Snowfall at Willow Lake

“That’s pretty much my favorite question,” he said. “See, if I were a real doctor, I’d only know the anatomy and pathology of one species, not six. I’d only have one specialty instead of nine.”

“I guess you must get that a lot.”

“Just enough to annoy me.” He took a step back, holding his gloved hands up. “Listen, I’m fine with not doing this.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to go for it.”

So much for playing hard to get. “I’ll need to check you out, see where else you’re injured.”

“It’s just my knee.”

“You might have an internal injury.”

“And you can tell this.”

“You’re exhibiting signs of shock. I need to examine your chest and belly for bruising and palpate your abdomen.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?” She stiffened, folding her arms tightly. “I’ll pass. I didn’t hit myself on anything. I don’t hurt anywhere. It’s just the knee.”

He wasn’t about to push her. The situation was already bizarre enough. “I could call EMS, but on a night like tonight, I’d hate to call them for anything less than a life-threatening emergency,” he said.

“This isn’t life threatening,” the woman said. “Believe me, I know the difference.”

“Okay. Just the knee for the time being. But if you feel anything—double vision, dizziness, anything—you need to let me know.” He checked her blood pressure. It was in the normal range, a good sign. An internal bleed caused the pressure to drop. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s have a look at that knee.”

She lay back and covered her eyes with her forearm. “You’ll understand if I don’t watch.”

“I noticed you’re not fond of blood.” He selected a pair of bandage cutters and started at the hem of the dark wool trousers, cutting upward. The thin, expensive-looking leather of her boot was drenched in blood. He kept cutting upward, hoping he didn’t have to go so far that he’d look like a complete perv. The cut was arc shaped; she must have sliced it on something under the dashboard. “You’ve got a gash here, just above the knee.” The laceration probably hurt like hell. It wasn’t a bad cut, but it appeared to be a bleeder. “You need sutures,” he said.

“Can you do it?”

“I’m no plastic surgeon. Whatever I do is bound to leave a scar.”

“Then can you stop the bleeding and I’ll find a surgeon in the morning?”

“It can’t wait that long. The risk of infection is too high. The maximum any doc would allow is seven hours. Roads’ll still be closed in the morning.”

“Then stitch it up, and I’ll live with the scar.”

For a woman this good-looking, it was an unexpected remark. “All right. I can numb the area … it’ll probably need a dozen stitches. If I make them really small, it’ll minimize the scarring.” He considered offering her a tranquilizer to calm her down, but wasn’t sure of the dosage. She probably weighed about the same as a Rottweiler, so 80 mg should do it. Then again, maybe not. He’d stick with a local anesthetic.

“I’ll hold still for the novocaine,” she said.

“It’s lidocaine, one percent.” And he hoped it didn’t take much to numb the area. It was strange, having a patient that didn’t need restraining. He injected the local and she didn’t flinch.

“That’ll go numb in a couple of minutes,” he said.

“I’m counting on it.” She took her forearm away from her eyes, turned her head and stared at the counter. “If I’m really good, do I get one of those biscuits from the jar?”

“You can have as many as you want,” he said, making a slit in the sterile wrap of a suture tray. “They give you minty-fresh breath and whiter teeth.”

“We can all use that,” she murmured.

He changed gloves and got busy with the cleansing and suturing. Many animals had skin that was more delicate than humans. He chose 3-0 nylon with a skin-cutting needle, standard equine external suture material.

He put on a pair of magnifying glasses and angled a task light at the site, working with as much delicate precision as he could to avoid a zipperlike scar on her pale, delicate skin. He felt her starting to tremble again and wondered if he should be making small talk to ease her nerves a little and, please God, make her hold still. With his regular patients, a few sympathetic clucks usually did the trick.

“I didn’t get your name,” he said.

“It’s Sophie. Sophie Bellamy.”

“Any relation to the Bellamys that have the resort up at the north end of the lake?”

