"Aunt Natasha? Aunt Elizabeth?"

Abigail Foster donned a light sweater and stepped out onto the wide porch, letting the screen door slap shut behind her. Two wicker chairs were pushed back from the white table in the far corner of the porch. An enameled tray and a plate with several sugar cookies sat next to a Wedgwood teapot atop the blue cloth. Lemon slices floated on the surface of amber-colored tea in delicate blue and white cups. Her aunts had obviously been interrupted during their afternoon Earl Grey break and had left the comfortable corner, sheltered by the potato vine that climbed up the trellis.

But where had they gone? Abigail looked up and down the wide street. Down the block, two eight-year-olds rode bicycles, weaving in and out of the autumn leaves collecting in red and gold drifts in the gutters. Two joggers, accompanied by a cocker spaniel tugging on his leash, circled around the boys and kept on going. The rhythm of the neighborhood ticked on as usual. But Abigail didn't see her great-aunts.

She crossed the porch and descended the broad, white-painted steps, following the brick walkway around the house to the side yard. She heard the murmur of voices as she neared the back of the house. The rumble of a deeper, male voice mingled with her aunts' lighter tones had her quickening her steps.

Leaves crunched under her boots as she rounded the corner of the house. She made a mental note to clear the fallen leaves from the bed of chrysanthemums and dahlias edging the white clapboard siding over the next day or two. She knew from experience that the lovely Indian summer days would quickly turn to chillier October weeks, followed by snow in November.

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