PATRICK LARKIN LOVED THE attic in the family mansion. It wasn't a typical attic filled with cobwebs and creeping rodents, but a light and airy place with well-ordered boxes, covered furniture and bric-a-brac located on one end. The floors were of highly polished hardwood, laid with a long Oriental carpet down the center walkway. The attic was cleaned and dusted by maids on a weekly basis, one of the few times Patrick allowed himself to be displaced from the blissfully quiet confines.

    The other side of the attic, which was located up a few steps from the entrance doorway, was a vast, unoccupied space. A rounded carpet held a solitary antique chair with a high back and thick armrests. Above was a window that went across the breadth of the ceiling, revealing sunlight in good weather and clouds, rain and snow in bad. It was Patrick's favorite spot, as it had once been Molly Larkin's refuge from the world.

    The design of the ceiling window was ingenious, sprung from the mind of John Larkin for the top and final level of his extraordinary home. Patrick would often stare up into the stars, or look out the porthole windows on either side of the attic, watching the mist roll in from the ocean as the automated beacon swept across the estate from the Banshee Point lighthouse.

    A rounded, wooden door on the other side of the attic led to the widow's walk on the roof the mansion. Patrick sometimes stood on the dizzying height of the walk to look at Larkin City in the distance, but the view did not impress him. The populace of Larkin City and the township itself no longer held any allure for him.

    He was far removed from human contact in the attic, which is what he preferred. The high-grade insulation blocked any and all sounds from the rest of the mansion. He often screamed to release his deep tensions, secure no one else could hear him.

    A maid brought his meals, leaving the food on a tray outside the attic door. Shortly after his accident, Patrick built a lavatory in the attic, located just inside the entrance. He purchased a simple double bed that he placed in a corner, but he rarely slept there. Sometimes he went downstairs to his old room to get fresh clothes and the odd book, and every night no matter the weather he took a long walk around the estate grounds, alone. He spent each night at the keeper's cottage, and then made his way back to the mansion in the early morning hours to return to the attic, thus ensuring little human contact.

    Patrick felt half a man since the accident at the lumber yard. He had no desire to show his face to the community ever again, especially to the men at the lumber yard. He allowed Gary McCain to run the company, although he kept close tabs by telephone. A courier delivered paperwork and payroll checks to the mansion each week for Patrick's signature. A maid would bring the documents to the door of the attic and then leave. He would take the papers and affix his moniker, and then leave them for the maid to pick up again. It was an odd process, but it worked for him.

    No one could penetrate the shield Patrick had surrounded himself with - not Roddy, not Sascha, and not Colleen. Even his children, proof of his former manhood, could not rouse him. He wanted to be left in peace, and no amount of pressure or cajolement could persuade him otherwise.

    COLLEEN CLIMBED THE SHORT staircase from the fourth floor of the mansion to the attic. She dreaded her mission, but it could not be helped. Patrick had barely spoken two sentences to her since his accident, and yet she still never invaded his lofty sanctuary. Until now.

    Their sons, Brian and Rory, aged fifteen and eleven respectively, were finally asking her about Patrick's strange behavior. Although accustomed to their father's long absences in the past due to work, they were now stymied that his constant presence in the house kept him from their lives. Colleen was concerned about their mounting resentment. The only possible solution was to bring the matter to her husband's attention.

    She walked up the short steps into the attic, the cloudy day making the area a bit murky but still illuminated from the ceiling window. She saw Patrick sitting in the high-backed chair, his hands on the arm rests. He was staring up at the overhead window, his profile expressionless.

    "Patrick?" She spoke softly, with uncertainty.

    He started and turned his head to look at her. The shock in his eyes was soon replaced by anger. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

    "I need to talk to you," she replied, finding the courage to be firm. He might expect her to quiver, but she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction.

    "You know I don't like to be bothered when I'm up here," he said coldly.

    "But you're always up here," Colleen countered. "When else can I talk to you?"

    He was quiet for a moment, and then he looked away. "Fine. Make it quick, please."

