Hand-Me-Down
Lee Nichols

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks are long overdue to Nancy Coffey, Farrin Jacobs, Lynn Nichols, Jessica Alvarez, Helen Ross, Paula Ross and Constance Wall.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 01

CHAPTER 02

CHAPTER 03

CHAPTER 04

CHAPTER 05

CHAPTER 06

CHAPTER 07

CHAPTER 08

CHAPTER 09

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 01

The second time Ian Dunne came into my life, I was trapped under a pile of bodies, behind a sheet of plate glass.

I’d just graduated from UC Santa Barbara, my hometown school. I’d finished at the top of the middle of my class—which is the story of my life—and a week later had grabbed the bottom rung of corporate America.

I was folding men’s charcoal woolens at Banana Republic when my manager materialized at my shoulder.

“You’ve almost got it!” Jenny chirped. “First the sleeve, then over, over…” Showing me, yet again, how to fold a sweater.

I gritted my teeth, and gestured to my pile. “Mine are fine.”

“Good enough for the Gap.” Jenny smiled encouragingly. “Maybe.”

“Maybe I should do the windows instead.”

“You can’t do the windows.”

“But I want to do the windows.”

“Sorry,” she said, and scurried into the back office.

My problem was that I was assertive enough to annoy, but not enough to succeed. That’s always been my problem: I’m the uneasy medium. Pretty enough, but not beautiful. Smart enough, but not brilliant. If I were a college, I’d be a safety school. If I were a skirt, I’d be basic black.

Wren finished ringing up a sale and drifted over. We’d started work the same day, and she’d been promoted to the register by the end of the morning. I liked her despite her obnoxious competence and her glossy dark hair and clear olive skin. She smiled and neatened my sweater stack. “Jenny’s teaching you to fold again?”

“Folding’s not really my strength.” I glanced toward the front of the store. “What I should be doing is—”

“Oh, Anne, not again. She’ll never let you do the windows.”

“But I’m pretty sure that window design is my thing.” I stacked the last sweater. “I’m sort of arty.”

“You were a business major.”

“Well, arty-businessy. Anyway, I have the soul of an artist.” Since graduating, I’d been doing some thinking. It was clear I wasn’t going to make it on looks alone. Not like my oldest sister Charlotte. Nor was I anyone’s idea of a girl-genius, like my other sister, Emily. So I figured I’d be the next Paloma Picasso. Artist/designer. Of course, my dad was no Pablo, but still.

“How many art classes did you take?” Wren asked.

“Does pottery count?”

“Only if you got an A.”

“Oh. Anyway—” I lowered my voice. “Aren’t you a little embarrassed to be working here?” Wren had just graduated from Pomona.

She shook her head. “I love clothes.”

“Yeah,” I said, unconvinced. I liked clothes, too. New ones, at least. “Still. Shouldn’t we aspire to greater things than our fifty-percent discount?”

“Like a sixty-percent discount?”

“Exactly! Or, for instance…”

“The windows,” Wren finished.

I smiled. And ten minutes later, when Jenny was on the phone to the head office and Wren—in a fit of self-preservation—disappeared for an early lunch, I crammed myself into the front window with six mannequins.

An assortment of mall-walkers noticed me, and paused and pointed. Enjoying the celebrity, I gave them a queen’s wave and got to work. How hard could it be? Easy as stacking wood, I told myself—ignoring for the moment that I’d never actually stacked wood.

The official theme for the Fall windows was the stunningly original “Back to School.” I decided to stay on topic and create the Banana Republic Cheerleading Squad. Given Jenny’s level of pep, she’d have to approve.

I wrestled the first mannequin, dressed in denims and suede jacket, into a crouching position. It took some doing, as she was not at all limber, but I finally grappled her onto all fours. The second mannequin was easier, but the third required that I kneel on her stomach and roughly yank her legs. The fourth and fifth, wearing light gray sweaters and khaki cords, were male. I twisted them onto their hands and knees and turned to the sixth mannequin, a recalcitrant squad leader in a plaid mini. By the time I finished tangling with her, I was sweaty and exhausted…and had attracted a crowd.

I loftily ignored them, and arranged the first three mannequins. Easy enough. Side by side, on hands and knees—the two males on the outside, a female in the middle. I manhandled the next one on top, balanced another next to her, and stepped back to admire my handiwork. Looking good. Jenny was going to be amazed.

They say a pyramid is a totally stable structure, but I challenge anyone to prove it with cheerleading mannequins. I lifted Plaid Mini, the recalcitrant squad leader, over my head and stepped forward. Neatly avoiding the sprawled limbs of the other mannequins, I rose onto tiptoes and gently flipped Plaid Mini onto the very apex of the pyramid.

She teetered. She tottered. The crowd hushed…and the sixth mannequin settled perfectly into place!

I beamed.

The crowd applauded.

And as I curtsied, there was a knock at the window. My sister Emily. I almost didn’t recognize her. She’s sort of severe and intellectual-looking, not exactly a mall rat. Standing next to her, smiling, was a tall, blond, handsome man.

“I did it!” I told Emily triumphantly through the glass.

“What?” she yelled.

“I did it!” I gestured behind me at the pyramid. “My first window!”

“What?” she shouted again.

She turned to the blond man, and I saw him say: she says she does windows.

Emily frowned as she answered. I couldn’t hear the words, but from her expression I could tell they were pretty ripe. She’d just had her first book published—an indecipherable academic feminist treatise which for some reason had been getting press in Cosmo and Newsweek—and she wanted to be this classy, cool philosopher-queen. Not someone whose sister wrestles cheerleading mannequins in mall windows.

“Back to school!” I mouthed, as if that were an explanation.

This didn’t soothe Emily. The man turned to calm her, and I suddenly recognized him.

I said, “Ian?”

He saw the word. He nodded.

I startled backward, almost tripping on a splayed plastic hand— I grabbed an errant elbow to steady myself. The elbow joggled the barest inch and the mannequin underneath twisted slightly. I lunged to steady him—and slipped. My knee whacked Suede Jacket square in the face and she squirted out of the pyramid like a wet watermelon seed. Then Plaid Mini leapt at me from above and grabbed me in an obscene scissors-hold between her thighs. I struggled for air and popped one of her legs off— I twirled and spun as the pyramid collapsed around me in a hail of cheerleaders, and finally ended on my back, with Khaki Cords splayed on top.

The applause was louder, this time.

CHAPTER 02

Emily slammed her bag onto the table at the Coffee Bean and scowled. After the collapse of the Great Pyramid, Jenny decided it was my turn to take lunch—preferably in another state. I didn’t argue, even though Emily was lurking outside the store with smoke issuing from her nostrils. Emily is the middle sister, so she’s supposed to be mild and quiet and timid, but nobody’s ever been foolish enough to mention that to her.

“Well?” she said.

“I’ll have a mocha blended?”

Her eyebrows became an angry V. “You know exactly what I mean, Anne.”

“Oh, that,” I said with an airy laugh, gesturing back toward Banana. “That was just, y’know. So, what’re you doing at the mall?”

“Great show, Anne,” Ian said, returning with our coffees to the table. “I wanted to put out a little cup for you.”

I smiled sweetly at Emily. “And where’d you find him?”

Ian Dunne was six feet tall with blond hair and blue eyes. He was wearing green shorts, a navy T-shirt and flip-flops, and had a Santa Barbara tan—the deep bronze of the pre-skin-cancer era. He looked even more surfer-delicious than when he’d dated Charlotte in high school.

“Anne,” Emily said, as calm as the eye of a storm. “You graduated with a low B average with a degree you don’t value. You’re living with Dad. You’re barely employed at Banana Republic. You don’t have the slightest inkling of a career, a future, a—”

“I’m going back to school,” I said, cringing inwardly at the phrase.

She brightened. “To get your master’s?”

“Art school,” I said. “So Ian, how’ve you been?”

“Art?” Emily said. “You can’t draw a straight line with a ruler.”

“I most certainly can!”

“And you know nothing about art theory. If I asked you to choose between appropriationist and cultural predialectic in the structural paradigm of visual art, which would you defend?”

“Um, the first one?”

She sighed. “Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Paloma Picasso?” I said, in a small voice.

“She makes perfume.”

“And handbags!”

“Anne, you need to focus on your future—”

“I’m fine,” Ian cut in. “How have you been?”

I winced, waiting for the explosion. Emily would reduce him to paste with a handful of words. But, oddly, no explosion came. Maybe micro-celebrity was calming her.

“I’ve been good,” I said, after a short silence. “So where did you two—?”

“We ran into each other in the mall,” Emily said. “Watching you make a spectacle of yourself.”

“A spectacle? It’s not like I was strutting around in a bikini.”

“How is Charlotte?” Ian casually asked, and those three words told me everything: he was still in love with her. After all the years—her marriage, her celebrity, and her pregnancy—he was still in love.

It explained why he’d finagled an invitation to coffee with us. Emily usually wasn’t so welcoming, but she’d responded eagerly to his hints. Of course, her book was out, the early reviews were disgustingly positive, and the publication party was tonight. So she had an ulterior motive: to brag.

“Charlotte’s fine,” she said shortly, and turned to me. “I told Ian about my book.”

“Porn Is Film,” Ian said, as if reciting the title of her book proved something.

“What does that even mean?” I said. “Is Penthouse film? It’s porn. If porn is film, does that mean film is porn? Is The Bicycle Thief porn?”

Usually I can get Emily worked up and defensive about the title. It’s like bullfighting, you have to know exactly how far you can go before you get gored. As long as she sputters angrily, I’m okay. The minute she says something like “the postmodern praxis of potentiality,” I run.

This time, she simply asked, “You’re coming to the reading tonight?”

“I never miss a party.”

“Party?” Ian said.

“It’s a reading,” Emily said.

“With booze,” I said. “So it’s a party.”

“Are you bringing a date?” Emily asked.

“Of course.” I hadn’t planned to, but I sure as hell was going to now. There was plenty of time to dig up a date. It was positively…six hours away.

“Not Matthew,” Emily said.

I rolled my eyes. “He wasn’t that bad.” He was also out of town, or he’d be the first I called.

“He was worse. Good thing he didn’t even make par.”

“What’s par?” Ian asked.

“Anne never dates anyone more than three months.”

