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Tires spun in the muddy tracks. Mud flew. Shit, he needed a cigarette. Finally the damned tires caught. He glanced into the rearview mirror and glimpsed the aftermath, fire and smoke billowing upward in the misty night. She's dead. You killed her. Sent her black soul straight to hell.

And she fucking deserved it! He snapped on the radio. Through the speakers, throbbing over the whine of the Jeep's engine, Jim Morrison's voice rocked out familiar lyrics. The bitch wasn't ever going to light anyone's fire again. She couldn't see, couldn't speak, couldn't She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids wouldn't budge. They weighed a ton and seemed glued shut over eyes that burned with a blinding, hideous pain.

There was a touch, someone's cool fingers on the back of her hand. Cahill, can you hear me? I'm Mrs. That sounded wrong, but she didn't know why. But I don't have Am I going crazy? The fingers were removed and there was a heavy feminine sigh.

She's breathing on her own, I've noticed eye movement behind her lids, she's coughed and attempted to yawn, all goods signs, indications that the brain stem isn't damaged—" Oh, God, they were talking about brain damage! Cahill, I'm not married and I'm dying from this pain. For God's sake, someone help me! If this is a hospital, surely you have codeine or morphine or The fog closed in around her and she wanted to give in to it, to feel nothing again.

It's Alex. As if he were standing only inches from her. She felt a new pressure on her arm as he touched her, and she wanted to let him know she could hear him, but she couldn't move, not at all.

The smell of cologne assailed her, and she instinctively sensed it was expensive. But how would she know? The fingertips on her skin were smooth, soft Alex's hands. Her husband's hands. Oh, God, why couldn't she remember? She tried to recall his face, the color of his hair, the width of his shoulders, the size of his shoes, any little trait, but failed.

His voice brought back no images. There was a faint smell of smoke that clung to him as his sleeve brushed her wrist and she felt the scratch of wool from his jacket, but that was it. I miss you, the children—" His voice cracked, emotion strangling him. There was just no way she had kids and didn't know it. Or was there? That was the kind of thing a woman, even a woman lying drugged and half-comatose in a hospital bed would immediately realize.

Certainly her intuition, the female animal in her would sense that she was a mother. Trapped motionless in this blackness she knew nothing. If only she could open her eyes Soon she would remember.

It was just a matter of time Cold horror crept up her spine as she realized she couldn't conjure up one single instant in the years that were her life. It was as if she had never existed. This is a nightmare. That's the only explanation. To us," Alex whispered gruffly, and deep in her heart she wished she felt something, one smidgen of emotion for this faceless stranger claiming to be her life partner. The void that was her past gave her no hint as to what Alex Cahill looked like, what he did for a living, or how he made love to her And what about her children?

No images of cherubic toddlers with runny noses and flushed cheeks or gangly adolescents fighting the ravages of acne flashed through her mind, but then she was sinking. Maybe they'd finally put something in her IV as she felt herself detaching from her body She had to focus. These things take time," the nurse replied and her voice sounded far away, as if through a tunnel. No one can predict.

It could be even longer—" "Don't even go there," he said, cutting her off. She will come around. He was a man used to giving orders. It was as if she were strapped down, weighted to the mattress with its crisp, uncomfortable sheets.

She could not even raise one finger, and yet it didn't matter His words clipped. I'll hire all the people she needs. We've got more than enough room for round the clock, live-in help in the house. Robertson know that you want to see him," the nurse said, her voice no longer coddling and patient.

Now she was firm. Her sluggish consciousness discerned voices again, voices that interrupted her sleep. Cahill should rest now,'' the nurse was saying. It floated in on footsteps that were clipped and solid, at odds with the age of the woman's voice. But please, for Mrs. Cahill's sake, make it brief. Cissy and little James, they miss you, they need you. Nana isn't quite the same as their mother. There was a rustle of clothing, the sound of soft soles padding across the floor and a door opening as, presumably, the nurse left.

