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  A chill ran up David’s spine. “Can’t you just take the baby?!”

  “No,” MaryAnne said. David turned to her pensively. Her face was pallid and though her eyes were dim they did not veil her determination. “No, David.”

  David clasped her hand in both of his.

  “Oh, MaryAnne.”

  “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “You’re not leaving me, MaryAnne. I won’t let you leave me.”

  Eliza walked back down between MaryAnne’s legs as she started into another contraction. Just then, a cuckoo clock erupted in festive announcement of the second hour, followed by a gay, German melody accompanying tiny, brightly colored figurines waltzing in small circles on a wooden track.

  “I feel the baby!” Eliza was certain that she would first feel the afterbirth, nearly assuring the infant’s demise. “MaryAnne, push again!”

  “I feel as if all my insides are coming out.”

  “You are doing wonderfully.”

  “Yes, you are doing wonderfully.” David was seeing a whole new side of his wife, and of life, and it filled him equally with awe and terror.

  “Push again, darlin’.”

  MaryAnne closed her eyes tightly and pushed.

  “I have its head!” she exclaimed. “The baby is alive!”

  MaryAnne cried out in pain and joy.

  “One more push, Mary. Just one more.”

  MaryAnne obeyed and the child emerged, coated in blood and fluid. When she had taken the baby in her arms, the midwife looked up at David and MaryAnne, still breathing heavily. “You have a daughter.” She severed and tied the umbilical cord, oiled off the baby, then laid her on MaryAnne’s chest. MaryAnne took the infant in her arms and wept with joy. Eliza’s stern, hazel eyes rested on David. “Now leave the room.”

  David beamed. “A daughter,” he repeated. As he left the room, he paused at the threshold to smile at MaryAnne, who, with tears streaming down her cheeks, smiled back at him, proud of the tiny daughter she held.

  In the dark hallway outside the parlor, David sat alone on a padded fruitwood bench, a wall separated from the muffled cry of the newborn infant. His heart and mind still raced—much as one who, narrowly avoiding an accident, finds his heart pounding and his breath stolen.

  On a walnut whatnot at the far end of the hall, an antique French clock chimed delicately, denoting the half hour. He glanced down the hallway. His eyes were unable to discern the piece in the darkness. At one time, the clock had been the most valuable of his collection—an elaborate, gilded Louis XV mantel clock, signed by its long-dead creator. The clock’s waist opened to expose a pendulum bob in the form of sun rays, and on its crown were two golden cherubs. In its base was set a musical box.

  David had acquired the clock in the crowded Alfred H. King auction hall in Erie, Pennsylvania, a year after he had moved to Salt Lake City. He had paid nearly one thousand dollars more than he had intended to for the clock, the price escalating to match not its worth, but his desire. The day of the auction, he had visited the piece no fewer than a dozen times and obsessed over it, regarding all who came near it with wanton jealousy. He had never desired a piece so intensely and wanted the clock no matter the price.

  That desire was a candle to the furnace he had just felt at MaryAnne’s side. What he had prayed in desperation, he meant just as fervently in the peace of resolution—that he would truly have given everything he owned to know that MaryAnne would be all right.

  “We have chosen for our daughter the name of MaryAnne’s mother—Andrea. What a thing it is to be introduced to one’s child. I find a new side to my being that even the gentility of MaryAnne could not produce from my brutal soul.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. January 18, 1909

  The birth of the child was greeted with great celebration by the thirty-four employees at the Parkin Machinery Company. Knitted booties and gowns came in from all quarters, each secretary, or clerk’s wife, attempting to outdo the other.

  Lawrence brought Andrea a homemade rattle that he had crafted by bending brass strips into a ball and covering it with sewed leather, concealing inside two miniature harness bells.

  Once again, the Parkin home was adorned with flowers, many from neighbors and business associates, but most from David, who felt as if he had completed a great bargain in marrying one lady and only five months later found himself with two.

  If the child’s sireship was David and MaryAnne’s secret, it seemed of little importance, as the child could not have been more his. It gave David great pleasure to be told that the child looked like her father, and, curiously, Andrea seemed to resemble him more than his wife. This fact was so frequently called to attention that David finally asked MaryAnne if he bore a resemblance to Andrea’s real father.

  “You are her real father,” she answered. When he pressed her harder, she only replied, “He was not so handsome.”

  Andrea was a pretty child with large, piercing brown eyes that rested above sculptured rose cheeks. At first, her hair came in platinum wisps that curled on top until it grew long and fell to her shoulders in gilded chestnut coils. She had the delicate features of a porcelain doll, and whenever MaryAnne took her out in public, they were accosted by other women who strained to catch a glimpse of the infant, then squealed in delight that such a petite creation should cross their path.

  In a strange ritual not fully understood even by its practitioners, every acquaintance of the Parkins who possessed a male child staked their claim on Andrea for their son, which only served, if it were possible, to add to MaryAnne and David’s pride.

  “In the year A.D. 69 the Roman emperor Vitellius paid the chief priest of Gaul, whose responsibility it was to determine the beginning and end of spring, a quarter of a billion dollars to extend spring by one minute. The emperor then boasted that he had purchased that which all man cannot. Time.

