At the great estate of Collinwood, mysteries steeped in darkness haunt the residents. Young and old, newly arrived and lifelong residents alike are swept up into the eddies of its inexplicable happenings. But each generation buries its secrets and keeps them from the next, and thus no one sees the patterns that ripple through their past, present, and future.


Maggie stormed out of the doors of the Great House into the night. A potent combination of panic and fear drove her. The wind was howling; the trees in the woods trembled and moaned a lament in response.

Maggie's long dress and slipper-like shoes were wholly unsuitable, but it was the least of her concerns. She ran wildly, tears in her eyes, into the woods. Her mind was devoid of intent; pure emotion drove her. The conscious part of her mind became aware of footsteps behind her—footsteps pursuing her.

She emerged from the woods into the clearing that formed the boundary of the bluffs. Her feet had brought her to Widows' Hill. She turned to face her pursuer. She shook her head in disbelief. Her hands went to cover her ears. She wouldn't listen. She turned away from her pursuer, in a vane attempt to silence the voice ringing in her ears.

Then she felt it—the fragile crust of the bluffs giving way beneath her.

"Please, no …." She cried out as she fell.

"Maggie! Wake up."

Maggie sat up in a quick, sudden motion and her eyes slowly took in the room around her. Their cozy bedroom came into focus—a milk-jug filled with dried flowers on top of the knotty pine dresser, the large braided rug she'd bought at an antiques fair in Bangor, two of her father's seascapes hanging side by side … she was safe. It felt like the cottage she shared with her father when she was a girl. It felt like the safest place she knew.

"Another bad dream?" Quentin sat up and joined her, sitting beside her in bed, draping his arm around her shoulders. His hair formed a sleepy crown of peaks and errant tufts.

"The same dream," she told him. She went on, "It was so real. Just like …"

She fell silent. Though he knew where her thoughts led her, he encouraged her to continue, "Go on."

"It's just like those dreams I had about you. They felt real too, and now here you are …"

"It's just a dream, Maggie—not a premonition," he said reassuringly, as he drew her into a close embrace.

"How can you be sure?"

He chuckled lightly. "It's Collinwood. We can't be sure of anything—except that I won't let anything happen to you." She found his confident eyes with her anxious ones. "Still, do me a favor," he went on.

"Of course. What?"

"Don't walk through the woods today. Take your car, or I'll drop you off at the Great House in the morning, and pick you up in the evening."

"How about this? I promise I won't ever walk through the woods alone at night, but I know you're right. It's just a dream. I'm safe—here with you."

He lay back down, and gently drew her to him, but said nothing more. When they had both settled, Maggie nestled beside him. She could tell from the shallow rhythm of his breath and the conscious way he stilled his movements, that sleep eluded them both that night.


Shortly after sunrise the next morning, Elizabeth Stoddard found early-riser, Dr. Julia Hoffman, already dressed for the day in a trim tweed suit, deep in conversation on drawing room phone. Ordinarily, Elizabeth would have demurred from staying and overhearing Julia's end of the conversation, but she had brought with her a tray with her morning coffee service on it. It was far too heavy to carry to the library, and besides she longed to have her coffee beside the fire, which was not quite necessary, but nonetheless enjoyable. So she set the tray on the desk, poured a cup of coffee, and then retired to an armchair. In contrast to Julia's business-like attire, Elizabeth, with no plans that would take her beyond the Great House that day, wore a stylish, yet comfortable caftan of blue floral silk.

"Um hm," Elizabeth heard Julia say. "I see," the doctor continued. "Of course. I'll leave immediately." Elizabeth discretely cast her eyes in the doctor's direction. Julia clutched at a rust colored scarf around her neck in a nervous, almost girlish gesture. "I'll see you shortly, Geoff." Then Julia hung up the receiver. A smile graced her lips.

"I hope you won't mind my asking, Julia, but is it Dr. Fisher that brought that smile to your face?" Elizabeth asked, without apologizing for overhearing, as the conversation took place in her drawing room.

"Only indirectly," Julia responded. "It's Joe Haskell. He spoke. It seems as though he's come out of his catatonic state at last."

"Julia—that's wonderful news. I saw him only yesterday and it was so discouraging to see him like that. And now today …" Elizabeth stood and joined the doctor. "… It's truly miraculous."