“Sort of. I was married to Greg Bellamy. We’re divorced now.”

But she still used the guy’s name, Noah observed.

“I’ve got two kids here in Avalon,” she continued.

That probably explained the name, then. What it didn’t explain was why the kids didn’t live with her. Noah reminded himself that it was none of his business. People were complicated, with a mind-boggling array of emotions and issues. Nothing was simple with this species. He found working with animals to be much more straightforward. Dealing with humans was like crossing a minefield. You never knew when something might blow up in your face.

Small talk, he thought. Distract her with small talk. “So are you here for a visit? Or just getting back from a trip?”

She paused, as though considering what to say, which was odd, since it was not a challenging question. She said, “I landed at JFK this afternoon. There were no commuter flights to Kingston-Ulster Airport because of the weather, so I rented a car and drove up. I suppose I could’ve taken the train, but I was just so anxious to get here.”

Landed at JFK from where? He didn’t ask, expecting her to fill him in. When she didn’t, he focused on his task. Human skin was remarkably similar to canine or equine, he noted. “And you’re staying with the Wilsons across the road?” he prompted.

“Not exactly. I’m using their house. It’s a summer place. Alberta—Bertie—Wilson and I have known each other since law school.”

“Oh.” His hands stilled. “You’re a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“A real lawyer?”

“Okay, I deserved that,” she said.

“You couldn’t have told me this before I stitched you up with equine sutures?”

“Would you have treated me any differently?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I might not have treated you at all. Or I might have asked you to sign a treatment waiver.”

“That’s never stopped a good lawyer.” She quickly added, “But you don’t have a thing to worry about. You rescued me and made the bleeding stop. The last thing in the world I’d do is sue you.”

“Good to know.” Noah removed the surgical draping from her leg and gave the wound a final washing with povidone iodine topical solution. “Although you should probably take a look. It’s not real pretty.”

She braced her hands behind her and sat up. The stitching formed a thin black curve in her pale flesh, now painted amber with the disinfectant. “You stopped the bleeding,” she said again.

“It appears so.” He laid a gauze patch over the wound. “I have to bandage this. You’ll need to be careful, not mess with the stitches or let them pull. If you were one of my usual patients, I’d fit you with a lamp-shade collar to keep you from chewing at the bandage.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“You need to keep this area dry if possible.”

“I think I can handle that.” She held still while he finished bandaging her. He checked her blood pressure a second time. He studied the meter. “No change,” he said. “That’s good.”

“Thank you. Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

He held both her hands as she gingerly let herself down off the table. She swayed a little, and he slipped his arm around her. “Easy now,” he said. “You’re going to need to keep that leg elevated as much as possible tonight.”

“All right.”

The shock of holding her in his arms struck him. His chin brushed over her silky hair. She smelled like crisp winter wind, and she felt both soft and light.

She seemed equally startled by his touch, and a small shudder went through her. Fear? Relief? He couldn’t tell. Then, very gently, she extracted herself from his arms. He led the way to the reception area. Mildred’s workstation was as meticulously neat as his assistant herself was. Noah’s desk was cluttered with journals and reference books, toys and little figurines, cards from patients’ owners. There was a small bulletin board entirely devoted to notes from kids and photos of them with their pets. Noah was a complete sucker for kids.

“Thank you again,” she said. “You need to let me know what I owe you.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I never kid. You performed a professional service. You’re entitled to charge for that.”

“Right.” Spoken like a true lawyer. If he’d performed the same procedure on a Doberman, he would’ve charged a few hundred bucks. “It’s on the house. You should be seen by a doctor as soon as possible.”

“Well. You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty,” she said. “My hero.”

He still detected a subtle vibrato of fear in her voice, so he suspected she was just trying to show him some bravado—or irony. “No one’s ever called me that before.”

