But Emma had turned out just fine—a successful lawyer, a good mother. But it was one thing to have a motorcycle-mechanic boyfriend who picked you up from your dorm and took you out for a drive along the coast, then back to his apartment for sex. It was another to marry him.

She’d tried. They both had. She’d tell him about the other people in her classes, he’d tell her about work, they’d acknowledge that their daughter was not only the most beautiful baby ever born, but also the smartest and sweetest. But as the years passed, their conversations grew shorter. They fought more. Spent less time together. Pretty typical story for two people who got married too young.

It was a bad, bad feeling, knowing the gap between you and your wife was spreading into a canyon, being helpless to breach it. He loved her; that never stopped. Hoped that things would turn around someday. Then came the call from that doctor, and though he knew it wasn’t exactly sane, Liam would’ve cheerfully killed Elliot Kramer, because with that phone call the doctor had taken away any chance Liam and Emma might’ve had at working things out. Eight months later, Emma was gone for good.

Liam stood up and started clearing the untouched dinner. Despite Nicole’s complaints, it felt good to be back in New England, back where there was real weather, away from the relentless perfection of San Diego. Away from the site of his marriage and those complicated memories. Bellsford was the first place he’d landed out of juvie, his great-uncle finally agreeing to let Liam come live with him. He liked this little town with its twisting alleys and odd little shops, the river on one side of town, Maine just across the bridge.

It’d been nice to see the Osterhagens today. Good people, those two. Funny how little that restaurant and the two of them had changed. Cordelia, too, didn’t look a day past sixteen—still looking a little like a chick fresh out of its shell, still staring at him as if he had two heads.

But being back in the kitchen where he’d worked in high school…it brought back a lot. The whole time he was there, he’d half expected to see Emma come in, same way she had back in high school. Back when she was on her way home from whatever after-school club she’d been running at the time. Her ponytail would swing, and she’d smile at him as he scraped plates and washed pans, and that smile would make Liam forget that he was some as**ole juvie who’d followed in his family’s footsteps toward a life of petty crime.

He’d only been back in Bellsford a week, but already the apartment felt safe, housed in a solid old factory building that had been converted to apartments five or ten years ago, according to the Realtor. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, living room, kitchen, den. No memories of Emma walking through the door, which was both good and bad. In his closet hung Emma’s bathrobe… Sunday mornings had generally been their happiest times, when she didn’t work and he made pancakes and she looked so damn sweet in that pink puffy thing…?.

Well. Memories and all that.

“Things’ll be okay,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand across his face. He was astonishingly tired. Not that he’d done much today, aside from overseeing a shipment of equipment at the shop. Hopefully, a custom bike shop could bring in as much money here in New Hampshire as it did in Southern California. One thing that always surprised his in-laws—the blue-collar idiot their daughter married always made a decent living. Not as much as their daughter, but pretty good nonetheless.

Nicole’s door opened, and she stomped down the hall. “I have something to say,” she said, giving him the Slitty Eyes of Death. “You’re totally unfair, and if I run away, you shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Don’t make me put a computer chip in your ear,” Liam answered.

“It’s not funny! I hate you.”

“Well, I love you, even if you did ruin my life by turning into a teenager,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Did you study for your test?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He looked at his daughter—so much like Emma, way too pretty. Why weren’t there convent schools anymore? Or chastity belts? “Want some supper? I saved your plate.”

She rolled her eyes with all the melodrama a teenager could muster. “Fine. I may as well become a fat pig since I can’t ever go on a date.”

“That’s my girl,” he said and, grinning, got up to heat up her dinner.

CHAPTER THREE

SHILO, DON’T BE AFRAID. It’s just Al,” Posey said, trying to woo her dog from underneath the statue of Arpad the Archer, patron saint of Hungary, that currently graced the front yard of Irreplaceable Artifacts. “We love UPS! Don’t be scared.” Shilo whined, his tail wagging, but the truth was, the dog was a coward.