Now Julia thought it best to temper Elizabeth's enthusiasm. "Geoff—Dr. Fisher—asked me to consult on the case. It would probably be best not to mention it to anyone else, until we're sure. Sometimes in these cases, autonomic responses are mistaken for recovery," Julia said with gravity. "I wouldn't want to get hopes up, especially Amy's."

"Of course you're right, Julia. I won't say a word to anyone, but you will let me know as soon as you know more, won't you?"

"Of course I will."

Julia left to retrieve what she'd need for her day at Windcliff, and Elizabeth returned to her place by the fire to contemplate the difference one day could make.


Joe Haskell had long been a favorite son of Collinsport. He was affable, handsome, and loyal; in sum, he possessed many qualities that drew people to him. He was the consummate local guy. He worked at the Collins family cannery. He frequented the Blue Whale after work with the other cannery and mill workers. He took many meals at the coffee shop, just to be close to Maggie Evans. Eventually, he had asked Maggie to marry him, and she'd accepted. Then, the townsfolk in Collinsport would say, their perfect couple was ensnared by the curse of Collinwood. Joe would never be the same again.

In truth, he began building a barrier the day his friend Jerry told him that his wife was pregnant, and their plans to purchase a fishing boat of their own were indefinitely on hold. He had planned and saved for the day when he would own his own boat. It was not that he didn't enjoy and excel at his job at the cannery, but he dreamed of being his own man. He had buried his disappointment and carried on.

But then Maggie disappeared. The face he showed the town was resolute. He devoted himself to finding Maggie. But on the inside, it was another brick in the wall. When she was finally found, she wasn't the same woman—far from it. She'd regressed into her childhood; she no longer recognized him and did not remember what they had together or what they meant to each other.

Even as Maggie recovered and regained her footing in life, he had fallen prey to the curse. First he had fallen under the spell of a vampire. She was beautiful, but morally bankrupt, and he could never understand why among all of Collinsport's residents, she had chosen him—but she did, and his resulting shame and isolation was yet another brick.

The final brick that sealed his fate was the night he witnessed his cousin, Chris Jennings, transform from a man into a beast. Chris walked as a man, but his mindless ferocity, and his physical transformation, proved he was not.

It was then that Joe retreated behind a wall of silence. He was no longer responsible for telling the world what he'd seen. He was no longer required to face the constant threats. I saw it with my own eyes, his mind cried out from behind the barrier he'd built. He could see that the world was the same beyond it. He could hear the voices and see the faces of his friends and family as they tried to reach him, but he felt safe behind it. Each day that he spent in safety behind it, the barrier grew more impenetrable … until now.


When Dr. Julia Hoffman arrived at the Windcliff Sanitarium, she was shown directly to Dr. Fisher's office. He was with a patient, but she helped herself to a cup of coffee from the percolator on his credenza. Though she was impatient to see Joe Haskell, it would be a major breech of protocol to ask to be taken to see him, without first consulting with his attending psychiatrist. So she sat waiting. She was pleased that Dr. Fisher still called on her with regularity when he encountered a challenging or intriguing case.

Dr. Fisher had first come to the area from Boston at the request of Elizabeth Stoddard. Julia was then the director of Windcliff. When her interests had led her to settle at Collinwood, he had been her first choice to succeed her at Windcliff. He was, perhaps, not the most naturally gifted or intuitive psychiatrist, and perhaps he was not as innovative or pioneering as Julia, but he was eminent in the field. He was an able administrator, and he had published treatises and papers that were widely read and informed by his ongoing work with patients. Most importantly, his eminence would never eclipse Julia's brilliance. Thus, she could pursue her own interests at Collinwood, safe in the knowledge that Geoff Fisher would continue to call on her—a status that pleased her immensely.

She stood balancing a saucer in one hand, taking measured sips of coffee with the other. She looked out of the large bay window at the sweeping grounds of the sanitarium.

"You look good there," came a smooth voice from the doorway behind her.

"I helped myself," she said indicating the coffee cup in her hand. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. I'm glad you still feel at home here," he responded. She didn't reply, but bestowed a tight-lipped smile on him. He had often wondered why she chose to stay at Collinwood, wasting her talents on a single family. Even though he was happy to be in charge of the sanitarium, he frequently mused that he and Julia would make an unbeatable team together, both professionally and … "And I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. I was tending to a particularly restive patient."

