CHAPTER 1

Tidewater, Maryland, April 1936
Bette screamed herself awake. She jerked up in her bed.
A feeble glow outside her window pierced the predawn gray.
Her heart pounded hard and fast. She fought for air. What…what
happened?
A blast exploded outside.
Gretel’s scream joined hers. “Was ist los?”
Bette heard the sound of bare feet pelting down the hardwood
hallway and then down the steps. Her mother’s voice called out to
her stepfather, “Roarke, wait! Get your gun first!”
Bette tossed back the covers and nearly landed on Gretel in the
trundle bed below her. “Come on!” She grabbed her friend’s hand
and dragged her from their bedroom. Her mother, Chloe, was before
them, racing down the stairs to the foyer. “Mother!” Bette screeched,
afraid her mother might run outside into danger.
“Wait!” Chloe held up both hands to stop them. Bette and Gretel
halted near the middle of the staircase, both winded and panting.
Roarke hurried from the rear of the house, his rifle in his good
hand. “All of you stay in here till I see what’s out there.” He threw
open the door. Cold damp air rushed in and they all saw it at once.
A cross burned on their wide front lawn.
Bette gasped so sharply her tongue slammed against the back of
her mouth, nearly making her gag.
“What is it?” Gretel repeated in a hollow voice.
Shock and fear shimmered through Bette. She tightened her grip
on Gretel’s hand. “It’s the Klan,” she whispered.
At this, Gretel pressed herself close to Bette as if seeking refuge.
“Why? Oh, why?”
Roarke stalked outside.
“No, Roarke, they might — ” Chloe’s voice was overwhelmed by a
blast from her husband’s rifle.
“Come out, you lousy cowards!” he roared. “Show yourselves and
face me like men!”
Silent night was the only response.
“Cowards!” he shouted. He stalked to the cross and, using the
butt of his rifle, knocked it to the ground. It sizzled in the early
morning dew. Bette knew she’d never forget the sound, a hissing
like a poisonous snake. A snake poised to strike them.
He turned back to the house. “They shot out the parlor window.”
He marched onto the white-pillared porch and ripped off a paper
nailed to the doorframe.
Chloe joined him in the open doorway. “What is it?”
He shoved it into her hands. “Garbage.”
Mad to find out what the paper said, Bette tugged Gretel down
the steps. She peered over her mother’s shoulder and glimpsed the
brief note. In large, clumsy capitals, it read: “Get rid of the Jew Girl.”
“WHAT DO you think about what happened last night at Bette
Leigh’s?”
Bette froze where she stood behind the partition in the chemistry
lab of the Croftown High School. She recognized the malicious voice
as that belonging to a fellow senior named Mary.
Girlish snickering. “It’s about time.” It was Mary’s chum, Ruth.
The two led a nasty clique of girls at school.
“My daddy,” Mary continued with scorn, “says someone had to
set the McCaslins straight. That Jew girl should have stayed in
Germany where she belongs.”
The partition hid Bette from their view, letting them feel free to
spew their venom. What was worse was that Bette wasn’t alone. She
and the handsome new transfer student, Curtis Sinclair, had been
asked to wash up the glass instruments after the final chemistry
class. Even worse, Gretel —the target of all this ridicule —sat
hunched on a lab stool beside them, hearing everything. Her
expression showed that each word pierced her like thorns.
Despite the situation, Bette felt the hair on the back of her neck
prickle with an awareness of Curt. Ever since he’d first arrived at the
school, she had been fascinated with him. He was different than any
other boy here, and she’d found herself daydreaming about him
more than once. And now she stood side by side with this young
man, unseen, but able to hear every horrible word spoken about her
best friend. She wondered what he was thinking.
“Well, my mother said this all started when Miss Chloe ran off
and married that doughboy like she did.” Ruth sounded self
righteous. “She said Miss Chloe come back from New York City with
plenty of strange ideas.”
Bette’s hands trembled as she washed the glass tubes in the
small sink. Though she tried to make no noise, they clinked softly.
The enforced quiet maddened her. She wanted to explode around
the partition and confront them. But Gretel looked ready to faint.
Would putting a stop to this gossip session help Gretel or make
things worse for her?
This morning, someone—maybe a son of one of the cross
burners —had painted a swastika on Gretel’s locker. Gretel had
withdrawn further at this. Bette wanted to shake someone, scream
her outrage. Instead, she held her peace — for Gretel’s sake. Let
them leave, she thought now. Don’t let them know that we heard
their poison.