  “Vitellius was a fool.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. April 18, 1909

  With the birth of Andrea, David was born anew. If MaryAnne had given David’s life meaning, Andrea gave meaning to his future. Since his own childhood had been spent in the blackness of mines and the company of adults, David had never been with children, and now he heralded each new stage of his daughter’s development with the ecstasy of scientific discovery. The day Andrea first rolled over in her crib, he inwardly cursed the world that it had not stopped to acknowledge the marvel. It was as if he was finding the childhood he was denied, and, through Andrea, seized the wonder of it all—a child’s world of stuffed dolls and menagerie animals sculpted in the clouds. The employees of the Parkin Machinery Company were informed on a daily basis of the baby’s progress and were happily amused with this new side of their boss’s personality. It was said at the office that David seemed happily distracted, though, in fact, he had just become more focused on the child, and, lest he miss her childhood, spent more time at home.

  In late spring, necessity forced an extended business trip back East, which David returned home from a week early. Catherine met him at the door and took his coat and attaché case.

  “Welcome home, sir.”

  “Thank you, Catherine. Where are MaryAnne and Andrea?”

  “They are in the gazebo. May I take your shoulder bag?”

  “Thank you, but no. These are gifts.”

  David passed through the house and out into the garden, where MaryAnne sat on the gazebo swing, gently rocking the baby she nursed at her breast. The yard was littered with the white popcorn blossoms of apricot trees, the crisp air filled with the perfume of the garden and the sounds of MaryAnne’s hummed lullabies. MaryAnne, absorbed in a different world, looked up only when he was a few feet off.

  “David!”

  He smiled wide, laid down the heavy shoulder bag, kissed her, then, sitting down, pulled the blanket back, exposing the suckling child.

  “What wonderful animals we are,” he said. “It is so good to be home. You two have made my life very difficult. You have exposed
me to the malady of homesickness.”

  “Then it is contagious,” MaryAnne replied. “We have missed you so. How was the journey?”

  “It is done.” He leaned over and kissed Andrea on her head. “In my absence, I have thought a great deal about my business. I have decided that I miss my secretary.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was hoping I could get her back.”

  “If you could accommodate two ladies for the position I may consider it.”

  He leaned back and breathed in the rich scent of lilac and apple blossom. “Spring breathes such life into this desert. I concluded the business faster than I, or they, planned.”

  “Was it productive?”

  “Adequate.” He suddenly smiled. “I have something to show you,” he said excitedly. He released the straps of the shoulder bag, then extracted a gold-papered box from inside. He lifted the top of the box and parted the tissue. Inside lay a burgundy velvet dress with a black silk sash and white lace collar.

  MaryAnne gasped. “It is beautiful!”

  “I think we should try it on her,” David suggested.

  MaryAnne covered her mouth, then turned, trying to conceal her amusement.

  “Why are you laughing?” he asked innocently.

  “I am sorry.” She chuckled. “David, it won’t fit her for years!” With one hand, she lifted the dress out of the box.

  He examined the garment then looked back down at the infant.

  “Oh.”

  “It is a lovely dress. She will look beautiful in it.” Her mouth lifted in a teasing smile. “When she is four or five.” She laughed again.

  “I am not much with sizes,” he confessed. He reached again into his bag. This time, he lifted out a miniature wooden crate, then carefully extracted from its cotton boll packing a small porcelain music box, a carousel, hand-painted in pastel-and-gold adornment. He wound the instrument then held it out in the palm of his hand. It plucked a simple carnival tune as the carousel revolved and its intricate horses rose and fell in clockwork mechanism. At the sound of the music, Andrea turned from MaryAnne’s breast to see the toy. She cood happily, reaching out to touch the tiny, prancing horses.

  “It is wonderful! Where did you find such a toy?!”

  “At a clock shop in Pennsylvania. The proprietor, a Mr. Warland, creates the most intriguing inventions.”

  “You give good gifts, David.”

  “I have a gift for you, too.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s heavy. And it is rather different, but I thought you might like it.” He reached into the sack, lifting out a wooden box of dark, burled walnut. Leather straps ran across the top over an intricately carved Nativity and fastened into silver buckles. On the opposite side were two brass hinges skillfully forged in the shape of holly leaves.

  “It is beautiful. Is it to hold Christmas things?”

  “It is not empty.” David set the box next to MaryAnne. She unfastened its silver clasps and drew back the leather straps, then opened the box slowly. The interior of the box was lined with wine-colored velvet and occupied by an ancient leather Bible, its cover delicate with age and adorned with gold-leafed engravings.

  “Oh, David . . .”

  “I thought you would like it. It is at least two hundred years old. I bought the Bible at an auction. Then I saw the box and thought it a good match.”

  “Sir.”

  David turned. He had not seen Catherine approach. She stood outside the gazebo, holding a calling card in her outstretched hand.

  “Gibbs has left a message.”

  “Thank you.”

  David took the card. MaryAnne looked up from the box. “What is it?”

