door to her heart.
She rocked and rocked. A cheerful fire crackled in the little stone fireplace, but nothing warmed her. Not the fire and not the two layers of woolen sweaters she was wearing, either. She was cold, and she was frightened. She had warned Rex Rogers, her lawyer, that it would be bad for her to come here, but Amy had insisted that they had to do it on her fatherâs home turf, and Rex had backed her up. They said thereâd be a much better settlement if they bearded the lion in his own den.
Amy Baxter, her hypnotherapist, had told Holly that coming back to Bisbee wouldnât be that big a deal, had assured her that sheâd be perfectly fine.
Maybe for publicity and legal reasons, Rex andAmy were right, and Bisbee was the correct place to be. After all, they were the experts who had handled similar cases in towns and cities all over the country. But for Holly, being here was wrong. Bisbee and all the people in it were what she had spent thirty years trying to drink and drug out of her memory. Now that she was back, so were all the old bad feelings.
No one here gave a damn that she had gone out into the world and made a success of her life for a while. If anyone in Bisbee knew or cared that she had a screenwriting Oscar sitting in her storage unit back in Studio City, no one mentioned it. And if anyone knew that she had reached the pinnacle of success only to fall off and land in a series of mental and drug-rehab institutions, no one mentioned that, either. They didnât care if she was a success or a failure. That didnât matter. The people of Bisbee hated her anyway. They hated her because she was Holly Patterson. That was reason enough.
Holly pulled the sweater tighter across her chest and looked down toward the base of the house. Amy, dressed in sweats, was down on the terrace working out on a trampoline. Catching sight of Holly peering out the window, Amy smiled and waved. Holly didnât wave back. Now that the rain was gone and a fitful November sun was peeking through the cloud cover, Amy Baxter was far too energetic for Holly to tolerate. Too energetic and too positive.
Holly, on the other hand, was more like that gaunt, brown-needled pine tree thirsting to deathat the top of the once-lush gardens, remnants of which still lingered on the grounds of Casa Vieja . Holly knew about the gardens because she and Billy Corbett had ditched school there once during sixth grade. They had taken off their clothes and lain naked in the ivy until they were both itchy and covered with aphids.
Billy had bragged to classmates at school that he had already done it. Twice. Holly had called him a liar and had dared him to prove he wasnât. They agreed to meet in the covered garden behind Casa Vieja , a wonderful turn-of-the-century mansion at the top of Vista Park. In an earlier life and under a different name, the brown stuccoed mansion, with its mission-style and molded-plaster details, was a place one of Bisbeeâs original copper barons had once proudly called home.
By the late fifties, the mansion had been renamed Casa Vieja and the huge dump was already inching slowly across the desert toward the lush backyard, although the tailings werenât nearly as close then as they were now, nor as tall. Fueled by grumbling trucks and noisy ore trains, the dump grew larger day by day. And the steady round-the-clock barrage of dust and noise began having serious detrimental repercussions on the fine old house.
The wealthy widow lady who owned it and had lived there for twenty years sold out to a sharp-eyed investor who carved it up into low-cost apartments for oversexed newlyweds who didnât mind being awakened at all hours of the day andnight by the roar of heavily laden trucks and the thunder of cascading boulders.
At the new landlordâs direction, the gardens out back that had long been nurtured by a loving full-time gardener were ignored. Left to their own devices, the covered
She rocked and rocked. A cheerful fire crackled in the little stone fireplace, but nothing warmed her. Not the fire and not the two layers of woolen sweaters she was wearing, either. She was cold, and she was frightened. She had warned Rex Rogers, her lawyer, that it would be bad for her to come here, but Amy had insisted that they had to do it on her fatherâs home turf, and Rex had backed her up. They said thereâd be a much better settlement if they bearded the lion in his own den.
Amy Baxter, her hypnotherapist, had told Holly that coming back to Bisbee wouldnât be that big a deal, had assured her that sheâd be perfectly fine.
Maybe for publicity and legal reasons, Rex andAmy were right, and Bisbee was the correct place to be. After all, they were the experts who had handled similar cases in towns and cities all over the country. But for Holly, being here was wrong. Bisbee and all the people in it were what she had spent thirty years trying to drink and drug out of her memory. Now that she was back, so were all the old bad feelings.
No one here gave a damn that she had gone out into the world and made a success of her life for a while. If anyone in Bisbee knew or cared that she had a screenwriting Oscar sitting in her storage unit back in Studio City, no one mentioned it. And if anyone knew that she had reached the pinnacle of success only to fall off and land in a series of mental and drug-rehab institutions, no one mentioned that, either. They didnât care if she was a success or a failure. That didnât matter. The people of Bisbee hated her anyway. They hated her because she was Holly Patterson. That was reason enough.
Holly pulled the sweater tighter across her chest and looked down toward the base of the house. Amy, dressed in sweats, was down on the terrace working out on a trampoline. Catching sight of Holly peering out the window, Amy smiled and waved. Holly didnât wave back. Now that the rain was gone and a fitful November sun was peeking through the cloud cover, Amy Baxter was far too energetic for Holly to tolerate. Too energetic and too positive.
Holly, on the other hand, was more like that gaunt, brown-needled pine tree thirsting to deathat the top of the once-lush gardens, remnants of which still lingered on the grounds of Casa Vieja . Holly knew about the gardens because she and Billy Corbett had ditched school there once during sixth grade. They had taken off their clothes and lain naked in the ivy until they were both itchy and covered with aphids.
Billy had bragged to classmates at school that he had already done it. Twice. Holly had called him a liar and had dared him to prove he wasnât. They agreed to meet in the covered garden behind Casa Vieja , a wonderful turn-of-the-century mansion at the top of Vista Park. In an earlier life and under a different name, the brown stuccoed mansion, with its mission-style and molded-plaster details, was a place one of Bisbeeâs original copper barons had once proudly called home.
By the late fifties, the mansion had been renamed Casa Vieja and the huge dump was already inching slowly across the desert toward the lush backyard, although the tailings werenât nearly as close then as they were now, nor as tall. Fueled by grumbling trucks and noisy ore trains, the dump grew larger day by day. And the steady round-the-clock barrage of dust and noise began having serious detrimental repercussions on the fine old house.
The wealthy widow lady who owned it and had lived there for twenty years sold out to a sharp-eyed investor who carved it up into low-cost apartments for oversexed newlyweds who didnât mind being awakened at all hours of the day andnight by the roar of heavily laden trucks and the thunder of cascading boulders.
At the new landlordâs direction, the gardens out back that had long been nurtured by a loving full-time gardener were ignored. Left to their own devices, the covered
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