My favorite thing about G.G. Vandagriff’s ‘The Hidden Branch’ is that it doesn’t try to take itself too seriously. The character of Briggie is as fun as her name sounds. She’s a senior lady who lands in jail more than once, yet none of her friends seem nonplussed by the news. And even though the story is whimsical at times, there is some serious action and intrigue. There are plenty of characters, which means plenty of suspects and plenty of reasons to keep turning pages. If you read my review of ‘Last Waltz’ you know that I think Vandagriff is one of the best authors around. ‘The Hidden Branch’ shows that she’s able to adapt to multiple genres with amazing skill.

Do you want a fun read with lots of intrigue that has sleuthing by two wonderful main characters who would rival Agatha Christie’s Poirot? Well I’ve found it in G.G. Vandagriff’s book The Hidden Branch.

This book is just plain fun! Not only does the mystery of the novel twist and turn, but so does your heart as you follow the characters and worry over them. My heart sank when Charles, Alex’s fiancé, has to leave to go to his dying mother. Though I hadn’t read the previous book in the series, which showed the struggle of these two lovebirds getting together, that didn’t stop me from rooting for them to maintain their love. (I’m going to have to read the other books in the series now. Thanks, G.G.) You’ll have to read The Hidden Branch to find out if Charles comes back, and if Alex’s love for him will survive as she works with Briggie to solve this murder mystery.
Grab a warm blanket, a cup of cocoa, and curl up on the couch for this delightful tale.

GG:  When I visited you last summer and you were so gracious to offer me bed and breakfast, etc. during my Idaho Signing Trip, I became aware you are possessed with more talents than the average person dreams of:  You are an accomplished speaker (EFY, keynote presenter, workshop facilitator, etc.), you are a musical composer, arranger and piano recording artist, you sing (and have done so professionally), you are a published author with books targeted for youth, you are a weekly Meridian columnist, and you understand and use the cyber world for public relations and are able to teach others how to stage PR campaigns.  You are a professional creativity consultant.  I’m sure I’ve missed something.  What is it?
C.S.: Well, for a time I did professional theater … and loved it, I might add. But truly the most meaningful activity of any has been to be a wife and a mother. THAT I’ve found to be the most challenging, yet rewarding experience of them all.

GG:  How do you decide which gift to focus on with your limited time when you have three very active children?
C.S.: That "limited time" question is one we all face, isn’t it—for each child of God has unique talents and they are meant to be used. How do we then engage in the gifts God has given us, yet not short-change our family? I’ve struggled with this. There was a time when my kids were living off of pizza nightly. It had gotten so regular the Domino’s delivery boy knew my family and I had my 16-digit driver’s license number memorized to write those dinner checks!

I don’t think the answer to limited time comes easily. Yet I’ve discovered that if you’re NOT using your gifts, there is an inescapable awareness that travels incessantly with you. I really do believe we promised to do certain things once we arrived here on earth. I believe it is why we each have unique talents so we can first bless our family and then mankind.

For me now those “Domino days” are long gone. I wish they’d never existed. At one point, I chose to quit everything that didn’t pertain to my children. But I had a potent dream that showed me I was to focus on both family and talents. So I’ve since discovered the answer to “limited time” (for me, at least). I now “create” early in the morning before the demands of the day heat up. As a result, I feel a sense of peaceful “discharge” that lasts throughout each day. I’m able fully to focus on my children during the remaining hours and make far more nutritious meals. It has been a tremendously freeing experience!

You asked which gift I focus on and how do I figure that out? It’s usually determined by which deadline I face! But I’m learning to wrest some of that back into personal choice.

One of the other most impactful things I’ve done is to allow joy a presence in my life. I used to feel guilty when I felt joy. Call me whacked, but I struggled for some time to allow a lightness of spirit into my life, especially during the use of my talents. I think, though, there is a surprising amount of people who also struggle with this.

Yet the good news of the gospel really is in knowing Christ paid for us and that we are allowed to feel lightness of spirit. Joy usually comes while serving others. The more I’ve spent time reading my scriptures, the more 2 Nephi 2 (http://scriptures.lds.org/en/2_ne/2/25#25) has hit home. It’s helped me realize God gives gifts SO we can serve others, whether that’s making a delicious chicken soup for someone ill or writing a transcendent symphony. It is urgent we each develop our own talents and use them to brighten an ever-darkening world. It is a truth: the world needs your talents to lift and renew hope.

GG:  What is your favorite gift or talent?