  “Gibbs wishes to meet with me tomorrow. From the tone of the note, I suspect he is concerned about business matters.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He lifted the carousel again, then, winding it, held it out for Andrea. “All is well.”

  “In Philadelphia I had such fortune to discover a most unusual piece, a sixteenth-century brass-and-gold sundial that duplicates the prophet Isaiah’s biblical miracle of turning back time.

  “ ‘Behold, I will bring again the shadow of the degrees, which is gone down in the sun dial of Ahaz, ten degrees backward. So the sun returned ten degrees, by which degrees it was gone down.’

  Isaiah 38:8

  “The gilded sundial is lipped to hold water and on one edge a figurine, a Moor, holds taut a line which extends from the center of the dial. The sun’s rays, when reflecting from the water, bends the shadow and, for two hours each day, turns back time. Its possessor was unwilling to part with it.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. April 17, 1909

  The next day, at Gibbs’ behest, David came early to work and attacked a pile of paperwork and financial documents. Not an hour into the day, there was a knock on the door. A grim-faced Gibbs pushed the door open.

  “David, may we have a moment?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How was Philadelphia?”

  “I was only able to negotiate a partial price concession, but it is acceptable.”

  Gibbs frowned. In all the years he had known David, he rarely did not get what he wanted—and never dismissed compromise so readily.

  “You look concerned, Gibbs. I received your card. What is troubling you?”

  “I am concerned. Our sales are down considerably.”

  “Yes. I have seen the ledgers.”

  Gibbs sighed. “It is difficult without you here. You are still our best salesman. When we meet with the larger accounts, they are offended that you are not present. One asked me if they had fallen in our esteem.”

  David frowned. “Are we still making a profit?”

  “We could be making more. There is such growth in this city.”

  David walked across the room and looked out the window to the traffic below. For a full minute he said nothing, then, in a softened voice, began to speak.

  “When is it enough, Gibbs?”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  David raised his hands, his back still turned to his manager. “When are we profitable enough? When do I have enough money? I could not possibly spend all that I have in two lifetimes. Not in twenty lifetimes.”

  Gibbs leaned back in exasperation. “There has been a great find of copper in the Oquirrh benches. There’s talk of a large open pit mine to rival the world’s largest. There are great opportunities. And we are missing them.”

  “You are right.” David turned back around. “That is exactly what we are talking about. Lost opportunities. I can always make more money. But how shall I go about reclaiming a lost childhood? The only promise of childhood is that it will end.” He paused in reflection. “And when it is gone, it is gone.”

  Gibbs sighed in frustration. “I am only trying to protect our interests.”

  “And I am not making it very easy for you to do your job.” David walked over and put his hand on Gibbs’s shoulder. “I appreciate you, and I will not let my business fail. Nor will I let you or any of my employees down. But right now I feel that I have finally found life. To leave it would be death. Do your best, Gibbs. But, for now, do it without me.” His words trailed off in silence and Gibbs lowered his head in disappointment.

  “Yes, David.” He rose and walked from the room.

  “It would seem that my Andrea is growing so quickly, as if time were advancing at an unnatural pace. At times I wish it were within my power to reach forth my hand and stop the moment—but in this I err. To hold the note is to spoil the song.”

  David Parkin’s Diary. October 12, 1911

  Two months before Andrea’s third birthday, the cradle was taken up to the attic and an infant bed was brought in its place. The new bed was exciting to the small girl and represented freedom, which, to a child, is a poor requisite for sleep. David and MaryAnne found that it took more time to put her down each night.

  One night, David finished readin
g a second story to Andrea, then, thinking himself successful in lulling her to sleep, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Good night,” he whispered.

  Andrea’s eyes popped open. “Papa. You know what?”

  David smiled in wonder at the child’s persistence. “What?”

  “The trees are my friends.”

  David grinned at the sudden observation. “Really?” He pulled the sheet up under her chin. “How do you know this?”

  “They waved to me . . .”

  David smiled.

  “. . . and I waved back.”

  David’s smile broadened. He was astonished at the purity of the child’s thought. “Andrea, do you know why I love you so much?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Why?” he asked, genuinely surprised that she had an explanation.

  “Because I’m yours.”

  Strangely, Andrea’s reply inflicted him with a sharp pang of dread. He forced a smile. “And you are right. Good night, little one.”

  “Good night, Papa,” she replied sleepily and rolled over.

  David did not return to his bedroom but retreated to the seclusion of the drawing room to think. After an hour, MaryAnne, dressed in her nightclothes, came for him. She quietly peered in. David sat in a richly brocaded green-and-gold chair. Several books lay next to him, though none was open. His head was bowed, resting in the palm of one hand. MaryAnne entered.

  “David? Is business troubling you?”

  He raised his head.

  “No.” His voice was laced with melancholy. “I have just been wondering.”

  MaryAnne came behind his chair and leaned over it, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “What have you been wondering, my love?”

  “Shall we ever tell her?”

  “Tell her?”

  “That I am not her real father.”

  MaryAnne frowned. She came around and sat on the upholstered footstool before him. “You are her real father.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not. And I feel dishonest, as if I were hiding something from her.”

  “David, it isn’t important.”