Marla was in a horrible accident, and then suffered through the surgeries. She's healing. There was another long, serious sigh and a kindly pat of fingers on the back of her hand.

A waft of perfume. Why was she in the hospital? What kind of accident were they talking about? Marla tried to concentrate, to think, but the effort brought only an ache that throbbed through her head. Oh, please, no. For a second she was jolted out of her haze. Her throat, already parched, nearly closed in fear and her stomach felt as if it had been twisted and tied with rubber bands. She tried to remember what she looked like, but it didn't matter Her heart was racing with dread.

Certainly someone somewhere watching her monitors could see that she was aware, that she was responding, but no loud footsteps pounded outside the door, no urgent voice yelled, "She's stirring. Look, she's waking up! You know, Alexander," the woman who called herself Nana said, "sometimes a woman's beauty can be a curse. But she hasn't lived long enough to understand. She should never have been driving in the first place. Hell, she'd just been released from the hospital. It was all getting fuzzy again, the words garbled.

Had she heard it right? Yes, so many, but I'm too tired to think of them right now.. Whistling sharply to his three-legged dog, Nick Cahill cut the engine of the Notorious and threw a line around a blackened post on the dock where he moored his fishing boat.

Rain drizzled from a leaden sky and the wind picked up, lashing at his face. Whitecaps swirled and danced in counterpoint to the seagulls wheeling and crying overhead. The distinctive odors of diesel, rotting wood and brine mingled in the wintry air of Oregon in November. Hiking the collar of his jacket around his neck, Nick grabbed his bucket of live crabs and stepped onto the pier just as his dog shot past in a black-and-white streak.

A shepherd mix of indecipherable lineage, Tough Guy hurled his body onto the slippery planks and, paws clicking, scrambled up the stairs to the parking lot on the bluff. Nick followed more slowly, past sagging posts covered with barnacles and strangled by seaweed.

He jerked his chin toward the top of the stairs but didn't meet Nick's eyes, just kept working at tying a fly. No one, in all the five years he'd been in these parts, had ever dropped by the marina looking for him.

That's what he said. A burned-out stub of a cigar was forever plugged into one comer of his mouth, a ring of red hair turning gray surrounded his bald pate, and folds of skin hid his eyes more effectively than the magnifying glasses perched on the end of his nose. But you'll spot him. Through the open window, his face framed by racks of cigarettes, tide tables and dozens of the colorful flies he'd tied himself, he added, "He ain't from around here.

I could tell that right off. Nick mounted the stairs and walked across a gravel lot where trucks and trailers and campers were parked with haphazard abandon. In the midst of them, looking like the proverbial diamond sparkling in a pail of gravel, a silver Jaguar was parked, engine purring, California plates announcing an intruder from the south. The motor died suddenly. The driver's door swung open and a tall man in a business suit, polished wingtips and raincoat emerged.

Alex Cahill in the flesh. He picked one helluva day to show up. For no other reason would Alex be inconvenienced enough to wear out some of the tread on his three-hundred-dollar tires.

But the thought was hard to believe. Eugenia Haversmith Cahill was the toughest woman who'd ever trod across this planet on four-inch heels. He changed his mind. His mother couldn't be dead. Eugenia would outlive both her sons. He kept walking to his truck and slung his bucket into the bed with his toolbox and spare tire. Around the parking lot, a once-painted fence and fir trees contorted by years of battering wind and rain formed a frail barricade that separated the marina from a boarded-up antiques shop that hadn't been in business in the five years Nick had lived in Devil's Cove.

Alex jammed his hands deep into the pockets of a coat that probably sported a fancy designer label, not that Nick would know. Or care. But something was up. Beneath the rawhide of his jacket, Nick's shoulders hunched.

No matter what, he wasn't going to be sucked in. Not by Marla. Not ever again. He'd never trusted his older brother. And for good reason. His brother was nothing but a bitter reminder of Nick's own dalliance with the Almighty Buck. And with Marla. In a coma. Shouldn't you be with her? I have been. I didn't know how else to reach you. You don't return my calls and His brother was nothing if not a smooth-talking bastard, a man who could with a seemingly sincere and even smile, firm handshake and just the right amount of eye contact, talk a life jacket off a drowning man.