C.S.: Wow, what delightfully tough questions! That’s akin to asking which child is the favorite? For me, though, I do love being able to create a mood in a room through my music. I love being able to weave a fabric of sound that moves in and through all present, making us one in the moment. I also love doing the same on stage as an actress, creating little segments of space that escape time’s clutches and live on for months, if not years. Yet I love presenting through either written word or keynote speeches, probably for the same reason. I guess in summary, each gift when used to broaden a life, or to enlarge hope, is the same: it’s being used to renew those who may have lost faith.

GG: How did you discover how gifted you were?

C.S.: Hmmm, I’m not sure if I can answer that. Simply for the reason I never felt I was gifted. I do remember singing at the top of my lungs when I was five while on a swing in my backyard. Pity the neighbors as I toyed with composing (at full voice) to express my feelings for the day! It was during that season in my life I discovered I expressed myself better through art than simply by living like other kids. I often felt lonely; losing myself through creating or reading the dictionary or writing radio plays brought comfort. I think it’s that early loneliness that helps me understand on a deep level the loneliness, longing, or “lostness” that others feel. The arts became my early playground, even while my friends were getting healthy by jumping from jungle gyms! But am I really gifted? Not sure about that. I sometimes think “gifted is as gifted does.” :0)

GG:  What advice can you give other people about discovering their gifts/talents?

C.S.: Ahh, this is a subject I really love. I’ve always felt more “juice” helping others develop their gifts (no matter how latent or undiscovered) than helping myself. It is why I opened my consulting business at MakeYourLifeSomethingBeautiful.com. I just really thrill to help others discover their potential … to help them find why they’ve been sent to earth “for a time such as this”. In truth, it is precisely that phrase from Esther 4:14 http://scriptures.lds.org/en/esth/4/14#14 that drives me to do what I do when coaching other people. I want them to discover why they’ve been placed on this earth, at this time, in the family they have. There is a reason and I love helping others find it.

GG:  Is there anything you wish you had done differently?

C.S.: Yes, yes, yes! I wish I had understood several things MUCH earlier: that none of us are meant to replicate another’s talents or life. We are here to stand for who we uniquely are. I wish I’d understood I didn’t need to apologize for who I was. I wish I’d learned to love myself earlier. I wish I’d learned it is alright simply to be me and to create what *I* was meant to create, instead of feeling so lost. It’s why I now seek to help others find a short cut to their dreams. I took an awfully long way around!

GG:  Once someone has discovered they have a particular ability, how do they go about developing it in this busy world?  Do they have an obligation to try to do this?

C.S.: You ask such wise questions, GG! Discovering gifts is a multi-layered process. And that process is found in one word: DO. You must get out there and DO things to discover #1 where your joy is found, and #2 what interests you enough to keep working at it. One of my students discovered an immense talent with guitar. But as I told her, without effort her talent still would remain hidden.

One of the best indicators of a God-given gift is the feeling of joy. Do you feel joyful doing it? Do you feel a sense of time fading away during the activity? If so, you may very well have found an activity that is your “Esther 4:14” purpose (or at least one of them).

As to whether or not people have an obligation to develop and use their talents to bless others, this is between each person and God. But can you imagine returning home to those heavenly halls, not having used one gift to uplift another during your sojourn on this earth? Esther experienced a newly found gift of courage; what will yours or any of ours be? We can only know by seeking.

I think therein lies the answer whether or not to get busy—in balanced fashion—discovering, developing and using talents. When we move into the higher mode expressed in the thought, “Each One Reach One,” I feel this is when the true essence of 2 Nephi 2:25 is discovered.

Editor’s Note:. To learn more how you too can develop your unique set of gifts, visit http://www.MakeYourLifeSomethingBeautiful.com.

Since this is the week of Thanksgiving, it is fitting that I should have an experience that makes me extremely grateful for my health and for modern medicine.  As most of my readers know, I had a complete hip replacement last May.  I am still not completely recovered and it was one of if not the most painful thing in my life.  It beat natural childbirth (times 3) and kidney stones.  So, imagine my feelings when two days ago my other hip “went.”   During our trip to Florence, we walked everywhere and I was in constant pain.  I guess I overdid it, but anyone who knows me, knows that isn’t unusual.  I have a high pain tolerance and manage to make it through most things of a physical nature.  However, it’s not necessarily good for or respectful to your body, so it certainly doesn’t count as a virtue.

