The phone rang like a claxon calling the crew to arms in the large study of Payton McAllister. She looked up from the figures she was scrutinizing challenging the thing to a battle of wills. She had no intention of answering that squawk box on a Saturday. That's what secretaries were for anyway. She chewed the end of the pencil as the phone rang for the fifth time and pondered the idea of hiring someone for just that reason, to answer the phone on Saturdays. The last time the phone had sounded so desperate, if a phone can alter its tone, was the morning they called to tell her about the accident. She remembered the day vividly even though she tried to push it out of her mind. She remembered the smell of bacon frying, her blue and violet dressing gown, and the song that played on the radio, even the feel of the cold hard plastic against the palm of her hand and the side of her head. She shook the memory off and formed her index finger and thumb into a gun pose aiming at the black object on the desk that refused to stop shrieking. "BANG!" She mouthed and 'pulled the trigger' just as the noise stopped mid-ring. She put her finger under her lips and blew a short breath across its tip, then slipped her imaginary pistol into its just as imaginary holster and patted her side. "Still got what it takes!" She congratulated herself.

She crossed the large room and picked up the silver pot from the credenza pouring the steaming hot liquid it held into a large white mug. She sipped the bitter coffee and looked over the cup at the portrait of her father that hung over the large fireplace. She stared into the painted hazel eyes that followed her across the room to the large overstuffed couch that faced it. "Betcha never thought I'd be in charge, did ya, dad?" She paused as if she expected an answer. "Nope, never even crossed your mind, did it? Of course, I never crossed your mind at all, did I?" She sounded as bitter as the coffee tasted. "I bet you never thought that when you packed me off to all those schools so they could stuff my head with all their knowledge that someday I would use it to run your company. Nope, I bet you never did think about that. Nope…" She heard the doorbell ring, and a few minutes later there was a short rap on the door.

"Come in." She barked.

"Miss Sinclair, ma'am." A straight faced gray-haired maid announced as Constance stepped into the room carrying a stack of folders and balancing a large bag slung over her shoulder.

"Working on a Saturday, Payton? This has got to be the last time. I do have a life, you know," Connie huffed as she deposited the stack on the desk and turned toward her younger boss. She slid the strap of the bag off her arm and allowed the heavy bag to drop on the floor. "Well, are you at least going to offer me a cup of coffee?" She asked as she crossed the room heading for the silver pot.

"Help yourself." Payton shrugged as she rose and walked to the desk, spreading the folders out and checking the labels on each. "You did bring the Houston account I hope. That is one I can't wait to get my clutches on!"

Connie rolled her eyes and shook her head. She poured her coffee and added cream and sugar. She took a sip and closed her eyes allowing it to slide down her throat slowly. "Mmm, heaven. One thing about this place, I have to admit, always has the very best coffee."

"I'll have Marjorie send some to you every morning, if that’s what it takes to get you moving." Payton offered without looking up.

Constance shook her head. "Can't you be nice? It's a weekend for gods' sake!"

"So? I should change my attitude for 48 hours?" Payton inquired leafing through the largest file folder. "You never get anywhere being nice, Con, it's a dog-eat-dog world out there and THIS bitch does not intend to be on the eaten side of the food chain. It's hard enough running a busy company, without all those bastards out there looking down their noses at me because I am a woman. If I have to work weekends, holidays and all night long, I will show them I am just as good as they are!" Payton became defensive. She always did.

Connie took another sip of coffee and held up her hand, "Okay, okay…don't take it out on me. I'm on your side, remember?" She pulled a large chair to the desk and sat across from Payton. "So, where do you want to start, boss?"

Payton pulled a file from the stack in front of her and handed it across the desk to Connie. The phone blared an insistent ring for a second time. Connie took the file and instinctively reached for the receiver. Payton slammed a hand on it before Connie could pick it up, "Let it ring! We have too much to do and whatever it is can wait until Monday. " Connie shook her head again and opened the file in her hand. The phone rang six more times before it fell silent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nancy Feeney placed the phone in Mrs. Carson's office back into its cradle as Miss Thorne and the nurse emerged from the examining room.

"You should probably have a tetanus shot. You don't want to get an infection from that, " Mrs. Carson was saying as they closed the door.

"I'll keep that in mind." Miss Thorne nodded as she continued toward the exit.

"Keep it dry and change the bandage tomorrow. If it bothers you or seems to get worse you'll need to come back. The stitches can come out in about a week. You can come here or see the doctor, it's up to you."

"Thank you, I will," she answered as she closed the door behind her.