Older than Nick by three years, Alex was polished, refined and Stanford educated. His graduate work, where he'd learned the ins and outs of the law, had been accomplished at Harvard. Nick hadn't bothered. Reaching into his jacket, he found a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Nick, who shook his head, though he'd love to feel smoke curl through his lungs, could use the buzz of nicotine. Alex flicked his lighter and drew deep. Over six weeks ago now. In the mountains near Santa Cruz, a miserable stretch of road.

The woman who owned the Mercedes, Pamela Delacroix, was with her. A heavy, smoky sigh. Just the right amount of hesitation to indicate more bad news. Nick steeled himself as a Jeep with a dirty ragtop sped into the parking lot, bouncing through the puddles before sliding to a stop near the railing.

Two loud men in their twenties climbed out and opened the back to haul out rods, reels and a cooler. They clomped noisily down the stairs. There was another vehicle involved, a semi going the opposite direction.

Long-haul truck driver. Charles Biggs. He'd been at the wheel sixteen hours and there's talk that he might have been on speed, meth or something. Who knows? The police aren't talking. The trucker might've fallen asleep at the wheel. No one knows for certain. Except Biggs and he's in the burn ward.

It's a miracle he's holding on, but no one expects him to make it. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and warned himself not to believe his brother. Being older and smarter, Alex had taken delight when they were children to play him for a naive fool. There had always been a price to pay. Today, he suspected, was no different. The vehicles never hit each other, at least that's what they think. The Mercedes ended up off one side of the road, the semi further down the hill on the opposite side.

Both vehicles broke through the guardrails, both ended up smashed into trees, but the truck exploded before the driver could bail out of the cab. I haven't gotten into the legalities of it all. Not yet. Hard on everyone. If the situation hadn't been grim, Alex would never have made the trip. Rainwater ran down his face as he opened the cab door and reached inside, found the remains of a six pack of Henry's, ripped one from its plastic collar and tossed it to Alex, then popped the tab of a second for himself.

She's the strongest, most determined woman I know. She'll make it. For Chrissakes, don't put her in the grave yet.

She's your damned wife! Unspoken accusations. Memories that had no right to be recalled—seductive, erotic and searing with hot intensity. Nick's throat turned to dust.

The wind slapped his face. He drank a long gulp while Tough Guy whined at his feet. But his thoughts had already turned the dark corner he'd avoided for years, the narrow path that led straight to his brother's wife. Forbidden images came into play, taboo pictures of a gorgeous woman with a lilting laugh and mischief in her eyes. He heard the gentle lap of the water against the dock below and the traffic on the highway, the dull roar of the sea pounding the coast on the other side of the jetty, the call of the seagulls, yet nothing was as loud as the thudding of his own heart.

Nick nodded to his brother, encouraging Alex to continue. Taking another pull from his can as he tried and failed to push Marla from his head. Rain dripped off his nose. He thought about suggesting they sit in the pickup's cab but didn't. I don't really understand the whole amnesia thing, but it's weird. His brown hair was plastered to his head, his Italian leather shoes soaking up Oregon rainwater from the puddle collecting at his feet. Or maybe not. I didn't and I've lived with her for nearly fifteen years.

Nick didn't believe him and, sipping his beer, tried to push aside the image of a woman who had nearly destroyed his life. He stared toward the suspension bridge that spanned the narrow neck of the bay and allowed traffic to rush along the rugged Oregon coastline, compliments of Highway , but in his mind's eye, he saw Marla I'm talking about damage that would make it so that she couldn't function.

Marla's image slipped on illicit wings into his mind again. Alex wasn't exaggerating. Marla Amhurst Cahill was a gorgeous woman. Sexy as hell. With silky skin that was hot beneath a man's fingers and a come-hither smile that put Marilyn Monroe to shame.

