The nightmare hardly came anymore. Mornings dawned sweet and rested, most mornings. Not this one. The gut-wrenching fear, the prickly sweat tore me from a sound sleep. I slipped from under the covers to the floor panting through the residual panic of the nightmare, hoping I wouldn't wake Harry.

My breathing calmed. I gently lifted my side of the covers and slid between still warm sheets. I lay awake waiting for the time to pass and my nightgown to dry.

"We fly home in three days, Grace. It's time. We can't hide here any longer."

The pain at the thought of home still gripped my heart. It was crazy to think rushing off to another continent would heal me. I feared leaving; afraid that the healing joy I'd felt these past months would vanish if I crossed borders. My mind had created a 'Brigadoon' and now I panicked at the prospect of crossing that bridge back to my life.

"Grace? I said we're leaving in three days. Is there anywhere else you want to visit before we go? Any church jumble you haven't plundered? Any brass rubbings you've missed?"

My husband's attempt at gleaning a smile from me failed miserably. I hated myself for the topsy-turvy emotions that plagued me even during idyllic outings with Harry and his family. They had been patient and loving through these past months.

Harry and I arrived on their doorstep with one day notice and one suitcase. The maniac who once had been Harry's friend, but who had stalked me with deadly intent, had destroyed our home. Harry's parents, William and Dorothy Marsden, swept us into their hearts and life in the blink of an eye. They had readied the entire upstairs for us. We slept in Harry's old room and used his sister's adjacent bedroom as a sitting room. Both rooms had been left as they had been all those years before. Hannah's room still held the fragrance of lavender sachets in the drawers and armoire; Harry's room so typically boy even to his initials carved onto his desktop with his first Swiss army knife, H.N.M., Harry Nicholas Marsden.

Tears welled up in my eyes and my hands sought the comfort of a length of yarn tied to my belt loop. I kept my eyes on my hands while I looped and braided ten series of knots hoping the routine would calm my nerves and give me time to master my emotions.

Harry tipped my chin up and looked into my eyes.

"Pansy purple," he pronounced. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against my cheek.

Even without the tears my mood would have been apparent. My personal physiology reacts to high emotion by changing the color of my eyes from a lavender shade with gold flecks to a deep pansy purple hue. My personal barometer makes it difficult to lie or hide much. Everyone who knows me can read me like a book.

"Gracie, please. We have to put this behind us. We did it once before. We can do it now."

Harry turned his cornflower blue eyes away from my face and glanced out the window past the flower boxes attached to the sills bursting with color and tumbledown charm in the form of Verbena, Petunia, and Celosia. His gaze continued across the neatly manicured lawn to the stone pillars at the macadam road that marked the Marsden entrance.

"It's lovely here, no doubt old girl, but it's not our home. We need to make peace with where we belong. Only way for that to happen is to go home, Gracie. And what about those job offers? People are waiting on you, love." He teased me now. "You would make a wonderful event planner. Ask your family. Your brothers told me you were always planning their lives."

Harry's emphasis on planning brought a smile to my face as I remembered the countless birthday parties, prom parties, school events that I had planned and participated in with the reluctant help of my brothers.

"Even Barb sent you a letter about joining her on some project."

Our neighbor in Pine Marsh had mailed me a notice about a position for an event planner/marketing designer for a Naperville PR firm that would be handling a big event in Lisle for their Depot Days celebration. Barb as vice president of the Heritage Society, the group hiring the PR firm, had already talked me up with the firm.

"Yeah, everyone thinks I ought to get a job. Even Karen suggested I look into teaching a writing class at Trinity. Does my unemployed status annoy people?" I was being facetious since my full time job was writing children's books. I had finished the fourth in my "Mick the Monster" series shortly before our lives had been slammed into the Twilight Zone by a maniac bent on revenge.

"People care about you. They love you. I love you. That's why we need to go home.

"Why? We can stay here, not this house, but in Arundel or maybe Bath. We could open a bookstall on the river. You were a publisher in England before, you can do it again. Or you could finish writing your book on plants. Plants are better here. Roses, you could grow wonderful roses here."

Harry placed two fingers against my lips to halt the torrent of wishful thinking spewing from my mouth. I took his hand in mine and kissed the top. His hands had been burned in the explosion that damaged our house.

They had healed remarkably well especially after we arrived in Arundel. A great aunt, Mildred, knew a lady friend who bottled the most marvelous honey from healing bees. I scoffed at the story. Harry's response had been different. My cosmopolitan husband listened and followed her instructions. It was imperative that he travel with her to the hives and thank the bees for their help. I stood in amazement as my world traveled, high tech gadget guy, agreed to drive an hour then walk the three miles to the recluse's cottage to thank the bees. Harry told me the bee lady knew the honey would work because the bees 'voices' grew hearty in the hive when Harry thanked them.