"Not Joe, I hope," she as much as asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No. If it had been I would have sent for you at once."

She still marveled at his candor, and her satisfied look told him as much. "Tell me about Joe," she asked as she took a seat in front of the large wooden desk. He sat behind it, removed a file folder from the top drawer, and opened it in front of him. She grew impatient as his eyes skimmed the case notes. "On the phone, you said he spoke," she prompted him. He was ever the slow, methodical thinker. It was no wonder he made such a good administrator, but such an uninspired healer, she thought.

"More than spoke," he said after what seemed an eternity to Julia. "Julia, he seems to have made a complete recovery."

"Geoff, that's impossible! He's been in a near catatonic state for months."

"I was as shocked as you are." He added in a tone that communicated his derision, "More so, because the breakthrough seems to be as a result of art therapy."

"Art therapy?" Julia echoed.

"Yes, it seems Miss Pritchett has accomplished what the most talented psychiatrist could not."

She knew he meant her, and that he intended it as a compliment, but she didn't acknowledge it. Instead, she said, "Please tell me more."

"That's just it. There isn't much to tell. Miss Pritchett has taken it upon herself to work with Joe. In spite of his catatonia, she believed that something could trigger a response in him." He stood and paced to the window. "I have to be honest with you, Julia. I don't … didn't believe in the efficacy of art therapy. I thought it just another passing fancy with limited legitimacy. I'm afraid that Mr. Haskell's breakthrough has me rethinking my position."

"Hmmm." Julia emitted a skeptical hum from the back of her throat. "I would like to examine him myself."

"It seems he would like that too. He asked to see you—by name."

"Did he?" Julia's raised eyebrow served as a punctuation mark.

"As I say, his recovery is nothing short of miraculous."

She stood and returned the cup and saucer to the tray on his credenza. She looked to where she'd left her handbag and medical bag.

Dr. Fisher smiled. "Please feel free to leave your things here." Nodding toward a small closet in the corner, he added, "Your lab coat is in its usual place."

She sighed warily, silently wondering if she was somehow sending her old friend mixed signals.


Joe paced the length of the small treatment room while he waited for Dr. Hoffman to arrive. Then he sat. He remembered the times the orderlies brought him to this room or one of its mirror images elsewhere down the hall. He knew from the time he'd spent looking out from behind the wall of silence he'd built, to sit on the couch. The armchair beside it was reserved for the psychiatrist. He knew that though the room was designed to look comfortable and put patients at ease, Dr. Fisher would be on the other side of the ornately framed mirror observing him, even now. So he sat. It was important to look relaxed—to suppress nervous gestures or signs of agitation. They would not serve his goal. He settled back into the corner of the non-descript gray couch and waited.

In truth, she'd not kept him waiting long. Dr. Julia Hoffman looked exactly as he remembered—a professional brown skirt peaked out from beneath her white lab-coat, she wore sensible shoes to match. Her short auburn hair punctuated her sharp, incisive features. She carried nothing with her except a small notebook and a pen.

She smiled as she sat in the armchair. "It's good to see you again, Joe," she began in a voice that he now believed was false, and yet common to every psychiatrist who tried to treat him.

In response, he smiled too. "It's good to see you too, Dr. Hoffman. Thank you for coming to see me."

She opened the notebook. "Of course I came to see you. Your recovery is truly remarkable. I'm hoping you can tell me more about it."

"Of course, if I can," he said. He was Joe at his affable best.

"Good. Close your eyes and relax." As he closed his eyes, his lips curled into a small smile. "Tell me everything you remember about the moment you regained your voice."

"I was in the art therapy room," he began. "Miss Pritchett … well, she never gave up on me. She tried something different everyday—pictures, drawings, sculptures." His smiled deepened. "But it was seeing Mrs. Stoddard again," he said. "She sat with me. Miss Pritchett had given me a puzzle box." He paused.

"A puzzle box?" Julia asked.

His eyes briefly fluttered open as he assessed her reaction. "Yes, it's just a cheap wooden box—I saw something like it in a souvenir store in Boston once. Mrs. Stoddard told me that she had one like it when she was a girl. She put her hands over mine. She thought together we could open the box." He paused and drew a deep breath. "It didn't open," he said in an even tone. "But there was something about her voice that reminded me of a time before things went bad. I knew. I knew I had to try—harder than I ever tried before. I wish I'd broken through when she was here. But after she'd gone, I was watching Miss Pritchett with the other patients, and it came back—my voice, my ability to share all the things that have been locked inside." He opened his eyes and looked at Julia.