She had a way of getting into a man's blood and lingering. For years. Maybe forever. Nick turned sharply. Why are you telling me all of this? We thought you might break through to her. The thought of seeing Marla again stuck in his craw. And burrowed deep in his mind. Alex tossed his cigarette onto the gravel, where it sizzled and smoldered near an ancient Buick's balding tire. Besides visiting Marla? That's obligation.

Wasn't about to argue. When I'm not there, I have to deal with the kids. Marla had a baby a few days before the accident. Little James is doing as well as can be expected without his mother.

What was that all about? Nick scratched the stubble covering his chin, the tip of a finger sliding over his scar, a war wound that he'd received at the age of eleven, compliments of Alex, and he sensed that there was a lot more to this story—stark omissions over which his brother had so easily slid.

Now he's home, with a nanny. As for Cissy, she's a teenager now and oh, well, you know how they are. She's pretty wrapped up in herself these days.

It's all an act, I know. Cissy's worried in her own way, but it's the same way she's always dealt with Marla. But Nick found it odd that she would have another child so many years after the first. She was just too damned self-centered. A goddamned princess. He sniffed, looked down at his boat and thought that half an hour ago his only problem had been dealing with a lingering headache, the result of becoming too friendly with a bottle of Cutty Sark the night before.

But this Nick squinted at the clouds rolling on the horizon. Alex cleared his throat. The rough hemp of the Cahill family noose tightened around his neck as rain drizzled from the sky. That was a while back, Alex. I've done a lot of things since. Now, I fish. Or try to. Alex didn't seem convinced. Cherise and Monty aren't happy that they've been cut out of the corporation. They seem to think that since they're Cahills they should have a piece of the pie. It seemed to go with being a Cahill.

He leaned against the truck and Tough Guy sat at his feet, looking up, expecting a pat on the head. Nick obliged. At least Cherise has. She's the one squawking. Probably because of that damned husband of hers. A preacher.

This is all ancient history. Ancient fucking history. Or it should be. Samuel Jonathan Cahill had been a blue-nosed bastard if ever there had been one. The point is Fenton was paid for his share of the corporation years ago.

End of story. Cherise and Monty can bloody well take care of themselves. I've got enough problems of my own. He was tired of it, but couldn't help playing devil's advocate, especially where his brother was concerned. They both thought they'd become millionaires, but their damned father pissed everything away. In fact, I don't give a shit about either one of them.

Monty hasn't worked a day in his life and Cherise hasn't done much more except collect ex- husbands and turn into a religious nutcase. I've tried with her, even found this last one—a preacher, no less—a job. Shit, what a disaster that became.

I wish Cherise and Montgomery would both just pull a disappearing act. Blood-sucking leeches. They're just minor irritations. Besides, they're not the reason I came up here. We are. All business. The kids. Tough Guy scratched at the running board of the pickup and Nick threw open the door so that the wet shepherd could hop inside. But the decision had already been made. Both he and Alex knew it.

Knowing he was making a mistake he'd regret for the rest of his days, he said, "I'll be there, okay? Got it? I'm coming to San Francisco out of the goodness of my heart, and I'll leave when I want to. This isn't an open-ended deal where I stay on indefinitely. Wind and rain lashed the cab. My only offer. I'll be there within the week. Take it or leave it. The Dodge's engine coughed, sputtered, then caught.

Cross with the world in general and himself in particular, Nick slammed the door shut and flipped on the wipers. Nothing his brother could say would make any difference one way or another. Like it or not, he was on his way to San Francisco. Gravel sprayed and, on the bench seat beside him, Tough Guy nearly lost his balance. Alex stood in the puddle-strewn lot, his wool coat catching in the breeze, his expression as dour as an undertaker's.

Nick snapped on the wheezing defroster, then flipped the stations of the radio, but he heard only static. He thought of Marla, and his gut tightened.

He still wanted her. After fifteen years. Fifteen damned years. There had been more than a dozen women in his life since then, but none of them, not one woman had left the deep impressions, the scars upon his soul that she had.