“I have a cookie,” Al said, kneeling down. Shilo whimpered and backed up, ramming his massive haunches against an old birdbath.

“He’s already eaten three donuts,” Posey said. “You have to up the ante, Al. Maybe a filet mignon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Al said, getting back into the giant brown truck. “Have a good day, Posey.”

“You’re such a baby,” Posey told her dog. “Some watchdog you’d make. You’d hide and watch the killers hack me to pieces, wouldn’t you?” With the UPS truck safely gone, Shilo gave a fond woof and licked Posey’s wrist with his massive tongue.

Last year, Posey had made the mistake of going to the pound. Being adopted herself, she’d taken one look into Shilo’s red-rimmed eyes and just couldn’t say no. Bad enough that she’d inherited three cats with the church she’d bought, now she owned a 150-pound black-and-white Great Dane whose talents seemed to be sleeping, baying and cowering from deliverymen. He was, however, deeply devoted to Posey during his waking hours and didn’t quite realize that he outweighed her by a third; he often tried to sit on her lap (and succeeded more often than not).

Now that he was safe from Big Brown, Shilo went to sniff the pair of giant concrete lions from the old library up in Maine. Though her parents often frowned over why Posey had devoted her career to things that had outlived their purpose, Posey felt just the opposite. Salvage was practically a religion to her. Someone would want these things—the barbershop pole all the way from the Bronx, the wheel from an old tugboat, the stained-glass windows from an old Victorian, the chipped gargoyle from a church in Winooski—and they’d be cherished and enjoyed once more, and Posey’s job would be done.

But now it was donut time. Today was Thursday, the day when her two closest pals came over for goodies after school. Jon, her brother’s longtime partner, and Kate, Posey’s friend from grammar school, were both teachers at Bellsford High. Jon taught home-ec and was quite adored by the students… Kate, as phys-ed teacher, was not. Each year without fail, the seniors would dedicate the yearbook to their beloved Mr. White, something Jon enjoyed lording over the other teachers.

“Hi, guys!” Posey called, holding the door for her dog, who trotted happily inside, licking his chops. Three cream-filled pastries had apparently not been enough.

“Hi, Posey! How are you?” Elise Wooding, one of Posey’s two employees, beamed at her as if it had been years since they’d seen each other, not two hours. “How was Vivian today?”

“Well, she was Vivian,” Posey answered. “She didn’t love my haircut. And she didn’t sign anything, of course. Down East Salvage is taking her to dinner on Friday, as she told me three times. She showed me the date on her BlackBerry, just in case I was getting cocky.” Though a hundred and one years old, Viv was quite current when it came to the latest tech.

Vivian Appleton was the owner of The Meadows, a glorious old Victorian home on ten acres of land. The house was stunning—a three-story Victorian with ornate fireplaces and a butler’s kitchen, curved staircases and window seats. Every corner seemed to offer a treasure, whether it was an iron heating grate or a slipper tub as pretty as a calla lily. Viv didn’t live there anymore, having moved to a swanky elderly housing complex in Portsmouth. For more than two years, Vivian had been dangling the rights to The Meadows in front of every salvage operation in New Hampshire, Maine and Vermont.

Vivian’s heirs, four grand-nieces and-nephews, planned to tear down the beautiful old house, the caretaker’s cottage and the barn and sell the land, with its orchards and stream, to a developer. It was a tragedy, Posey thought. But the heirs—or the Vultures, as Viv called them—would get more for the land than they could for the house and property, and Vivian was determined to let them do as they wished—some sense of Yankee familial duty or something. But if the house was going to be torn down, Posey wanted to be the one who did it. It would be like giving last rites to a much-loved friend, and she and Mac, her pathologically shy carpenter, would take the time to do it right, with care and respect, and yes, even love.

Despite being something of a diva, Viv recognized Posey’s love for the place and had given her the code to the alarm system. About once a week, sometimes more, Posey went out to The Meadows, just to walk around the empty house and still-lovely grounds, check the roof in the winter, make sure the place was untouched by vandals or kids.

