Chapter ONE

Sometimes you were just lucky. The sky was a bright crystalline blue. Birds were singing. A few late flowers bobbed their heads in time with the cool breeze tunneling down the street. Children were playing on their front stoops, and she could hear the street vendors hawking their wares on the sidewalks, and horn-honking was at a minimum. In other words, it was one of those rare, perfect autumn days in New York City.

Despite what appeared to be the beginnings of a miserable cold, Sophy Whittaker set out, ostensibly, to pick up some fresh fruit and bagels from the corner mom and pop store, but the day was just so fine, she decided to take a stroll; the fruit and bagels could wait. It was late afternoon on a Saturday, so her little neighborhood in Chelsea was awash with people, from the tourists looking frustrated with their crumpled-up maps to the New Yorkers who were silently laughing at them. It was a perfectly normal day in the Big Apple, all right, she smiled, revealing perfectly white, even teeth—teeth her parents had paid a fortune for when she was a teenager.

After Sophy won her first Tony, her parents laughingly decided the orthodontics had been well worth the money.

As a Broadway actor, Sophy understood her appearance was as important as her talent. A producer couldn’t sell you if you didn’t look good. In some ways, Broadway theatre was just as brutal as Hollywood, almost more so, if you counted the fact that you, generally, had to be more talented than the average silver screen star if you wanted a role.

In the theatre, jobs were usually won based on simple facts like an attractive actor could act, dance and sing, not just some combination of the four; roles for less-than-perfect people were few and far between. People who lacked one of those gifts were often forced to resort to less savory means of acquiring roles in order to pay the rent and feed themselves. Sophy counted herself lucky. She hadn’t had to lie on any casting couches or under any doctor’s scalpel to land the roles she wanted.

Stopping to examine the goods of a sidewalk vendor, she tucked her long dark brown hair up under her Yankees cap. The vendor’s folding tables were covered in goods. Designer sunglass of dubious origin lay alongside designer knock-offs. Purses, wallets, NYC key chains, magnets, and mugs were laid in neat rows beside one another, and of course, there were no prices. Haggling was the name of this game.

Finding what she wanted, Sophy started her bid at a ridiculous five dollars, and eventually, they came to a satisfactory agreement. The fresh breeze felt fabulous on her neck as she dug in the pocket of her jeans for some money. She’d spilled red wine on her “I ♥ New York” t-shirt and hadn’t been able to remove the stain. And truly, besides the newest stain, she’d worn it so often and washed it so many times, the neck band was starting to unravel, and there was a hole under one of the arms. But Sophy didn’t care how touristy the shirt was. She liked what she liked, and that was all there was to it. Generally, when she made up her mind, no amount of outside influence could force her to change it.

That was not to say that she flouted public opinion. She just didn’t give a damn. Raised with six brothers and sisters by parents who ran an enormous plantation that supplied peaches and cotton internationally, it had been hard, occasionally, to attract their undivided attention. Sophy, that poor creature known as the middle child, had resorted to theatrics—and a kooky wardrobe.

As a teenager, Sophy had based her clothes buying decisions almost entirely on what her Cosmo-reading little sister Ellie scoffed. In the end, Sophy thought somewhat ruefully, the quirky fashion sense had stuck. But then, that was who she was—a person who went her own way. Nothing wrong with that. It was what had landed her in Julliard at seventeen.

When she had been accepted to the prestigious university, she had not hesitated in departing her home in Georgia. Even the strong trepidations her parents felt at her living in New York alone had not been enough for her to consider giving up the opportunity. Though her heart twinged at leaving her family, it had not held her back. Then, while still a student, her career had taken off. She starred in a school production of My Fair Lady, and it was then that a Broadway producer, Adam Tiller, had offered her the leading role in the new revival of the same show.

Arranging her classes around her work schedule had been agonizing, and some weeks, she had no more than three hours sleep a night, but she had performed brilliantly, never missing a rehearsal, performance, cue, or note. Critics had proclaimed her this generation’s Julie Andrews, and the summer before her senior year, she received the Tony for best actress in a musical revival.

Realizing she was woolgathering, Sophy checked her grip on the plastic bag containing the t-shirt and began the walk back to her apartment. She had a show soon, and she needed to get ready. Sophy made quick work of her grocery list and then bustled over to her building, a friendly red brick structure that had been built around the turn of the century. She fished in her pocket for the keys and let herself in.

The warm air of a prematurely heated lobby washed over her. Since it reminded her so much of home, she didn’t mind the warmth and humidity. Home was far worse right now, anyway. October in Georgia was rarely any cooler than August there.

