Introduction

Sunny Cooper has been running since she was eighteen—from the New Mexican commune where she grew up . . . and from the haunting memory of the freak accident that took the life of her younger sister. Now, at thirty-two, Sunny voices radio spots in Albuquerque while struggling to hold on to a floundering relationship. But when a second tragic accident—and the devastating truths that come to light in its aftermath—turns her world upside down, Sunny runs again. In the town of Harmony on San Miguel Island, she takes a new job, learns to ride a motorcycle, and makes some surprising new friends. But the past is never far behind. A startling discovery—along with an emotional and revelatory reunion with her estranged mother—is forcing Sunny to step out from the shadows of yesterday to embrace an uncertain future.

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Excerpt

P r o l o g u e

I was born at sunrise on June 3, 1971, on a commune near Taos, New Mexico. Delivery was accomplished with the help of a midwife as my mother squatted, panting, on her mattress, surrounded by her commune sisters, panting in sympathy, cheering her on.

The men had hovered in the kitchen all night, playing cards, drinking, smoking, drifting in and out of the birth room unnoticed, like ghosts. My father happened to be present at the moment that I gushed out from between my mother's legs, and he promptly ran outside to vomit into the rabbit brush. It could have been the sight of blood and birth fluid that got to him, but more likely it was too much Tokay.

In accordance with my birth time, my mother named me Soleil, which is French for sun. She neglected to consider that People in New Mexico speak Spanish and English, but very little French. By the time I was twelve, I was sick of correcting the spelling and pronunciation, explaining to people what my name meant and listening to stupid jokes-So-lay, can you see any bedbugs on me-so I just told everyone to call me Sunny.

My parents (we were encouraged to call them Gwen and Rob) had moved to New Mexico from San Francisco, where my mother made paper flowers and my father played bass guitar in a rock band called Driving at Night. They had a rich friend named Danny Oliver who was a music promoter till he got religion and swore off all the materialistic trappings of that life. He changed his name to Moses Strong, bought a 230-acre farm

north of Taos, and invited some friends to come live on the land, groove on nature, and start a new civilization. He called it Armonía-Spanish for harmony.

People are forever asking me what it was like to grow up in a commune, and it's a question that has no easy answer. Northern New Mexico was Commune Central in those days, and each of the twenty-odd settlements had its own vision, its own quirky dynamics, its own culture. And, of course, no two children ever grow up in the same family, so if you asked both me and my brother, Hart, what it was like, you'd get two completely different perspectives.I think he was pretty happy.

Part One

It is the image in the mind that binds us to our lost

treasures, but it is the loss that shapes the image.

Colette

Chapter 1

The heat is a presence. Palpable and relentless, it rolls over Albuquerque like a hot iron.

Right behind it come the spring winds, pushing several thousand tons of dust from Arizona on through to Texas. Whistling around the corners of the buildings. Drying the new grass and flowers to brittle straws. Blowing patio furniture into someone else's yard. Making people yell at the spouse, kick the dog, slap the kid, start smoking again, drink more, drive faster.

Michael's already dressed for work and making coffee when I wander into the kitchen, wrapped in my terry cloth robe, still damp from the shower. I sidle up to kiss his neck, just where his dark hair is starting to creep down over his collar, and wipe away a little smear of shaving cream behind his ear. He reaches around me for his coffee mug and kisses the top of my head absently.

“It's supposed to be hot like this all week,” he says. He sits down at the table and submerges himself in the newspaper.

“Want some cereal?” I take clean bowls and spoons out of the dishwasher.

I pull the box of corn flakes out of the pantry and pour some in my bowl, add milk, and sit down across from him. I've already eaten about half of my cereal when he looks up.

“Hmm?”

“Hmm, what?”

“Did you say something?”

“I asked if you wanted cereal. Since you didn't answer, I took it as a no.”

“Sorry. I was thinking.”

The coffee maker sighs, announcing the completion of its cycle. I pour some in his cup and set it on the table. “What are you doing today?”

“This morning I'm meeting with Ted Rossmore.”

“Who's he?”

“Venture capital guy. Then this afternoon I've got a couple conference calls . . .” The silence is filled with the rustling of the newspaper, the clink of my spoon against the bowl.

After a minute or so, I lay my hand on his arm. “Tell me what's wrong.”

