Matthew leaned against the kitchen counter with his hands in his pockets. Buddy took a glass from the cabinet, and Matthew shifted out of his way as he passed to the icebox. From the parlor, Adele couldn't hear what Buddy said to him, but she figured whatever it was, it must be coy and funny, because Buddy snickered, dipping his head between his shoulders as he expounded on his joke. Matthew smiled broadly and shook his head, though his smile seemed awfully strained and distracted. His thoughts were not on what Buddy was telling him, and he confirmed that as his eyes sought Adele in the shadows and lingered on her until Buddy said something that required a reaction. What terrible tension. For once, Adele wished Buddy weren't interested in loitering about in the kitchen. He'd expect to enjoy easygoing conversation with her, but her thoughts, like Matthew's, were a million miles away. Buddy shouldered in close to Matthew, lowering his voice to a whisper, and Adele seized the opportunity to retreat again to solitude on the porch. She stepped outside, and her soft steps fell heavy and hollow on the slatted wood. The car dripped in the driveway, and a raccoon plodded across the lawn. The moon was high and bright, and Adele set out across the gravel toward the road. The property seemed strange. The Cavanaugh house was the only house she'd ever known. She knew every hole in the ground, every bush and tree, every ant pile and clover patch. She knew how the shadows would ebb and wane through the day, and how the light-pools would grow and fade through the night. She knew the sounds of the insects, the calls of the little animals that came scrounging for food from the trees, the croaks of the toads and bull frogs that watched her from the flowerbeds and the ditches. She knew the feel of the weathered, splintered wood on the tool shed out back; the sharp, rusty pricks of the barbed wire strung between the rose garden and the fields; the old, rippled skin of the oaks, and the smooth skin of the maples. She caught the scent of Mother's flowers on the breeze, and she knew if they were gardenia or magnolia, rose or lavender. She knew where the blackberries grew, and the honeysuckle, and the ivy. She knew were the darkest groves of the garden were, where as a child, she often went to sit to read or daydream or share secrets with Mona. She knew where the frightening corners of the property were, where she begged not to go when Mother asked her to fetch a bucket or a rake or a spade. She knew where the spider webs were, where the snakes came out, where Mr. Durham's horse would come up to bite you if you stood too close. Home was the only wonderful place Adele knew so well, but tonight, it seemed unfamiliar. Some apple-sweetness of the place had changed to a flavor that reminded her of wine, and she felt as if home had grown away from the child in her and had become a home of men and women. The fantasy was gone--the stories she'd read, the tales she and Mona told, the notion of possibility. Adele walked in the dark all the way down to the road and sat on a tree stump by the mailbox. From there, she could see the strong dot of the porch light, and the house appeared to be peaceful and secure. But inside, Adele's heart still pounded; her skin still burned damp and feverish. The taste of Buddy's mouth on hers lingered and scorched her lips. She could still feel his kisses on her neck, and she dropped her head back, both willing the feeling away and savoring it at the same time. He had been everything she'd never even considered, the way he knelt by her in the rose garden, slipped both his hands into her hair, and took a kiss from her lips. The way he breathed on her and begged her to ask him to stop. The way he tore his hands from her and backed away, his blue eyes flashing, conflicted, but steaming as he could not avert them from Adele. It was she--she who grabbed his hand and led him running through the rose garden, beyond the house, across the fields, and far back into the forest. It was she who took him over the trails that belonged only to her and Buddy and Mona. It was she who pushed aside the old, musty, moth-eaten quilt that covered the entrance to her childhood playhouse. It was she who invited him. Sitting in the dark on the tree stump, Adele lost her breath recalling the unearthly fountain of which she'd partaken. A sash of red hair draped across his bare skin, a ripple in his flesh, a cry as she'd never heard before leaking from his throat. The name "Matthew" did not sound unfamiliar anymore. It did not sound like the name of a Washington man, a man with an older sister and a younger brother in college, the name of a man who visited his mother four times every year. The name "Matthew" belonged to her now, and no matter the cost, there was not a soul from Washington to Roe, Louisiana who could challenge that.

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