His gaze narrowed on his reflection in the rearview mirror. Harsh blue eyes glared back at him. The pain had abated, probably due to some kind of medication, but she couldn't move her mouth. Her tongue felt thick and tasted awful, her eyelids were too heavy to open and she had no sense of time. She knew only that she'd floated in and out of this state of semiconsciousness, her mind a jumbled blur.

But she wanted to see her daughter. Marla fought to lift a lid but couldn't. We're all going to have to be patient. In the past few days floating in and out of semiconsciousness, Marla had come to recognize the nursing staff, Dr. Robertson and her family members by their colognes, their footsteps, and their voices, though often she was confused, in that nether state between waking and sleeping, never knowing if she was dreaming or if the medication was keeping her mind foggy.

She had pieced together that the older woman, her mother-in-law, was Eugenia Cahill and that Eugenia's husband wasn't around, maybe dead or incapacitated or just not interested; at least he'd never been to visit that she could remember A major problem. Her mother-in-law seemed sincere, caring and had visited often. Cissy hadn't been here before.

Marla couldn't remember. Then there was her husband. A stranger and a man she should feel some tender emotion for, yet didn't. Her head began to pound again, setting off a pain so intense it felt as if skaters were turning triple axels on razor-sharp blades in her brain. The powerful medication that helped her drift in and out of consciousness but kept her groggy definitely had its pluses.

From here on in she's going to get better and better. Dad said she already had a ton. Now, really, we shouldn't talk about this any more. Do you think she can hear us? I don't know. Again Marla struggled to lift a finger. Nothing's wrong with her legs, you know that. As I said, she'll be fine. She needs this rest. No way! What a horrid idea and a wrong one. So very wrong.

It was just a teenager's warped perception. Surely she would like, no, love her daughter. She loves you. A boy? Why wasn't I good enough for the both of them There was a loud, long-suffering sigh as if the girl thought all adults in general, and her grandmother in particular, were idiots.

I just don't fit in. Had she been so cruel and thoughtless to her own daughter? Everyone before you was an honor student. Your father went to Stanford and then to graduate school at Harvard and your mother was at Berkeley. I went to Vassar and—" "I know, Grandpa was at Yale. Big deal. I wasn't talking about being a brainiac anyway, and what about Uncle Nick?

Didn't he drop out or something? Marla sensed Eugenia bristling. She relaxed, heard a nurse enter the room, then take her pulse. A few seconds later that warm, familiar haze of comfort seeped into her veins, chasing away the pain, the anxiety, the fear She dozed for a time She expected one of the nurses to walk to the bed and say something to her, to try to rouse her, or at least fiddle with the pillows, take her pulse or temperature or blood pressure again, but whoever entered was uncommonly silent, as if he or she was creeping toward the bed.

Or wasn't in the room at all. Perhaps she'd been mistaken, or dreaming, only thinking she'd heard the door open. Maybe no one had come inside. Her mind was so fuzzy. She should drift off again, but couldn't and she thought she heard the scrape of a leather sole against the floor. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

Fear shot through her. She tried to cry out but couldn't. Tried to pry her eyes open, but they stayed steadfastly and firmly shut. Her heart was drumming madly, and surely she was hooked up to some monitor. Some member of the staff would come running into the room. Help me! Not one sound. Her throat was dry as sand. Oh, God, what was he doing here? Why didn't he say anything? Who was he? What did he want? On nearly silent footsteps he backed away. The door clicked open again then whispered shut.

She was alone. And scared out of her mind. He walked through his bedroom to the bathroom where he searched under the sink, found his shaving kit and stuffed in his electric razor and a stick of deodorant. From the bathroom door he pitched the kit into the open bag.

The mutt was lying on a braided rug at the foot of his bed, head on his paws, sad eyes watching Nick's every move. He's got a lady Doberman who is one helluva woman. This cabin, all of four pine-paneled rooms, had been more than his home; it had been his sanctuary, a place where he'd found peace after the rat race. Somewhere between adolescence and now, he'd managed to rid himself of the chip that had been so firmly attached to his shoulder, the burden of being a Cahill and living up to family expectations.