I couldn’t get into the doctor until today.  Over the weekend, I was certain I was in for another round of surgery without pain killers (I’m allergic) that would make it impossible for me to write my planned novel on Florence before the deadline (Apr 1).  I anticipated an extremely painful cruise to Greece which I might be better off cancelling, and didn’t know how I was going to take care of my coming grandchild.  By far the worst risk to my well-being is my mental health which was taking quite a hit imagining all that pain.

However, I prayed anyway.  I prayed that somehow this would all go away. 

When I went to see Dr. Jackson, he took x-rays and was extremely puzzled.  There appeared to be nothing wrong with my hip at all.  He referred me to a back doctor, because he had never seen such a bad back (severe scoliosis).  The back doctor said that the problem was definitely in my hips and has scheduled me for a shot in the hip joint tomorrow which should take away my pain.

No surgery this time!  The mystery isn’t solved, but I’ve been given a very great blessing.  I still can’t believe it.  I have never realized what a blessing it is to be able to work.  I am so so grateful that I will not be having surgery next week.  I’m so grateful that the Lord has provided for me to be able to go on with my work, my plans, and the chance to be with my daughter when she  has her new baby.

I can’t possibly express how grateful I am for these blessings.  Thank you, Lord.

I am going to be a grandmother again!  Jack has waited nearly four years for a sibling!  We got to see an ultrasound picture, and the child looks like a kidney bean with little tiny armbuds.  He /She is only 7 weeks old.

Delivery is expected June 15! 

I just booked a cruise yesterday to the Greek Isles (of course we will visit Florence first) that embarks on May 15, after being assured that our cruise insurance will cover cancellation due to early delivery of the munchkin!

It looks like I will need to stay with my daughter for about a month in order to keep Jack entertained, since he is such an interactive child and Buffy will need her rest. 

My book deadline for Crazy Ladies of Oakwood: Volume One-The Tuscan Escapade is April 1st, and it will come out in the fall, so it looks like everything will be neatly slotted into place.  (That makes me nervous–something is bound to go wrong!).

Embracing Abundance is with Covenant.  Am hoping it will come out this summer!

How can one book be so many contradictory things? A book about some fairly famous people by Anne Bradshaw on Family Nights. You will laugh out loud at some of the entries, find some great ideas to spice things up at your house, stop feeling guilty about your FHE "failures," and be inspired by the long-term effects of living with this commandment.

Anne is seriously connected with a lot of people, all of whom it seems have a story to share on this topic. It would make a perfect gift, especially for families with teen-agers or children who won’t stay still!

The only beef I have with the book is not Anne’s fault. I think CFI should have given her a better cover. It must have been a hard choice, but I don’t think a cartoon superhero does justice to the scope of the book. So don’t let the cover scare you away. Read a few of the entries and you will know you have to have this book!

The Last Waltz is being read in 3 book clubs that I know of in January: 2 in Colorado and 1 in California. I had nothing to do with setting these up, other than putting a book club page on TLW website (http://last-waltz.com). The book lends itself to book clubs really well because when people finish it, they always seem to want to talk to someone about it.

In order to encourage more book club selection of The Last Waltz, I am offering a wonderful prize: A very trendy 75% cashmere 25% silk scarf/shawl purchased by me in my recent trip to Florence! All you have to do is get your book club to schedule Last Waltz for 2010 and be the first to do so! Then let me know! I’ll have some consolation prizes for those of you not so quick off the mark. The deadline is Nov 30. I love to participate in Book Clubs by speaker phone, if this is something you would like.  If you live on the Wasatch Front, I have been known to visit in person (unless you want to say bad things about the book!)

When I asked for votes on the order my characters should appear in The Crazy Ladies of Oakwood: Part One–The Florentine Escapade (or Escapade in Tuscany?) I was amazed to find that every single respondent chose McKenzie as the first character to be presented.  The really odd thing about it is that each of my characters work out their own particular craziness in one of the four volumes of the series.  McKenzie is the one I chose (after I wrote the opening chapters) to find herself in Volume One!  So all that works out logically, even if I didn’t see it!

Herc (aka David) and I put off watching NCIS last night long enough to talk over the basics of each woman’s adventures. He is absolutely the best co-conspirator there is.  Witness his magnificent photography. Of course, as the ladies add their two cents, the plot will evolve and change into something as close to real as I can make it.

Thanks to everyone who took the time to read the chapters and advise me!  (See last post if you have no idea what I’m talking about).  Your input was great!