The nurse watched out the window as the headmistress left the building and crossed the commons toward the administration building. Miss Feeney waited in the smaller office for Miss Carson's return.

"Did you notice her hand?" The nurse asked still watching the woman cross the campus.

"How many stitches did she need?" The younger woman asked.

"The other hand, did you notice?" the nurse repeated. Miss Feeney shook her head, a bit confused by the question. "She has bruises across the back of her other hand. She tried to hide it, but it was there." She turned toward Nancy and nodded in a 'what is going on here' kind of way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pamela walked across the clean polished tile floor of the infirmary ward. Her shoes tapped a slow rhythm as she went. She stopped at the bed at the end of the room and stared at its occupant. Reagan's eyes were closed and she could see the large bruise across the smaller girl's cheek and eye. The blood was gone from her lip, but it was very red and definitely swollen. She was dressed in a clean white gown and the clean white blanket on the hospital bed covered most of her. Pamela hadn't noticed before but there were long red welts across Reagan's arms that matched those on her legs. One arm was bandaged in one of those tan stretchy bandages that they used when you didn't have a break but it hurt just as much. Pamela took a deep breath and reached out to pat her friend's hand, but stopped herself, not wanting to wake her.

"It's okay, I'm not sleeping." Reagan said, her words a little slurry because of her swollen lip. She even managed a crooked smile. "Thanks for helping me."

Pam stared at Reagan for a moment before breaking into tears. "I'm sorry, Reagan. I never meant for this to happen. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry."

"Shhh, its okay." Reagan pushed herself up into a sitting position and grabbed the sobbing girl's hand. "You didn't know. Shhh, its okay."

"It's NOT okay!" Pamela cried harder as Reagan pulled her down and hugged her with her stronger arm. "Look at you, look what she did…and it's my fault!"

"I told you I fell, didn't I?" Reagan reminded the girl.

Pamela stood up and sniffed. She pulled a hankie from her pocket and wiped her nose and eyes. "I know what really happened, Reagan. You don't have to make up a story for me. I'm going to tell Mrs. Carson and Miss Feeney what really happened. I'm going to…"

"NO! You listen to me!" Reagan's voice took on a sound of authority that startled her chubby classmate. "You don't say anything, you understand. I said it was okay and it is. It isn't your fault!" Reagan realized how she sounded and softened her voice. "Anyway, its over and nobody can do anything about it. Please, Pamela, if you want to help don't say anything. Please let me take care of it. Please?" Pamela stared at Reagan. She took a deep breath and chewed her bottom lip. "It has to be our secret, Pam. We can't tell anyone." Reagan seemed to beg the girl. Pamela nodded quickly, not sure if it was the right decision, but for knowing that for now it was the only one she could make. Reagan squeezed the hand she was still holding and Pam squeezed back.

"Pamela?" A soft adult voice called. "I think you should let your friend get some rest now, dear."

Pam turned toward the door as Mrs. Carson motioned for her to come away from the tired patient. "I'll come back to see you soon. I promise, and I won't say anything. I promise that too." She whispered as she slid her hand from Reagan's. Reagan smiled and nodded then closed her eyes slowly. Pamela tiptoed across the room and out of the door. As the door clicked shut Reagan tried to push away the memory of the morning's events.

Most of that memory was little more than a blur, blessedly blocked out of the child's memory (perhaps by her own volition). She had no desire to remember any of it. It was easier to tell the lie, even to herself. Somehow it hurt less to make herself believe she had fallen from some tree, been knocked from a perch where she could view the varied colors of the Connecticut landscape on a brisk autumn morning. But bits and pieces of the truth clouded the fantasy she tried to paint in her mind. Miss Thorne's cold hand against the back of her neck. Her nails, scratching the skin at the base of her skull. The long thin switch she had produced and swished through the air as she bellowed and shrieked in her anger. How the headmistress had wrenched her from the floor and continued to beat her with that cane when she had cringed into a tight ball to protect her face from the blows, the pain as she twisted her arm to prevent her escape. Then there was the relief when it was finally over and she was able to limp away from the cottage as the incensed woman broke the switch and tossed it into the fireplace and reached for a small box of matches on the hearth. The headmistress had mumbled to herself over and over again something about paying someone back for all the pain she had to bear. Reagan somehow walked away from the woman who moments before had held her captive, at the mercy of her anger. Perhaps the real fear was Thorne's lack of ire. She seemed to be more pleased with the fact she had held the girl captive, than angry at the misdeed she had accused her of doing. The small, broken child shuddered at the terrible memory.