After unlocking the door, Sophy nudged it open with her hip. For a moment, she stood and looked out over her apartment. She had been lucky to find it, she knew. Or rather, her parents had been lucky since they’d been the ones to buy it when she moved to New York eight years ago. The kitchen, living room, and dining room were all one huge space, divided only by furniture arrangement. Her kitchen had a long L-shaped counter to demarcate its space, while the placement of her blonde pine dining room set distinguished itself from the living room.

Due to the high ceilings, the apartment possessed very good acoustics, something the gleaming hardwood floors complimented. Since furniture absorbed sound, she had very little of it—a long overstuffed couch in soft baby blue and a large matching recliner with footrest. Arranged in front of the couch was a low black walnut coffee table; it had matching two-tier end tables on either side of the couch, and scattered throughout lay some cushy jewel-tone rugs. Bookshelves lined the wall on either side of the entrance, and several paintings, mostly the work of her best friend Faith Westmoreland, hung on the walls.

Sophy tossed her keys in a charming porcelain bowl resting on one of the bookshelves, then locked the deadbolt and the knob, and engaged the chain lock. It was her usual practice to do it that way every time—key toss then door locks. She had very specific procedures in her life. She supposed it was because the theatre world was so chaotic; having a set routine outside her job, certain patterns to follow, helped keep her topsy-turvy world on kilter. Or, as Faith would argue, it was because sweet, free-spirited, head-in-the-clouds Sophy was actually obsessively anal retentive.

Sophy much preferred her own theory.

She shifted the heavy bag of groceries. She was always buying more than she needed. Maybe she should have a dinner party soon, she considered. It might be fun, and she could get a feel for what roles were going to be open soon. Networking was another important aspect of theatre life.

With only a few months left to go in Annie Get Your Gun, she needed to find something, and none of the scripts she’d been reviewing had gripped her. None had caused that tingle of excitement that started in her fingers and spread throughout her whole body until, caught up in the characters, the drama, the music, she raced to her piano to let the storm burst free at the ivory keys.

As she moved toward the kitchen, the toe of Sophy’s loafer caught on the door mat, and in a split second, she, the blueberries, and all the rest were airborne. Moments of grace such as these were why Faith could smugly assert Sophy had her head in the clouds.

Sophy landed hard on her knees, swearing as blue bullets shot out of their box and fat ripe tomatoes rolled across the gorgeous hardwood floors. Not wanting to squash any of the fruit, she decided the best course of action would be to stay on her knees until the majority of the blue and red bandits had been found.

Had she not dropped the fruit, she might not have noticed that the corner of a plain white envelope was barely visible beneath the welcome mat in front of her door. Dropping her collected berries back in the carton, she brushed off her hands and picked up the envelope. It had no writing on it, nor did it bear any marks that distinguished it from any other business size envelope in the world.

Maybe it was a note from the super, she thought, ripping in to it. Well, that would be weird. He usually called if he needed something. Quickly, she scanned the single line of the note. Groceries forgotten, she sat back on her heels and read it again in disbelief as annoyance built within her.

On plain writing paper, someone—some bastard with too much time on his hands, she corrected herself—had cut and pasted her a note. Quite simply it read, Whores like you need a man with a firm hand.

Her first objection to this letter was that she was no whore. She’d been called an awful lot of things in her time—show biz was a hard place, after all—but she at least wanted to deserve what she was called. And by God, she wanted to know the reason why.

Her second objection was, she supposed, totally feminist. ‘A man with a firm hand?’ This bastard thought she needed someone to slap her around a little to keep her in line? What the hell was this?

Sophy sat back on her heels and took a deep breath, considering the implications. Okay, so someone had gotten in her building. Her address wasn’t a secret; no addresses were—her thoughts flicked to the map of the stars she’d bought while doing a national tour in L.A—so maybe the guy knew someone in her building. Could another tenant have held the door open for a stranger and let him in?

She rubbed her eyes for a moment, then stood up, carrying the letter to her kitchen. Sophy continued to reassure herself as she put on a kettle for tea. It wasn’t as if she had never received hate mail before. That was part of the job too. Every job had its occupational hazards. In her world, everyone was a critic. Nothing new there.

But this—this wasn’t about her work. It was…personal. Personal enough that mailing it hadn’t been good enough for this guy; he’d had to hand deliver it, and that had never happened to her before.

The tea kettle whistled shrilly, scaring her. Sophy laughed at herself for being jumpy. After all, what was she really upset about? A note had been stuck under her door. It was pretty juvenile. Sophy spooned some tea into her pot and left it to steep. Several times, she went to throw the letter away, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Sophy sighed and opened a cabinet, looking for her Zip-Loc bags. She’d keep it, for awhile, and see what happened.

After she poured herself a cup of Irish Breakfast, she walked over to her cherry secretary and placed the envelope in a drawer. She would just hold on to it for now, she thought. If any more came, she would tell Adam and let him handle it. That’s what managers who were your fiancé did. They took care of things.

