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and consumption of their meal, he told her about Reginald Rhett Sr. The newspaper's founder was a conservative businessman who had made a fortune because he steadfastly resisted expansion until the proper resources were in place.
    Then he told her about Reginald’s blood son Reginald Jr., who had been born to his beloved first wife only weeks before she died, and his stepson Curtis, the child of his second wife.
    Cara didn’t say much of anything until he got to the part about Reginald Sr. leaving his namesake with his newspaper and his stepson with nothing.
    "How sad," she said. "I imagine it left Curtis quite bitter."
    "Reginald Sr. died thirty years ago." Gray, who had been quiet for most of Bergie's discourse, finally spoke. Bergie knew why. His son knew Curtis was still bitter over the raw deal he'd been handed — who wouldn’t be after being treated that way? — but he didn’t want that mentioned in a magazine article. "Reginald Jr. gave his brother Curtis the job of managing editor. The paper is where it is today because of that decision."
    "True. Very true," Bergie said. "Anybody who knows anything about the newspaper business will tell you that Curtis Rhett is a damn fine managing editor. He's tough, but fair. A man who makes a fine ally." Bergie chuckled. "And, I imagine, a rotten enemy."
    Bergie grew silent. His well of stories about the Rhetts was running dry. He didn’t think Cara needed much more background for her project, anyway.
    "There's just one more blank I need you to fill in, Bergie." She sat up straighter in her chair before continuing. "I want to know how Reginald Rhett III died."
    Bergie’s heart went still, as it always did whenever somebody mentioned the little boy, who had died mere days before the light had gone out of Bergie’s world. He couldn’t think of that time without picturing Maggie, his beloved Maggie, looking at him through eyes made old by pain and suffering. Looking at him as though he could rescue her from anything, even the claws of death.
    She’d thought he was her hero, because by marrying him she had escaped an abusive father. In the end, he’d done nothing more heroic than hold her hand as she slipped away. Her face had been ghostly pale, as though her diseased heart had already stopped pumping the blood through her veins, and her hand had been cold. So cold.  
    "Are you talking about the little boy who was hit by a car thirty years ago?" Gray put down his beer mug with an audible thump.
    "That's the one,” she said.
    "I don't see how that boy could possibly be relevant to your story," Gray said.
    "He's part of the family story," Cara answered. "He would have been next in line to inherit the newspaper if he hadn't died."
    "But he did die."
    "Nevertheless, an article that didn't mention him would be incomplete. Besides, I asked your father, not you. Bergie, will you tell me what happened?"
    The sound of his name pulled Bergie back from the abyss of the past, but he was still perilously close to the edge. Strangely, that didn’t frighten him. More and more, he wanted to dive over that edge so he could search for his Maggie.
    "Would you tell me about the accident, Bergie?" she repeated.
    Gray started to argue again, but Bergie silenced him with a heavy hand on his arm. His son had never understood that talking about his late wife didn’t hurt any more than thinking about her. And she was never far from his thoughts.
    "It’s okay, son. There’s not much I can add to what was reported in the newspaper. The driver didn’t see him until it was too late. It was dark, and Skippy ran right in front of his car."
    Skippy!
      The blood seemed to seep from Cara's face as another piece of the bizarre puzzle fit into place. She had wondered how she could have a connection with a child who had died almost a quarter-century ago when his name didn't jingle her memory.
    But whereas the name Reginald Rhett hadn't meant a thing to her, Skippy rang a bell that clanged to be