“That is so not true!” I said. “What about Kyle?”

“Four months,” she said. “And that was high school.”

“It still counts,” I said—and noticed Ian’s expression.

There was something wistful in his deep blue eyes. He was thinking about Charlotte. About tragic, doomed high school love. He knew Charlotte would be at the party, and he longed to see her. He knew she was famous, he knew she was married. He only wanted to watch her from across the room, his heart silently breaking. And, well, I know I shouldn’t have done it. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson last time: never invite Ian anywhere. But I’d learned nothing.

So I looked at his injured-puppy eyes and said, “Would you like to come?”

“To the reading?”

“If you’re free tonight?”

He smiled. “I’d love to.”

Emily fiddled with her water glass, and I thought, uh-oh. Not good, inviting Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend to Emily’s party. “That’d be…nice,” she said.

“If you’re sure,” he asked her politely.

“Of course,” she said.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said.

“Come or don’t come,” she snapped. “I could care less.”

“Then I’ll definitely come.”

“And I’ll definitely go,” I said. “Lunch break’s over. If I give Jenny a reason to fire me—”

“Another reason,” Emily said, as I left.

Okay, it was a mistake to invite Ian. But it wasn’t a disaster. It had been ten years since it happened, and he clearly didn’t remember.

Which was almost as galling as if he had.

Wren was fixing the window when I returned.

“Very avant-garde,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She laughed and turned back to the mannequins, sorting them out with efficient, professional motions.

“It was a popular triumph,” I told her. “The people loved me.”

“But not critically acclaimed. Jenny isn’t happy.” She straightened the plaid mini. “Who’s the guy?”

“That’s Khaki Cords.” I kicked the mannequin. “I hate him.”

“The guy at the Coffee Bean.”

“Oh, him. Ian. My sister’s ex.”

“They’re back together?”

“Not Emily’s— Charlotte’s.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

“What?”

“He’s gorgeous.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I guess, if you like the blond, blue-eyed…gorgeous type. Oh! Speaking of which— I need a date for tonight.”

“Your sister’s book thing?”

“Yeah. I was gonna go stag, but…”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded knowingly. “Ian’s going?”

“Well, I sort of accidentally invited him.”

“You have a crush on Charlotte’s ex.”

“I don’t! Not a crush. But I, um…”

“You what?”

“Let’s just say I did something really stupid, once. I wouldn’t want him to think it ruined me for guys ever since.”

“What’d you do?”

“I invited him to a party,” I said.

“I mean last time,” she said.

“That’s what I did last time, too. I don’t know what it is. I see him, I invite him somewhere inappropriate. It’s Pavlovian.”

“Because he makes you salivate.”

I ignored her. “Anyway, I need a presentable date, fast.”

“My brother would do it for ten bucks.”

Her brother is thirteen. “I’m looking for clean-shaven, not pre-shaven.”

Jenny suddenly loomed. She edged between me and the nearest mannequin, as if afraid I’d go for its throat. “You’re back,” she said.

“With bells on!” I told her, smiling gaily as if nothing had happened.

“We have to talk,” Jenny told me.

“Anne needs a date tonight,” Wren said. “She’s got nobody to take to her sister’s party.”

For a moment, I was pissed at Wren. How could she tell Jenny I needed a date? Then I realized it was a perfect distraction. Jenny was a little starstruck by Charlotte, so there was no need to mention the party was for my other sister.

“Your sister?” Jenny considered. “Well, there’s always Billy.”

Billy was one of the Banana boys. Wren and I both had crushes on him—he was a young Brad Pitt—but Wren was the absolute worst flirt you’ve ever seen. As a rule, she was competent and pretty and perfect—but when flirting she flipped a switch, and a stuttering Elmer Fudd took over her body.

“He’ll go out with anyone,” Jenny said.

“Even Anne?” Wren asked.

“Oh, thanks,” I said.

Jenny shrugged. “Why not? I’ll get him to teach you how to use the register. Then you can ask.”

“The register!” I said. That was even better than Billy.

“There’s got to be something you can do around here.”

It turns out she was right. I was a cash register genius. Born to ring. After an hour behind the counter, hitting Sale, No Sale, Taxable and Return while trying to be fascinating, I turned to Billy with a smile. “You have plans tonight?”

He grinned and shrugged. His expression said, make me an offer.

“There’s a party,” I said. “My sister wrote a book. It’s sort of a publication thing.”

“A book party?” He sounded dubious.

“There’ll be booze. Well, wine…”

“Wine?” More dubious.

“Um, yeah.” Time to swallow my pride. “And it’s at Charlotte Olsen’s house in Montecito.”

He straightened slightly, in awe. “You know Charlotte Olsen?”

“A little.”

“The swimsuit model?”

“Is there another Charlotte Olsen?”

“Not in my life,” he said.

Mine either.

CHAPTER 03

Early evening. I sprawled across the bed and painted my fingernails with Charlotte’s blue polish.

“Not that,” Charlotte said, from her palatial walk-in closet. “It’s so last season.”

“It’s Hard Candy. I like it.”

She shook her head, but didn’t push me. Charlotte never did. “Well, on you, it still works.” She rummaged in the closet and held up a satin blouse and velvet jeans in a gorgeous powder blue. “Here, these’ll match.”

“I don’t think so, Charlotte….”

“They’re Gucci.”

My jaw tightened. I loved Gucci. She knew I loved Gucci. But I had my principles. Or at least I had my single solitary principle: not to wear my sisters’ hand-me-downs. “Why don’t you wear it?” I said, with a straight face.

She was eight months pregnant, and a honker. She was wearing a black tank top, a long knit skirt and a belly like an overinflated beach ball. “Because it’s not a size seventy-two.”

“Give it to Emily then.”

Charlotte snorted. “God knows what she’ll show up in. I wish she’d let me take her shopping.” She held up a cream linen dress. “How about this?”

I ignored her. I was sticking to the white blouse and jeans I’d bought with my discount at Banana. “Speaking of Emily.” I screwed the cap back on the polish. “Guess who we ran into today?”

“Ian Dunne. She said you invited him.”

“Well, it sort of popped out….”

“She also said you were putting on quite a show dressing the mannequins. You know, if you want to dress models I can introduce you to a stylist.”

I looked at Charlotte. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not, Annie.” Her natural pregnancy-glow doubled in wattage. “And I know just the woman. She dressed me for my calendar.”

“I meant, you don’t mind that I invited Ian. And it’s exaggerating to say you were dressed for your calendar.” Charlotte was America’s favorite swimsuit model. She’d won the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue two years in a row. Her calendar sold a zillion copies and I’ve seen her naked looking more modest than she did in some of those swimsuits.

“Why would I mind about Ian?” Charlotte smiled. “Do you remember how you asked him—”

“I remember.”

“It’ll be fun to see him. I can’t wait for David to meet him.”

David was Charlotte’s husband. She’d always dated gorgeous men, because they were the only ones with the egos to think they deserved Charlotte Olsen. Then she’d met David. A shy, unassuming anesthesiologist who looked like a young Billy Crystal. It was love at first sight.

“When’s he get home?” I asked.

Charlotte glanced at the clock. “An hour. And InStyle should be here soon.”

“I still don’t know how you convinced them to shoot Emily’s book party.”

“It wasn’t that hard—The Nation did name Emily one of the ten most dangerous young minds in America.”

“Yeah, number seven,” I said dismissively, because having two famous older sisters was more than I could bear. I’d thought Emily was safely obscure, but as a new Ph.D. at twenty-seven, she’d rocked the feminist world with her dissonant thoughts on pornography. Wonderful. “Somehow I don’t see InStyle caring about dangerous minds.”

Charlotte became suddenly fascinated by the shoes she was holding. “I can’t even wear normal shoes. I have hippo feet.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Something with InStyle?”

She lowered her bulk into a velvet boudoir chair. “I had to promise People, which is owned by the same parent company, exclusive pictures of me and the baby after the birth.”

“Charlotte!” She always tried to keep her personal life out of the spotlight.

“Well, you know. For Emily. David said it would be okay.”

“For that, they should put her in the ‘50 Most Beautiful’ issue.”

She inspected the shoes more closely.

“You asked and they said no?” I said.

“Don’t tell Emily.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

When a model breaks out like Charlotte had, agents start looking at her sisters—same genes, right? Her agency offered to test shoot me when I turned fourteen. I was tempted, despite them wanting me to lose fifteen pounds, but Charlotte and Dad said no. I sulked, but was secretly pleased. I do look vaguely—very vaguely—like Charlotte. Except in front of a camera, her light hair shines, her tawny skin glows, and her smile blinds unprepared passersby. In front of a camera, I just look like me. Plus, I like to eat.

Nobody ever offered to test shoot Emily.

Dad showed up before David or InStyle, and immediately headed for the buffet.

I knocked a taquito from his fingers. “Wait till the guests arrive.”

“I’m starving. I held off lunch for this.”

“And if Emily catches you?”

He stepped away from the buffet, almost knocking over a vase of flowers. Dad was always nervous at Charlotte’s. The reek of wealth was disconcerting—the mansion in Montecito, the garden, the pool. Actually I was a little nervous myself, as Billy would arrive in an hour and I had no idea what I was supposed to do with him. At least I looked all right. Charlotte hadn’t convinced me to wear her clothes, but she’d done my hair and makeup. She was a cosmetics genius—with me spackled and shellacked, it was obvious we were sisters.

Then she waddled into the living room on David’s arm, and I sighed. She’d made herself up, too, so we were back to looking like strangers. Even pregnant, she was gorgeous. It was rare for me to see her fully made-up, and I’d forgotten how stunning she was. Perfect bone structure, large blue eyes, and lustrous hair that was meant to be long.

“Dad’s hungry,” I said.

“I skipped lunch,” Dad explained.

David’s admiring gaze broke from Charlotte. “I’ll get a plate from the buffet.”

“Emily,” Charlotte and I said.

“Right,” David said. “There’s chips in the kitchen. Back in a second.”

“Get me a slice of cheese,” Charlotte said.

David headed off and I eyed Charlotte’s enormous stomach, realizing I hadn’t capitalized on her condition as much as I should have. She’d grown positively huge. “Sit by me,” I said, and patted the couch. If I were lucky, the InStyle photographer would get a shot of this. The caption: A grotesquely pregnant Charlotte Olsen, and her svelte, much younger sister, Anne.

