Memory's Embrace by Linda Lael Miller

photographs, which Olivia had mooned over for hours on end, Derora would have called him homely, in fact.
    A tall, cadaverously thin man stood near the parlor fireplace, wearing a somber but well-made suit. His arms appeared too long, his hands were positively matted with dark hair to match the thick thatch on his head.
    “May I help you?” Derora ventured, testy from the pain in her ankle and the loss of the reward the Corbin family was offering for the return of their lost sheep.
    The man turned and Derora knew a moment of jarring surprise. Bleak brown eyes studied her from beneath bushy black brows, set on a gaunt, almost skeletal face. Dear heaven, but that fellow did resemble—who did he resemble?
    “I seek Miss Olivia Bishop, please,” he said, “My name is—”
    Derora recognized him and wondered how on earth such a man could have fathered a beauty like Tess, won such lasting devotion from her scatter-brained but devastatingly attractive sister. “Asa Thatcher,” Derora broke in.
    A slight nod was offered, followed by a weary sigh that suggested constant, fathomless pain. “I have traveled a good many miles, madam,” he said. Abraham Lincoln, that was who he looked like. Abraham Lincoln. “Tell me, please, where I might find my—where I might find Miss Bishop.”
    Derora bore no particular rancor toward this man. She felt that Olivia, by dallying with a married man, had gotten pretty much what she deserved. But she took a certain pleasure in answering, “I’m afraid I have distressing news for you, Mr. Thatcher. My poor, dear sister has been confined to an asylum for some years now.”
    Asa looked as though he’d been struck a shattering blow. He braced himself against the mantelpiece withone arm and lowered his head for a moment. Dear Lord in heaven. What had bright, laughing, beautiful Olivia seen in this dreary fellow?
    “Where?” he rasped finally. “Where is this—this place where they keep my Livie?”
    The emotion in his voice gave Derora pause. She had always assumed that he had toyed with her sister, used her. Not once had she considered the possibility that he might return the tiresome sentiment that Olivia had borne for him. “The hospital is called Harbor Haven, and it is in Portland. I can give you the address if you’ll give me a moment to look it up in my—my accounts.”
    Asa Thatcher was no fool, that was clear. He caught Derora’s implication, subtle as it had been. “You’ve paid for Livie’s care, then?”
    No need to mention that Tess had, in effect, worked for the money. After what that little chit had done, why make her look good to her neglectful father? “Yes,” she said evenly, “and I don’t mind telling you that that care has been costly indeed, Mr. Thatcher. And then, of course, there was your daughter—”
    The homely man brightened visibly; the mention of Tess seemed to renew him somehow. “My daughter She is here, at least?”
    “I regret to tell you that Tess has—has left us.”
    Asa swayed, paled. “Left you?” he echoed, in hollow tones.
    “Oh, my dear man—I’m sorry.” Derora hastened to approach her guest, take his skinny arm in her own. “I didn’t mean that our Tess had departed this earthly life! She’s well.” She maneuvered the shaken man toward a chair, into which he fell gratefully. “I merely meant to say that—well—she’s run off. With a man.”
    Asa covered his scarecrow face with one gaunt, bony hand, and his sigh was a hoarse one. “Does she love this fellow?”
    Derora went to the sideboard and took a decanter of brandy from among the porcelain shepherdesses and framed photographs that cluttered its top. She poured a generous portion and handed the glass to her guest. With a sigh of her own, she sank into a chair facing Mr. Thatcher’s. “Tess has—will you forgive me—a way with men. She quite bewitched this peddler and—”
    “Peddler?!” rasped Asa Thatcher, with startling spirit. “My Tess, my beautiful