Sophy laughed at herself, this time somewhat bitterly. She knew she wouldn’t be telling Adam anything about these letters, even if a hundred more came. There was this space between them she’d never felt before, and it effectively sealed her lips. Maybe it was just cold feet. Maybe all brides-to-be felt jumpy around their grooms until the ceremony actually happened.

Nah, she couldn’t kid herself that much. There was something wrong with Adam and her as a couple, and she had no idea what it was, no idea how to fix it.

Setting her tea cup down in the sink, she went to prepare for the show.

***

Gideon’s cell phone jangled harshly in the early evening quiet, surprising him. He swore ripely when he dropped the pruning shears in his efforts to answer the damn thing. This had better be good, he thought, leaning over to pick up the shears.

“Westmoreland.” He began brushing the mud off the tool.

“Gid, it’s Mike.” His voice was weary, deeply grieved. Gideon’s stomach dropped as he tried to mentally account for all the members of his family. Mike Schaefer was the sheriff, as well as a friend, but a call from him sounding like that, couldn’t
be good.

“What’s wrong, Mike?” Gideon asked, pruning forgotten.

“You need to come down to the station. Carter’s here, and he needs you. There’s been an accident. David and Elizabeth are dead.” It came out in a rush, as if saying it faster made it hurt less.

“I—what?” Gideon stuttered, knowing he must have misheard.

“They’re gone, Gideon,” Mike repeated, pain evident in every word. “They’re gone.”

“I’ll be right down.” Bemused, Gideon shut the phone and headed straight for his beat-up truck. It wasn’t very far from these fields to the police station in Tomorrow, something Gideon was glad for. Still, the weight on his chest urged him to drive as fast as he could.

It was full dark before Gideon reached the police station, located at the corner of Turner Square, just off Main Street. Despite the town’s small size, the street was busy at this hour with both pedestrians and motorists. Gideon quickly found a spot in front of the police station.

He sprinted inside, and Ava Green, the deputy sheriff, solemnly waved him back to the office where Carter and Mike sat. Gideon walked to them, and Mike stood, clapping a hand in sympathy to Gideon’s shoulder before leaving the room, a file in hand.

Carter sat in an ancient plastic chair, staring at his hands which were clasped loosely between his legs. He looked up only when Gideon dragged a chair over and positioned it so they were facing each other, knee to knee.

“Carter?”

“Gideon? It feels—this just can’t be—” he stuttered after several long minutes. His voice was hoarse. “They’re really gone.” His grey eyes were almost black with his grief. “I had to identify them.”

Christ almighty. “What happened?”

“They went off the road and into the river. They don’t know why Daddy lost control of the car.” Gideon blinked back the moisture in his eyes. “Another car saw them go in. They called the police.” The rain had been heavy the last week, and the Chattahoochee was treacherous on the best of days. Swollen by a week of heavy rain, the undertow would have been horrific. Gideon shuddered to think of his godparents trapped, drowning.

“Christ, Carter. I’m so sorry.” Gideon raked a hand through his hair and knew he was helpless to do any more than just sit with his friend.

Carter stood abruptly and Gideon rose with him. Unsure of how to help him, Gideon stood there a moment and watched Carter’s shoulders shake with the emotions he couldn’t contain anymore. Gideon drew him up in a rough hug. “It’s okay, Carter.” The sound of harsh sobs filled the room. After a while, Carter pulled himself together, awkwardly.

“I need to call the kids,” he said, referring to his brothers and sisters. “But I don’t think I can do it just yet.”

“Where’s Julia?” Gideon asked about Carter’s sister who ran the Whittaker stable. She and Carter still lived in the big plantation house, Belle Maison. Alone now, Gideon realized.

“She’s in Kentucky picking up a stud. She should be home late tonight. I’ll wait ’til then to tell her. I don’t want her driving back upset.”

“What about the twins?”

“Hopefully they’re at the house in Boston.” The youngest children, Ellie and Jack, were at Harvard, in medical school. “Sebastian and Griffin are in Atlanta, of course.” Carter glanced at his watch. “Sophy’s about to go on.” He turned stricken eyes to Gideon. “I can’t call her with this, Gideon. Not now, not before a show.”

“Of course not.” Gideon took Carter’s arm and led him out. “You can call her afterwards. I’ll drive you home. We’ll have a drink, and when you’re ready, we’ll make the calls together.”

***

His daddy had died when he was twenty-two, leaving the family flat broke. Bad investments, the bankers had said. Heavy losses. Saving the legacy of Westmoreland Way Plantation had fallen to Gideon, and despite the odds—and the doubts of the old-fashioned farmers in the area—he, Gideon thought, had managed to pull Westmoreland Way out of the red. Mixing the tried and true ways of cotton cultivation with some of his new ideas, he’d put them back in the black in less than five years, easily meeting the mortgage on his house and land. Gideon felt no real pride in this; it was his duty to protect his family and their legacy.