Charlotte sat beside me and the cushions seesawed me into the air. “You two sick of each other yet?” she asked. Meaning me and Dad, living together.

Dad and I looked at each other. Why get sick? We got along great. Plus, I didn’t have to pay rent, so I could spend my little all on necessities like clothes, mochas, and alcohol.

“Because the guest house is empty,” Charlotte said. “With the baby coming, I thought it’d be nice to have Anne close.”

Sure. I’d already had a lifetime of Charlotte’s secondhand goods, the last thing I wanted was to take care of her second generation. Then reason lifted its shaggy head. The guest house was a cozy cottage with one bedroom, a kitchen with a Wolf stove and Sub-Zero fridge, and a living room out of Metropolitan Home.

“How much for rent?” Dad asked, a shade too eagerly.

“Well, if she’d baby-sit every now and then…”

“No.” Dad shook his head. “Anne needs to pay rent. It’ll be good for her.”

“Dad.”

“How about three hundred?” Charlotte said. “Including utilities.”

Three hundred I could swing.

“Not enough,” Dad said.

“But if she takes the baby a couple times a week.”

“Wait one infantile second,” I said. “I never said I’d help with the baby.”

“Of course not,” Charlotte said. “Only if you had time.” She and Dad looked a little nervous. There’s a bit of Emily in me.

“What do you think?” I asked Dad.

“I’d miss you…” he said, gloomily.

And I realized I couldn’t leave him. It wasn’t like he still had Mom to take care of him. Maybe it’s a youngest daughter thing, but I felt I had a responsibility. And he did like having me around, even if he grumbled about it occasionally.

“…but I’ll help you move next week,” he finished.

When Emily arrived, the photographers positioned her in front of a huge poster for a film called Spanking Schoolgirls. She’d been posed to hide the naughty bits, and hadn’t budged since. I guess she had a little of the model in her after all. Her publisher, Jamie Lombard—early thirties, an ink-stained cowboy, with rugged good looks and a receding hairline—stood proudly beside her. He was a local publisher, and few of his books had ever sold more than five hundred copies. The unexpected success of Emily’s book had left him slightly shell-shocked.

Emily, on the other hand, looked utterly comfortable chatting with a reporter about the dichotomizing of sub-textual prurience or something. As far as I could understand, her point was this: women like to fuck. Not exactly an earth-shattering insight, but apparently if you dress it up in postmodern theory, you get famous for your dangerous mind.

It did make me eye Emily speculatively. She’d been secretly dating someone all summer, and my bet was that he was someone in the “film” trade who she was too embarrassed to introduce to her family. A porn star like Johnny Deep, maybe, or Roger More.

I looked for Charlotte, to expand upon this theory—why had none of us met this mystery man?—and my Aunt Regina drifted into range. She eyed me and said, “I’m glad you’re finally out of mourning.”

This was her joke. Her only joke. My mom—her sister—had died when I was ten, and though I sometimes missed her, I hadn’t been in mourning for twelve years. But Aunt Regina had an arrested image of me from what she called my “Goth Phase” in high school. Every time she saw me since, she was amazed anew that I wasn’t wearing black lipstick.

I gave a courtesy laugh, and starting heaping food on my plate.

“Now you’ve stopped coloring your hair black,” she said, “you look much more like Charlotte.”

“We’re often taken for twins,” I lied.

“Surely not identical,” she said. “Now if only you were a success, like your sisters. How proud your mother would be.”

Before I could kill Aunt Regina and stuff her body in the crawlspace, Billy and Ian arrived—at the same time, like they’d shared a ride. This worried me for some reason, so I raced over to introduce them and be sure the introduction was necessary.

“Ian, this is Billy,” I said, taking Billy’s hand in a loverlike fashion. “Billy, Ian.”

They said hello.

“So this is your boyfriend,” Ian said.

“Yep,” I said—giving Billy’s hand a warning squeeze.

“What?” Billy said. “Me?”

I laughed and dragged him to a corner where I hissingly instructed him that, for the duration of the evening, he was my boyfriend. He claimed he wasn’t. I told him he was. He became stubborn. So I offered an introduction to Charlotte, and he said he’d be my boyfriend for a whole week if he could shake her hand. A month if he could lick it.

We threaded through the crowd as I internally debated the merits of allowing the lick, but Billy dug in his heels when he spotted Charlotte.

“That really is Charlotte Olsen!” he said.

“Yeah.”

“No way. She’s totally—”

“Pregnant,” I explained.

“—hot. She’s totally hot.”

“She’s a water buffalo.”

“She’s a fox.”

“But she’s five hundred pounds!” I pointed out.

“I need a cold shower just looking at her,” he said. “Oh, man.”

“Her feet are bloated.” I thought he should know. “She’s a bloated hippo with clown feet.”

“She’s even hotter than her calendar.”

“And bigger than her car.”

“You know,” he told me, man to man, “I jerked off to that calendar three times a day for like two months.”

Fifteen minutes later, I slipped onto the patio. There was a couple sitting on the Adirondacks overlooking the pool, and chatting in low tones. I was going to sneak past, but it was only Ian and Emily.

“Why aren’t you inside with your adoring fans?” I asked.

“I needed some air,” Emily said. “The photographers…”

Ian shot a longing glance back at the house. “A little peace and quiet.”

It was disgusting. Even in herd-of-buffalo form, Charlotte was breaking his heart. “She’s enormous,” I mumbled. “She’s a one-woman stampede.”

“What?” Ian gestured toward the party. “Is that what that crash was?”

“Oh. Um. That was me. I broke up with Billy.”

Ian opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it again.

“A long way from par,” Emily said. “He didn’t even make it to the first hole.”

“Emily!” I said.

She blushed bright red. “I meant golf hole—like in golf.”

“You’ve been watching too much porn,” Ian told her.

“Porn is film,” I observed.

“Why’d you break up?” Ian asked me.

“We’d grown apart.” I turned to Emily. “So where’s your invisible boyfriend?”

“We broke up, too.”

“Really? When? Why?” The relationship may have been clandestine, but she’d seemed happy.

“It was only sex,” Emily said.

“Well, what did you expect from a porn star? Intellectual fulfillment? I don’t know what—”

“A porn star?” she said.

Ian laughed. “Hung like a moose, I bet.”

Emily shot him a stern look, then finally copped to her blue-movie adventure. “The sex was great,” she admitted, “although his idea of a good film was The Sperminator. He just wasn’t right for me. We didn’t have anything—” Her face lit up as Jamie Lombard stepped out of the house with two margaritas. “Jamie! Over here.”

He headed our way and she sprang at him like a hungry lioness and dragged him to the corner of the deck, where they could talk privately. Did she have her eye on Jamie? They’d make a perfect pair.

I looked at Ian. “Did I imagine that?”

“Maybe she had two secret boyfriends.”

“The porn star and the publisher. Sounds like a sitcom.”

“On the Spice Channel.”

I laughed more than that deserved, because I liked Ian. And he looked good. And apparently had forgotten what I did last time we met. “So…you saw Charlotte,” I said.

“More beautiful than ever.”

“She makes a very attractive Mack truck. Meet my sisters: dangerous mind and dangerous curves.”

“Not feeling dangerous, yourself?”

I held up the plate of food that hadn’t left my side all evening. “Only to the buffet.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a little wickedness in you.”

Okay, he was Charlotte’s ex, so this was marginally incestuous and repulsively secondhand. But he was handsome, single, funny, smart…and nobody had ever called me potentially wicked before. I gave him my lower-wattage version of Charlotte’s smile and said, “A lot of wickedness.”

He laughed. “Remember last time we met? You invited me to your school dance.”

My smile dimmed.

“You were what?” he said. “In seventh grade? I was a senior in high school. It was so sweet. What was the theme again?”

Hawaiian luau. “No idea.”

“Hula or something. You were cute in your little grass skirt.”

Actually, I was. I’d wanted to wear a coconut bra, too, but Dad wouldn’t let me.

Ian smiled at the memory. “You marched up to me with a flower necklace and asked if I wanted to get laid.”

“Lei-ed,” I said faintly, remembering the mortification. I was trying on my outfit and had gone to Charlotte’s room to show her. A half-dozen other kids had been there, Charlotte’s friends, and they’d howled with laughter. Not Ian, though. He’d said, very kindly, no, and on the night of the dance had actually sent me a corsage.

We were silent a moment, listening to the party sounds from the house. Then I turned to him and—God help me— I said, “The offer’s still good.”

Ian took my hand. He told me how flattered he was. He said I was beautiful, wonderful, perfect in every way—but he’d rather staple his earlobes to the deck than sleep with me. Well, I don’t know exactly what he said, because I was busy trying to transform my utter mortification into the ability to sink unnoticed into the ground, leaving behind only a thin film of humiliation.

Okay. So he hadn’t forgotten.

The next morning Dad and I met in the living room for coffee. We usually chatted for about twenty minutes before I left for Banana and he headed to his office at UCSB.

“You looked pretty last night,” he said.

“Nice that someone thought so,” I muttered into my coffee.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” I put my cup on the coffee table and held out my arms to show off my new red T-shirt and black mini. “And what do we think of today’s ensemble?”

“Not the book!” he said.

I grabbed my cup from the book I’d used as a coaster. It was Porn Is Film. Emily had placed it there, and we didn’t dare move it. She’d come on a surprise inspection last Tuesday and found it buried at the bottom of the bookcase. The echoes were still fading.

Dad inspected the cover for stains and declared us safe when he found none. He smiled at the book, from fondness for Emily. “Mom would be so proud. Little did she know when she named you after the Brontë sisters, one of you’d become an author.”

“Mom published stuff. So did you,” I said sulkily. “All professors get published.”

“In journals. Not like this.”

“Well, Charlotte helped.”

His smile wavered. “Your mom never would have expected her daughter to become a swimsuit model, though. I think she’d have supported it….” This was an old conflict with Dad.

“Dad, she’s still Charlotte. Fame, fortune, and public nudity haven’t done a single bad thing to her. Look what she’s made of herself.”

“Speaking of which…” he said, and I realized I’d been deftly maneuvered into this conversation.

“I like Banana.”