“She’ll sign with us? Right? I just know it.” Elise had the habit of making all her comments into questions, but she was a sweet girl—only six years younger than Posey, but seeming much more. “Oh, right? I forgot? Brianna’s here already. With Mac?” Elise blushed from her cl**vage on up—she’d had a crush on Mac since the day she started here two years ago.

Posey went to the back of the barn, where Mac, balding, stoic and solid, did restoration work on pieces that needed repair or refinishing. He was talking (a rare occurrence), his voice low, telling Brianna how to see the difference between oak and maple. Brie looked up in relief.

“There you are. You’re late. I’m reporting you.” Brianna folded her chubby arms across her chest and glared, then relented when Shilo trotted up to her and licked her elbow.

“Hi, Mac,” Posey said. Her right-hand man nodded at her. A man of few words, Mac, but the reason Posey could run Irreplaceable. “You guys hungry? I brought donuts.”

“Duh. Yes. Aren’t you? Aren’t you always hungry?” Brie said.

“Drop the attitude, twerp.” Brianna had been her little sister through Big Brothers/Big Sisters for two years now, and despite the fact that the girl was thirteen, Posey loved her. “Mac, you want a break?”

“I’m good,” he said, glancing up to the front desk with what could only be described as fear. Elise waved. Mac looked away.

“How was school today?” Posey asked Brie.

“It sucked. As usual. The teachers all think I’m dumb.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She reached out and touched the girl’s shoulder, which Brie tolerated. Brianna came over after school at least a few days a week—the kid’s home life was crap. Her mom was only twenty-nine and had an endless parade of boyfriends living with her, so Posey was more than happy to have the girl with her.

“So when does coffee hour start?” Brianna asked.

As if on cue, the barn door opened, and in came Jon and Kate, bickering amiably. Posey’s two best friends were as opposite as could be—Jon was sleek, graceful and charming and made everyone around him feel like his favorite person on earth; Kate tended to view her whistle as a primary form of communication, was built like a Brahma bull and had no issues with, ah, personal boundaries.

Kate’s fourteen-year-old son, James, was also there, as Kate tended to drag him wherever she went. Like Posey, James had been adopted, though at the ripe old age of seven, whereas Posey had been only hours old when Stacia and Max had taken custody. The lad seemed to be developing a crush on Brie, which Posey thought was wicked cute.

“Hey, guys,” Posey said, feeling a warm flush of pride. It never failed to thrill her, having her friends drop in. Made her finally feel like a cool kid after all these years. Not that she could blame them—Irreplaceable was a great place to hang out. Shilo woofed happily at the sight of Jon, then collapsed on his back, jowls flapping to reveal his enormous teeth, just in case Jon was in the mood to rub his tummy.

“Hi, Jon, hi, Kate!” Elise sang. “How are you?”

“I’m a little yeasty,” Kate answered thoughtfully. James winced.

“Elise, sweetheart, please don’t put our names together,” Jon said. “People will think we have eight children and hate each other. Bad enough that we work together, right, Kate? Hello, Brie, you beautiful thing.”

“Hey, Mr. White,” Brianna said, blushing. Most straight females had a crush on Jon, and Brie was no exception. Jon poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the counter, which was from a diner, and spun around on the stool.

“Oh, donuts!” Kate lunged for a cream-filled pastry. “I’m starving. James, want a bite?”

“I’m good, Mom.”

“Take a bite. You’ll love it.” Kate waved the donut in front of her son’s eyes as Shilo watched, hypnotized and drooling.

“I’m fine.”

“James! A bite!”

“Okay!” James gave Posey a dark look—see what I have to put up with?—then took a bite of his mother’s donut. “I love it. My reason for living has been revealed. Hi, Brianna.” Brianna didn’t deign to answer, simply looked at James until his face went from pink to nearly purple. “Okay. I’ll go do homework. Oh, hey, Posey, I have a question for you.”

“Shoot, kid.” She chose a chocolate-covered donut and took a huge bite.