Reagan reached for the small circle that hung from a fine gold chain around her neck. It had been a gift from her father. A small flat gold ring decorated with nine small blue stones, it was no bigger or thicker than a dime. Reagan had always thought it was a life preserver, like those she had seen on the many ships in her father's fleet. She recognized the emblem on her father's stationery and as part of the large crest on the carpet in his office. It adorned the bow of every McAllister ship in the harbor. Now it served as Reagan's reminder that her life was somehow protected and that the misery, the pain she was subjected to now could not last forever. She rubbed the delicate trinket between her fingers as she had done so many times before and pushed away the painful memory replacing it with the face of her mother and the feel of her father's strong hand surrounding her own. She turned the disk over and stared at the strange markings etched there.

The foreign letters felt comforting under the child's fingers. Many times when she was frightened or lonely she had traced her finger over and over the small disk wondering just what mystery the message would someday reveal. She had asked her father the first day he placed the charm around her neck. It was her eighth birthday and father had promised her a wonderful surprise. Just before bedtime her handed her the small wooden box. It hadn't been wrapped, just a fine black wooden box polished to a shine decorated with tiny gold scrolls that twisted into flowery designs. She opened it slowly and felt almost grown when father asked if he could place the chain around her neck. She shivered remembering the feeling that night. "Promise me," he said as he hooked the clasp at the back of her neck, "you will never take this off." She turned and threw her small arms around his neck squeezing tightly. For a moment she held that memory. She could even smell that spicy cologne. "I promise." She whispered in his ear and kissed his cheek. As he tucked her into bed that evening she noticed the strange printing around the reverse side of her charm. She had asked him then what it said, what it meant. He sat next to her on the bed and smiled, covering her hands with his own. She remembered how large and callused they were and how just one of his hands covered both of hers as she held the small circle in her fingers. He rested his warm hand there on her heart and told her in a voice just above a whisper, like it was a special secret only she and he would share, "when you need to know, it will be as plain as the button nose on your cherub face." He tweaked her nose then like he always did, and bent down to kiss her cheek. She fell asleep that night thinking she was probably the luckiest girl in the world, and knowing she was indeed the happiest.

A tear ran down her cheek as the memory faded, replaced by the vivid recollections of the morning. Like a dark cloud, those memories seemed to shadow anything she tried to use as defense.

She fought sleep, knowing that the memories would become the things of nightmares. There was no mother to rush to her side, to take her into her arms and rock her gently back to sleep. No mother to assure her it was only a dream and everything would certainly be all right. No mother to kiss away her tears and hold her close to her heart, to lay next to her and chase the dark away. No mother's shoulder to rest against, no smell of jasmine, no soft hand smoothing her hair or lightly touching her cheek. Only the soft light of the infirmary kept back the growing gloom of the approaching storm. Only the scent of antiseptic and alcohol tickled her nostrils and only the starched white covering on the pillow beneath her head would catch her tears. Reagan felt more alone at that moment than she had felt since arriving at Brisbey. All of the memories she had saved, all of the thoughts she had cherished, all of the fantasies she had used to comfort herself were suddenly bursting like soap bubbles. The cold, hard reality of her situation was apparent. It hit her harder than the wrath of the crazed headmistress of this elite institution. She turned on her side and hugged the blanket to her chest, its emptiness only amplifying the desolation that surrounded her. Despite her best efforts to it, fight the mild sedative Mrs. Carson had given her took effect and she fell into a deep troubled sleep.

Nancy Feeney stood at the door of the infirmary and watched the scene play before her. Her heart went out to the small girl in the last bed near the window. She didn't know the child very well and felt a bit awkward watching her. She walked softly across the room hoping she could offer a small amount of comfort, if any, to the injured student. Reagan's back was to the teacher as she stepped to the side of the bed. She brushed a stray hair from the girl's face noticing the steady slow breathing that meant she had fallen asleep. Nancy gently tucked the blanket around Reagan and stood for a moment watching the child. Her breathing was interrupted at intervals with soft sobs and Nancy Feeney could not help the tears that fell from her own eyes. She clutched a small piece of paper in one hand, the scrap on which she had written the address and phone number of the McAllister Shipping Company. She looked up as the rain began tapping at the window in front of her and noticed the wind had began forcing the many colored leaves from the trees outside. A quick shiver ran down her spine and she suddenly felt a very nasty cold coming on. Oh yes, a bad cold, much too serious for a school nurse; she would probably have to see her own doctor -- her own doctor in the city, New York City…. Perhaps she would have a long wait in his office on a Monday morning; perhaps she would just find her way downtown while she was there; perhaps she would find time to visit Payton McAllister as well.