    She stepped closer, coming to stand in front of the chair. She saw his body recoil slightly from her proximity, and she realized he was determined to avoid all human touch. Perhaps her mission was pointless after all, but she had to try. "I've been patient with your self-imposed exile," she began, her tone strong yet somehow still gracious. "I've given up trying to help you. I don't care about your peculiarities for myself, but now Brian and Rory are asking questions. They know you're here, holed up in the attic, and they're becoming a bit angry about not seeing you. It's as if you are rejecting them."

    Patrick glanced up at her, and she saw the dead emotion in his eyes. She was not reaching him. "What would you have me do?" he asked sardonically. "Play catch with them on the front lawn? Swim with them in the ocean?"

    Colleen hated her husband in that moment. He was callous and unfeeling, unable to see past his own miserable existence. His coldness toward her was inconsequential, but his disregard of his own two sons was unforgivable. She forced herself to remain civil. "Can't you just talk to them?" she pleaded. "Act like a normal father. Take an interest in their lives, show them that you care."

    "Whatever for?" he snorted with derision. "You've managed quite well on your own. You don't need me to bolster their little egos."

    She cringed inwardly, furious at his inference, his subtle plea to be needed. Maybe a few years ago she would have fallen for it, but not now. Patrick no longer had a hold on her. She lost all respect for him long ago, and considered their marriage one in legal name only. What affection and love she once felt for him had vanished, and it was irretrievable

    "I never thought I'd see the day," she said bitterly, losing her cool composure. "You are actually rejecting your own flesh and blood."

    "Well, you are seeing the day," his tone was dismissive. "I have no use for anyone."

    "Rejecting your sons over the loss of your manhood," she spoke again, this time her voice accelerating with anger. "Brian and Rory are not to blame for your delusional insecurities. Why make them suffer for it?"

    Patrick narrowed his eyes. "Are you quite finished?"

    Colleen whirled away from him, walking toward the stairway. She stopped on the first step. Her scalp tingled, her rage giving her face a clammy sheen. "When did I become nothing to you?" she wanted to know, her voice a whisper.

    Patrick wanted to tell her the truth, that he still loved her as he loved their sons, but he could not form the words. The pain and shame of his reality was too crushing, and he could not overcome it.

    "What makes you think you were anything to me in the first place?" His voice came like ice, and he regretted the words even as he said them. But in order to keep Colleen away from him, he had to hurt her. "It was my responsibility to carry on the Larkin line, and I've completed my duty. Just be glad you remain my wife, and that you continue to live here as you fiddle with your beloved charities."

    She choked back a sob, his cruel words slashing at her confidence. But she was quick, and now was the time to clear the air. "So you don't care what I do?" she asked calmly. "Is that what you're trying to tell me? As long as I leave you to your wretched asylum?"

    He was alerted by her words, sensing she was alluding to an important milestone or decision. "Do what you will as long as you don't shame my family," he said with conviction. He watched her guardedly, certain she was hiding something.

    "I'll remember that," she retorted. "Do what you will, and I shall do the same."

    She could no longer look at him. She ran down the attic stairs, slamming the door behind her.

    Patrick returned to his normal stance, leaning his head back to look out the ceiling window again. But this time a lone tear crept out of his left eye, rolling unchecked down his cheek.

    THAT EVENING COLLEEN SAT Brian and Rory down in the drawing room, determined to tell them the truth about their father, albeit buffered with some half-truths. They deserved answers to their questions, to know the reasons why Patrick had virtually deserted them.

    She adored her sons, and was proud of their intelligence and good looks. Brian was already tall, with dark hair and eyes. Rory was developing into much the same, but he had paler skin and a cleft in his chin, which Colleen recognized as a trait from her side of the family passed down by her father, the late Dr. Rory McGarren. Both boys looked like Patrick, but she could sense herself in their mannerisms and innate kindness.

    Brian and Rory followed their mother into the drawing room after dinner, each of them curious. Colleen did not beat around the bush. She looked at her sons as they sat down on the divan. She faced them in a chair across the coffee table, smiling reassuringly.