Please, please comment on what order I should introduce these characters to make the book enticing.  I will use all my influence to name my coming grandchild after you.  Any other comments will be appreciated.  Please look past the editing.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

R O X I E

At first, it just seemed just like any other day. Roxie Castro stretched in bed, relishing the warmth of her duvet on this first morning of fall. Edged with scarlet, the maple leaves outside her bedroom window were preparing for their annual show of florescent orange-red, and the air was nippy. This was Arroz Habaniera weather. Roxie could taste her mother’s favorite fall dish, even as she felt the little bead of warmth in her breast that always accompanied waking up in Oakwood, Ohio—the furthest place spiritually from Little Havana that she could have found.

Then she remembered, and the bead of warmth turned into a knot below her breastbone. This was the day she had been dreading for a month. Group therapy, of all things. She was the happiest person she knew. Why did she need therapy?

Sighing heavily, she threw back the covers, pulled on her purple fleece bathrobe, and went through the archway between her bedroom and her office to check her e-mail. She loved her office. Formerly a sleeping porch, some previous owner had made it into a sunroom, replacing the screens with windows.

"Buenos Dias, Benito, caro, amor de mi vida!" she crooned to her cardinal, perched in the magnolia just outside her second story office. She and Benito had a relationship. As far as she knew, he was unacquainted with her doppleganger, Jennifer Lopez, and accepted Roxie for herself. After greeting her every morning, chirping and fluffing his wings, he flitted off to tend his daily duties. A perfect example of the male of the species., as far as she had encountered it in her thirty years.

Nothing had come in overnight on her e-mail, except a statement from her grandfather’s accountant, a shrunken little Jewish man whose grandfather Salvatore Castro had entrusted with his fortune after his flight from Cuba in the fifties. She schooled herself to pay attention to it. Even though she was Salvatore’s youngest granddaughter, she had received a large inheritance. Because of the plunge on Wall Street, Aaron was moving all her money into Treasuries and Money Market accounts. Her balance was still healthy, though the plunge had cost her about fifty thousand dollars. She knew Aaron would work his wizardry and get the money back. Though in his seventies, he was sharp as a new razor blade. Besides, aside from her spur of the moment trips to faraway places, she didn’t touch her inheritance. Once she had paid cash for her dream home—a truly American white-framed house set in its forest of trees, she had had no trouble living within the limits of her salary from the university.

Time for breakfast. Donning her purple fleece robe, Making her she made her way downstairs, . Roxie drew comfort from adored her kitchen. She had painted it the warm gold of Tuscany with white cabinets and tile floor. As she sipped her orange herb tea and tried to eat her morning dose of homemade granola, she attacked her dread by mentally mapping her day. Perhaps there would there be time to see William before she had to be at Dr Hilliard’s office?. hospital? Just a flying visit, to see how his weekend went? Her watch told her she needed to hurry, but she could make it.

After a quick shower, she put on her Halloween scrubs. She wore them a size larger than she needed and they pooled dangerously over her Nikes. William was always telling her she needed to get proper clothes in their proper size or her students would think she was one of them. And even though he was her boss, at UD, as long as the Provost didn’t complain about her unconventional dress, she was sticking with her scrubs. It kept the grabbers away. Though, she had to confess, she hadn’t had a single grabber since she moved to Oakwood two years ago. Only the occasional leer.

William looked up from the New York Times when she came through his office door. His severe face, too lined and hard for his forty years, broke into the rare smile that changed his face from saturnine to wistful. "Roxie! I didn’t expect to see you this morning. I thought you had an appointment."

"I do. But I came for some of your courage. Isn’t it ridiculous? I’m terrified everyone’s going to think I’m a pole dancer."

The Her journalism department head laughed, a thing she prided herself on being able to make him do. "Not in that getup! You look like a sixth grader with your braids."

She turned her back to him, so he wouldn’t catch her staring at his beautiful hands—long, tapered, and graceful, they gave a clue that his touch would be tender and caressing. She could almost feel it. Pretending to and pretended to inspect the gilt frame of his degree, she read:. William Niederhauser, Ph.D., Medill School of Journalism, Northwestern University. Did he really see her as a sixth grader? Possibly with a schoolgirl crush?

"Tell me, William," she said, spinning around to face him again. "I’ve always wondered. Why University of Dayton? You’re a nationally syndicated columnist. Why not Georgetown or Columbia?"

"When I had my accident," he said, indicating his wheelchair, "I nearly died. Marjorie was gone. All I had left was little Bill." He, too, looked at his degree. "I used to be ambitious, but after I was well enough to go home to Bill and realize how traumatized he was, I decided that Oakwood had to be our home. It’s the only thing he has left of her. I can do my job quite well from here."