Those bees deserved Harry's heartfelt thanks and mine too. Within weeks of using the honey salve, the tops of his hands had grown smooth and supple. The tightness and pain he had lived with had lessened.

"I want to go back to the bee lady and thank her bees." I looked up at Harry and tried a true smile.

"I've already thanked them, darling."

"I want to thank them for helping you and I want to ask her if I can thank her in advance for someone else." I stood up and walked to the window. With my back to Harry I lobbed my request over my shoulder. "Karen sent me a note on things back home. She mentioned that Ric is still in rehab. The department is forcing him to retire on full disability. She says the therapy isn't going well; so much scar tissue. I thought I'd bring home the honey for him to try."

Ric Kramer, my best friend's brother, had been injured in the same blast that hurt Harry. Ric owed his life to Harry. An awkward balance since Ric and I had once been close. Each time Ric reentered my life my marriage seemed to suffer from the encounter. I now mentioned Ric for the first time in three months. I felt I needed to act now. I turned to catch Harry's reaction.

"Of course we'll bring him the honey. I'll ring Aunt Mildred this morning and arrange the outing. Wait until you see the bee lady, Gracie. It's like she's from another time; like when those Druids you're so fond of telling me I'm related to ran amok."

He left the room to call his aunt from the kitchen, the only room in his parents' home with a telephone. Harry's good humor at my suggestion surprised me. The line from the Snoopy comic strip ran through my head, 'You're a good man, Charlie Brown.' A good man indeed. Six foot tall, a trim, athletic build, blond hair streaked platinum from summer sun, and a dazzling smile. A young Roger Moore, of the Simon Templar era, my friends had decided when I first met Harry. His crystal cut English accent nailed their choice.

Harry walked toward me from the kitchen. "Aunt Mildred says we can motor out there tomorrow with her. She'd like a visit with Morgana."

"The bee lady's name is Morgana? Wasn't she Merlin's nemesis?"

"I'm joking, darling. Her name is Maeve Flood. Thought 'Morgana' would amuse you."

My husband's sense of humor still escaped me at times.

"Maeve? Doesn't sound like an English bee lady. I thought her name would be something like Hyacinth or Minerva."

"I think it's a perfect name for her; a touch exotic for the English recluse. She's one of those 'inner sight' people, according to Aunt Mildred," he added. "Some people think she's a bit odd, talking to the bees and all, but I found her charming. She was thrilled to find out I lived in America; asked more questions about Pine Marsh than a realtor. Said she'd always wanted to visit Illinois; don't know if she was being kind or casting for an invitation for lodging. I told her to contact us through Aunt Mildred if she ever made plans. Wait 'til you meet her; she's going to absolutely eat you up."

Harry's infectious smile didn't touch my heart. I kept thinking about the fairy tale Hansel and Gretel and the witch in the woods.

"I told Aunt Mildred what you wanted to do. She thought that refreshingly generous of you. She doesn't think your thanks will be enough, but the honey will still help somewhat." Harry's face grew somber. "Maeve told her before that only the person who needs the healing or someone who loves that person can thank the bees."

I'm certain my eyes flared purple as I realized what Harry implied. The mere mention of Ric a few minutes earlier had wedged him between us again. I felt guilty for feeling that I qualified. "I'll be sincere and hope for the best with the bees."

"Don't worry. I'm certain the bees will hum beautifully for you."

His quiet voice reminded me again that he has never felt truly certain of my heart of hearts since that time so many years ago when I found comfort in another man's arms and heart. After being told that Harry was dead; I had turned to Ric.

"Harry, please. Then you thank the bees. You saved his life. That should count for something with the damn bees." My voice faltered.

"Don't insult them or they won't help no matter how much you uh, care for the good Inspector Kramer. They may have scouts sucking nectar from the petunias, checking you out." Harry waved his hand toward the window box where a bee busily visited each bloom.

My husband's mood shifted as quickly as a stray cloud across a beaming sun. His mood swings had swelled and crested about eighteen months after his 'return from the grave.' The doctors had warned me and his family that his mind was trying to balance itself from the horror he'd been through after a South American gang he was trying to break kidnapped him. Harry had lived a different life before our marriage; a life I didn't suspect until he disappeared on a 'business' trip to Rio de Janeiro.

I recognized this adjustment and decided not to belabor the point. "All right then. Let's sneak past their sentry into the kitchen and put some lunch together for a picnic. I'd like to walk to the ruins you showed me last month."