“A Jew girl, staying at Carlyle Place,” Mary snapped. “Daddy says
Miss Chloe’s ancestors are spinning in their graves.”
“Well, the whole family is strange. Adopting kids from an
orphanage,” Ruth said. “No decent family does that.”
“Well, Jamie McCaslin may be an orphan, but he’ll inherit half a
bank, and half a bank is good enough for me,” Mary said slyly. “And
he’s dreamy.”
Brisk footsteps ended the talk. “Why are you two girls loitering
here?” the chemistry teacher’s deep voice demanded.
“I wanted to ask you a question about the homework, sir,” Mary
replied in a butter-will-melt-in-my-mouth tone. She was nothing if
not quick on her feet.
“Just a moment.” The teacher raised his voice. “Miss McCaslin
and Mr. Sinclair, are you still back there?”
Bette couldn’t find her voice. She rinsed the last slippery tube
and handed it to Curt to dry. Now they had to walk out there and
face them. Dry-mouthed, she reached out for Gretel and urged her
off the lab stool. She couldn’t find words to comfort her friend.
Curt looked at the two of them as he efficiently dried the last
vial. “We’ve just finished, sir,” he replied.
Bette envied him his calmness. She wiped her hands on the
white cloth beside the little sink and turned to pick up her textbooks.
She felt as though all her joints had rusted.
Then Curt touched her arm. Electricity shot through her. No
young man had ever touched her like that—so respectful yet so
intimate. “Shall we go?” He motioned her and Gretel to go first.
Her chin went up. I’m a Carlyle of Carlyle Place, and a McCaslin
by adoption. Her mother had taught her this litany when she was a
child and came home crying from grade school taunts. Of course,
she usually couldn’t help adding, But why can’t my family be like
other families?
Curt kept his hand just under her elbow, causing her to buzz with
a special awareness of him. He nodded, encouraging her.
With Gretel right behind her, Bette stepped out from behind the
partition. She did not want to face Mary and Ruth, but her mother
had always told her, “Honey, look them straight in the eye. That’ll
make them mad as fire.”
So she stared into her classmates’ eyes —two girls who’d
tormented her all her childhood, even though their families weren’t
perfect either. Seeing their expressions, she knew they were
embarrassed Curt had overheard their gossip and that somehow
they would try to make her pay for their indiscretion.
“Thank you, Miss McCaslin, Mr. Sinclair.” The teacher smiled.
She merely nodded at the teacher’s thank-you. And, her spine as
stiff as a broom handle, she led Gretel out into the hall. Curt stayed
right with them, his hand on her arm. The gesture was both tender
and devastating. She spared him a quick look as they made their
way down the hall. Curt Sinclair was her opposite. Only a few inches
taller than Bette, he had blond hair to her black, blue eyes to her
gray. And he dressed sharp. She didn’t. She wondered, what did he
think of what he’d heard? Did he merely think chivalry called for him
to protect them?
The three of them stopped at the end of the corridor and only
then did he let go of her arm. Gretel stayed right beside Bette,
saying nothing. Clutching her books to her chest as a shield, Bette
looked down at her scuffed Oxfords. Please don’t say anything about
the gossip. Please don’t.
“Do you need a ride home?” Curt asked politely. “My father
loaned me his car today.” He smiled and Bette noticed that his blond
hair was parted on the side and combed back smoothly like
Humphrey Bogart.
“We always walk to the bank and ride home with my stepfather,”
she replied automatically. Momentarily entranced, she detected
traces of golden beard on his cleft chin. She thought of running a
finger over it and experienced a rush of sensation that shook her.
For a second, all she could think of was Curt and his nearness. Then
the horror of the past few minutes and the early morning attack
surged back. She shook with it.
“I think it would be best if I drove you to the bank today,” Curt
said.
So he had heard about the burning cross. Bette wondered what
he thought about it. But didn’t his gallant actions give his opinion?
“Danke,” Gretel murmured, swishing her long dark braids over
the shoulders of her plain navy-blue dress. “Danke.”
Bette managed to nod before Curt hustled them down the
staircase, whistling. The sound did things to the back of her neck.
The three of them were passing the glass-encased bulletin board
next to the principal’s office when Bette caught sight of something
pinned there and nearly stopped in her tracks. No