“I bet some of your patients would if they could talk.” She looked away, and he was glad to see a bit of color in her face. And damn, she was one good-looking woman. “Anyway. I should get down to the cottage now—”

“That’s not going to happen,” he said. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

“The roads are worse than ever. I know there’s a driveway down to the Wilsons’, but it’s buried under feet of snow. The place is probably freezing. Tonight, you’re staying here.”

She looked around the clinic. “So you’re going to put me in a crate in the back?”

“Right next to Mrs. Levinson’s Manx cat.” He gestured at the Naugahyde bench in the waiting area. “Have a seat and put your leg up. I need to check on my patients, and then we’ll go over to the house. It’s not the Ritz, but I’ll give you something to eat and a place to sleep. I’ve got tons of room.”

“I’ve already troubled you far too much—”

“Then a little more won’t matter.”

“But—”

“Seriously, it’s no trouble.” He went in the back, where dim bluish night-lights illuminated the area. Toby the cat was alert but seemed content in her crate. She had plenty of water. Brutus, the beagle, was sound asleep and snoring loudly. The other cat, Clementine, sat methodically grooming itself.

Noah detached its nearly empty water bottle. “Did you see her, Clem?” he whispered. “Can you believe my luck? I won the girl-stuck-in-the-ditch lottery.”

The cat blinked at him, then lifted a forepaw and started grooming it.

“Yeah, high fives to you, too,” Noah said. Sure, an accident had brought Sophie to him. But maybe fate had a hand in it, too. The most gorgeous woman in the galaxy, a woman who called him “my hero,” was going to be moving in across the road from him.

All right, so he was probably reading too much into a chance encounter. But what the hey. Han Solo wouldn’t hesitate to make the most of the situation. She was beautiful and had made a point of telling him she was single. And she had kids. Noah loved kids. He’d always wanted a houseful. His last girlfriend had left him over the issue of wanting kids. Now here was a woman who already had some.

He washed up at the sink, reminding himself not to get ahead of himself, something he had a habit of doing. Fate had dropped a golden opportunity in his hands. Now it was up to him to see what this might become.

Noah was pretty sure he’d never met anyone like Sophie Bellamy. He wondered who she really was, besides some guy’s ex-wife. He wondered where she had come from and what had driven her here in the dark, in the middle of a snowstorm, and if the desperation he glimpsed in her eyes was something that should worry him.

Part Two

One month earlier

Epiphany

An epiphany is a sudden realization, insight or rebirth, often brought on by a life-altering event.

Originally from the Greek for “appearance” or “manifestation,” Epiphany is a Christian feast, also know as Twelfth Day, as it is the twelfth day after Christmas. Traditionally, this coincides with the visit of the Magi. The day is marked by feasting and celebration.

Gougères

Gougères are airy French cheese puffs that originated in France, and are traditionally served this time of year with champagne dry, not brut.

1 cup water

1 stick unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup flour

4 large eggs

1 1/2 cups coarsely grated Gruyère cheese

Preheat oven to 375°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Place the water, butter and salt in a saucepan and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to moderate. Add flour all at once and beat with a wooden spoon until the mixture pulls away from side of pan.

Transfer mixture—known as pâte à choux—to a bowl and use an electric mixer to beat in the eggs, one at a time. If the batter is too stiff, add another egg.

Stir the Gruyère into the pâte à choux and drop by tablespoons, about one inch apart, on the baking sheet. Bake for about twenty-five minutes, or until golden brown. Serve warm.

Two

The Peace Palace

The Hague, Holland

6 January – Epiphany

The shiny black limousine glided to a stop in front of the carved-stone Gothic building, its blocky silhouette cutting into the false glow of yellow fog lights. A hard rain peppered the roof of the Citroën with the tinny sound of birdshot.

Behind the bulletproof glass windows of the passenger compartment, Sophie Bellamy performed one final check of her hair and makeup and snapped her compact shut. She tucked her evening bag into a cubby in the armrest. With security so tight at the palace these days, it was just simpler to enter the building with nothing but her prescreened credential card and the clothes on her back.

