Keeper of the Light. Diane Chamberlain

expectations, which she did often, either by accident or design, they punished her by withholding their love. When Alec pictured her childhood, he saw a little girl with unruly red hair sitting alone in the corner of her room, teary-eyed, hugging a teddy bear. Annie had never described that scene to him, yet it had been vivid in his mind from the night he first met her and learned how desperately she needed to be loved.

      Annie’s response to her upbringing was to criticize nothing in her children, to love them unequivocally. “I wouldn’t care if they were so ugly people couldn’t look at them without getting sick, or so dumb they could never learn to count to ten,” she’d said. “They’d still be my precious babies.”

      Alec could see her making that little speech as she kneaded bread dough in the kitchen, and in his memory she was wearing the green sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up high on her arms, the fabric over her left breast smudged with flour.

      The sweatshirt. Why had that hit him so hard? It was only his imagination that it still smelled like her, but when he saw it lying on the pile of laundry he’d felt as if he’d lost her all over again.

      “Grow up.” He said the words out loud to himself as he picked up his camera and stepped from the car. The air was sticky hot, with a breeze that ballooned the sleeves of his shirt. He would think about the lighthouse. Or windsurfing. He had to get through this for Clay’s sake.

      “Alec?”

      He turned to see Lee and Peter Hazleton walking toward him. The parents of Clay’s girlfriend, Terri. He hadn’t seen them since the memorial service for Annie.

      “Hi!” He manufactured what he hoped was a great smile.

      Peter slapped his back. “Big day, huh? My camera’s out of commission. Take a few of Terri for us, okay?”

      “Clay would never forgive me if I didn’t.” He spotted Lacey on the lawn with a group of girls. “I’m going to get my daughter and find a seat,” he said, pleased for the escape.

      It shocked him every time he saw Lacey these days. He wished he could see Annie again to compare their faces and mark the differences. Maybe it would put an end to this jolt he felt every time he saw his daughter. She looked more like Annie than Annie had. He felt awkward with her. He could no longer look at her for more than a few seconds without feeling an overwhelming sadness.

      He called to her and she walked over to him, looking alternately at the ground or the sky, steadfastly avoiding his eyes. He hadn’t seen her since the explosion in the kitchen that afternoon. “Let’s find our seats,” he said to her now, and she followed him without speaking.

      Clay had reserved two seats for them in the front row. Alec sat between Lacey and a heavyset woman who was perspiring profusely and who squeezed his thigh with her own. He shifted a little closer to Lacey and could smell smoke in her long hair. She was only thirteen. Damn.

      He pulled his camera out of the case and started to change the lens. Lacey stared straight ahead at the empty wooden platform, and Alec knew it was up to him to break the silence.

      “I’m sorry I called you Annie, Lace,” he said. She shrugged, her response to the world. “Doesn’t matter.”

      “Well, yeah, it does. Clay says that’s not the first time I’ve done it.”

      She shrugged again, her gaze dropping to the dry patch of lawn in front of their chairs.

      “I overreacted about the sweatshirt.”

      She turned her head away from him. She was rocking slightly, as though she heard a beat he couldn’t hear.

      “When does summer school start?” he asked, struggling to engage her, but just then Clay appeared in front of them. He was already in his blue cap and gown, and a film of perspiration lined his forehead. “Aren’t these great seats?” He held out his hand and Alec shook it, the gesture making him feel old. Clay reached inside his gown and took the battered notecards from his pants pocket. He handed them to Alec. “Hold these for me. I don’t want to rely on them.” He tugged a long strand of his sister’s hair. “How’re ya doin’, O’Neill?”

      Lacey shrugged. “‘Kay.”

      Clay glanced behind him. “Better get to work,” he said, and he turned and walked back toward the stage.

      The band began playing “Pomp and Circumstance,” and the graduates filed into their seats. Alec and Lacey turned to watch them. Alec tried to tune out the familiar, stirring music, imagining himself sailing across the sound, working with the wind.

      The graduates were finally seated and the speeches began. He felt Lacey tense next to him as Clay walked up to the podium. He wanted to put his arm around her, pull her close, but he kept his hands in his lap as he watched his son. Clay looked for all the world like a man up there. His voice seemed deeper as it poured through the loudspeaker; his smile was genuine. There was nothing at all to betray his nervousness. Anyone would think he was making up the speech on the spot, he seemed so comfortable with the words. He talked about his class and its accomplishments. Then he hesitated briefly, and when he spoke again his voice quivered, almost imperceptibly.

      “I’m grateful to my parents, who, through their love and respect, taught me to believe in myself and think for myself.” Clay looked at Alec for a moment and then back up to the crowd. “My mother died in December and my only regret is that she can’t be here to share this moment with me.”

      Alec’s eyes filled. He felt a shifting in the audience behind him as people turned to look at him and Lacey. He would not fall apart here.

       Windsurfing. Cutting through the water, far out in the sound, far from the shore. Far from the joyless reality that had become his life.

      A woman leaned forward from the front row to get a look at him. For a moment he thought it was the doctor he’d met at the studio. Olivia. He leaned forward himself to see her more clearly, and felt some disappointment that the woman was a stranger.

      Tomorrow was Saturday. He would go to the studio about the time she’d be done with her lesson. He would buy her lunch. He would finally ask the questions that had been haunting him for the last few long and lonely months.

      CHAPTER TEN

      The glass was cool beneath her fingertips. Olivia drew the glass cutter cleanly across the surface, mesmerized by the changing color of her hands. Tinted sunlight flooded the studio and fell across the work table in violet and teal and bloodred, at first making concentration on her task impossible.

      “You’ll get used to it,” Tom said.

      He was right. After a while, the colors seemed essential. Intoxicating.

      Tom handed her another glass cutter, this one with a beveled, oil-filled handle. “Try this one on that piece,” he said.

      She took the cutter from his hand and scored a perfectly straight line down the center of the glass.

      “You’ve been practicing,” he said.

      She beamed. “Nothing to it.” She had been practicing, setting up the glass at her kitchen table each evening after work. She’d had to force herself the first time—there were several articles she should have been reading in The Journal of Emergency Medicine—but then she got into a pattern, and she began to look forward to getting home in the evening, sitting down with the glass. She’d drawn her own geometric design on graph paper last night, and now she was cutting shapes to fit the design from scraps of colored glass.

      She had nearly finished scoring the third piece when Alec O’Neill arrived. He nodded to Tom before his eyes settled on her.

      “I’d like to talk with you,” he said. “Do you have some time after your lesson?”

      She took off the green safety glasses and glanced at her watch, although she had no other plans for the day. “Yes,” she said, looking up at him. He was wearing acid-washed jeans and a faded blue polo shirt, but