Excerpt from Isabel's Daughter by Judith Ryan Hendricks, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I force my eyes away from the portrait to meet his, which are dark and clear like a lake at night. I half expect to see the moon reflected in them. Tall. Or maybe it's just that he's standing over me. The way he's dressed--all in soft tones of gray--gives him the look of a shadow in one of my dreams. My eyes focus naturally on the beautiful silver and bone bolo tie gleaming at the collar of his shirt.

"I'm . . . Avery James." My throat is raw, and my eyes are still leaking from the brandy.

"You need some water." He disappears into the kitchen and I hear cabinet doors opening and shutting, like he can't find the glasses. I go back to the portrait, and the details begin to crystallize, to sharpen, to register in my brain. I want to memorize the way her hands rest gracefully on some kind of stone table or half column, the way her pale mouth barely curves up, as if she's deciding whether or not to smile. The black tunic, elaborately decorated with colorful flowers--beaded or embroidered--very stylized and precise, like some South American wall hanging. It strikes a chord that echoes deep in my memory.

I know that vest. I saw it once, eight years ago.



Abruptly, the front door flies open, hitting the wall behind it with an angry crack. "Avery, what the hell are you doing out here? It's a bit early for a break, don't you-Shit! My rellenos-" Dale looks like he might burst into tears. His hair stands up in that little ridge above his left ear where he runs his fingers through it when he's upset.

"Dale, I'm sorry-"

"Damn right," he snaps at me. "You're about the sorriest thing I know. You're also fired. Get your lazy ass out of my sight."

"Fire her, and you won't be working for me again." My head whips around. Paul DeGraf stands in the kitchen doorway.

"Paul . . . I didn't realize . . . I hope there's not a problem." Dale backpedals with his ever handy, shit-eating smile.

DeGraf doesn't smile. "She's sitting down because she fainted."

"I didn't faint, for God's sake." But neither of them is listening to me.

"Oh, Avery . . ." Dale's thin black eyebrows knit together in faux concern. "We can't have you working when you don't feel good." The threat of unemployment has cleared my head like a whiff of ammonia. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute, okay?"

"Take all the time you need, of course," he purrs. "If you feel up to it, come on back to the kitchen. If not, I'll get Horacio to take you home. We can manage." He flashes his teeth again. "Well. No rest for the wicked." He picks up the two intact trays of rellenos and vanishes, leaving the door standing open.

DeGraf hands me the water, frowning after him.

I drink about half of it and hand the glass back. "I'd better get going while I still have a job." I start to get up, but his hand on my shoulder stops me.

"Are you going to be all right? You don't have to do this. I'll talk to Dale and I'm quite sure-"

"No!" It comes out too loud. "I mean, you don't need to talk to him. I'm fine. Just . . . kind of startled."

I slide off the chair onto my knees and start gathering up the chiles. There's nothing wrong with most of them, except cosmetically. For a few seconds I debate whether it would be unforgivably tacky to ask for something to take them home in. I hate to see food wasted.

Paul DeGraf says, "That's understandable. It's not every day you come across a Tom Hemmings portrait of your mother."

I look up. "How do you know she's my mother?"

"Leave those." Something in his voice makes me comply. He takes my arm and pulls me to my feet gently but definitely. "It's fairly obvious," he says.

The foregoing is excerpted from Isabel's Daughter by Judith Ryan Hendricks. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022