Chapter 1

Helen picked up her car from the garage near the Montpellier airport where she had left it for service. Her plane from Paris had been late, but the garage hadn't yet closed for lunch.

Usually she flew into the Beziers-Vias airport, closer to home, but the Audi dealership she used was in Montpellier. Spending a day or two a week at her atelier in Paris meant she always wanted to get home quickly, reduce the time away.

She stopped to eat at a small restaurant off the Route National so she could chat with the formidable lady who ran the place. The food was simple but tasty in the style of Languedoc, and she loved it. The owner's gruff demeanor masked a quick wit and a deep loneliness that resonated with her own, and Helen always found it a pleasure to talk with her when she came through. Since the noon rush was past, they were able to sit in the garden where the sun had begun to shed its warmth.

Not too much later, in the warm afternoon sunshine of early spring, she drove along the Autoroute to the Agde exit and along the Route National 312. On her right, the purple heights of the foothills rising toward the Massif Centrale, to the left, fields spotted with the purple of lavender, the red of poppies, the green of trees and vines and crops, the mixed gray and umber of villages, all descending toward the sea.

She docked her mobile to activate her hands-free calling and went through her calls as she drove, chatting with friends and, in one or two cases, referring business calls to her Paris atelier.

Where the road crosses the Canal du Midi, she slowed to enjoy the sights, gazing at and loving the long lines of ancient trees that shade the canal. Now in the spring, the foliage was beginning to soften the angular lines of the branches and to leaf out the remains of trees that had been polled to encourage new growth. All along the 312, there were groups of new homes being built. At the rondpoint outside Cap d'Agde, she turned left.

At the gate to Heliopolis she waved to the guard. She fed the barrier her card; it buzzed and rose. She drove through the street, nearly empty this early in the season, and toward the harbor, swinging by the post office to pick up her mail and chat with the girl who worked there. In another few moments she had parked near her building.

She stopped to talk with another of the year-round inhabitants at Heliopolis who was industriously cleaning out his garage, probably for the second time that week if her experience meant anything.

Heliopolis consists mainly of small apartments and villas designed for short vacation stays and caters mostly to families, but Helen had come to love the unusual naturist city. Now that her home and her home office were here, it was a cherished refuge.

She had bought two adjoining apartments on the first floor of the horseshoe-shaped Heliopolis building. They overlooked the camping area and the beach, with a view of Sète to the northeast. She had opened the wall between the two apartments and created a spacious, comfortable suite of rooms, retaining the sliding glass doors that gave onto the balcony. Using her architectural skills, she had been able to reduce the wall between the two balconies to a simple, elegant arch. She had decorated the rooms with Moroccan rugs, colorful textiles and with paintings, books and prints she loved.

As soon as she was in the door, she pulled her dress over her head, going naked through the rooms. When she went to open the sliding doors to the balcony there was a burly orange cat sitting on the railing, watching her with stony disdain.

"You!" she chuckled. "I suppose you want a handout!" Heliopolis is home to a large number of cats, some of them abandoned pets who eke out a living on handouts and rodents. This character had reached her balcony by the feat of climbing one of the steep concrete buttresses that rise to provide privacy between apartments. He was, unlike many of his fellows, sleek and well-groomed. And haughty. Helen left the door open and tried to pay no attention to him as he watched her unpack.

In the five years since Theo's death, Helen had concentrated on building her career. She'd managed to find a few women who might have become friends, but it was hard to reach through her pain to open herself to them. In time she had worked through that, building a small group of women, and some men who were discreet but sympathetic and to whom she could open her frozen heart.

As soon as possible she had gone on her own so she could increase her fees and keep a greater share of her consulting billings. There followed a period of struggle to bid on and win turnkey projects, and then to complete them profitably. Since most had been profitable, she'd been able to buy and renovate her home and put a comfortable amount in the bank. Moving to Cap d'Agde had meant at least two days a week at her atelier in Paris, but the peace and beauty of the coast made up for the inconvenience.

Helen turned to the mail. There was a thick envelope from a Stuttgart law firm whose name she recognized with some misgivings - echoes of another life.

According to the letter, the mess that had followed Theo's death had been turned into dusty files and arid forms. There was a large deposit to her account, and details of the additional investments now in her name.

It was all good news, but this additional reminder of Theo's death triggered a deep ache. The details had dragged on and on, but because she hadn't needed the money, she had kept it all out of mind. Now, it was done, and many of the feelings she had thought put aside welled up within.

She felt the anger, of course. The anger that Theo's assumption of her infidelity had brought him to his desperate end. But that made no more sense today than it had when Theo died. She was certain he had known she had never failed in her promise - to herself as well as to him - to be faithful. While they had never discussed it, she had made it clear throughout their courtship and marriage that she would always be faithful in the traditional sense, even though they joked about her confessed attraction to many of the men she met. She assumed he also had had temptations to which he had not yielded. It had made no sense for him to kill himself over a single telephone call. Yet, when she had expressed her disbelief to the police and later to her lawyer, she was dismissed as, she believed, a distraught widow tainted with infidelity: damaged goods. Her absolute certainty was that Theo had somehow been murdered. Why, or by whom, she had no idea, nor had she any idea why the police had written it off as suicide.

Over the years, the nightmares had become less frequent. The emptiness, the loss of his warmth and love had not gone away, only become less aching and depressing.

The resolution of their affairs also brought back her anger at what she saw as Theo's desertion, his decision to leave her alone in the world without the bedrock that his love had been for her. And it brought the confusion those contradictory emotions never failed to arouse in her. When these moments struck, she could never decide whether to burst out crying or to throw dishes.

Helen did what she had learned to do at times like these. The orange cat was still on the balcony rail, sitting like a meatloaf, so Helen closed the glass door. She hung her key around her neck and went downstairs and out onto the beach, nearly deserted this early in the year.