    "I want to talk to you about your father," she said, successfully keeping all bitterness from her voice. "You know he suffered a terrible accident a few years ago."

    Brian and Rory nodded.

    "He was hurt physically, but the wounds went deeper than that," Colleen continued.

    "What do you mean, mother?" Brian asked.

    "The wounds also hurt him mentally," she replied, choosing her words carefully. "The accident took away his ability to be a husband in the physical sense, and this has affected his mind. He doesn't want to show his face to the world, so he stays hidden in the attic."

    "What does acting like a husband mean?" Rory wanted to know.

    Colleen lowered her eyes. "Performing the sexual act," she answered honestly.

    Brian nudged his brother. "We know about the birds and the bees."

    "Oh!" Rory exclaimed, comprehending his mother's meaning.

    "Your father is in a deep depression that he may never come out of," Colleen said. "He refuses all offers of help from others, including family." Now she had to impart the white lies, the deception saddening her. "Please understand that he loves you, but that he is not able to act like a normal father." She took a deep breath, the lies rising like bile in her throat. "None of this is his fault, or yours."

    Both Brian and Rory worshipped their mother, and they took her word to be truth. Patrick had been a non-entity long before his accident, so it was easy for them to accept her story with very little distress. Brian had been the most concerned about his father's peculiarities, but his mother's explanation eased him for the most part. Patrick was an enigma, a remote parent who exuded anything but warmth and affection.

    "Okay then," Colleen smiled, proud of their resilience. "Why don't the two of you go to the kitchen and convince Claude to give you an extra slice of zucchini loaf. Then it's time for bed. It's a school day tomorrow, after all."

    Brian and Rory kissed their mother before leaving the drawing room to fetch a treat from Claude.

    Colleen rose from her chair and poured a brandy at the sideboard. The meeting had gone well, she mused as she went to stand at the French doors. She heard the wind whipping through the foliage in the garden and in the joints of the house. In a brief flash of lightening she saw the waves of the ocean.

    "I am free to do as I please as long as I don't shame the Larkin family," she thought. She took a sip of brandy, the warmth of it burning down to her stomach. "What could I possibly do to tarnish myself? I devote my time to charity work, I essentially run the mansion, and I have stood by my husband through thick and thin. But when does my time come? When do I get to achieve my own personal happiness?"

    Nicholas Bertrand came into her mind, as he often did. For more than nine years she had nursed an intense attraction for the junior chef, and she knew he felt the same way about her. Daily contact with Nicholas brought lingering glances, discreet conversations and a high awareness between them. For nine years she denied herself and her true feelings because of her marriage, torturing herself with images of Nicholas and his sensual ambience.

    Nicholas remained at the mansion year-round, only venturing into the city for supplies. He had never taken a vacation, preferring to spend his holidays in servitude to the Larkin family in order to be near Colleen. His secret but passionate love for her had been barely held at bay for almost a decade.

    Colleen drained her brandy, taking the glass with her as she made her way to the kitchen. The foyer was dimly lit by a lamp on the entry table. The house seemed settled as its occupants took their nightly rest.

    Nicholas was alone in the kitchen, washing two plates in the sink. Colleen smiled when she saw him with head bent, scrubbing the plates and rinsing them.

    She walked to him, setting her brandy glass on the counter. "Do you mind washing one more thing?" she asked sweetly.

    Nicholas started, glancing at her. Then he smiled, taking her glass. "Why not? Your sons already left me two dirty dishes with remnants of zucchini loaf."

    "Where is Claude?"

    "He retired early," Nicholas replied as he washed her glass. "I think his arthritis was bothering him more than usual tonight."

    "And what of you?" Colleen asked bravely, leaning against the counter. "What are your plans for the evening?"

    He slowed in his chore, pausing to glance at her again. "I was going to read for a bit, and then go to bed."

    "Can I join you?"

    He was taken aback, certain he misunderstood her. "Do you mean you'd like to join me in reading a book?"

    "Yes. And whatever else you have in mind."