He gives me an indulgent smile. “Nothing's wrong.”

“Something feels wrong to me.”

“Something always feels wrong to you. It's your normal state.” He folds up the sports section and smiles at me. The intense blue of his eyes is still startling, even after almost three years of seeing it every day.

“Michael-”

“What? I don't know what you want me to say.”

“The truth. Whatever it is.”

“The truth is, nothing's wrong.” He pats my hand, which I guess is supposed to be reassuring, but it's a gesture so unlike him that it has the reverse effect.

“Okay, everything's great. But I still want us to sit down and have a conversation. Tonight.”

He gets up, pours the dregs of his coffee in the sink. “Tonight,” he says.

“Come home early, okay? I'll make a big salad and we can have a nice, relaxing-”

“I will.” He gives me a quick coffee-flavored kiss.

The door shuts with that hollow sound, and I stir my soggy corn flakes while reviewing the evidence.

Exhibit A. I enter, damp from the shower, smelling of coconut body butter. I brush against him and kiss his neck lightly. His response? Reaching around me for his coffee mug and a mechanical peck on the top of the head. I didn't expect him to rip my robe off and throw me down on the breakfast table, but a real kiss would not have been out of place.

Exhibit B. Monday night. He came home late from his poker game, but I was still awake. I wanted to talk. He said he had e-mails to send. So I left him in his office and went to bed, tending the embers of my hurt feelings and resentment. I heard him come out of his office, walk into the living room. When the TV went on, the embers ignited. I marched into the living room and told him I was sick of his lying. He said, lying about

what? I said he didn't really have any e-mails that couldn't wait till tomorrow; he was just avoiding talking to me. I wanted to know why. He said he was tired. I said he was always tired except when there was something he wanted to do. He said this was exactly why he was avoiding talking to me and, for that matter, why he was tired. Why couldn't I just cut him some slack, give him a little room to breathe. I said he could have the whole goddamned apartment to breathe in if he wanted it. I said I would leave in the morning. I told him I'd go stay with Betsy till he was finished breathing. Then I marched back into the bedroom, got back in bed, and seethed.

He came in about fifteen minutes later, and I pretended to be asleep. He knew I wasn't. He didn't take his clothes off. He just lay down next to me, on top of the covers, and put his hands on me. This was his solution to everything. Touching. Sex. I never knew how to tell him that it was those times when I felt the most distance between us. A yawning canyon full of all the things we never said. But that night I was tired, too. I was sad. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted things to be the way they were before. Before I started getting this panicky feeling that maybe things never really had been the way they were before.

On the other hand it's perfectly true, what he said. A perpetual sense of impending doom is my natural state. I should be used to it by now-this feeling that every next moment is a catastrophe waiting to happen.

So maybe it's just the wind.

I throw the coverlet up over the pillows-about as far as I'm willing to go toward making the bed. I slip on a gauzy Indian cotton dress, slide my feet into old leather sandals, and run a comb through my still-damp hair. Pull a sweater out of the drawer. It'll be freezing in the studio. The last thing I do is grab my medicine bundle necklace and loop it over my head.

It was my tenth birthday present from my father-the last present he gave me. He was always getting stuff in trade for fixing people's cars and tractors. He got this one from an Indian in Taos for putting a new engine in his pickup. It's a tiny deerskin sack that used to be sort of a honey color, but it's darkened with age and the oil from my skin. There's a beaded design on the front in red and white and black. My father said it was a storm design.

When I first got it, it was filled with the corn pollen that Navajos use in their religious ceremonies, but I kept undoing the blue wool tie and spilling the pollen, so now it just holds my Zuni bear fetish, carved from turquoise with an inlaid white shell heart line that represents the path to power in his heart. It's my talisman against drunk drivers, muggers, lightning strikes, inoperable brain tumors, falling down the stairs, or being dumped for a twenty-two-year-old cocktail waitress.

I don't leave home without it.

A crackling dry gust funnels up through the stairwell, lifting my skirt up to my waist, and I'm too hot to care. I juggle the awkward bulk of the Styrofoam cooler, squint against the dust, and try not to breathe till I can get down to the sidewalk. Something white flaps on the windshield of my black Hyundai. Shit. I forgot about street cleaning again. I pull off the ticket and jam it down into the black hole of my purse with all the others.