“Anne—”

“Yes, Anne,” I said. “The Brontë sister no one’s ever heard of. So lay off!”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Dad.”

“I’m only saying—”

“Dad.”

“Okay, okay. I’m saying nothing.”

“And I’ve heard it all before.”

At the end of that summer, Emily and Jamie were married. Charlotte had a baby girl. And I got a job working for a dot-com. I was destined to make millions—in an artsy-businessy way, of course.

I heard Ian moved to New York.

CHAPTER 04

The third time Ian Dunne came into my life was eight years later.

I was twenty-nine, with a steady job and a steady boyfriend and a steady life. And I still managed to invite my sister’s ex-boyfriend to an inappropriate party. There’s a word for that: Fate.

Or maybe it’s: Stupid.

It started when Emily and I were having lunch at the Sojourner, a natural foods restaurant downtown. We were arguing over a gift for Charlotte’s birthday. Emily and I always joined forces to buy presents for Charlotte. Even though Charlotte insisted she loved everything we got her, together we could afford something unembarrassing.

“You know what she gave me last year?” I asked.

“A mahogany tilt-top occasional table.”

I nodded. “Used furniture.”

“It’s an antique. Must’ve cost thousands. And it’s in perfect condition—it looks brand-new.”

“But it isn’t.”

“I’ll take it, if you don’t want it,” Emily said. Like she needed secondhand used furniture. Between her book and her articles, her lectures and TV appearances, she was almost as stinking rich as Charlotte. Well, maybe a tenth as rich, but that was still pretty stinking if you were only an office manager, like me.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” I said. “Just that it wasn’t new.”

Emily shook her head. “Well, neither is the gift I want to get her, so you’re even.”

The waitress came and I ordered a Gorilla Fizz, which I’d been ordering at the Sojourner since I was a kid, and a Popeye Salad, which I’d been ordering since I had trouble zipping my Levi’s last week. Emily quizzed the waitress about what exactly was in the vegetable timbale, then ordered the pumpkin ravioli with a totally different sauce than was on the menu. Then called the waitress back and changed to the stew. When she finished, she turned to me. “Charlotte and I found a new antiques place in El Paseo a couple weeks ago.”

“Antiques,” I said, disgusted, “are the world’s biggest scam. First something is new. Pristine. Unsullied. Then it’s gently used. Crusty. Questionable. Then used. Old. Nasty. And finally, if nobody’s thrown it away, it becomes antique. Repulsive, rancid, swirling with layers of greasy body oil. And more expensive than when it was new.”

“It amazes me you can eat in a restaurant,” Emily said. “You know other people have used that fork.”

I paused midbite, trying not to think about it. Hundreds of mouths sliding wet tongues over the prongs. It was deeply off-putting—but fortunately, my fondness for all things new and unused was (mostly) limited to what I owned. Besides, I liked to eat. I put the forkful of salad in my mouth and smiled triumphantly at Emily. “See! Not crazy.”

“Good,” she said. “Prove it by picking up Charlotte’s gift at the antiques store.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“A lacquer box. She loved it when she saw it in the window.”

“Why can’t you get it?”

“Because I have a real job, Anne.” Emily thought I wasn’t living up to my potential, answering phones at a real estate company. She didn’t understand that that was my potential.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Academia. Nothing more real than that.”

“At least I enjoy what I’m doing,” she said.

“So do I. Putting people in real homes, with roofs and doors—things they can use. Not theories about how porn queens articulate their genitalia.” Emily had actually said that once, articulate her genitalia, on Crossfire or Politically Incorrect or somewhere. She hated to be teased about it. “Don’t tell me how important your work is compared to mine.”

“I didn’t say it was important. I said I enjoyed it.” She looked down at her plate. “At least I used to.”

I immediately felt awful for snapping at her. She’d been having a terrible time with her second book, struggling with it for years. “Problems with the book again?”

“No, it’s—well, it’s finished. The first draft.”

“But…” I prompted.

“But nothing.”

“What does Jamie think?”

“He says he likes it.” She dipped a hunk of bread in her stew. “My agent wants to shop it elsewhere.”

“You mean—elsewhere?”

“She says I should get a big-name publisher.”

“Instead of Jamie?”

She nodded.

It would kill Jamie. Emily was his lead author as well as his wife. The reason he’d been able to attract other good writers was because of Porn Is Film. And Emily relied on him more than she knew, and not only because he stayed in Santa Barbara with their son, Zach, while she commuted three days a week to UCLA.

“You can’t do that,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I know.”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. Not really. Remember when my first book came out? How excited I was? Everything seemed possible. I just want to feel that way again.”

I felt for Emily—and still wanted to stab her in the eye with my fork. She had a career she loved. She was famous enough to get mentioned on NPR—though, I’m pleased to say, not on SNL. She had Jamie, who doted on her, and Zach, who was a great kid. Yeah, she wasn’t a dangerous young mind anymore, but she had the perfect life. Well, Charlotte had the perfect life. But Emily’s was first runner-up.

Still, because I’m a good sister, I made sympathetic noises and kept my fork to myself. I even paid for lunch—treating Emily as a reward for finishing her book.

She gave me a quick hug outside the restaurant. “You won’t forget Charlotte’s gift? The place is called Tazza.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“Just buy it, Anne.”

“Okay, okay. But if I come down with medieval squirrel-pox, it’s your fault.”

“What are the symptoms?” Emily asked. “Irritability, lack of ambition, fear of commitment— Annie, you’ve already got a terminal case.”

After the EMTs arrived to remove my fork from Emily’s forehead, I rushed back to my job at Parsons Realty. I tried not to take long lunches, even though I’d been dating the owner, Rip Parsons, for six months. Knowing where the boss sleeps at night (the right side of the bed) is pretty good job security.

I’d been working there for eight months, and considered the longevity of both relationship and job fairly impressive. The longest I’d worked anywhere was at the dot-com, a little-used search engine called The Ask It Basket. A name even lamer than “Rip,” but the company had been started back in the days when all you had to say was, “It’s a company on the World Wide Web. Which is on the Internet. Which is a global network of computers,” and millions dropped into your lap.

I’d worked three years at The Ask It Basket. My job title was Coordinator of Technology, but my business card said Geek Wrangler. I basically translated requests from management into geek-speak and back again. If a manager asked: “Why are the coders three weeks behind deadline?” I’d ask the geeks: “Would you stop downloading porn and get to work?” Or if the coders said, “Seagate’s got a brand-new campus, with a video-game room and everything,” I’d tell my boss: “They want free Mountain Dew and fruit leather.”

Then I’d sold my stock. But you weren’t supposed to sell stock, you were supposed to spend hours online every day, watching it go up and up and up and up. Selling stock was a betrayal worse than corporate espionage or claiming that Bill Gates wasn’t actually Rosemary’s Baby. I became persona not-entirely grata, and quit shortly thereafter, clutching the meager proceeds of my stock sale close to my heart.

Then I spent a depressing year watching the stock go up and up and up and up.

Then down. Wheeeee!

Everyone had thought I was crazy to sell, but after the dotcom crash I felt like Warren Buffet’s love child with Suze Orman, despite having sold a year early and spending nearly everything. Still, Dad was so impressed he said I should become a stockbroker. Instead I convinced Wren to hire me at Element—the clothing boutique she managed. We’d been best friends since working together at Banana, so she sort of had to hire me. Sadly, I was so bad at selling clothes that she sort of had to fire me three months later. But at least she wept while giving me the pink slip, so I forgave her.

After Wren fired me, I starting doing temp work—which I loved. Every job was a new job. I worked for an interior designer, the community college, a sheet music business, and World of Goods, a nonprofit. A local title company hired me permanently, and I stayed six months before I realized I’d paper-cut my throat if I had to type one more set of title instructions.

Right on cue, Rip Parsons had wandered into the office. A little flirting, an extra-long lunch, and I had a new job. He wanted an assistant, but I insisted on “office manager,” because it sounded almost reputable. Plus, I figured it was a good way to explore the possibility of becoming a Realtor (who basically mints money in Santa Barbara) without actually taking the courses and test.

A couple months later—a little more flirting, a few dinners added to the lunches—and I had a boyfriend. Rip had short brown hair and green eyes and I liked his arms, muscular from tennis, with the hair bleached blond from the sun. He looked faintly like Peter Gallagher, and on paper seemed like a jerk—a too-handsome young Realtor, a smarmy salesman. But he was lovely, super kind and always caring.

So, sure, I was twenty-nine and working behind the front desk of a real estate company—my career peak apparently long past—but at least I had a wonderful boyfriend.

Actually, getting boyfriends had never been a problem for me. I have a system. Wanting them after a few months was tougher.

There was Matthew. I broke up with him when he said, “Because I’m Matthew, that’s why,” once too often. There was Billy from Banana. My “dumping” him at Emily’s party had somehow ignited his interest, but I dumped him for real after he admitted he fantasized about Charlotte when we had sex. I didn’t mind him doing it, but couldn’t forgive him admitting it. Then Doug, the creative genius behind The Ask It Basket. I broke up with him when he started a porn-only search engine, called The Beaver Basket. There had been Mason, the public defender who was great fun when drunk, incredibly tedious when sober. Nick, the portrait artist with the trust fund who I had to leave because he wore Mary Janes. Arthur, the world’s sexiest plumber who liked laying pipe a bit too much. Alex, the wannabe screenwriter who asked me to give him “notes” about his lovemaking.

And Rip. Who had just buzzed me from his office. I hated that buzzer—sounded like I’d said the wrong thing on Family Feud—and had warned Rip not to touch it. Now he only buzzed to annoy me.

I opened the door to his office. “What?”

He grinned.

“I’m on a deadline, Rip. The ads are due.”

“Guess who just sold Knox Tower.”

I looked at him. “No!”

“Yes!”

“Oh, my God! That’s fantastic. Who? When?”

The Knox Tower wasn’t a tower. It was an old lodge in the Santa Barbara mountains, with 360-degree views of the valleys below and the distant crystal blue of Lake Cachuma. A rich socialite of the Great Gatsby type—though named Knox, I presume—had hosted lavish parties there until it burned down into ruins, many decades ago. It was never rebuilt, and the land and rubble had been on the market since. For millions.

“Just now,” Rip said. “That was the buyer on the phone.”

“Who is he?”