When she’d first started attending functions at the Peace Palace, she used to feel naked without an evening bag. Now she’d grown used to spending a formal evening without lipstick or comb, a set of keys or a mobile phone. Such things were forbidden in the interest of security.

Tonight, cautious measures were warranted. The recent decision rendered by the International Criminal Court on war crimes, a case that had consumed two years of her life, was controversial and apt to incite violence.

The limo took its place in a line behind a few others and waited its turn. Sophie used to be consumed by excitement when she attended ceremonial events, but now they had become routine. It was amazing how accustomed to this she had grown. Drivers and security agents, a couture wardrobe and smiling dignitaries, translations whispered into an earpiece—all were commonplace to her these days.

Guests were being shuttled to the outer guard gate under black umbrellas, their corrugated shadows reflecting silver-black on the cut-stone surface of the Paleisplein. She’d been told to expect media coverage of the event, but she only saw one windowless news van, its bedraggled crew setting up the requisite thirty meters from the building. Despite the historic significance of tonight’s event, despite the fact that Queen Beatrix herself would be in attendance, the occasion would go unnoticed by the world at large. In America, people were too busy watching the latest Internet video to tune in to the fact that the geography of Africa had just changed, thanks, in large part, to Sophie herself.

Her phone vibrated—a photo and text message from her son, Max: white sand beach and turquoise sea with the caption “St Croix awesome. Dad & Nina getting ready 2 tie the knot. Xoxo!”

Sophie stared at the words from her twelve-year-old. She’d known today was the day, though she’d been trying not to think about it. Her ex was on a tropical island, about to marry the woman who had stepped into the shoes Sophie had left vacant. She gently closed the phone and held it against her chest, trying to quiet the feelings churning inside her and gnawing a hole in her heart. Not possible. Not even tonight.

André, her driver, turned on the hazard lights to signal that he was about to exit the vehicle. He adjusted the flat cap of his uniform. His shoulders lifted as he took a deep breath. A native of Senegal, André had never been a fan of the weather in Northern Europe, particularly in January.

A sudden squeal of tires and a sound like a gunshot erupted. Without a single beat of hesitation, Sophie dropped to the floorboards, at the same time grabbing for the car phone. In the front seat, André did the same. Then came a honking horn and a voice over the loudspeaker, giving the all-clear in Dutch, French and English.

André lowered the shield between the driver and passenger compartment. “C’est rien,” he said. “A car backfired, that is all. Merde. Always some reason to be on edge.”

For the past week, the city had been on special alert due to gang violence, and foreign service drivers were often targets for robbery, since they tended to park for hours in public places, sleeping in their cars.

Sophie reached for the compact mirror to check herself again. She’d undergone hours of crisis training and she dealt with some of the most dangerous people in the world, yet she never really feared for her own safety. There were so many security measures in place that the risk was extremely low.

André held up a gloved hand to ask her wordlessly if she was ready. She abandoned vanity and nodded, clutching the laminated carte d’identité in her hand. The passenger door opened and a dark umbrella bloomed overhead, held by a liveried palace attendant.

“On y va, alors,” she said to André. Here we go.

“Assurément, madame,” he said in his lilting French-African accent. “J’attends.”

Of course he would be waiting, she thought. He always did. And thank God for that. She was going to be high as a kite by the end of the evening, on champagne and a soaring sense of accomplishment, with no one to babble her news to. André was a good listener. During the short drive tonight from Sophie’s residence to the palace, she had confessed to him how much she missed her children.

She would have loved to have Max and her daughter Daisy by her side tonight, to bear witness to the honors that would be bestowed upon her. But they were an ocean away, with their father who on this very day was getting married. Married. Perhaps at this very moment, her ex-husband was getting remarried.

The knowledge sat like a stone in her shoe. The dull truth of it stole some of the glitter from the evening.

Stop it, she admonished herself. This is your night.