That was not to say he had done it alone, though. That was far from the truth. His younger brother Nathan had taken a year off from college to help implement Gideon’s new ideas as well as lend a hand in the fields. His other siblings, still at home, had done everything they could to help as well.

The only people outside the family to whom Gideon had turned during those times of trouble were the Whittakers. David and Elizabeth had offered only the soundest business and personal advice, and more importantly, they had given their unshakable friendship. Their oldest son and his best friend, Carter, labored with him in the fields and at the books, working to get the plantation back on an even keel.

In order to raise the money needed to back some of his innovative ideas, Gideon had had to do the unthinkable and sell a good portion of the Westmoreland Way stock. Dressed in his best suit and armed with a five year plan, Gideon had gone from landowner to landowner to pitch his business proposition. The Whittakers had been the only takers. When David bought the shares, he assured Gideon it was just a sound investment on their part and not charity.

At a time when the entire agricultural community had turned its back on the Westmorelands, David and his family had been there to lend a hand. Their ties ran too deeply for there to be any question about that.

“I fully intend to make a mint off of this, Gideon, make no mistake,” David had said seriously, his green eyes inscrutable as he wrote out the check. “These are just hard times. You’ll come through it. And when you do, son, I’ll expect you to buy back every single share at twice the price.” Gideon, desperate not to appear desperate, had accepted the check quietly, promising himself he would not let his family, or the Whittakers, down.

As if he were one of his own sons, David had celebrated with Gideon after he paid off the last note on his land. Then Gideon and Carter had gotten drunk as hell in an empty stall in the Whittaker stables and passed out, waking the next day with ferocious hangovers but buoyant spirits.

But now, the man who had been a second father to him was gone. And his friends were in need.

There was no justice in the world, Gideon thought resentfully. No justice at all. He could imagine only too well the shock and anger Carter and the others were feeling, and for Carter now, the heavy weight of responsibility.

Gideon walked up the stone stairs to the old plantation house, pulling his worn leather work gloves out of his back pocket where he had hastily stuffed them earlier. He tossed them on the railing of the wrap-around porch before sitting heavily in a rocking chair. Faith, ever thoughtful, had left a couple beers in an ice chest nearby.

Though it was now early November, the Georgia heat was heavy, but the cicadas were singing sweetly, and the air smelled of wet grass and more rain. The humidity was enough to strangle on, and even sitting quietly in the chair didn’t keep him from sweating.

Behind him, the house was quiet. His family had long since gone to bed, but he knew well enough how the night had gone, could easily imagine the sound of his family bustling around, cleaning up after dinner. The clatter of plates and glasses and the clinking of silverware would have carried on the air and through the open door and windows as his mother’s rich laughter rang out in answer to the light sound of his sisters’ voices and the lower rumblings of his brothers’.

They were comfortable sounds, ones he had heard all his life. Usually they filled him with a quiet sense of joy and fulfillment. But tonight, sitting alone on the porch, he felt restless. He knew it was in part due to the blow of losing David and Elizabeth, but, as if that hole in his heart weren’t big enough, this new grief only seemed to heighten his awareness of another nagging emptiness.

As he sipped his beer, he surveyed the acres laid out before him. Gideon knew his lands intimately, having walked them and worked them since he could toddle. Some of his fondest memories were of working the cotton gin with his daddy and later, harvesting the pecan crop with the men as the late September sun slanted through the thick green foliage far above his head.

He knew the deep satisfaction a man felt from doing a day’s back-breaking work and doing it well. The plantation was as much a part of him as his blood, and he could no more leave it than cut off his arm.

Gideon wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but nothing seemed to satisfy him anymore—not his land, his crops, his family—none of it seemed enough. Westmoreland Way had always absorbed the majority of his time, and he liked it that way. It was a very large business, a global business, and it required his constant attention. This feeling of dissatisfaction was as surprising as it was unwelcome. He didn’t know where it had come from or what he was supposed to do about it. That was, perhaps, the most unsettling thing about it. Gideon always, always knew what to do. But now he was at a complete loss. As a farmer, Westmoreland Way was as it had always been, a source of great joy and satisfaction. As a man, it just wasn’t enough for him anymore.

Gideon was a homebody at heart, knew as surely as he knew his name that he’d never be happy away from Georgia and his legacy, but something was missing, and he had no idea what it was or how to go about finding it. There was an ache he thought had healed, but now it felt like the wound had been ripped open.

He poured the last few swallows of his now-warm beer behind his mother’s gardenias, guiltily looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the unauthorized bit of fertilizer. Then, knowing there was nothing to be done about the Whittakers tonight, he picked up his gloves and entered the house, his mind and heart heavy with the news he had to bear.