Chapter One

“I’ve never done one wild thing in my entire life,” Susan Pettiford said aloud to herself as she left the doctor’s office that early October morning, shading her eyes from the bright sun, “but there’s a first time for everything. I’m going to know what it’s really like, if it’s the last thing I do.”

As cold as it was that mid-October morning, perspiration streamed from her scalp to her chin, and she rolled down the window of her bright-red Taurus, eased away from the curb and headed for the apartment she’d sublet a few days earlier. What a blow! She’d come back to Woodmore, North Carolina, after an absence of sixteen years because her late father’s only sister had died and left her heir to all that she had, including a house. Settling in a town of thirty-five or forty-thousand inhabitants wasn’t her idea of a life, but fate seemed to be making decisions for her.

Pains shot through her middle, and she tried to ignore it as, for months, she’d tried to overlook her other symptoms. She thought of going back to New York and seeing a doctor there, but she knew the diagnosis was correct, knew it before she went to the specialist. Driving fast, as usual, she put the thirty-five miles that separated Winston-Salem from Woodmore, North Carolina, quickly behind her. Inside her rented apartment, she dropped herself on the oversize leather sofa.

Susan leaned forward, braced her elbows on her thighs and cupped her chin with her palms. Her life, all that she’d hoped for and dreamed of right down the drain. Had a sigh ever seemed so ominous? The breath that seeped out of her had the sound of agony, and of hopelessness, too.

She got up, opened a crate and let its contents spill out on the bedroom floor. Then, she wrapped her hands around the purple- velvet box that she bought with her babysitting money when she was thirteen. She opened the box and looked at the four little dolls, two female and two male—symbols of the children she hoped one day to have—and went into the kitchen and tossed the box into the trash bag.

Seemingly drawn to the floor-length mirror in the narrow hall, she stopped and stared at herself. She looked the same. She felt the same. But she wasn’t the same. In two weeks, she’d be half a woman. Thirty-four years old and unable to bear children.

“Count your blessings,” the doctor had said. “I just told a thirty-year-old woman that she has breast cancer.”

I hope you announced that to her with more compassion than you just showed me, she thought, but didn’t say.

Susan gathered her resolve, strode to the telephone and dialed the doctor. “This is Susan Pettiford. Is there anything you haven’t told me?” she asked when he took the phone. “I want to know everything right now.”

“Well, you’ll have hot flashes, but we can give you something for that. Some women have difficulty with sex, but that’s partly a matter of attitude. Of course—”

She interrupted him. “And partly a matter of what else?”

“Oh, it may not happen in your case. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

She hung up, dissatisfied, hurt and angry. It wasn’t his body. She wished she knew someone who’d had a hysterectomy and with whom she could discuss it.

While eating her lunch of milk and a peanut butter and raspberry sandwich, she remembered that the lawyer for her aunt’s estate had invited her to his wife’s birthday party that night. At least it’ll take my mind off that operation. She wanted to wear red to the party, but decided that flamboyance wasn’t in order, and chose a short, pale-green chiffon evening dress. And silver accessories. Since she didn’t know how the local women dressed, she decided not to wear her mink coat—a mark of distinction in New York—and put on her beige cashmere coat instead.

Susan hadn’t previously been in the Woodmore Hotel, and its elegance surprised her. Crystal chandeliers sparkled in each of the public rooms and gave the suite housing the party a grandeur that offset the chic appearances of those present. The bartenders wore tuxedos and served the latest alcoholic concoctions in long-stem crystal glasses. The drapes were made of royal blue silk, which covered the walls as well as the chairs and sofas, and the women must have known that, for only she wore a gown the color of which clashed with the room’s furnishings. Glitter was the last thing she had expected to find in Woodmore, but Mark Harris’ friends had it in abundance.

She saw him the minute she entered the room. She couldn’t have missed him, for he towered over everyone there and his persona commanded attention. And when he looked at her, she was glad she’d left that red dress home. Almost immediately, the man headed toward her with their host, Mark Harris, at his elbow.

“I’m so glad you could come, Susan,” Mark said. “This is Lucas Hamilton, a close friend and former classmate. Lucas, Susan Pettiford is an interior decorator, so I expect the two of you will find that you have much in common.”

The bulk of Lucas Hamilton blotted out all else from her vision—she could not pull her gaze away from the eyes of one of the most handsome men she’d ever met.

“Mark said you’re new in town. Would you have dinner with me tomorrow, Sunday? I’d like to get to know you.”

She looked around for Mark and saw that he was on the other side of the room. “Why does he think we have so much in common?”

“I suppose because I’m an architect. You didn’t say whether you would or wouldn’t have dinner with me Sunday evening.”

A week earlier, she would have glowed with delight, but now she couldn’t encourage a man’s attention. She had no right.

She laid back her shoulders and got a firm grip on her resolve. “That’s right. I didn’t. I’m sure we’ll have other opportunities to see each other. This is, after all, a small town.”

Both of his eyebrows shot up, and she’d have sworn that his chin jutted out. “As you wish,” he said. “It’s been interesting.” She watched him walk away, and it struck her that Lucas Hamilton was unaccustomed to rejection for any reason or by anyone. Oh, well. He can’t possibly be as disappointed as I am. The kind of man I’ve always wanted in my life, and I have to let him go.