"That's good, Joe—an excellent start. I want to talk more about that, but before we do, I want to go back farther. I want to take you back to that night," she said. "You know the night I mean. Don't you, Joe?"

Joe glanced over Julia's left shoulder at the mirror on the wall. He knew Dr. Fisher would be behind it, and maybe another psychiatrist as well. He moved forward and perched at the edge of the couch. Julia moved forward as well. He said in a confidential tone, "I was with Chris that night—and the moon—the full moon was rising." He watched her closely to gauge her response.

"Go on," she urged.

"I think you know what happened," he said in a low voice. He let his eyes direct hers toward the mirror behind them. Her head turned slightly to follow his gaze. "You don't need me to say it out loud, do you?"

"No, I suppose I don't," she returned in a now-conspiratorial tone.

"I asked to see you, Dr. Hoffman, because I knew you'd understand."

"Joe …" she began. She closed the small notebook, retracted the ballpoint of her pen with a sharp click, and set them on the small table beside her. Her hand rested on top of them, relentlessly turning the pen between her thumb and her index finger.

"I want to go home, Dr. Hoffman … back to Collinsport." He punctuated this by taking her hand in his as though to still her restless movement.


Dr. Julia Hoffman had always considered herself a pioneer, not only because her gender was rare among the ranks of her profession, but also because her mind was open to all possible avenues of inquiry and she was unafraid to try unorthodox methodologies. While others in her profession chose a school of thought and then adhered slavishly to it, Julia was constantly looking to expand the boundaries.

She believed in the efficacy of hypnotherapy long before others in her profession afforded it much credence. She perfected it in her practice with patients. Her greatest accomplishments in this treatment modality came during her time at Collinwood, though she could hardly publish her findings.

She had been the head of Windcliff Sanitarium, respected in her field, perhaps destined for greatness. She'd thrown it all away in service to her inexplicable devotion to Barnabas Collins. She'd settled at Collinwood and become ensnared in its mysteries and oddities—more than ensnared, she'd become a protagonist in its ongoing story.

More and more, she had to remind herself that she was far more than the Collins family personal physician and psychiatrist. She was still Julia Hoffman—the pioneer—a strong effective woman and psychiatrist, in her own right. Even if she no longer received the recognition she deserved, she was still a maverick, still making her own rules, still doing things her own way …


Joe released Julia's hand. He leaned forward, moved to the edge of the couch, and resumed in a low, confidential voice, "I know it would be unorthodox, but couldn't you continue my treatment in Collinsport? I've been away too long. Now that I'm myself again, I want to rebuild my life—brick by brick," he added and smiled.

Julia seemed to consider. At last, she said, "Unorthodox, maybe. But none of my colleagues here at Windcliff are skilled enough or bold enough to provide the type of treatment that I will. I can create a therapeutic environment anywhere, simply by bringing my unique approach to your treatment. I'll do it, Joe. I'll continue your treatment, but not in Collinsport. I'll arrange for you to come to Collinwood, where we can proceed in privacy and without interruptions."


Quentin drove down the main Collinsport Road, leaving work and the mill in his rearview mirror.

Long ago, the Collins lumber mill had been an adjunct to his family's primary business. In the early days, it was the mill that produced the raw materials for the Collins fishing fleet, which in turn fed the cannery. But times had changed and shipbuilding had evolved, leaving the mill anachronistic for its intended purpose, though still a going concern. Lumber from the mill still fed building projects throughout the area, including Quentin's own home, the former Peabody farm.

While Quentin from time to time at Roger's invitation went to the cannery, or filled in when Roger was away, he spent most of his time at the mill's small office. If he were a man given to poetic musing, he would have appreciated the view of the river on the banks of which the mill stood. It was truly picturesque, but the scene changed only in response to the seasons, and Quentin was not a man given to poetic musing. So leaving the mill behind, with its ledgers, minor crew injuries, stock delays, and other problems, he looked forward to being home and with Maggie once more.