I drive in the right-hand lane, radio off, running through my warm-up exercises. Breathe deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, filling the diaphragm, out through the mouth saying, AHHHHH. Touching left ear to left shoulder, right ear to right shoulder. At the first traffic light I turn my head slowly clockwise, then counterclockwise. Then, taking advantage of the long red light, I suck in air and expel it in short, powerful bursts: Huh! Huh! Huh!

In the middle of AAAAA, EEEEE, IIIII, OOOOO, UUUUU, I remember that my window is partway down. The two men in the blue sedan next to me are exchanging alarmed looks. When I smile sheepishly, their heads snap to the front.

SoundsGood, the studio where I'm recording this morning, is in a bleak-looking strip mall, sandwiched between a daycare center and a Pizza Hut. Half the shops are vacant and boarded up; the other half have burglar bars on the windows and doors. But the heavily curtained glass door to the studio hides a secret world-clean, cozy, and decorated in southwestern pastels, stacked to the gills with cutting-edge technology and staffed by industry veterans.

“A jingle package is going to run you about three grand.” Artie Simon sports headphones draped around his neck and a phone lodged between his ear and shoulder. He holds up his coffee cup, raising an eyebrow at me.

I shake my head and sink down on a sand-colored loveseat, extract my copy of the script from my battered leather portfolio. This morning I'm doing a double with Jack Piper, best known for last-minute, flying entrances, so I have plenty of time to look over my dialogue, tuning out the sound engineer's phone conversation. It's the third spot in an ongoing series of commercials for a local furniture chain, and my character is the middle-aged mother of a new college graduate. I look up from the script just as Artie says, “Let me know and we'll get you booked. Yep. My name's Artie.” He grins at me and hangs up. “Hi, Beauty. The Beast isn't here yet. Sure you don't want some coffee?”

“No thanks. Too hot. How's everything with you?”

“Good. Just trying to clear the decks here. We're starting postproduction on a film next week.”

“Anything I've heard of?”

“Doubt it. It's an indie. Full of people who look about eighteen. Including the director.” Artie drains his cup. “How's Michael?”

“Busy as usual.” That much, at least, I'm sure of.

A car door slams outside and seconds later the studio door flies open. Jack, looking impossibly square-jawed and clad in full cowboy regalia, swaggers in ahead of the dry wind.

“Ya wanna buy a car, pilgrim?” He smiles broadly at his own reasonable facsimile of John Wayne.

Artie sighs. “It's furniture, Jack. Bergman's. And you're almost late.”

“I know, and I'm sorry.” To his credit, Jack never makes up stupid excuses. “But almost late is better than late, is it not?”

“Nice duds, Jack.” I smile.

“I'm judging the state chili cook-off at high noon.”

Artie heads for Studio A, and we fall in behind him. “Then it's lucky for Sunny we're working this morning.”

Artie sits down at the console next to a black metal tower of audio equipment and punches up a display on the computer monitor, while Jack and I take our places in the voice booth, adjust our copy stands and mikes. In a union shop, the engineer would have to come in and adjust the mikes-in fact, touching your own mike normally carries the same stigma as touching your privates on network TV-but then nobody works union in Albuquerque.

Artie dons the headphones. “Let's get a level.”

“Okay, Mom, you can open your eyes now. How do you like it?” Once in the booth, Jack Piper is all business.

“This? This is a new apartment?”

“Well, it's new to me-”

“Okay,” Artie breaks in. “I'm slating you. Bergman's Home Furnishings, number three. Cooper and Piper. Take one. We're rolling.”

“Okay, Mom, you can open your eyes now. How do you like it?”

“This? This is a new apartment?”

“Well, it's new to me. It's my first apartment.”

“There's a toaster oven on top of your television.”

“Er . . . yes. That's the kitchen.”

“At least you have a walk-in closet.”

“That's the bathroom, Mom.”

“I see. Well, where's the bedroom?”

“You just sat down on it.”

“You're sleeping on the couch?”

“But not just any couch. It's a queen-size sleeper sofa from Bergman's Home Furnishings.”

“Ah. Bergman's. Well, maybe there's hope for this place after

all.”