“Super rich L.A. contractor. CEO of Keebler, Inc.”

“Keebler? Like the elves?”

“If you meet him,” Rip said, “that’s the first thing you shouldn’t ask. Anyway, he’s big into low-impact, green construction. Fell in love with the place.”

“I thought you couldn’t build up there.”

“Green construction, Annie. He’s gonna put up tents. Or yurts or something, a cistern, solar energy, the whole deal.”

I shook my head. “Will it actually close?”

“I spoke to the lender. It’s a go.” A gleam came into his eyes. “I’m thinking I deserve a reward.”

“Oh, is that what you think?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He put his hands on my hips and pulled me close. “That was a good movie last night.”

We’d watched Secretary on video. “You want me to play your secretary?”

“You are my secretary.”

I nipped his ear. “Office manager.”

“Even better.” He nuzzled me. “Besides, you told me you liked spanking.”

“When? I never!”

“You’re always begging for it.”

I started to giggle. “I am not.”

“I can’t get into bed without you shouting, ‘Smack me, baby.’”

“I have never in my life said, ‘Smack me, baby.’”

“And ‘tan my naughty ass!’”

I shoved him, laughing. “‘Tan my naughty ass?’”

“See! There you go again!” He ran his palms down my hips, took both my hands in one of his and rubbed my bottom with the other. “Just one?”

I bit my lip. “Okay. One.”

He gave my ass a wallop and his eyes lit up—meaning he was ready for business.

“Later,” I said. Because we’d agreed: never in the office. But I could still tease. I kissed his neck and wriggled as he ran his hands over me.

“You’ll play secretary tonight?” he asked, a bit breathlessly.

“Office manager.”

“Office manager it is,” he said, and spanked me again.

Rip was out all afternoon, so I had time to finish the ads before they were due. It was a near thing though, and I was halfway home before I realized I hadn’t stopped at Tazza Antiques. I wasn’t exactly bothered—if I forgot to buy the desiccated old pot, maybe Emily would agree to get something else. Something better. Like a magazine subscription.

I picked up my dog, Ny—a ridiculously red chow mix—and took him to the beach before going to my dad’s house. I stopped at Dad’s two or three times a week, to check in and mooch dinner. Actually, checking and mooching were one and the same. Because if he knew I was coming, he’d buy food. Otherwise, he’d eat cold cereal three times a day. He was a bit of an absentminded professor.

Ny romped with his dog buddies and chased seabirds through the waves until he was exhausted. I toweled him dry and helped him scramble into the cab of the pickup—he was getting chubby and needed an extra boost.

My truck was a silver Ford Ranger pickup, the Splash model with chrome wheels. I’d bought it with my Ask It Basket money—the only new vehicle I’d ever owned. If I closed my eyes and sniffed deeply, I could still smell the new-car perfume. Plus, it was half of the patented Anne Olsen System for Being Semi-Successful with Men. Step One: don’t care about long-term relationships. Men love this. They swarm. Step Two: drive a pickup. Women driving pickups are to men what men driving Armani suits are to women. Don’t ask me why.

Dad lived in the same old Victorian on the upper east side where I’d grown up. It was a mixed neighborhood, filled with old houses like my dad’s that locals had owned for thirty years, and the updated versions that wealthy L.A. people had recently bought and renovated.

Dad glanced up from his newspaper when I let myself in. “What’s hanging?”

“‘What’s hanging?’” I let Ny track his sandy paws inside and closed the door. “Where’d you hear that?”

“I like to keep up with you young people,” he said.

“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t feel so young anymore.”

“Of course.” He shook his newspaper derisively. “You’re bent with age at twenty-six.”

“Nine,” I said. “Twenty-nine.”

“Really?” he said. “That is old.”

“What?”

He laughed. You’d think after twenty-nine years, I’d know when he was teasing.

“Still gullible as a teenager,” he said. “Have you eaten?”

“Of course not.” I headed for the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

“Stuffed pork chops. You’re staying?”

“I am for pork chops.”

He followed me into the kitchen and checked the oven. Two pork chops and two potatoes were already baking.

“Why two?” I asked. “Am I stealing one of yours?”

“No,” he said, “I was making leftovers for tomorrow.”

I glanced upstairs. “You haven’t got a woman hiding in your bedroom, waiting for me to leave?”

“Of course not,” he said. “She’s in the bathroom.”

“Oh! Sorry! I should’ve called—” I saw his expression. “Ha-ha. Very funny.” I opened the fridge and grabbed a soda. “But the way you play the field, I keep expecting to hear you eloped.”

He shook his head. “Three girls is enough.”

“Why haven’t you remarried?” I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea, but my dad wasn’t really meant to live alone. “It’s been almost twenty years.”

“You’re one to talk, with all your boyfriends.” He grabbed lettuce and carrots for a salad. “You’re a female Lothario.”

“I am not.”

“You’re Lotharia.”

“I’m not Lotharia.”

“You break up with every man you date. I can’t imagine Rip’ll last much longer, poor guy.”

“You like him?” Every time Rip met my father, he tried to sell him a new house.

“The question is, do you?”

“He’s funny and smart and wonderful—what’s not to like?”

“You’re not getting VD?” Dad asked.

No, he didn’t mean VD VD. He meant Vague Dissatisfaction. I’d stupidly confessed to him once that I had an acute case of Vague Dissatisfaction. Nothing in particular was wrong, but nothing felt right. It was why I never stuck with things very long. Dad considered it a low-level social disease, which would flare up periodically into unsightly outbreaks: VD. Dad thought he was pretty funny.

I glared. “Everything’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then give me an onion.”

I gave him an onion, and we let the subject drop. He told university stories over dinner, and when we’d finished, he offered me Oreos for dessert.

“Is it a new package?” I asked.

“Anne, you’ve got to stop this.”

“My diet starts tomorrow.”

“You know what I mean. Your obsession with newness.”

Easy for him to say. With two older sisters, hand-me-downs had been the primary fact of my young life.

Charlotte had a Malibu Barbie with a full wardrobe. Emily had a slightly used Malibu Barbie with two outfits. I had a one-armed, bald Barbie who enjoyed nudist colonies.

Charlotte wore Jordache when it was popular. Emily wore Jordache when it was passable. I wore Jordache when it was passé.

Charlotte learned to drive on a six-year-old VW Rabbit. Emily learned on a seven-year-old VW Rabbit. I learned on a twelve-year-old, rusted-out junker with suspicious stains on the seats and the faint odor of Gruyère.

But all I said to Dad was, “I don’t like stale Oreos is all.”

He lifted his pipe from the ashtray on the kitchen table and packed it with tobacco. “They’re fresh from the factory.”

“Where are they?” I asked, heading toward the pantry.

“Bottom shelf.”

I pulled the half-eaten package from the shelf and forced myself to take one. From the back. The very back. “Not bad.”

Dad looked pleased as he lit up his pipe, and I surreptitiously pulled a brand-new carton of milk from the fridge—ignoring the one which was already open—and poured myself a glass. I’d let him discover that little treat tomorrow.

When I got home, I found a message from Rip. The nights we weren’t together we usually talked before sleep, and lately we’d been discussing moving in together. I’d lived with other men—Doug and Alex, for about twenty minutes each—but always returned to Charlotte’s guest house when things went awry. I wasn’t sure if living with Rip was a good idea. We already worked in the same office, and spending more time together seemed a great way to kill a nice relationship.

I picked up the phone to call him back, but didn’t feel like talking. I was itchy and restless. I switched on the TV. I’d see Rip at work tomorrow.

CHAPTER 05

By ten-thirty the next morning, I knew that Dad’s words had ruined me. I’d been perfectly content and happy—or at least acceptably content and happy—until he’d mentioned my VD. Now I was in the grips of an enormous amorphous ennui.

The job was fine. Rip was great. I didn’t care.

I sulked through the morning, and slipped out for an early liquid lunch. I sipped my peanut-butter-banana-chocolate smoothie and worried. Was I Lotharia? It wasn’t like I cut a huge swath through the male population. I just hadn’t found the right man, and couldn’t quite bring myself to care. Could Rip be the one? Well, his name was Rip, but that’s no worse than Ralph as in Fiennes, even if it is pronounced Rafe.

At least Rip was pronounced Rip. And his personality was as solid as his elocution. Perfect husband material…if only I were looking for a husband. I wasn’t. It’s far easier to have a relationship when you aren’t. The pressure cooker is off. I’ve watched friends with their cookers clamped down tight, the steamer diddly whirling round and round. Every date, every conversation and sexual experience, every misunderstanding, deviant desire, ambition, frustration and inadequacy is added to the pot until the whole thing blows.

I prefer the omelet approach to relationships. You use what few ingredients you have at hand, scramble them in a hot pan, and enjoy. Quick and simple.

Then why was I feeling such discontent?

Back in the office, I did what I always did when side-swiped by dissatisfaction: a little personal research. I’d collected a file of real estate deals I was interested in—my Recent Developments file. From big money resorts to condo conversions to commercial buildings, all the deals I was sure would make me rich, if I actually pursued them. Well, and could afford them. And knew how to be a developer and all.

My file of dreams. I flipped through it, and decided to call about The Hole, one of my recurring dream deals. A block off downtown Santa Barbara, there used to be a residential hotel for old people. But it was on prime real estate, and the old people were considered well past their prime, so some developer kicked everyone out and tore the place down, with assurances that they’d find the seniors new homes and bring prosperity and joy to downtown. Five years later, all they’d brought was The Hole—the great gaping basement of the hotel they’d demolished.

Well, I had some plans for that gaping basement. I dialed.

“I’m calling about the property on the corner of Carrillo and Chapala,” I told the man on the other end. “I’m representing—”

“You’re not representing anyone,” he said. “I recognize your voice.”

So maybe I’d called once too often. But thank God he didn’t know who I was. I’d never given a name.

“Well, if you’d just fax me the information—” I said.

“Are you a broker?”

“Not exactly.”

“You still think it’d be a great place for an indoor driving range?”

“I never said that!” I said. “That was just my way of getting you to talk to me.”

“And this is just my way of talking.” He hung up.

I growled into the phone and flipped through the Recent Developments. Nothing else caught my eye. Maybe it wasn’t a deal I needed. Maybe it was a new job. Rip walked in as I was glowering at the wall. He looked at my face, looked at the Recent Developments file open on my desk, and slipped into his office, closing his door for protection against the gathering clouds.