He sometimes went to the Blue Whale after work, or joined Roger for drinks at the Inn. But more often, he headed straight home to his wife. He often thought that if the men who worked at the mill were married to women of Maggie's qualities, they would be content to head home rather than making a nightly pilgrimage to the tavern.

No question, Maggie remained the high point of everyday. No matter the differences that stood between them, he recognized that Maggie was special. At first, he thought it was her physical resemblance to his late fiancé Rachel that inspired his feelings for her. But it didn't take long for it to become clear that Maggie was her own person. He knew what she'd endured, and that she'd emerged stronger for it. He knew that the Collins family had filled the place in her heart that was left empty by the death of her father, and the emotional breakdown of her former fiancé, Joe. When they married, they made it official—she was a member of the Collins family.

He sighed aloud as he passed the drive that led to the Great House, and continued down the main road. He was not selfless—far from it—and his love for Maggie was not selfless. But she was more than a match for his moods. He believed she alone could see that part of him and apply the right combination of compassion and clear-eyed pragmatism.

And then there was the passion. There was no denying that in finding a woman of the 20th century, he'd found new expressions of sensuality. The simplest things from the clothes she chose, to the way she styled her hair, to the way she made up her face … he would watch her in the morning as she did her toilette, entranced by her bare arms and neck …

By now, the access road to the farm was in sight. He turned down the compressed gravel lane. They left the gates open now, seeing no need to close out the outside world. The open gate signaled that the farmhouse was a home again . He pulled the car up the lane and parked behind Maggie's small blue sedan. A patina of dust told him that she hadn't used her car that day. No doubt she'd walked to the Great House. He offered her a ride in the morning, but she'd turned him down, preferring to come and go at her leisure.

In the small entryway, he called out, "Maggie, I'm home." He expected her to be home. She'd called him around midday to say that she would be heading home immediately after David and Amy's last lesson—she would see him when he was done at work. He deposited his briefcase—a welcome to the family business gift from Roger—on a small table in the entryway, and headed to the front sitting room. Maggie was not there.

"Maggie," he called again. Perhaps she was in the kitchen or upstairs changing for dinner. He loosened his tie as he climbed the stairs that led to their bedroom. "Maggie?" She wasn't in the bedroom.

Where is she? He wondered silently, allowing a kernel of worry to manifest itself in his mind. More often than not, when she preceded him home, the sound of his car on the drive would alert her to his arrival. Sometimes, she would mix drinks and meet him in the sitting room. On these occasions, more often than not, dinner was left to wait until later. A lascivious smile came unconsciously to his face.

He'd check the kitchen next, he thought as he drifted to the window. The sun was kissing the horizon, though there was plenty of daylight left in the day. He looked out and his eyes swept over the grounds of the derelict farm that Maggie loved so well. It was then that he noticed it—the doors to the root cellar were wide open. He didn't check it daily, but the last time he had, the doors were shut and secured with a metal bar that had rusted slightly from disuse.

He took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time. Then he followed the passage that connected the main house to the smaller building that housed the kitchen—just to confirm that Maggie was not there. She was not. His chest tightened. She was in the root cellar.

Quentin stomped across the open farmyard that separated the farmhouse from the root cellar, animated by equal parts anger and worry. "Maggie!" he called out in a demanding voice as he neared the entrance to the cellar. "Maggie!"

He reached the cellar doors, and found the ladder had been lowered to the cellar floor. He peered down into the semi-darkness. Maggie stood with one foot on the bottom rung, poised to climb the ladder.

Hearing the urgency in his tone, she asked, "Quentin, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Come out of there," he demanded.

She felt an angry flush suffuse her face. He'd better have a good reason for speaking to me that way, she thought as she carefully made her way up the ladder. "What is it?" she repeated. "What's wrong?" she asked again as she climbed out into the fading sunlight.

"What are you doing down there?" he continued. His tone verged on angry.

She tried to defuse the situation by tempering her own anger. She took a deep breath and began, "The root cellar would make a perfect workshop and studio."

"Workshop?" he asked, clearly confused.

She began again, "I've been thinking about what you said about how I don't need to work at the Great House anymore, but I want to be doing something. And I've been thinking about getting back into arts and crafts—I plan to dry flowers and make potpourri. I can sell it at crafts fairs—even at stores in town. The root cellar will be a perfect workshop."