Artie leans toward his own mike. “Good. But you're at thirty-one-point-five. Can you tuck it in just a bit? And Jack, could you emphasize just the word Bergman's. You know . . . punch it, but don't push it. And then you guys can lay down some tags.”

At the University of New Mexico, I was obsessed with the idea that I had to be successful at something. Anything. But growing up on a commune presented me with very few role models for success-or even a workable definition of it-in the real world.

I was also severely conflicted about the work ethic.

I wasn't excited about promising my time to some company eight hours a day, five days a week, for the rest of my life. Dressing in office-appropriate clothing, taking my one-hour lunch at a prescribed time. Working eleven and a half months to get my two weeks of vacation n. Potential employers were not enthusiastic about me, either, judging from the number of job offers I received.

One, actually. With a small office furniture company in downtown Albuquerque. The job was assistant director of marketing. It sounded good in theory.

But the director I was supposed to be assisting made it clear that he wouldn't be in the office much. That I'd be responsible for cranking out press releases and sales brochures, answering the phone, filing, making his travel arrangements, and not revealing

his whereabouts to anyone. I'd never had a real job in an office, but the job description still sounded a little strange. The salary he offered me was barely more than I was making on the lunch shift at the Kachina Grill. But he assured me there was potential for “advancement.”

I worried, I wavered. Finally I asked my roommate, Betsy, what I should do.

“Wait a second. Let me get this straight. He wants you to do all this work for slave wages and not tell anyone he's not there? Sounds totally bogus to me. He'll probably be screwing his girlfriend in hotels all over the country while his wife's calling you every ten minutes to find out where he is.” She shook her head. “Shit, waiting tables is better than that.”

I went back to the lunch shift. I graduated to the dinner shift. Tips got better, but I was restless. I was a college graduate working as a server, without even the excuse that I was writing a novel or making sculptures in the basement or going to grad school. Waiting tables was my real, full-time job. I wanted to do something else, but I didn't know what and I didn't know how.

And then one day I went with Betsy to look at a used pickup truck somewhere off of Rio Grande Boulevard, and on the way back we stopped at Garson's-one of the city's biggest florist chains-so she could send flowers to her mom.

While she was looking at plants and floral arrangements, I amused myself by wandering around the shop doing what I thought was a hilarious parody of all the little sayings that were posted everywhere. Like Say it with flowers, and you'll know she's listening. Or Flowers speak louder than words. Or A dozen roses are worth a thousand words.

I noticed a suit hanging around the back of the shop, but I ignored him. I figured he was some guy waiting for his order. When I started in on the book of suggested sentiments for people to write on their gift cards-which I found ludicrous; I mean, you're sending someone flowers and you have to choose what you want to say out of a catalog? Anyway, the guy comes up to me and says, “Pardon me, Miss.” He holds out his hand. “I'm George Garson.”

Of course, I figure he's going to ask me very politely to get my butt out of his shop, but instead he says, “You have a lovely voice. And very unique. Would you be interested in doing a commercial for me?”

From there, it was only a matter of time before I was voicing Lo-Flo, the ecologically correct, water-efficient, talking toilet for the New Mexico Water Commission.

Much as I like being a voiceover, it's not something you're going to get rich doing-I read somewhere that 10 percent of the VO's get 80 percent of the work-so the rest of us have day jobs. Rather than work for someone else, I started my own little company, Domestic Obligations. I take care of things when people are out of town or otherwise engaged-houses, pets, mail. I stand in line for them at the Motor Vehicle Department and the post office and EventMaster, pick up coconut ice cream for the dinner party, bake and deliver cookies for the knitting group or scones for a writers' workshop. Sometimes I'll even cook lunch or dinner-whatever they can't, don't have time for, or don't want to do, I'll do. The work suits me.

This second job has a lot to do with the voiceover work I've managed to get. Early on I was doing a lot more baking than voicing, and whenever I had food left over from a Domestic Obligations booking, I'd take it with me to the studio. I'm convinced that there have been many times when a choice between me and another VO came down to: Let's call Sunny Cooper. At least she'll bring food.

Montoya's Panaderia is visible for blocks-not because of its size, but because its brown adobe walls are splashed with huge, brightly colored flowers. Michael loves their green chile bread.

