Sleeping Beauty by Phillip Margolin Page B

in dark woods, and a crystal chandelier hung over a polished oak table that looked as if it could seat her soccer team.
    Ashley knocked on the kitchen door, and a woman dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt, khaki slacks, and an apron let her in. The woman was in her forties and her brown hair was starting to streak with gray.
    â€œI’m Mandy O’Connor. I cook for Mr. Van Meter. You must be Ashley. Come in.”
    â€œThank you.”
    The kitchen was huge and dominated by a cooking island over which hung racks of copper pots and pans and cooking utensils. To one side was a table already set for two.
    â€œSit down while I fix you something. I can whip up oatmeal, a batch of pancakes, or bacon and eggs with some toast. What would you like?”
    Ashley was ravenous and just the mention of the food made her mouth water.
    â€œBacon, scrambled eggs, and toast sounds great.”
    â€œMilk, coffee, orange juice, tea?”
    â€œOrange juice and milk, please.”
    Ashley sat at the table, where she found a copy of the morning paper. The headline was about a crisis in the Middle East, but there was a story about the manhunt for Joshua Maxfield below the fold. Ashley turned over the paper so she couldn’t see that story and searched for sports. In the back was an article about a summer league soccer playoff. Ashley had been on the winning team last year. She could only read part of it before she had to stop.
    The door connecting the kitchen to the interior of the house opened and Henry Van Meter shuffled in. He was not using his cane, and each step looked tortured. He spotted Ashley and smiled.
    â€œMiss Spencer, welcome,” he said, his speech slurring slightly. “You are joining me for breakfast?”
    Ashley stood. “This is very kind of you, Mr. Van Meter. Thank you for thinking of me.”
    â€œYou have been in my thoughts constantly for the past few days.”
    It seemed to take an eternity for Henry to reach the table. Ashley pulled out his chair and he sat down slowly, with a great effort.
    â€œMy usual, Mandy,” Van Meter said. Then he looked at the page in the sports section that Ashley had been reading.
    â€œYou would be playing today, no?”
    Ashley was surprised that he knew that. She nodded. He patted the back of her hand. His touch was cold.
    â€œYou will play again. You are young, so this tragedy consumes you, you believe that you will be as sad for the rest of your life as you are now, but time will make your pain fade. Trust me. I have suffered tragedies and outlived the pain. Nietzsche said, that which does not kill us makes us strong. I have lived the truth of that philosophy. The strong survive and you are strong.”
    â€œHow can you know that?” she asked.
    â€œThere is one unalterable fact. Life goes on whether we wish it or not. I was wounded in the war, in my leg. Badly wounded. The doctors amputated it.”
    Ashley’s lips parted, her eyes widened. Henry laughed.
    â€œYou are shocked. It’s the right leg below the knee. They do wonderful things with prosthetics nowadays. But back then….” Henry shook his head.
    â€œCan you imagine, twenty-two years old and looking at life as a young man with one leg? What girl would have me? I would be a cripple, the subject of pity. But I woke up one morning and accepted the fact that I was a man with one leg. Some people had bad eyesight, others were uncoordinated or stupid—I had one leg. So be it. I never let my grief overwhelm me again. I rejected self-pity. When I returned home I courted and married the most beautiful and talented woman in Portland society, I improved the business that my father started, I traveled to far-off places instead of sitting in the dark, brooding.” Henry tapped his temple. “It is force of will. You must make your will like iron. It is the only way to conquer life, which can be unremittingly cruel at times.”
    Henry’s words