"No, Maggie," he said harshly. "I don't want you going down there again."

"Why?" she asked, in a tone more plaintive than she'd intended.

"It isn't safe," he told her gruffly.

"I was careful—I'll be careful," she began, but he cut her off.

"Because, I said no," he said and turned back toward the house.

She followed him. A lump gathered in her throat and tears pricked her eyes. "I don't get it, Quentin. I don't understand, but I'm starting to think that you just don't want me to work at all. You don't want me to work at the Great House—and now, you don't want me to pursue my arts and crafts. What do you want me to do all day? Sit around waiting for you to come home, or maybe I should join the hospital board, like Elizabeth, and behave like a real Collins."

He turned and faced her. "I forbid you to go back down into that cellar. I forbid it, Maggie."

"You can't forbid me," she shot back, as she allowed her anger to take over. "I'm not a child. I'll do as I like. If you have a reason, tell me. Otherwise …" She let that hang in the air.

"I should have filled that damn thing with concrete when we first moved in!" he shouted.

"No!" she responded, her anger dissolving into wretched disappointment. "I love this farm. I love everything about it."

"Well, I for one do not want to be another Barnabas Collins—clinging to the past," he said as he turned away from her, signaling their conversation was at an end.

"Where are you going?" she called to his departing figure.

"To the Blue Whale. I need a drink."


Quentin sat nursing brandy after brandy alone at the bar of the Blue Whale. Ed, the owner and barkeep, refilled his glass without waiting to be asked. As closing time approached, and the bar had emptied, Ed poured himself a brandy and joined Quentin.

It was only then that Quentin told him, "I don't understand women."

"Women?" Ed asked, "Or Maggie?"

"Both," Quentin responded. He could hardly tell the bartender the real reason for their disagreement, but he suddenly found he wanted to talk. So he said, "She insists on working. I can provide for her, give her a life of comfort, but she wants to work just the same."

"Maggie's a hard working woman. Always has been. She was never one to be idle, and her circumstances never permitted it," Ed told him, and punctuated it with a long swig of brandy.

"So, you're saying …" Quentin began.

But Ed cut in, "I'm saying just because that ring made her Maggie Collins, doesn't mean she's not still Maggie Evans on the inside."

Quentin drained his glass. Clearly a life spent behind the bar made Ed a man with some insight into the human condition. If wanting Maggie not to work had been his real reason for being there, it would have made sense. But as it was, Maggie's interest in the root cellar dwarfed his concerns about her continuing to work. "Thanks, Ed," he said as he pushed himself away from the bar. "I'll think about what you said." Quentin ambled to the door and out into the night.

Later that night when Quentin returned to the farm, he found it completely dark within, but Maggie had left the porch-light on.

Just inside the entryway, he removed his shoes and crept up the stairs in his stocking feet, hoping not to wake his wife. But his feet seemed to find every squeaky floorboard. Even the hinges of their bedroom door seemed intent upon betraying him. He'd still been wearing his suit. He left it in a heap on the floor, and slid into bed in just his underwear.

Maggie was lying on her side, one arm under her head. Her bare shoulder peeked out from beneath the coverlet. He found himself filled with equal parts remorse and desire. He abandoned any pretense of stealth and whispered, "Maggie, are you awake?"

"You know I am," she returned irritably. "I was worried about you," she chastised him as she turned onto her back toward him. She propped a pillow against the headboard and sat up. "I may have dozed a bit, but I've been listening for the sound of your car."

"I'm sorry, Maggie," he said. "I'm sorry for everything." He put his head in her lap, and her fingers unconsciously raked his hair. "If you want to make art and crafts, you can make art and crafts; if you want a workshop, I'll build you a workshop—just not in that cellar. Promise me you won't go in there again."

She sighed—another mystery from the man she'd married. She'd convinced herself that she could live with him in the present—love him in the present—and that his past, whatever it was, didn't matter. Her love for him had blinded her to the realities of such a life. "Okay, I promise, but you have to promise not to fill it with concrete."

"I promise. Let's just close it and forget all about it. Do you think you can do that?"

"I can, if you can," she replied in a soothing voice that matched her touch, but belied her unanswered questions.

She had softened, as he knew she would. Once again he deferred the long overdue reckoning. He owed her the truth, but feared that it might cost him her love.