I leave the car in the gravel lot next to a table with a defunct TV set on top and a couple of old tires underneath, and thread a path through the cluster of kids drinking sodas and eating empanadas on the patio. The scents of cinnamon and chocolate, bread and coffee, envelop me in a friendly embrace.

“Hi, Sunny,” Luis greets me from behind the counter, blots his forehead. “Hot enough for you?”

“It's like July, isn't it? You have any green chile bread left?”

“Let's hope that means we'll get April weather in July.” He bags the last loaf and throws in a couple of biscochitos for good measure before he rings me up.

I drive home nibbling on a biscochito and park on Montclaire, under a sprawling cottonwood. Tomorrow the car will be covered with bird shit, but at least it will be cooler. My sandals make a flat, slapping noise on the concrete steps. The slight breeze down on the street hasn't made it to the interior of the complex yet.

Our apartment building, grandly dubbed The Marquesa, was built in the early seventies, which must have been the nadir of American architecture-or at least of New Mexican architecture. When we first moved in, there were more UNM grad students and young faculty, but they've moved on now, presumably to buildings where the plumbing doesn't howl like a coyote after the rain and the windows fit snugly enough in the frames to keep out the fine blown dust. Now most of the tenants belong to the geriatric set, and Michael and I are “that young couple with the loud phonograph.”

“Hey, Sunny, where ya been? What's in the bag?”

Sissy Proctor is leaning over the railing across the courtyard.

Sissy of the fuzzy orange hair and the fuzzy blue slippers and skin like a lizard. She has to be eighty, but she's got the eyes of a hawk. All the better to spot the yard sale bargains she's always bringing home. That's how I met her. I saw her dragging a gorgeous old pie crust tilt-top table up the stairs one Sunday morning and offered to help. She invited me into her place, which looks a lot like the collection depot for the Salvation Army thrift store. We balanced on the edge of her sofa-a genuine Castro convertible nearly obliterated by piles of quilts and afghans-drinking lukewarm tea and talking about collecting. At that first meeting she sang the entire Castro jingle for me in her quavery, off-key voice.

“Hi, Sissy. It's just green chile bread from Montoya's.”

She raises her pencil-thin eyebrows knowingly. “Hot date tonight?”

“Any date would be hot tonight.”

“You ain't wrong about that. Hey, my cousin just got a new shipment from Miami. You want to check it out Sunday morning?” Sissy's cousin Des has a booth at the swap meet dealing in gently used LPs, forty-fives, and seventy-eights, plus vintage photos and the occasional kitchen gadget.

“Maybe. Let me see if Michael has anything planned.”

My key rattles strangely in the lock, and the door swings open with just a push. God, did I forget to lock up this morning? The minute I cross the threshold, I know. Not a sound, not a smell. Nothing I can see immediately. Just a presence. It makes my skin go corduroy.

I stand still, knees fused. I can hear my heart slamming like it's between my ears. Now they come into focus, the things that have been moved. The magazines are on the wrong end of the coffee table. Two CDs are upside down on the floor. I pick them up: Dixie Chicks and Nirvana. They were in the changer last night. I look up quickly at the shelves. The stereo is still there, but my antique wooden tea caddy, where I kept our CDs, is gone.

Down the hall. I nudge open the door to the office, and my breath stops in my throat. The floor is littered with the contents of Michael's desk-pencils and pens, paper clips and rubber bands, rulers, scissors, message pads, stationery, business cards. Both file drawers are open; folders and papers are strewn everywhere.

I know I should call the police, but I'm embarrassed. We talked about putting a dead bolt lock on, but somehow never got around to it. I've always felt so safe here in the courtyard with half a dozen nosy senior citizens living around me.

I pick up the phone and put it down. Pick it up again. An hour later Patrolman Alan Ramos is at the door.

He's a compact, wiry, no-frills kind of cop. After he introduces himself, he stands with his back to the door looking around at everything with eyes like small, dark marbles. He opens the door, checks the handle, the lock, the jamb.

“Seven-year-old with a library card could pop this,” he says matter-of-factly. He sets down the black case he's carrying and pulls out a notebook.

“What was the first thing you saw when you came in?”

“Things were moved. The magazines. All my CDs are gone.”

“How many?”

“Probably about thirty.”

He walks into the kitchen. “What about in here?”

