The Saint by Kathleen O`Brien Page B

house, and yet it was near enough that Claire could have reached out and picked one of its delicate white clusters of flowers, which looked so much like lily of the valley.
    Through its branches, she could almost see into the third-floor windows of Kieran’s house next door. She could have stayed there, of course—it was plenty big enough. But Aurora wouldn’t hear of it. It might be the twenty-first century, with a whole new social-moral code, but in Aurora York’s world it was still completely unacceptable for a young woman to spend an unchaperoned night under her fiancé’s roof.
    The houses were so close, however, that it was almost a technicality. Here, just blocks from the center of town, even the mansions rubbed elbows with one another. It wasn’t until you got several milesoutside Heyday that you found the old farms and plantations, many of them run-down and abandoned.
    Kieran’s house, on the other hand, had been maintained like the architectural jewel it was. It was a classic Federal-period mansion, painted a creamy coffee color with white accents on column and cornice. Deep-brown shutters flanked each window, matching the front door and roof.
    On the street side, the house was serenely simple. Its front porch was narrow but elegant, with Ionic columns rising to a formal, filigreed cornice. Looking down at it now, Claire could hardly believe she had found the courage to mount that porch last night and ring that intimidating bell.
    From this vantage point, she had her first glimpse of the beauty behind the house, away from the prying eyes of solicitors, tourists and envious nobodies.
    In the long, narrow backyard a geometric sculpted garden drew intricate patterns of greenery around an oval swimming pool. A tiny octagonal summerhouse, flowers winding through its latticed walls, anchored the far end of the formal garden. Just far enough from the main house to be perfect for assignations.
    But that wasn’t all. Behind the summerhouse, an overgrown flagstone path led to one last shady alcove, where she could just glimpse a wrought-iron bench and a trickling fountain between the drooping branches of a weeping willow.
    Secrets behind secrets. This was where the real lives were played out, hidden behind the placid facades these eighteenth-century mansions presented to the street. Claire wondered what it would be like togo beneath the surface. To enter those secret gardens, to learn the private truths behind the public faces.
    â€œAh, you are up!” Aurora knocked once at the bedroom door, then entered without waiting for an answer.
    Claire turned from the window and smiled.
    â€œYes,” she said. “Finally. I’m sorry to have slept so late. I can’t imagine what got into me.”
    â€œToo much excitement.” Aurora had brought a tray with her, and she put it on one of the tables in the room. It seemed to be loaded down with fruit and cheese and sandwiches. “People forget that even thrilling changes are stressful. I told Kieran that when he showed up this morning. Let her be, I said. She’s sleeping, and she’s going to stay sleeping. Go bother someone else.”
    Claire smiled. Imagine anyone talking like that to a McClintock. Kieran said Aurora had been like a grandmother to him. Apparently he hadn’t been kidding. “How did he take it? What did he say?”
    â€œHe said I was an infuriating old tyrant, which is true, of course, and he said to tell you that he had to go out of town to talk to somebody about something, I forget exactly what, something about Anderson’s will, I think. Stupid will, bringing in that bastard son after all this time. Anderson never breathed a word to me about it, I’ll tell you. If he had, I would have given him a piece of my mind.”
    Aurora waved her hand at the tray. “So, what are you waiting for? Eat up. You’re too skinny.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” Claire sat down next to the