I guess I really am like Emily sometimes. But sometimes I’m like Charlotte, too. And I wasn’t going to let myself ruin everything. So I opened the door softly and gave him a smile. It was the job I was VDed with, not the man.

He eyed me suspiciously. “What?”

“I was just thinking how much I like your arms.”

“You want your desk moved again? It’s not getting the afternoon sun?”

“My desk is perfect. So is my boss.”

His suspicion grew into wariness. “How did your call go?”

“I’m this close to closing a big downtown deal.”

“Hung up on you again, huh?”

“Yeah. But I’ve got a plan.”

“Let me guess. It involves taking two-hour lunches?”

I waved an airy hand. “Oh, that—my boss is a pushover.”

“That’s not what I heard. I heard he wants to take it out of your hide.”

“He has to catch me first.”

Wren and I had a standing date Wednesday nights. We’d walk Ny at Hendry’s beach, then head up to the Mesa for a burrito before class. I considered stopping at the antiques store before meeting her, but I wasn’t going to be late to pick up some crusty old chamberpot.

“I’m thinking of quitting.” I put the tray of food on our table outside the burrito place: veggie tacos for me, chicken burrito for Wren, and cheese quesadilla for Ny. “Salsa?”

Wren gave me a look as she unwrapped her burrito. “Why?”

“For spice,” I said, tossing Ny’s quesadilla to the ground. He engulfed it.

She gave me another look. “I mean, why quit?”

“Yeah, I know. For spice.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I dunno…I just think it’s time.”

“What would you do instead?”

“You know I never have trouble getting a job.”

“Just keeping one.”

“I’d still be working at Element, if you hadn’t fired me.”

“If I hadn’t fired you,” she said, biting into her burrito. “There wouldn’t be an Element anymore.”

I made a face at her. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were worse. You haven’t broken up with Rip, have you?”

“No.”

“Not yet,” she said.

“You sound like my dad.”

“I like your father.”

“Yeah, a little too much. You want to get it on with my dad, don’t you?”

“I’m serious. Rip is great. You don’t deserve him.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Give him a chance, Anne. I know you’re approaching the sell-by date, but—”

“I’m not,” I insisted. “That’s why I want a new job. To preserve the relationship.”

“I thought you got along great at work.”

“Well, aside from the buzzer.” I toyed with my taco, before pushing it away. “God, Wren, I’m just so…bored. With me, with my job. Everything.”

“Here.” She dumped salsa verde on my taco. “A little more spice.”

For some reason, this made me feel better. Maybe because she seemed to be agreeing with me, even if it was only about the taco. We finished our meals and Wren sat back in her chair, replete from her burrito. “Now all I need is a naked woman and fifty pounds of warm mud, and I’ll be good.”

Twenty minutes later, she got more than she asked for. We were in the main room, the drapes pulled tight over the windows, with spotlights on a beautiful naked man, and Wren was up to her elbows in clay. She rolled her sculpture stand closer to mine and dug a big hunk from a bag of terra-cotta.

We’d been attending the Adult Ed clay sculpture class for the past three years. Originally, we’d started because Wren thought it would be a good place to meet sensitive men, and I thought I’d like mucking around with mud. She’d never found a sensitive man—or an insensitive one, for that matter—but we kept coming.

Our patience had finally been rewarded. In three years, we’d only had a handful of male models, and none of them had looked like Mr. Nude America here. There were a dozen students in the class, held at the Schott Center on the upper west side. The sessions usually started with around twenty-five students, but it was fairly late in the season, and we’d dwindled down to the regulars.

I glanced briefly at the model, clinically observing his broad shoulders and washboard stomach, and when I looked away I noticed that Wren had already roughed out his torso. In clay, that is.

“That was fast,” I said.

She glanced at the clock. “You’ve been staring at the poor guy for twenty minutes.”

“I was examining the subject.”

“And drooling.”

“I’m an artist, Wren. He might as well be a bowl of fruit.”

She sighed. “It is a pity.”

“What is?”

“That he’s gay.”

I glanced at the model again. “He’s straight as a yardstick, Grasshopper,” I said. Because Wren was a novice when it came to men.

“With that body?”

“From tip to toe.”

Wren just shook her head sadly, so I sliced off a hunk of clay with my wire tool and started pushing it around. Making his feet. I thought I’d start low and move up. Let the anticipation build.

I was on his ankles when Claire, our teacher, drifted behind us.

“Excellent work, Wren,” she said. “You might want to caliper his chest, though. It looks a bit off scale. Remember there’s a rib cage under there.”

We had big metal calipers to measure distances on the models and then convert them into 1/3 scale. But to measure you had to approach within nibbling distance, in the middle of the room, and share the spotlight with the gloriously defined and shamelessly undraped model. Wren was usually extremely businesslike about measuring models. This time, however…

She blushed. “Oh, I see—you’re right.” She fiddled with her clay. “I think I can eye it, though….”

Claire nodded and checked my work. “Feet,” she said.

“I’m afraid to look any higher,” I told her.

She didn’t smile. She was very professional about the models. “At least give his feet arches, then. And his toes should not look like sausages.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Well—” I grabbed the calipers. “Only one way to fix that.”

I strode into the limelight, offering up the calipers at the altar of this sex god. I measured the distance between his feet, the distance from heel to toe. I leaned forward a bit and smiled up at him. “Bored yet?”

He smiled down. “It’s not as bad as my day job.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m a librarian.”

“Get out of town.” I leaned forward a bit more. “At the university?”

“No, the law school. It’s not the boredom that bothers me, so much as the larval lawyers.”

I laughed brightly and scurried back to Wren. I whispered: “Gay.”

“What?”

“He didn’t look at my cleavage.”

“Well, it would’ve been pretty obvious if he had.”

“He’s got every right to look—it’s not like he’s hiding anything. But there wasn’t even an eye-drift.”

“Maybe he likes the flat-chested type,” she said, meaning herself.

“Yeah. Men. He’s totally gay.”

She shook her head. “Now, I’m not sure.”

“Wren, I’m telling you, not even a flicker.”

“Maybe he’s not gay,” she said. “Maybe he just has good taste.”

I made a face at her. “And a really fine pack—”

“Break time!” Claire called.

We squirted our sculptures with water, covered them in plastic to keep them moist, and headed outside. Ny was sitting contentedly in the back of the pickup. He loved break time, because a couple of the regulars always brought him treats.

“Hey, fatboy,” I said, scratching his head.

He gave me a little love, then wagged hopefully as he was plied with cookies. When the snack-vending students left, Wren and I sat on the open tailgate and drank our waters.

“Ugg boots,” I said. “I don’t care that the stars are wearing them.”

“Sleeve ruffles on men,” Wren said.

“Unless they’re on a mariachi outfit.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear your mariachi fantasy again.”

“I just liked the movie is all. How about black jeans after 1992?”

“Forget ’92. Black jeans anytime after the Michael Penn song.”

“What if I were Ro-me-o in black jeans?” we sang.

“Snap-on ties,” I said.

“Too easy. Denim shorts.”

I shuddered. “Denim shorts.”

A male voice said, “Nice dog. Boy or girl?”

It was the male model, wearing a robe and flip-flops. I looked at his face for the first time. Boyishly handsome, with a lopsided smile. If I didn’t have Rip, I’d have tossed my hair and got down to business. The thought made me turn cold, as I realized: Wren was going to flirt.

“A boy. He’s a chow chow mutt,” I said, before she could say anything. “Mixed with I don’t know what. Chows have a bad reputation, but he’s totally friendly.”

“Hey there, boy.” The model put his hand out, and Ny perked up.

“He’s hoping for a treat,” I said. “He’s a bit spoiled—”

“I’m Wren!” She hopped off the truck and giggled nervously, looking up at him. “You’re tall. What’s your name?”

Oh, God.

“Kevin,” he said, and offered his hand.

She took it in a sort of death grip. “Hi! Glad to meet you. I saw you in class.”

“Yes, well—I’m the model,” he said, and looked toward me.

“I’m Anne. Wren and I were just saying how nice it is to have a male model.”

“We haven’t had a man in a long time,” Wren said, tilting her head. “I mean, not a man! A model. A male model. Not that a model’s not a man. I mean—”

Wren had just cut her hair. It was short and pixielike, bringing out the brightness of her eyes, the daintiness of her features, and the dippiness of her flirting. Still, her smile was sweet and inviting, even after I slid off the tailgate and stomped on her foot to shut her up.

“Have you done a lot of modeling?” I asked.

“No, this is my first time. Claire’s a friend, she asked as a favor?”

“That’s asking a lot from a friend,” I said. “How long will you model for?”

“A month. Then we’ll see. I hear the drawing class wants a male model. I guess it’s mostly women.”

“Actually, it’s mostly men who take figure drawing,” Wren blurted.

“He meant the models, Wren.”

“Oh, right! I did drawing for a while, but I like clay better. You shouldn’t be embarrassed, though. You’re a model. So your clothes are off. So you’re nude. Buck naked.” She offered a tinkly little laugh that ended in a snort. “Undraped, I mean. Not that I—I mean, you might as well be a fruit.”

“Bowl of fruit,” I said, grinding into her foot. “Wren loves doing still life.”

“I’ll try to remain motionless, then.”

“Oh, no!” Wren said, clutching his arm. “Move around all you want. Well, not all you want. I mean—no dancing. Unless you like dancing. But I mean—”

“Was that Claire?” I asked, glancing toward the classroom.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Kevin said.

Wren giggled horribly. “Neither did I.”

“And I do like dancing,” he told her.

“Me, too! Anne and I took ballroom dancing for a while—she dropped out, though, because she kept forgetting to let the man lead.”

“And you?”

She simpered. “I never forgot.”

“Wren—” I started. And, seeing her expression, words failed me. A full-throttle simper is not an expression which encourages conversation.

“Wren?” he said, smiling. “As in Ren and Stimpy?”

“Wren with a ‘W,’” she said. “Like the bird. The drab, brown bird.”

“But you’re not drab.”

Fortunately, before Wren gave herself a hernia from simpering, we were called back into the classroom.

“Not gay!” I said.

“Gay,” she said.