“Nothing seems to be missing there.”

I lead him down the hall to the office doorway.

He says, “Have you touched anything in here?”

“Just the phone.”

“Good.” He continues on to the bedroom and bathroom while I stand surveying the mess on the office floor. When he comes back he asks, “You notice anything else missing? Jewelry? Money? You have a laptop?”

“Not that I can see. We both had our computers with us.”

He scribbles in the notebook. “The men's clothing in the bedroom belongs to who?”

“My-Michael Graham.”

“And where's he today?”

“Working. He works here, in the office, but he's out a lot.”

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“No. Well, I called his cell phone and left a message on his voice mail.”

Alan Ramos rocks back on his heels. “Have you been gone all day?”

“I left about eight forty-five this morning. Michael was already gone. And I got home . . .” I look at my watch. “About four thirty.”

“Anybody been in here recently? Like a plumber or something?”

I shake my head.

I follow him back into the living room. More silent looking around. He tugs at the top button on his shirt, like it's too tight.

“Mind if I sit?” Without waiting for my nod, he sits in the leather chair. “Usually burglars take things like stereos, TVs, computers, jewelry.” He pauses. “But maybe they liked your taste in music. Or they heard somebody coming. Or thought they did. You and Mr. Graham have the only keys to this apartment?”

“The landlord has one.”

“Anybody else?”

“My best friend, Betsy Chambliss. She's in San Antonio this week.”

He bends his head to write in the book. His hair is closely cropped and it glistens darkly with some kind of hair goo. He looks up at me.

“That office-seems like somebody was looking for something. Any idea what it might be?”

I shake my head.

“Okay, Ms. Cooper.” He stands up. “I'm going to suggest that you get a new lock on this door. A double-keyed deadbolt. You have someplace you can stay tonight?”

“No. But Michael should be home soon.”

He picks up the black case. “I'm going to try to lift some fingerprints, then I'm going to talk to some of your neighbors. See if they heard or saw anything unusual today.” He heads for the office, but comes back seconds later. “Just so you know . . . chances are we won't recover the CDs.”

After he's gone I realize how hot the apartment is. I turn the thermostat down to sixty, take my purse and portfolio back to the bedroom. I know I'm alone, but I keep looking around corners, listening for something. All I see are shadows; all I hear are my own footsteps, muffled by the hall rug.

The mess in the office probably isn't that bad. It just requires wading in and making a start. Normally that's right up my alley. Michael's always letting things fall where they stand, leaving stacks of papers on every available surface, business cards in the bathroom when he empties his pockets, CDs on the coffee table, mail by the kitchen sink. Then I come through, single-mindedly gathering things up, sorting them out, filing papers, shutting drawers. I quit complaining about it long ago, since it never did any good, and now I do it on autopilot. But this is not your ordinary clutter. Someone did this. Someone who shouldn't have been in our home. After studying the scene for another long minute, I shut the door, hurry back out to the living room, put the Dixie Chicks CD in the player, and turn it on. “Wide Open Spaces” blares reassuringly out of the speakers.

In the kitchen I fill a glass with ice, then a picture springs to mind of some stranger handling the glass. I dump the ice in the sink, wash and dry the glass, and get fresh ice. I open the refrigerator. There's a note taped to the pitcher of raspberry tea. It makes me smile in spite of the sick feeling in my stomach. Michael always leaves me messages in the refrigerator because that's usually the first place I go when I come home. It comforts me, reminds me that things will be normal again. I pull the folded paper off the pitcher and open it.

Gone to Taos. Back later.

The note is scrawled in a hurried hand. No signature. No apology. No excuses. No love you.

Taos means he's with Kirby Dolen, the guy everyone calls the Software Rock Star. It's about two and a half hours each way, if there's no traffic.

I turn the paper over, hoping for something more. When was Michael here? When did he leave? On the other side is my own handwriting: garlic, chicken broth, potatoes.

By 7:30 I've read the newspaper from front to back. The sun is gone, but now the sidewalks and streets and buildings are radiating back the heat of the day. A sudden knocking-it's Mrs. Harriman downstairs, banging on the ceiling with her broom: her way of letting me know the music's too loud. I turn it off and dial Michael's cell phone and get voice mail again.