"Hmm," she replied, looking into his hooded blue eyes. Under his stare, she felt herself growing hot. He saw way too much. He probably knew that she wanted to kiss that quirky mouth with a tenderness that would make up for his losses. She could do tender with a paralyzed man. "I guess it’s time for me to get going."

"Courage, ma petite," he said, with a gentle smile.

She saluted him smartly, hoping to disguise her feelings. "Hasta luego, hombre."

Driving the short distance through Oakwood to the hospital in Kettering, she surveyed her safe little town with its storybook trees and mansions while keeping carefully to the speed limit. Her friend had been given a speeding ticket for bicycling over twenty-five miles per hour, and all speeding tickets were published in the Oakwood Register along with the speeder’s age. The latter fact clearly kept drivers in line. Did William read the Oakwood paper? Maybe it was worth a speeding ticket to make him realize she was thirty. Plenty old enough to know her own mind.be involved with a forty-year old man.

She passed the town library, a sturdy faux-European whimsy set in its brilliant green lawn. Inside, it smelled like the best university libraries, and its librarians all had Ph.D.’s. Its book group was currently reading all of Anne Tyler and Roxie was behind in her assignments. It was not because she was a slow reader, but because she read the same passages over and over, trying to understand Tyler’s mind. Her margins were covered with notes. Maggie in Breathing Lessons was her favorite character, probably because she never counted the cost, but always rushed in to grab the reins in a futile attempt to steer the chaos of life.

Roxie knew she was a reins-grabber. All the Castros were. Witness Cousin Fidel.

When she had slid into love with William, she had, at first, visions of taking him to Lourdes and healing him in the magic waters, or better yet using her fortune to fund stem cell research that would enable his spinal cord to regenerate. But, then she wondered if perhaps she had only allowed the slide because he was paralyzed. Their relationship was set to exist only within the bounds of her imagination.

What was wrong with her?

G E O R G I A

It was the middle of the night when Georgia Todd rolled over when the alarm rang and wrapped her head in her goosedown pillow. As usual, she had been awakened by a phantom Ben reaching over to caress her. Before she could plunge into mourning, she She tried to grab hold of her dream again. She had been paragliding in Utah, the updraft from the Wasatch mountains carrying her magically above the changing colors on the valley floor. Utah Lake was silver, the morning glinting off it like a sun on a mirror.

Squinching her eyes, she tried to grasp at that free Georgia Todd who had left all the trappings of her widowhood ordinariness on the ground and was defying gravity. Like she used to, when her career had carried her into the stratosphere.

Time to get up, you lazy slug.

The last wisps of freedom fled, and Georgia wondered as she did every night when she awoke in the small hours what she could do until morning came. Needlework was, of course, out of the question. Going through her usual list of possibilities and rejecting each of them, she finally did what she knew she would do from the instant she woke.

Georgia turned on the light and got her scrapbook of newspaper clippings out from under her bed. She spent the next two hours until dawn visiting all the capitals of Europe. She recalled clearly every event that had occurred back in the days when she had had no inkling that her life could change so drastically. What was she doing, stuck here in Oakwood, Ohio? This was not her world.

what she was going to do with the next twelve hours before she could take her next sleeping pill. When dawn became morning, she heaved herself out of her king sized bed. She had something scheduled today. this morning. What was it? Remembering, she groaned. She’d have to put on her armor. No lounging around in her sweats today.

Getting out of bed, she grabbed her Christian Dior white satin robe. Ben had liked to see her in Christian Dior. But the robe hadn’t been washed in awhile. Perhaps she’d get one of those luxurious spa robes that swallowed you with yummy warmth after a full body massage.

She hadn’t been to the spa since Ben’s death. Her eyelash extensions were completely gone, the bottoms of her feet were like emery boards, and her cuticles were hopelessly ragged. Not to mention the fact that there was a silver line down the part in her champagne-colored dye job.

What was that word? Inertia. Such a heavy word.

What should she have for breakfast? She d She descended her winding staircase and came to the massive front hall of her home. Its dark brown walnut paneling added more weight to her spirits. But she could hear Tina rattling around in the kitchen, and immediately she had an overmastering her new appetite revealed a ccraving for French toast with bacon and maple syrup.

"Good morning, Mrs. Todd?" Tina always made everything into a question. It was endearing.

"French toast and bacon with maple syrup, Tina," she answered. "Aren’t you freezing? I’m going to turn on the furnace."