Nick scowled as he thought that he'd never really measured up to Cahill standards; his father had expected Nick to break free of Alex's shadow, to best his older brother. Samuel Cahill had wound up disappointed. It served the bastard right.

The old man could rot in his grave for all Nick cared. The phone jangled and Nick swore. He considered not bothering to answer. Instead, he dropped his duffel bag on the floor and in three swift steps picked up the receiver on the second ring, then growled, "Hello.

His heart sank. No matter what she wanted, it was bound to be bad news. I almost had to hire a private detective to find out where you were. Directory assistance. He pictured Cherise as he'd last seen her, with blond hair, pale gold eyes, and not an ounce of body fat on her tiny body. She'd had a perpetual tan, overdone her makeup, and had puppy-dogged after him when they were kids. He'd liked her then, before both she and he had found their own separate brands of trouble and drifted apart.

The good times were over; had been for twenty years. I've found the Lord. Just damned great. She'd always been one to follow the latest trend. The way he figured it, if Cherise were proclaiming her love for the Son of God, Christianity must be in vogue. I thank Jesus every day. Pleasantries were over. Surely there was a reason she'd hunted him down.

He hadn't talked to her in over fifteen years. There was a few tense seconds of silence and then she drew in a breath. But Cherise was a quick thinker; she always landed on her feet. Ever meet her? But then, he wondered about a lot of things when it came to his sister-in-law. You and Marla, you were close once, and you know she and I, we always got along. I love her like my sister, well, if I had one and I The problem is Alex won't allow it.

He keeps insisting that she shouldn't have any visitors aside from immediate family. He glanced at the old Seth Thomas clock that hung near the kitchen alcove. The Bible has a way of healing, you know. And that poor man who was in the truck, the one with all the burns who they think won't make it She was like a dog with a bone, never giving up, always finding a way to get what she wanted.

Three husbands, all once-upon-a-time confirmed bachelors, were proof enough of her skills of persuasion. Nick gripped the receiver a little tighter and didn't dare wade into the treacherous waters of that particular memory.

Tough Guy bounded onto a beat-up chair, caught Nick's glare and immediately jumped down to crouch under the coffee table and observe him through the glass top where rings from the previous nights' drinks still remained. Try and get him to understand that we're family. Despite anything that happened between our fathers, we're still all blood. Thank you. The Lord works in mysterious ways, you know.

He picked up the glass he'd left on the table and deposited it in the kitchen sink. Tough Guy hitched his way across the old linoleum.

Pausing to check that the shepherd had food, water and a bed in the corner of the porch, he locked the door. Tough Guy raced to the truck, but Nick shook his head.

The result was that the shepherd had lost a leg, saved an ear, and found a new home with Nick. They'd gotten along just fine. Now, Nick straightened. The sky was a somber shade of gray that matched Nick's mood to a T. He jammed the truck into first and thought about Cherise's call and her proclaimed faith. He supposed a little dose of that wouldn't hurt him right now.

A little divine help would be appreciated, but he wasn't holding his breath. He glanced in the side-view mirror, caught a glimpse of the black-and-white dog watching him from the back porch and felt like he was leaving the only real family he'd ever known.

He reached the county road that would lead him, eventually, to the Interstate. From there it was due south to San Francisco. And to Marla. There were voices, several hushed voices that she thought she knew as she rose to the surface of consciousness.

The urge to sleep was strong, her mind thick and dull, but she struggled to open lids that refused to budge and forced herself to stay awake, well, as awake as she could. Who's going to show up? Alex chuckled, but the sound seemed forced. Really bought into all that counterculture, north woods look.

You know, faded jeans, old shirt, baggy parka, shaggy hair, the whole nine yards. He hadn't seen a razor for more than a week, unless I miss my guess.