“Michael, it's me. Where are you? How late is later? I really need to talk to you.”

I walk through the apartment, checking all the windows. I flip through the thirty-seven stations we get on cable, catch the tail end of The Matrix, and then the happy lady on the Weather Channel says this high pressure area is going to continue to bake Albuquerque at least through the weekend.

By 9:15, I'm pissed off. And hungry. In the fridge I find a Styrofoam box with my leftovers from Tuesday night's dinner. I stand at the sink absently picking pieces of cold pasta out of congealed Alfredo sauce and washing them down with room-temperature white wine. I don't stop till they're both gone, and I feel uncomfortably full, but not satisfied.

Ignoring the tightness in the waistband of my jeans, I cut a slab of frozen Sara Lee cheesecake and eat it out of my hand, watching an old Star Trek rerun in which Captain Kirk falls for a gorgeous female alien who turns out to be a robot. I wipe my sticky fingers on a paper towel and try the cell phone again. I hang up before voice mail kicks in.

The eleven o'clock news comes and goes. Why doesn't he call? He knows I worry when he's late. Truthfully, I worry even when he's not late. I'm always convinced he's been run off the road by one of New Mexico's ubiquitous drunk drivers and is lying facedown in an arroyo. Or that he's having an affair, in which case I hope he's lying facedown in an arroyo.

This is the wrong damn night for him to be oblivious. I can't bring myself to go get in bed and turn off the lights. I know I wouldn't fall asleep; I'd just lie there imagining noises. I punch the remote, and the TV screen pops and goes black. I

wrap myself up in my mother's old green crocheted afghan- the only thing of hers I brought to Albuquerque with me-and curl up on the couch. Just as my eyes are closing, the telephone jangles, and I race to the kitchen to pick it up.

“It's me,” he says.

“Me who? Would this be the stranger who left an unsigned note in the refrigerator?”

“Sunny . . .” His voice is weary and impatient. “Why did you call me?”

“Because somebody broke into the apartment.”

There's a long silence.

“Michael? Are you there? I said, somebody-”

“I heard you.” Another silence, not quite as long. “Are you okay?”

“As okay as can be expected. They took all my CDs. When are you coming home?” I'm pacing back and forth the length of the cord.

He says, “I'm not.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I've got a room at the Sagebrush Inn. I'm too tired to drive all the way back down tonight.”

He must be on his cell; the reception's awful. “Michael . . . we got robbed today. All they got were my CDs. For God's sake, what if they come back?”

“I'm sorry, but I just can't drive back tonight. I'm exhausted. I don't think I could make it without falling asleep. Look, why don't you go over and stay with Betsy?”

“Because she's in San Antonio, that's why.”

“Did they take anything in my office?” he says.

“It's impossible to tell because they dumped everything on the floor.”

No response. If it wasn't for the static I'd think he'd lost reception. “Michael? What's going on?”

“Nothing. I'm just totally . . .” He pauses. “Now this. Christ.” But his voice is empty of expression.

“You're acting really weird. Doesn't it matter to you that someone broke into our apartment this afternoon and now I'm-”

“I'm sorry you lost all your CDs, but I can't do much about it tonight.”

“It's not the damned CDs.” My throat aches from the effort of talking. “I just need you to be here. With me. Why are you acting like this?”

“Well, I can't be there, Sunny. I'm sorry, but I can't.”

“Thanks, I've about got that figured out.”

“Look, I'll be home . . . before noon. We can talk then. I just don't feel like-”

“Fine.” I hang up the phone.

The foregoing is excerpted from The Laws of Harmony by Judith Ryan Hendricks. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022 view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Sunny Cooper has been running since she was eighteen—from the New Mexican commune where she grew up . . . and from the haunting memory of the freak accident that took the life of her younger sister. Now, at thirty-two, Sunny voices radio spots in Albuquerque while struggling to hold on to a floundering relationship. But when a second tragic accident—and the devastating truths that come to light in its aftermath—turns her world upside down, Sunny runs again.

In the town of Harmony on San Miguel Island, she takes a new job, learns to ride a motorcycle, and makes some surprising new friends. But the past is never far behind. A startling discovery—along with an emotional and revelatory reunion with her estranged mother—is forcing Sunny to step out from the shadows of yesterday to embrace an uncertain future.

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