She emerged from the car. Her foot slipped on the wet cobblestones and, for a nightmarish second, she nearly went down. A strong arm caught her around the waist, propping her up. “André,” she said a little breathlessly, “you just averted a disaster.”

“Rien du tout, madame,” he replied, hovering close. The light glimmered over his solemn, kindly face.

It occurred to her that this was the closest she’d come to being held in a man’s arms in … far too long. She shut down the entirely inappropriate thought, steadied her footing and stepped away from him. The cold drilled into her. Her long cashmere coat wasn’t enough, not tonight. There were predictions of snow. It would be a rare occurrence for The Hague, but already, the rain was hardening to sleet. Under the broad umbrella, she hurried past the guardhouse to the first checkpoint. A walkway circled the eternal peace flame monument, shielded from the weather by a hammered metal hood. It was another twenty meters to the portico, which had been fitted with an awning and red carpet for the occasion. Once she was safely under the shelter of the arched awning, her attendant murmured, “Bonsoir, madame. Et bienvenue.” Most of the personnel spoke in French which, along with English, was the common language of the international courts.

“Merci.”

The attendant with the umbrella ducked back out into the rain to collect the next guest.

The line to the main entrance moved slowly, as there was a cloakroom to pass through, and another security checkpoint. Sophie didn’t know any of the people in line, but she recognized many of them—black-clad dignitaries and their families, Africans in ceremonial garb, diplomats from all over the globe. They had come to pay homage to a new day for Umoja, the nation the court had just liberated from a warlord financed by a corrupt diamond syndicate operating outside the law.

There was an American family ahead of her. The uniformed husband had the effortless good posture of a career military man. The wife and teenage daughters surrounded him like satellite nations. Sophie vaguely recognized the husband, an attaché from Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe in Belgium. She didn’t greet them, not wanting to interrupt what appeared to be a delightful family outing.

The attaché’s wife pressed close to him as though shielding herself from the cold. She was plump and easy in her confidence; like Sophie, she wore plain gold earrings unadorned by gemstones. To wear stones, especially diamonds, to an event like this would be the height of insensitivity.

The American family looked safe and secure in their little world of four. In that moment, Sophie missed her own children so much it felt like a stab wound.

A searingly cold wind swept across the plaza, stinging her eyes. She blinked fast, not wanting her mascara to run. She lifted the collar of her coat and turned her back to the wind. At a side entrance to the palace was a caterer’s van. Haagsche Voedsel Dienst, S.A. Good, thought Sophie. The best caterer in town. They must be running late, though. The white-coated waiters were rushing about with a frantic air, shoving heavy carts into a service entrance to the building and speaking in agitated fashion to one another.

Sophie was shivering when she reached the cloakroom. There were few places that felt as cold as The Hague did during a winter storm. The city lay below sea level, built on land reclaimed from the frigid North Sea, walled off by dikes. During a storm, it felt as though nature was trying to wrest back its own. The wind sliced like a knife, cutting to the bone. In The Hague there was a saying: If I can stand up in it, I can go out in it.

Reluctantly, she peeled off her butter-soft deerskin gloves and surrendered her long cashmere coat, handing them over to an attendant and making a note of the numbered card: 47. She slipped it into the pocket of her dress. As she smoothed the front of her outfit and turned toward the entranceway, she noticed the attaché’s wife watching her, a hint of both envy and admiration in her eyes.

Sophie had spent half the day getting ready. She was wearing a couture gown and shoes that cost more than a piece of furniture. The gown fit her beautifully. She’d been a distance swimmer in college and still competed at the master’s level, an endeavor that kept her in shape. Her every blond hair was in place, pulled sleekly back into a chignon. Bijou, her stylist, claimed she looked exactly like a latter-day Grace Kelly. An actress, which was appropriate. A big part of this job had to do with image and theatrics. Smoke and mirrors.

She smiled at the attaché’s wife and felt a twinge of irony. Don’t envy me, she wanted to say. You have your family with you. What more could you want?