“He was flirting with you.”

“Pity flirting. He couldn’t believe what a dork I am. Why did you let me talk to him? I snorted. Did you hear me snort? I snorted. Like Miss Piggy.”

“And Kevin’s your Kermit.”

“Gay,” she said.

“Not gay. He likes you.”

“He doesn’t. He couldn’t.”

“He thinks you’re cute. Not drab, not brown, but cute.”

“He’s gay,” she hissed.

So I accidentally spilled the contents of my water bottle onto her white shirt. And you know what? I was right. He wasn’t gay.

CHAPTER 06

I woke with a splash from a dream of falling and wrestled with the blanket. We were evenly matched, but I finally prevailed and shoved it away. I lay back, flush with triumph, and for a moment thought I was still asleep and the sound of running water was leftover dream.

Then I realized: Rip was in the shower.

I groaned, wishing Rip hadn’t spent the night. He’s unforgivably perky in the morning. Whatever happened to strong, silent men who grunt over the paper? Plus, he always woke up looking like the same guy he was the night before. I woke up looking tangled, puffy and ten years older.

And to top it off, there was only enough hot water for one shower. Judging from the steam billowing through the bathroom door, I was in for a cold shock.

I stumbled out of bed and parted the curtains. Another day in paradise—warm and clear, with a light breeze that floated in and kissed me good morning. It made me crankier. Weather should match your mood. This morning, for instance, should be dark and gloomy.

“Morning!” Rip called.

I turned, and he was in the bathroom doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was wet and mussed, his skin wet and glowing. He didn’t just look like the same guy this morning, he looked better.

“Muh,” I said.

He smiled. “Coffee’s going.”

“Guh,” I said, meaning good. I’d take a man who made coffee over strong-and-silent any day. Still, I stayed by the window. If I was properly backlit, he wouldn’t notice my sleep-puffed face.

“Six months,” he said. “I know what you look like in the morning.”

I finally managed to croak out a real word. “Godzilla.”

“More like Cameron.”

“Cameron?” As in Diaz? Maybe not entirely true, but if that’s how he wanted to see me—

“No. Gamera. Remember the Godzilla movie? Gamera’s the big puffy turtle he fights.”

Forget the lighting, I shot across the room and ripped his towel from him. He raced, laughing, to the safety of the bed before I could whip him with it. I fell in next to him and started smacking his bare skin. He caught my hands and kissed me. “You’re beautiful in the morning.”

I stopped struggling and pressed my face against his chest. My mood was beginning to match the sunshine.

He absently ran his fingers along my back. “What time is Charlotte’s thing tonight?”

Charlotte’s birthday party. Dark clouds gathered—I didn’t want to talk about it. “You used all the hot water.”

“Uh-huh. What time is it?”

I checked the clock. “Almost seven.”

“I mean Charlotte’s party,” he said.

I stood and shrugged into my robe. “Six or something. I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Anne.” He grabbed me by the sash. “What’s wrong?”

“You sleep over, and you—you use all the hot water, and there’s none left for me and I’m—what am I supposed to do? You never think. What about me? I’m stuck with a cold shower, that’s what.”

He mumbled something that sounded like, “You need a cold shower.”

“Oh, I’m not the one who needs a cold shower!” I tightened my robe in a meaningful manner.

Rip pulled his boxers and pants on. He reached for his shirt and I considered slamming the bathroom door, but decided against it. I put my head on his shoulder instead.

“I hate Charlotte’s birthday,” I sniffled.

“We don’t have to go,” he said.

Of course we did. “So now you don’t want to go?”

“Baby…”

“It’s just—she’s all perfect, and her kids are perfect and her husband’s perfect and her life is perfect, and everyone loves her.”

“And nobody loves you,” he said, straight-faced.

“They don’t. Not like—”

I realized where this conversation was going and sobered fast, suddenly terrified he’d think I wanted him to say he loved me. We’d never said “I love you,” and I saw no reason to start now. Especially not if he thought this was a desperate bid for commitment, when it was clearly just a desperate bid for attention.

“I mean she’s, um, loved by one and all,” I said, flailing around for dry ground and sinking deeper. “And I, on the other hand, am, um…”

“Anne,” he said. “I—”

Was he going to say it? I willed him to say anything else: to tell me he was secretly married, or a post-operative transsexual, or moving to Arkansas. I tilted my head back to reveal the full horror of my morning face. No man could say “I love you” to that face.

He must’ve seen the naked terror in my eyes, because he smoothed my hair with his hand instead of finishing the sentence.

“I still haven’t got Charlotte a gift,” I blurted, to change the subject.

He smiled to tell me he knew what I was doing, but didn’t mind. “Take the morning off to shop.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“But that’s favoritism,” I said.

“So? You’re my favorite.”

Couldn’t argue with that. “Are we talking a paid morning off?”

He managed to sigh and smile at the same time. “Just be in before noon.”

“Don’t worry. Everything’s all caught up.”

“No more personal calls?”

“That was serious business,” I said, with dignity. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I get the retirement village built.”

“Uh-huh.” He grabbed his wallet and extracted two twenties. “Speaking of business…”

“Forty bucks?” I shrugged out of my bathrobe and pressed my naked self against him. “You know I’ve raised my prices.”

“That’s not all you’ve raised, Polliwog.” He called me that sometimes—his special love name for me, for reasons I refuse to divulge. He nuzzled my neck and put the money on my dresser. “Let me buy a gift with you. You know what Charlotte likes.”

I decided not to tell him I was already splitting a gift with Emily and that going three ways wouldn’t work, Emily being Emily. “I know what she likes,” I said. “And she has all of it.”

“Yeah?” he said, touching me. “Well, I wouldn’t mind a little something, myself.”

Rip left for work thirty minutes later, leaving me drowsing in post-coital contentment. I lay there a while, then went to open the kitchen door and release Ny. He followed me back to the bedroom, his claws clicking across the wood floor. I collapsed into bed and he eyed me dolefully.

“Don’t blame me,” I told him.

He stares when I have sex, intent and focused as a canine Kasparov trying to outthink Big Blue. I don’t mind—he’s just a dog, for God’s sake—but men seem to find it unnerving. I think they think he’s judging. Of course, Ny’s hardly in a position to judge, as the only action he gets is with the has-sock in Charlotte’s family room, but I still lock him in the kitchen when things heat up.

“It’s your own fault,” I said. “Pervert.”

He hopped onto the bed and licked my face.

The day was still bright and warm, and the next time I got out of bed, I smiled. No reason to live in paradise and not enjoy it. I had the morning off and plenty of time to walk Ny before shopping for Charlotte—for both the gifts I was splitting.

I showered and dressed and gulped two stale cups of the coffee Rip had brewed. He’d put the dinner dishes away, too, and probably would’ve made my bed if I hadn’t still been in it. He’s sort of terrific. But six months was scary—had it really been six months? We were closing in on my record.

“I dunno, fatboy,” I told Ny. “Maybe me and Rip are meant for each other. What do you say?”

Ny eyed me for a long moment, then farted. He craned his neck around, peering dubiously towards his tail, like, what was that?

“That was you,” I said. “Thanks for your input.”

We got in the truck and drove through the upper village in Montecito. We passed the Pharmacy, and I considered stopping for some scrambled eggs—it’s not just a pharmacy, it’s also a celebrity-magnet coffee shop. The story goes that one morning Michael Keaton looked up from his paper at the corner table, and caught Dennis Miller’s eye—he was at the counter—and the bell at the door jangled and in walks Michael Douglas. They all looked at each other and started laughing. They were the only three people in the store.

But if that’s true, who told the story? If celebrities meet in a forest, do they make a sound? Plus, there must’ve been someone working behind the counter. I guess he doesn’t count. Nothing like celebrity to render the non-famous invisible.

Ask me, I know.

So I didn’t stop. I drove up to Cypress Road and parked by the wooden fence. Beyond the fence, there’s a patch of woods and hill known only to dog-walkers, set behind and above the houses. It’s an unofficial off-leash trail, a one-mile loop. At the top there’s a view of the ocean, and although it’s a bit of a climb, the property is stunning. It would be a phenomenal place to build a house—or a whole neighborhood—and I figured the only reason it hadn’t been developed was because it was the forgotten edge of someone’s sprawling estate, or county land of some sort.

I opened the door and Ny leapt from the truck and anointed the wooden fence and the manzanita tree beyond. There was a rocky gully to the right, with olive-green live oaks, a few blooming yucca, and a halfhearted blanket of magenta ice plant.

Ny startled a scrub jay, and barked happily as it flew away. An answering bark sounded from up the trail, and he cocked his head for a moment before bolting out of sight.

I followed the path around the hill and saw him playing with a yellow Lab named Tag. I knew the dog—and her owner. But I didn’t know Tag’s owner’s name, even though we met at least once a week and knew intimate details of each other’s dog’s lives. He was a middle-aged man with a long, patrician face who always seemed slightly surprised.

“Mornin’,” I said.

He glanced at the sky. “Beautiful day.”

“Sure is.”

We watched the dogs play for a minute. “Did you see the sign?” he asked.

“What sign?”

“Down at the bottom. For Sale. They’re selling the land.”

“This? Here? They can’t be!”

“Already on the market.” He seemed to take gloomy satisfaction in the bad news. “Lot for sale. Nine acres.”

“I didn’t even know it was private property.”

“A shame to see it go.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s what the sign said. Villa Real Estate.”

I knew the name—a Montecito-based company we hadn’t worked with much. They were a small office, just a broker and two agents, who mostly did commercial stuff.

I glowered. There weren’t many places in Santa Barbara for off-leash dogs. It was a pretty anti-dog town, which made me gnash my teeth. I mean, all the Santa Barbara dog owners I knew were religious about poop-scooping. There were even two guys who went around with extra bags to pick up strange dog-poop, which I believe in many countries is illegal.

“There’s always Butterfly Beach,” he said sadly.

“Not at high tide.”

Tag and her owner said goodbye, and Ny and I continued through the purple and white wildflowers lining the trail. The colors were often muted from dust, but it rained last night, leaving the world fresh and clean. At the top of the trail was a messy meadow with wild lavender and a riot of California poppies, and it was vibrant this morning. A hawk was circling above and bees were busily feeding, and Ny was adorable romping among the flowers and tall grass. I loved spring in Santa Barbara—way better than summer. I walked to the edge of a small overhang. The ocean sparkled in the distance, like it was winking at me.