"Excellent idea."

"What's an excellent idea?" Dorothy Marsden walked into the room from the kitchen.

"Good morning, mum." Harry planted a dutiful kiss on his mother's cheek. Dorothy beamed at her son. She appeared to have grown more animated and younger with each passing day since our arrival. Her soft gray eyes gleamed and her gentle mouth seemed less pursed. Dorothy wore her silver hair in a soft chin-length bob. Even her hair shimmered as though lit from within with its own light source.

I knew my presence wasn't the cause of her metamorphosis. Harry's effect wasn't limited to his mother. William Marsden seemed to also have strengthened in his son's presence. William had suffered a heart attack several years earlier, when the erroneous news of his son's death had reached him. Each time we visited since Harry's rescue, William had seemed buoyed by the time we spent with them. This visit had lasted much longer. I'm sure they felt as though their son had moved back home.

"Gracie and I are planning a walk to the ruins." He smiled at his mother. "First, we are planning to cop the Edam, sourdough, pickles, and a tiny bit of that sausage we bought in Bath. And some fruit. Those pears from the market. And the cherries. They were sweet. Anything for you?" He arched an eyebrow in my direction.

I laughed at his bill of fare. Harry could snack all day and never gain an ounce. I came from a corned beef and pasta genetic coupling. My mother's lean, Irish genes were most apparent in three of my brothers. My father's Morelli genes settled in me and my older brother Mike Jr. He looked exactly like our father. We always pushed away from the Morelli tavola well before our siblings Joseph, Glen, and Marty.

"I thought you'd want to enjoy the day outdoors so I had Mary pack a hamper for you. You'd best check if the pickles are in there." Dorothy's soft voice filled with warmth as her maternal instincts were satisfied.

Mary, a local lady who worked in the neighborhood for several older couples, would come in and do housework and some cooking. She had been a godsend when William had first become ill.

"Pickles are gone. Ate the last one last night," William Marsden said from the front porch. Posed in front of the window box, he looked every inch the English Cottage Gardener. For the umpteenth time I wished for my camera.

Dorothy chided him. "Then you've eaten half a jar of pickles, William, cause that's what I put up after supper. Your blood pressure will be sky high and I won't be rushing you off to hospital when you faint away."

"Nonsense, I'm fit. I have this minute returned from a brisk walk into town and back. I've been to the chemist. They've one of those blood pressure machines. Took my turn. 132 over 80. Shows what you know."

He certainly did look fit. William Marsden, at seventy something, looked like an older version of Harry or rather Harry a younger version of William. He was not quite as tall as his son, but every bit as ramrod straight. At his age, his build was trim and his bright blue eyes as clear as a mountain stream. I smiled as I recognized Harry thirty odd years from now.

"Sorry, son. I left those olives Hannah always sends. Don't care for them myself. Don't know why she keeps sending them."

"I'd best check to see what else you've devoured. Your appetite hasn't been this hearty in years. I'll have to remind Mary to buy an extra hen for tonight's supper." Dorothy finished her sentence more to herself as she bustled into the kitchen.

"Your mother loves fussing over the two of you. She's planning some sort of dinner tomorrow night for the only people left in Arundel who haven't met you, Grace." William stepped into the room and removed his lightweight fedora. His close-cropped gray hair bore the slight indentation of his hatband. He ran his hand over his hair. "Come to think, that dinner is a surprise. Your mother will have my hide if she finds out I let it slip. Be surprised when she tells you. There's a good pair. I'd best be back to my chores." He smiled as he turned to leave.

William's chores, I had discovered, consisted of walking their Yorkie, Duncan and puttering in his vegetable garden. I vowed to follow him around and take pictures of his garden. My dad planted a garden every year. I'd have to show him people plant things other than tomatoes, bell peppers, Melrose peppers, sport peppers, zucchini, and eggplant.

A thought occurred to me. "You haven't told them we're leaving, have you?"

"Not yet. I didn't want to spoil the fun they're having fussing over us. I was going to try to tell them tonight."

"Try to tell them? We're leaving in three days, Harry. I thought I was the last to know."

"I've had a hell of a time telling anyone. I knew you'd be nervous about going home and I knew they'd be disappointed that we're leaving. We have to go home."

It almost sounded like a question. I shook my head in resignation. "Yes, we have to go home. We'll tell them tonight after supper, but before your mom starts playing the piano and we all start singing. I couldn't do it then."

"Agreed." Harry put his arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head. I snuggled into his arms.

A good man indeed.

A loud crash from the kitchen broke the mood and our embrace.