"I hate to see summer go, you know?" Tina said. "I’m in denial, don’t you think?" The young woman indicated her t-shirt and capris. Both, of course, were black. She wore her dyed black hair parted down the middle and fixed into two knots on top of her head like antennae. Without waiting for an answer, she said, "We need to plan the menu for the luncheon, okay? I’m thinking butternut squash soup for starters? This weather always reminds me of squash soup, don’t you think?"

"I’ll leave the menu up to you, Tina," Georgia said, feeling the new dread that descended on her at the thought of entertaining. Why not drop all her charity work? Without Ben, it seemed pointless.

"Budget?" Tina asked as she whisked eggs together for French toast batter. Georgia salivated at the bacon that was already frying.

"We’re charging a hundred per plate, so try not to go over fifty."

"Which group is this again?"

"The Dayton Phil."

Tina stuck out her bottom lip and blew her bangs up off her forehead. "You know I’m glad you do these things, because otherwise I wouldn’t have a job, you know?"

There was that. Georgia would hate to put Tina out of work. Caring for a middle-aged widow’s solitary culinary needs couldn’t be much of a challenge. But, she liked having someone else in the house. Someone young. She existed in her pseudo-Tudor mansion like a hard little ball bearing in one of those wooden box puzzles, trying to avoid all the holes to keep from dropping through to the bottom. She looked at her almost useless hands and felt the acute loss that never left her.

At last, her French toast was ready, and skirting away from conscious thought, she savored the syrupy concoction and the crisp salty bacon. Ummm.

But she had to face facts. Her clothes were growing a little tight, and she didn’t think Talbot’s carried size sixteen, so she had purchased an all-body girdle. She ought not to be eating so much. Talbots was a must in her American upper-class social circle. And she had zero motivation to go shopping. Georgia had always known that the simplicity of classical lines was not for her. At heart, she was and always would be a drama queen. And that was the woman Ben had fallen in love with. Classic was so boring! Like her life. She climbed the stairs listlessly.

When she was finally dressed in her full body girdle and cobalt and black knit suit, she tried to do something with her hair. But there was simply no way to disguise the silver. If she went to Coco, her hairdresser, that would mean another trip out of the house.

Then she realized her hair didn’t matter. No one cared what she looked like. No one cared who she was. The world was not going to cave in. It already had.

S A R A

Sara was keenly aware that she no longer knew who she was. Her bare toes were like little digits of ice by the time she finished her Tai Chi Chih on her back lawn. Soon she would have to move indoors to do this morning routine. She always dreaded winter. Perhaps it was the voices in her blood. They didn’t have winter in Vietnam. But maybe it would be different this year since she had her anti-depressants. The narrow tunnel she had traveled for so many years had opened up into a world she had never experienced.

Entering her neat, completely remodeled bungalow, she went to the telephone in her spotless white kitchen to place her morning call to her mother. They spoke in their native tongue. Sara’s mother was still trying to master English after thirty years. A chemist in Vietnam, she now worked at an upscale spa doing massage therapy in another Dayton suburb.

"So, daughter, how many patients do you have today?"

Sara lied. She wasn’t even going into the office today. "Enough to keep you and Father comfortable."

Her mother made a sound, pushing away Sara’s words. "We do not need your money."

"I want to get you out of that bad neighborhood, Mother. Someone was arrested down your street for making meth in his house last night. It was on the news. I want you to come to live in the house next door where it is safe. I have told you I will buy it for you." Guilt scraped her raw at a place in her chest, exacerbated daily by similar conversations.

"This is enough for us, daughter. Everyone in our building remembers what we left behind. Everyone remembers who your father was. In Oakwood, we would be strangers."

Sara sighed. The Vietnamese community was very close knit. She thanked Buddha daily that she no longer had to live within the confines of its culture. But the guilt remained. Looking at her watch, she realized her morning was getting off track. It was already seven o’clock.

Telling her mother, for the thousandth time that she couldn’t discuss her patients, she hung up. Her mother was always hungry to hear about all the mothers and their babies, even to the extent of coming down to the hospital at night to see the ones Sara had delivered that day. And she nagged. That was such a good English word. There was nothing precisely like it in Vietnamese. Her mother was a nag. She wanted grandchildren.

Sara went to her white marble bathroom and downed a fistful of Xanax almost without thinking. Then she took a short, hot shower, scrubbing away her guilt. Being a Vietnamese mother was not what she dreamed of. She certainly wouldn’t marry Anh with his fetish for fast cars and faster American women. For the first time in years, she wondered if she should have ditched her rigid life’s plan and stayed in England with Iain, living the life of a gypsy.

