Chapter One

“I long for nothing, I envy nobody!” Daphne Grant walks happily with brisk, steady steps along the street, between the asphalt and the newly cut grass. She has no fear of the cars passing so close. She knows that the drivers are cautious, as here in Southampton – and even more on Wickapogue Road – the speed limit is very low and violation is severely punished.

She feels terrific. Her long muscled legs in her trainers seem to move to some inner rhythm. They gleam in the morning sun, strong, young, cared for; years of the best body lotions on the market have obvious results. The old khaki shorts washed, ironed, conforming to her body; her simple tank top with thin blue and white stripes spotless. The beige leather belt is loose. The blonde ponytail, swinging with her fast pace, gleams in the bright light of the summer morning.

“I long for nothing, I envy nobody,” she murmurs to herself, and at the same time tries, with an assumption of confidence, to stare the landscape into submission. She is, in fact, trying to convince herself that last year’s problems belong to the past.

Anything’s possible today. Even a great love could appear right in front of me! On this thought, she kneels to pick some wild flowers. White daisies. She smiles. With the small bunch of flowers in her hand, she puts on her straw hat. Squashing down her ponytail and pushing her glasses closer to her eyes with a finger, she quickens her pace. The passer-by on the bicycle turns to see who she is, but all he can discern is a hat and a smile. In a few minutes Daphne turns into Herrick Street and passes Southampton Hospital. White clapboard houses are only partly visible through luxuriant greenery. The tall trees lining the road cool the atmosphere, luckily, because she’s started to perspire. For the past twenty minutes she’s been walking from her friend Thomas Bono’s house – where she is a guest for this weekend in Fort Dune – toward the center of town, heading for her usual Saturday morning coffee. On South Main the traffic is heavier in both directions. She is walking on an immaculate sidewalk. Opposite a traditional Hampton house, her eye falls on a sign: Gil Flanahan & Assato, Attorneys at Law. She is surprised. I was sure that children were being raised in this garden! she thinks. Oh, well. Hamptons.

She crosses at the traffic light in front of the Southampton Presbyterian Chapel with its great clock, and stops at the Chrysalis gallery. The display window is choked with colorful works by local painters. Her trained eye observes and, with her years of experience, she judges severely. Lightweight -- summer resort art, she thinks as she picks up a copy of Dan’s Paper from a pile at the side of the road. Oddly, this time the front page shows a sculpture instead of the usual paintings, a detail of a human body, an exaggeratedly stretched-out neck. She turns it around to see it from all angles. An inexpert eye would have stopped at its obvious sexuality, but not Daphne’s. She perceives power, pain, a prayer. I could get this into a group show at a gallery, but which? New York? Yes and no. Paris, definitely not. But if I had a gallery in Berlin, it would be just the thing.

She trips on the sidewalk and snaps back to reality. She has reached the traffic light in front of the St. Ambrose Café. She takes a peek inside. The usual familiar faces are having foamy cappuccinos standing at the bar, greedily gobbling fluffy Italian croissants. For a second she thinks of going in. Italian croissants again? After all this walking, I deserve a better breakfast! With assurance she crosses the street and aims for the 75 Main Street Café for eggs Benedict. She abandons Dan’s Paper on the wooden bench outside. She’ll pick up another one later.