She spent a few minutes talking with a local minister, who introduced himself as the Reverend Gilford Ripple, and with Sharon Hairston-McCall, publisher of The Woodmore Times. An interesting woman. The idea dawned that life in Woodmore might be more rewarding than she’d imagined, and she began to mingle with the guests, hoping to find among them a future friend.

Sitting in the comfort of his cathedral-ceiling living room later that night, Lucas Hamilton reflected that he’d just had his first dusting off by a female, a woman who interested him as much as any woman he’d ever met. She didn’t even try to make it palatable, didn’t offer an excuse. He’d been thirteen years old when he asked his mother’s best friend what was so great about sex—and he’d asked her because he’d caught her staring at his crotch on more than one occasion. She’d asked if he really wanted to know, and when he said yes, she opened her arms, spread her legs and gave him what he now regarded as a degree in the techniques of lovemaking. And she eagerly polished his skill at it whenever he thought he needed it. To her credit, the first time she saw him with a girl, she smiled, waved and never made another move toward him. He’d often wondered why he hadn’t become attached to her. His approach to her was the first he’d made to a female and, in twenty-two years, he hadn’t had a single refusal—until tonight. Susan Pettiford intrigued him, but not sufficiently to cause him to chase her. He had more important things to do with his time.

Lucas leaned back in the recliner and let his gaze roam over the house he had designed to his own taste and for his own comfort. He had done well as an architect, had carved a name for himself in Woodmore and as far away as Nashville. But he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he wielded more influence and his name carried more prestige than that of Calvin Jackson, the man who sired him. He wasn’t after the man’s blood. His mother chose to have a four-year affair with a married man, but she had no right to deny that man access to his son and to withhold from her son a father’s care and nurturing. But that did not absolve Calvin Jackson; in thirty-five years, the man hadn’t once reached out to him. The short distance of twenty miles separating Danvers, where Calvin lived, and Woodmore made that seem ridiculous. He’d never spoken with his father, and if he ever did, he wouldn’t be the one to initiate the conversation.

He got up and tuned the radio to the station that played golden oldies. His eyes widened when he heard “If you knew Susie, like I know Susie.” Laughter poured out of him. “Well, I’ll be damned. That gal must be a little witch,” he said aloud and turned off the radio.

If Susan had been a witch, she would have ordered her life differently. The morning after meeting Lucas, she set about trying to make a liar out of the doctor who gave her that heartrending diagnosis. “I’m not taking this lying down,” she said to herself and dialed the office of a famous endocrinologist.

“What will this do to my hormones?” she asked him. “Will I grow facial hair, and what about sex?”

“Of course, it will affect your hormones, and how it affects sex varies. I doubt you’ll grow any facial hair. If you have problems, make an appointment to come in and see me.”

Thanks for nothing, she thought after ending the call. Before she could ponder more, the phone rang. It was Mark Harris, the lawyer for her aunt’s estate. “If you want to sell your aunt’s house, I have a prospective buyer. I ought to tell you that your aunt enjoyed a bit of notoriety. At forty-eight, she was one of the best-looking women in town, and the local men paid due homage. I suspect more than one person will want that house, so you may wish to take your time about selling it.”

She thanked him and hung up. She’d always known of her aunt’s beauty, and now, she suspected that her unmarried relative enjoyed a full and fulfilling sex life, something that wasn’t guaranteed her. Indeed, it would probably be her fate that the operation would leave her asexual. Frigid.

She was not a virgin, but the earth had never moved for her, although she’d given more than one man an opportunity to create an eruption. The most she’d experienced was a few tremors, and she was damned if she’d settle for that.

I’m not undergoing that operation until I have myself one mind- blowing affair with a man I can dream about for the rest of my life. But how was she going to manage that in a place where she knew exactly six people, including two men, one of whom was married.

I shouldn’t have been so quick to brush off Lucas Hamilton. He’s not self-assured for nothing. The man wears his success with women the way a peacock wears his feathers. And Lord, you could drown in his eyes.

A week later, still in a quandary, Susan lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle and dialed information. “Could you please give me the number for Lucas Hamilton, the architect?” Her fingers shook as she jotted down the number. She didn’t think he would turn her down, because his curiosity wouldn’t let him. She dialed the number, and as she waited, she could neither breathe nor swallow.

“Lucas Hamilton’s office,” a clipped-female voice answered.

“I’m Susan Pettiford. May I please speak with Mr. Hamilton?” She thought her teeth chattered, but she wasn’t sure. At the moment, nothing seemed real.

After a brief pause, she heard, “This is Hamilton.” She nearly dropped the phone. What would she say to him? Gathering her courage, she let out a long breath and began. “Mr. Hamilton, I hope you remember me, I’m—”

He interrupted her. “I certainly do, Miss Pettiford, and considering the reception I received when we met last week, I’m surprised to hear from you.”

So far, not good. Best to brazen it out. “I can imagine, but I’ve spent an entire week without speaking to anybody except salespeople and, well, I’ve been led to believe that small-town people are friendly, and I—”

“A city of forty thousand isn’t exactly a hamlet, Miss Pettiford.”

May as well cut to the chase. “Look . . . will you forgive me for being foolish and have dinner with me Saturday evening? It’s rumored that I’m a great cook.”

“Will I . . . what?”