But at least she had these two hours in the morning when she could indulge herself. After drying her body, she slid the black velvet floor length evening gown over her naked body and fastened it. Then she went downstairs to the basement and the soundproofed studio she had created.

She opened the violin case and carefully lifted the expensive instrument from its velvet bed. What piece should it be today?

Her dread intruded. That appointmentHer appointment was at ten. Why did Americans think they had to expose themselves? She felt as though she were going to be pushed into ice water naked. But her attendance was necessary if Dr. Brooks was going to continue prescribing the anti-depressants and tranquilizers she needed. He had even hinted that doctors with addictions had no business in the hospital.

But even the Xanax wasn’t doing its job today. Sara needed to jolt her mind. Give it a challenge to dissipate all this anxiety. So, of course, it had to be Paganini. Putting bow to strings, she tuned her instrument, and then launched herself body and spirit into the concerto. She had heard Sarah Chang play it with the Dayton Phil. But Sara Nugyen knew, even if no one else did, that she could play it better.

This concerto was the chronicle of her life. The first movement played out the simple melody of her Vietnamese childhood—a time she could barely recall, filled with food and relatives and their grand home at the edge of Saigon. This was followed by mounting tension and hints of cataclysm, then the drama and triumph of their escape.

The next movement was frightening to her still—the long days on the China sea, the sun, the heat, the diminishing food. Then as her mother gave her the last sip of canned milk, she saw the awful knowledge in her parents’ eyes that something bad was going to happen. Suddenly, more triumph! A U.S. destroyer had sighted them!

In the third movement, was the day to day uncertainty of life in the refugee camp in California, followed by their scary existence in the ghetto. But even then she had triumphed, graduating Downey High School valedictorian with a full scholarship to Bryn Mawr.

Instead of spending her physically, the concerto reacquainted her with her strength. She was no robotic Asian Wunderkind, performing technical marvels. Sara played this accompaniment to the tragedies and victories of her life with a skill no one would ever hear.

The beauty of the music she alone witnessed caused her to weep. She wept far too easily these days. Where was her customary stoicism? Where was her Asian stoicism? Two and a half hours later, when she put her instrument down, the concerto still hung in the air, accompanying her upstairs to her room, where she changed into jeans and a Bryn Mawr sweatshirt, blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and ran out the door so she would not be late. Good Vietnamese girls were never late. And they never shirked their duty. She had forgotten breakfast again. But the violin had fed her. Her hunger was a penance.

M C K EN Z I E

News radio woke McKenzie at six o’clock with the disturbing account of wildfires in California. Another day in this scary, unpredictable world. Heart racing, she looked over to the empty side of her bed. Her panic accelerated until she was hyperventilating. Ted. Escaped to Florida, his boat, and possibly women without number.

With determination, she took a deep breath. Inhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Exhale. Un. Deux. Trois. Quatre. Cinque. After fifteen minutes of this activity, augmented by a mental picture of her friend, Nancy, the perfect, Nancy, the serene, Nancy, the mother of four perfect daughters, her heart slowed. Life is possible. Life is manageable.

She realized she was shivering in her satin nightshirt. There was definitely a nip in the air this morning. Throwing back the quilt her mother had made for her wedding, her mother’s quilt, she padded over to her closet and took her sweats from the hook on the inside.

Running up the brick-paved street through her tree-filled neighborhood, she wondered, as she always did, what dramas were playing out in the mansions she passed. Was there really any happiness in marriage? Yes, Nancy was exquisitely happy. Were there really kids who didn’t hate their parents? Yes, Nancy’s kids adored her. They even went to church.

She was going to therapy today. It was a pro-active choice. She was going to find out what was wrong with her, where she had failed. Then she would fix it and everything would be fine again. Ted would come back, supplicating her for reinstatement into their lives. Josh would stop drinking and start doing his homework and preparing for track season. Jessica would eschew cigarettes, chains, body piercings, and might even have her tattoo removed. She would stop banging out angry Stravinksy on the piano and go back to Mozart. She might even rejoin the tennis team.

Then McKenzie could relax, could become what she had always thought she was—a successful Oakwood mother with a husband who was a doctor and played golf on Saturdays, a son who was first in his class on the fast track to Yale, and a beautiful petite daughter who ran with the speech and debate crowd, winning trips to Nationals every year for her dramatic interp. Everyone would stop punishing her for being a failure. She just had to fix herself.

