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After the funerals, Kate MacLean knelt in front of a small chest of drawers in the attic. She pulled out the bottom drawer to find the photograph of Gyorgy taken in her studio in Tingle Creek.

The picture of the handsome Gypsy reminded her of things past, of the people she had known and loved, of hopes dashed and dreams denied. She thought of the country school where she had taught, of her life in town as a studio photographer, of the phone call from Henry Fergus which led her to a life as a farm wife and mother of three children-not her own.

She sighed. If only she had used the...