He'd been out fishing or crabbing or something in a boat that looked about as seaworthy as a sieve. So her mother-in-law was in the room, too. He's not exactly dependable. I tracked him down at what I would loosely call a marina. I just don't Cherise and Montgomery, oh, I think he goes by Monty or something like that these days. For Dad. But then there was so much that was beyond her comprehension, beyond her memory Eugenia said, "Oh, honey, you wouldn't understand. Marla imagined Eugenia and Alex trading looks, wondering how much of the family's sordid past they could spill.

In times of family crises, like this one with your mother, it just seems right for everyone to stick together and kind of circle the wagons, show signs of family unity. This doesn't make any sense. I just want Mom to wake up and be the same, okay? If only she could say something to comfort her daughter, but she was so tired I just don't get it. That's all.

But she's going to be all right. I've talked to Dr. Robertson, we just have to be patient. Always before Marla had sensed a hardness underlying his words, but not this time, not while dealing with his daughter. Now, come on, isn't there a soda machine down the hall? Here's some change, run down there and get yourself a Coke or something.

It's because that woman was killed, right? That Pam woman died in the crash and Mom Mom might be charged with murder or something, right? What were they talking about? In a spurt of adrenalin, her mind cleared. Not murder. It was an accident, honey. No one was murdered. Your mom's going to be fine.

She'll get better and come home, the police will ask her to tell them what happened and, I suspect, that will be the end of it. Slice or Sprite, or whatever they've got. Get something for yourself, too. Marla expected another argument, but there wasn't much of one. Cissy, grumbling under her breath, made her way to the door, her footsteps disappearing as the pain in Marla's head began to return with a vengeance.

The temperature in the room had dropped twenty degrees. What was this talk of murder and manslaughter? Who was Pam? Oh, God, did I kill her? Marla's heart raced, she felt sweat break out on the back of her neck. If only she could remember. If only she could ask questions and get some answers. If only she knew something! This was your idea. What business? Marla tried to open her mouth but couldn't and though she was fighting the pull of unconsciousness, she felt herself being dragged under the weight to slip into the soft void of unawareness so overpowering she had to strain to hear the conversation.

As if the subject cut too close to the bone. He and Marla—" "I remember. I told him she spoke his name and he agreed to come. She didn't remember being able to say anything and she ached to communicate in any way possible. Marla had thousands of questions to ask her family, questions about the baby, her daughter, her life. She tried to say something, to cough, to get their attention Why couldn't she speak?

Her fingers curled in frustration. Look at her hand. I can hear you! Do you understand? Maybe she's finally waking up! Her throat tightened with the thought that she was loved by this man to whom she was married, a man she couldn't visualize.

I suppose so. Marla slowly let her hand relax and heard soft footsteps sidle to the bed. Just move your hand, sweetheart. The sea lions at Pier 39? Relax, baby-toting travelers!

If it is not raining, windy, foggy or cold, then San Francisco has some truly unique outdoor attractions as well. Do: Drive to Muir Woods and stand quietly among the oldest trees on the planet.

Do not: Drive to Bodega Bay. Though the scenery is nauseatingly beautiful, the drive can be, well, nauseating—especially for a baby, whose stomach and depth perception is not as good as yours. Do: Drive or walk around in the peaceful Presidio, a history-rich army post for three nations over years. At least hand the child off to your companion first.

Do not attempt this in just your jeans. Do not: Try to walk across it. It can wait. If you have time, sit on Ocean Beach and look towards Japan. Actually, by the time you see everything, you might as well drive up to Berkeley or down to Stanford for a college tour! You can see why people return to the Bay Area over and over again. And you will too.

There are many family-friendly San Francisco hotels and vacation home rentals. After taking her twin boys on more than 20 flights before their first birthday, she figured out how to MacGyver the world to make family travel easier hint: duct tape is essential. This post contains compensated links. Traveling to Greece with a Baby. Hello We heard it too: "I guess your traveling days are over". We are here to say that you CAN travel with a baby.

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