An hour later, she was home. Jessica had fallen asleep on the family room couch in her clothes, a full ashtray by the arm that was dangling. Her black hair was unwashed. But her face was tranquil in sleep, and it was possible to remember her daughter the way she used to be. McKenzie had seen this same daughter every morning for the past seventeen years. They had gone through thumb-sucking, braces, acne, and baby fat together. Leaning over, she kissed her daughter’s cheek. "Time to get up, sweetie. It’s after seven."

Jessica sat up, moving the hair out of her eyes. "The only way out is through," she mumbled.

"What?" McKenzie was startled. "Were you dreaming about Alice in Wonderland or something?"

"It came to me at two in the morning." Jess indicated a slim black volume. McKenzie saw that it was T.S. Eliot’s poetry. "That’s what I’m learning, Mom. And you’d better learn it, too. Stop trying to turn the clock back."

Then she was gone, leaving her mother to contemplate her message. T.S. Eliot?

Sitting on the couch, she opened to the dog-eared page. It was the middle of a poem. A stanza was underlined. At first it was entirely incomprehensible. But it was important to Jessica, so she sat down and puzzled through it.

Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,

You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.

In order to arrive at what you do not know

You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.

In order to possess what you do not possess

You must go by the way of dispossession.

In order to arrive at what you are not

You must go through the way in which you are not.

Jessica had found just the words to explain the soul-wrenching upside-downness that was their lives since Ted left. She had adored Ted. He had been teaching her to golf. He went to all her speech contests. Jessica had even learned to make Sushi because it was his favorite food.

McKenzie felt guilt shaft her through. Why had she failed? How could she have been a better wife?

She looked around her at the perfect Ethan Allen family room with its plaid overstuffed couches, its maple bookcases, the coffee table with its Martha Stewart magazines. And Jessica’s ashtray.

Josh was harder to awaken. Sprawled over his double bed, he lay on his stomach, limbs outflung. There was a box by his bed that hadn’t been there yesterday. Lifting the lid that was addressed to his dad, she peered inside. McKenzie saw all his athletic trophies and medals. She felt the impact of a fast moving truck slam her heart. Legs trembling, she sat on the floor and wept.

Poor wounded boy. Poor wounded little boy. Until this morning, she hadn’t realized that her kids must be wondering where they had gone wrong. They didn’t realize she was to blame.

She wiped her eyes. She was going to fix this. Starting today in therapy, she was going to learn how to make it all better. Her children had been dream children. Ted couldn’t have asked for better kids. It wasn’t their fault, and she didn’t want them carrying that burden.

This was probably a very pedestrian drama. There was probably nothing unique about it. After all, hadn’t Ted told her she had no imagination? She couldn’t even have interesting problems. But they were her problems. And she knew as deep as could be that there were lives at stake here. One of these days, in their rebellion and confusion, one of her children was going to make a mistake that couldn’t be fixed. Like shooting up the high school. Or killing someone while they were drunk driving. Or getting HIV.

The possibilities paralyzed her. Could she change in time? How could she make herself interesting to her husband?

Resume of McKenzie Davenport

Education:

B.A. Stanford University, Art History. Two quarters abroad in Italy. Grades: 4.0

M.A. Columbia University, Art History. Thesis: Michelangelo: Humanist or Christian? Employment:

Docent: Metropolitan Museum of Art

Hobbies:

Interior Design

Cooking

Photography

What a totally boring human being she was! What had Ted seen in her in the first place?

They had met in front of Van Gogh’s Olive Grove. He was possibly the handsomest man she had seen in her life—blond, broad-chested, tanned, a cleft in his square chin. But his forehead was marred by a frown. "Do you think the twelve olive trees are significant?" he had asked her.

"I do. See that little bit of red in the corner? I think it’s meant to represent Christ’s atoning blood. I think the trees are his apostles."

He looked at her then. She had been wearing her docent’s uniform—a gray a-line skirt and vest over a white blouse with a ribbon tie of navy blue. Her hair had been wild that day—curling into a great mass she hadn’t been able to tame. Had Ted mistaken her for a Leonardo, just like Cecil had mistaken Lucy in Room With a View?

But, like Lucy, she wasn’t a Leonardo. Just an overachiever from San Marino, California. Her thoughts on the Van Gogh hadn’t even been original. She’d read them in a book in grad school.

He had left her because she was just too boring for words. Looking at the still-sleeping son, she demanded of the heavens, why should the children suffer?

.