of all, the day Jeremiah was taken, while everyone went to his own room, unable to share this inconceivable burden with the others, Priscilla found her refuge in bread-making. "There was a little bit of me in that loaf," Priscilla thought, remembering how her tears mixed in with the dough. "But not today. No, just an average day, but a pretty one." She looked out the kitchen window. It was her favorite window in the whole house because it afforded her a view of the vast stretch of land behind the Montgomery mansion. She could see the broad green lawn flanked on the west by the orchard and on the east by the pasture and stables that led to Miss Nan's house. And in the distance she could see the glint of the river and barely, just barely, make out the sound of the falls. This was her favorite sight. "When I die," she thought, "I want them to lay me facing this way."
A couple arrived on horseback and broke her peaceful view. Mr. Montgomery's sister Nan and Mrs. Montgomery's brother Brock rode up, dismounted, and tied their horses to a post next to the kitchen door. Priscilla recognized Mr. Brock's mount as Taffy, one of Miss Nan's favorites, but the other one was unfamiliar to her.
"What horse is that, Miss Nan?" she asked as the two entered the kitchen.
"One that Brock thinks he's going to sell me." Nan smiled with the cheerfulness common in her but rare in many women half her sixty-two years.
"And I'm right. I can tell you want her already." He kissed Priscilla's cheek. "How are you, my sweetheart?"
Priscilla tolerated his flirting only because he was such a dashing man. Oh, Mr. Montgomery would always be the finest man in her opinion, and she had to admit young Clay was about the prettiest fellow she'd ever seen (despite all he did to hide it!), but Mr. Brock Watts always melted her heart. He looked like he'd just stepped out of an old movie. There he was standing right in her kitchen, Clark Gable. He was a rogue, Priscilla knew that. He couldn't possibly have the money to live the way he did, and she was sure he'd conned plenty of women out of a pretty penny. "But a girl's got to spend her money somewhere," Priscilla thought.
"She's a pretty mare," Nan said, "I'll give you that. What do you think of her, Priscilla?"
Priscilla glanced up from her bread making. "Looks like she's got a bum leg to me."
Brock laughed. "Don't be ruining my sale now. What have I ever done to you?"
"Do you want a list?" Priscilla smiled and rolled her dough into a ball.
"Just how many times do you knead that anyway?" Brock asked.
"A secret number."
Nan opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. "She has a system," she said, "but don't try to get her to reveal it. I've been trying for years, and if she tells you instead, you can forget about me buying that horse."
Brock asked, "Any of those beautiful biscuits you make around here?"
"Under that tea towel there." Priscilla shaped the dough into a pan and put it in the oven. She washed her hands and poured herself a glass of tea. "Well," she said, "you two plan to sit and visit or did you just come in here to steal my biscuits?"
"I'll visit with you, anytime," Brock said, and the three of them sat at the breakfast table.
After a quiet moment, Nan said, "I think I will take that horse. Gwyneth might like to try her out."
"That horse is too big for her, Miss Nan. Her mama'll be after you."
"Gwyneth's a big girl now, and a fine little rider. She's going to start competing this fall."
"Really?" Brock asked. "I didn't know she was that far along."
"She wouldn't be if she didn't work so hard at it. I think she'd rather be on a horse than anything."
"Her mama says she'd rather be on a horse than study, that's for sure," Priscilla interjected.
Nan laughed. "And thank God, too. I've waited years for one of Clayton's to get into riding. Oh, I know I could've had children of my own and then they'd have to ride whether they liked it or not, but bless me if I didn't think that would be necessary! Clayton had five, the odds were with me, but I had to wait for his grandchild to find a real horsewoman."
"None of them ever rode?" Brock asked.
"Jeremiah did for a little while," Priscilla said quietly.
"That's true," Nan said. "He did. Not bad either, but he never stuck to it. That was his way. He did everything a little bit, but nothing too much. It made him an excellent conversationalist."
"He was a late bloomer," Priscilla agreed. "He didn't find his way until he met Miss Charlotte. Now having a family, he was determined to do that right."
"And he did. Gwyneth's one great kid," Brock said.
The women nodded in agreement.
"Does she ever ask about him?" Brock asked.
"His death you mean? She's never asked me. What about you, Priscilla?"
"No, not yet."
"Not yet?" Brock asked. "It's been... How long has it been?"
"It'll be five years..." Nan answered.
"...November," Priscilla completed.
"Do you think they'll ever find out what really happened?" Brock asked.
Priscilla rose and began wiping down the counters. "They could find out quick enough if they'd go over to that Sidarus house," she said viciously.
"Amen to that," Nan concurred.
"You all think it was him?"
"Of course it was," Nan said. "He's hated us forever, ever since Clayton put old Mr. Sidarus away for spying. Somewhere along the line, Luc forgot that his father got himself in trouble. He just blames Clayton for being a good prosecutor."
"Blood for blood, that's how that man thinks. We are lucky it took him so long to get to us," Priscilla said. "He's a mean-hearted snake."
"It's true, Brock. We all know it. That explosion was no boiler accident. Luc Sidarus killed my nephew as sure as we're sitting here. It eats Clayton alive. Serena won't even let people mention the name Sidarus around him."
"That heart attack he had last winter didn't help matters," Priscilla said. "Mrs. Montgomery looks like a skittish cat whenever Mr. Montgomery so much as coughs."
"Well, the ex- Mrs. Montgomery must not think Sidarus did it," Brock observed. "How could she marry the man who killed her son?"
Nan gave a rueful laugh. "Don't start asking how Anna can do the things she does," she said. "You'll be asking till Kingdom come."
"That's the truth, Miss Nan. She's gone crazy for that man. I saw her on the street one day last month. She looks possessed."
"Well, I imagine she is, living with him. Really, Brock. Anna would rather have Luc Sidarus than food or water. She's no dummy. She probably knows he killed Jeremiah and just doesn't care. I don't think she'd care if he killed Jeremiah, Annette, and Trey, all her children, as long as he stayed married to her."
"No, Miss Nan." Priscilla sighed and turned away from them. She took a long look out the window, her favorite view. "She'd care if he killed Trey."
**************** 
It seemed impossible, but he had to do it. Aron drove his seven-year old Mazda off the road and coasted until the vehicle was successfully concealed behind a cluster of trees. That was the first part of his plan, and he'd pulled it off pretty well, as far as he could tell. The next part was easy. He'd walk about a mile through Echo Forest to the gates of the Sidarus mansion. After that, his plan got a little hazy. He couldn't buzz in, and even if he could, that would ruin the whole point of hiding his car. And he liked hiding his car. "Ministers so rarely get to do anything daring," he thought, "And hiding my car can't hurt anyone." He got out and started walking. "Maybe I should wait until fall for this. I seem to have picked the hottest time of year. No, no, I'm not getting out of it that way. It's now or never, and I know I've got to do it, so never's not an option. Which means now. Besides, it's not so hot." He tugged at his collar. His glasses started fogging up. He removed them and cleaned them. He didn't really need them anyway, not for anything but reading. "They just make me look more respectable, and I've got to have something to offset the sideburns." He laughed when he remembered what his sister had said about his hair: "Ministers are not supposed to look like Elvis." "Meredith," he thought, "Elvis isn't the only person who's ever had sideburns, probably just the only one you ever noticed."
Aron stopped as he exited a cluster of trees. The Sidarus mansion was in sight, surrounded by a high stone wall. He was prepared to feel nervous about his mission, but he wasn't prepared for the other feeling. He hadn't seen those walls in five years, but just being near her house brought back all the old emotions. Suddenly, he was twenty-five again, a small-town musician, directionless and carefree. There was no congregation to think of, no reputation, just her. Her soft smile, her light brown hair and fine bones, and her name, which was like a song all by itself: Viola Sidarus. Funny, he'd always found her name so beautiful, but it struck everyone else, especially Meredith, differently. The only name Meredith would have hated more was Mrs. Aron Hasting, if it referred to Viola, that is.
"I don't know if I can do this," he thought. "I don't know if I can see her."
His stronger self intervened, "Yes, you can. You're not that person anymore. You aren't going to her as a lover but as a person who cares about other people. You have an obligation to set it right."
"Yes," Aron said aloud, "I've got to see her. She needs to know it wasn't her fault."
He still hadn't solved his problem, though. He had no idea how to get around the wall and into the house. And after he got into the house, he had no idea how he'd find Viola before someone else found him. He had thought that inspiration would strike him at the appropriate time. After all, faith was good enough for Abraham, good enough for David. Of course, God probably had a little more at stake in their trials. Aron was just trying to sneak into an old girlfriend's house so he could apologize to her. "But it is important," he thought. "If my selfishness has brought her one moment's unhappiness she needs to know what really happened. She needs to understand why I went away. So enough stalling." He remembered hearing about Ren sneaking out of the house. Viola had never dared, but according to her stories, Ren made a regular practice of it when they were teenagers. "So if Ren could sneak out, I should be able to sneak in." He walked to the wall and touched it. There was no chance of climbing it; it was far too smooth. "Maybe there's a door in back. A gardener's door, or---" Aron didn't finish his thought. He felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull, and then he felt nothing at all.
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