Ny flopped at my feet, his spotted tongue hanging three feet from his mouth, like a cartoon wolf ogling a woman. I said, “Cool down, sailor,” and fed him some water and caught myself gibbering baby-talk at him. I glanced furtively toward the meadow, but I was alone. Thank God. Nothing’s more embarrassing than being overheard declaring your undying love to your dog. And was it normal that the only males to whom I’ve ever said “I love you” were my father and my dog?

Was it normal that I could neither commit to a man or a career?

I used to think I was missing the ambition gene, but actually it’s the success gene. Specifically the “fame and fortune at a young age” gene which my sisters got in such abundance. One famous for her beauty, the other for her brains. I wasn’t as beautiful as Charlotte or as clever as Emily—though I was prettier than Emily and smarter than Charlotte. So what was left for me—to be famous for my spirituality? Sports? My personality?

Great. My idea of spirituality is a chocolate éclair, my only sport is dog-walking, and my personality is composed of one part sibling rivalry and two parts vague dissatisfaction.

Ny barked and startled me from my self-indulgent gloominess. I was standing on a California mountain overlooking the ocean on a beautiful morning. I had a good man, a steady job and a loving family. It was time to stop whining about Charlotte and Emily.

Well, except I had to pick up Charlotte’s gifts and be back to work by noon. Maybe I’d stop whining tomorrow.

CHAPTER 07

Tazza Antiques, scourge of all things new and improved, was located in El Paseo, a slightly old-world marketplace downtown. Traditional Spanish architecture and winding adobe hallways led to quaint gift shops and jewelry stores. It was old-world meets tourist trap. There were a few good restaurants, though—the always-delicious Wine Cask, the cheesy-but-fun Mexican restaurant—and a couple gift stores worth the visit, plus a scattering of offices on the second floor. Natives rarely entered the place, but Emily and Charlotte had stopped at the Wine Cask to buy a few bottles of wine, and had window-shopped the antiques store as they passed.

Tazza was my worst nightmare. Well, actually a thrift store was my greatest horror. I’d spent a decade and a half trapped in “vintage clothing,” so the last thing I wanted was to see it displayed on a rack, advertised as if it were a good thing. Antiques were supposed to be better than Goodwill left-overs—valuable, chic, possibly elegant—but when you got right down to it, they were just thrift-store gunge from a previous era. Maybe there were no recent stains and fluids, but that’s about all you could say.

Still, I mustered my familial loyalty, took a deep breath, and pushed my way inside.

The shop was cool, with stone floors, pale peach walls and a wide wooden staircase leading to a loft. A bell over the door jingled pleasantly, and despite the invisible clouds of noxious old, the shop smelled clean, of lemon and lavender. There were flowers in a pretty blue-and-white vase on a rich mahogany hall table which I pretended was new and perfectly hygienic. There was a set of Asian-looking chairs and a glass-front cupboard with jugs and spoons and things, and a couple rugs on the floor that were fairly gorgeous—just so long as you didn’t start wondering how many generations of sweaty feet had tread upon them.

I stood awkwardly, afraid to venture too far into the sheer agedness of the place. “Hello?”

Movement in the loft. “Be with you in a second,” a man’s voice floated down. “Feel free to poke around.”

The last thing I wanted was to poke. But hovering in the doorway wasn’t polite, so I crept inside. I’d come straight from the walk with Ny, and was fairly repulsive and sweaty. I was wearing a gray T-shirt, black shorts, and last-gasp sneakers which were shedding mud from the wet trail onto the expensive aged rugs.

I was scuffing at the dirt, trying to conceal it among the ornate blue and gold pattern of one of the rugs, when the man cleared his throat on the stairs behind me.

I swiveled. My sweaty hair spun. My shoes flaked. I said, “Hi.”

He was familiar but I couldn’t place him. His hair was dirty-blond, his eyes dirty-blue—and they held a glint of mischief. He stood on the stairs, hand on the railing, looking self-confident and regal—the master of this ancient decrepit domain. He wore gray flannel trousers and a soft blue dress shirt, a thick cotton oxford that looked like it had been worn and washed into perfect comfort. He looked hot. I looked overripe. If I’d been between boyfriends, I would have felt self-conscious. Good thing I had Rip.

“See anything you like?” he asked, walking down the stairs toward me.

Oh, yeah. One thing I wouldn’t mind taking home. “I, um—my sister saw an old pot—I mean, an old box. A lacquer box—”

He smiled at my words, and I realized who he was. Ian.

Oh, my God. Not in my loose gray tee and baggy soccer shorts. I crammed my hair behind my ears in a desperate attempt to tidy myself, and toed the ground. Knocking more mud to the floor, of course.

“Anne Olsen!” he said. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in years.”

“Oh, um—years,” I said, thinking: don’t invite him anywhere, don’t invite him anywhere.

Ian hugged me, manfully unafraid of my pig-sweatiness. “You look great,” he said, fudging the facts.

“Oh, um,” I said. He smelled good, too.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Of course I do.” What I didn’t know—after all this time—was why he’d rejected me when I’d propositioned him eight years ago. I may not be Charlotte, but I’m not repulsive. And he was a man—he wasn’t supposed to have standards. Especially not so high that I didn’t meet them. “How are you?”

“You don’t,” he said. “You have no idea who I am.”

“I know exactly who you are.”

“What’s my name, then?”

He looked so pleased with my faulty memory that I couldn’t help saying, “Does it start with a D?”

“Sort of,” he said. “I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Oh, c’mon. How could I forget?” I smiled vaguely. “We had such…great times together.”

“Sure did,” he said, growing thoughtful. “Remember that time we went skinny-dipping at the reservoir?”

“When we what?”

“What a crazy summer that was.”

We had never gone skinny-dipping, and he knew it. I tilted my head and said, “How could I forget?”

He nodded, eyes twinkling dangerously. “We’d been downtown for Fiesta, dancing to one of the bands. Back when the lambada was big, remember?” He curled his hands around an imaginary dance partner and rocked his hips—his leg between her imaginary thighs, his hand on her imaginary waist. “Dancing until dark. Midnight in August, one of those hot, steamy nights…”

I steadied myself against a worm-eaten coatrack.

“That’s right,” he said. “The full moon and the clear sky. We were hanging out on the hood of my car, edge of the water, and you suddenly said, ‘That’s it! I’m going in.’”

Well, two can play that game. I smiled wistfully, as if remembering. “We were high on Tecate and churro sugar. All sweaty from dancing. The air was sticky and warm and I needed to cool down.”

“You took off your shirt….”

“I never! I mean, I never take my top off first. Bottoms up, for me. I took off my skirt, then my panties—”

His eyebrow twitched at panties. Men. “That’s right,” he said. “Bottoms up.”

“Then you started stripping down….” Because I refused to be the only imaginary naked person in the game.

“Top down,” he said. “Unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it on the hood. Then my jeans and underwear.”

“Boxer briefs,” I said, in a reverie. “You remember how I prefer boxer briefs.”

“The breeze picked up and we walked toward the water and—”

The bell jingled and a middle-aged woman with her teenage daughter entered. Ian and I sprang apart—I was surprised to discover that I didn’t need to straighten my clothes or search for an errant bra. I halfheartedly smoothed my T-shirt anyway and remembered I looked like shit. Hair in ponytail, no makeup, and soccer shorts. Is there anything designed to make a woman’s ass look bigger than a pair of soccer shorts? Yeah: an inner tube.

I resolved to keep my front to Ian. Not that I cared. And I mean, who has this kind of conversation with a relative stranger? I hadn’t seen the guy in eight years. I couldn’t even blame it on alcohol. Must be Wren’s influence, awkward flirting. Except it hadn’t felt awkward…

“Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with,” Ian said, looking at the customers but definitely talking to me.

The woman said she was looking for creamwear pitchers. Ian murmured something about Wedgwood Queen’s Ware, and escorted the woman to a rubbish heap in the corner. I didn’t tell the poor woman that there was a Macy’s down the block, if she was looking for a pitcher.

The teenage daughter and I rolled our eyes at each other, and I looked around for the lacquer pot Emily said Charlotte liked. There were a lot of pots. None were new. Beyond that, I had no idea.

I glanced at Ian. He’d grown. I mean, he wasn’t taller or anything, but he’d grown—he was a man. Nothing boyish about him, except for the glint in his eye. And his voice, talking about skinny-dipping. God, that was embarrassing. How could I have let this happen? With Ian! He was undoubtedly still in love with Charlotte, too. He was just…used goods. Definitely incestuous. Disgusting. I can’t believe I—Okay, calm down. It was only words. No fluids were exchanged.

Still. Can’t believe I had virtual fake memory sex with my sister’s ex-boyfriend.

Evidently the woman found what she was looking for, because Ian quickly rang up the sale and came back to me.

“Still don’t remember me?” he asked.

“You’re starting to ring a distant bell,” I said.

“I’ll give you a hint. You asked me to your school—”

“I know who you are, Ian! Last I heard, you’d moved to New York.”

“Small-town boy lost in the big city. And did you know—” he tried to look horrified “—they have no beach there?”

“Get out!”

“Yeah, and all their malls are inside. It’s no Santa Barbara, I’ll tell you that.”

“But it’s the place to be if you want to learn—” I waved a hand at the moldering goods he had on display “—all this?”

“Took a couple years, but I finally wandered into Sotheby’s training. What’ve you been up to? What has it been—six years?”

“Eight,” I said, then was sorry I’d let him know I’d been counting. “This and that.”

“Married?” he asked.

“Divorced.”

He eyed me. “Liar.”

“Well, I could’ve married. I had offers. How did you know?” He was probably still following Charlotte’s career, like a cyber-stalker or something. Probably knew her birthstone and exactly how many centimeters she dilated when she had her kids.

“You’re not the marrying type,” he said.

“I am too. I just never—”

“Met the right man?”

“Found the right dress. How about you?”

“I don’t wear dresses.”

“So not married?”

“Nope. I’m engaged, though.”

“Engaged? Now? Currently?”

He nodded. “All of the above.”

“You can’t be flirting like that when you’re engaged! Where is she? Who is she? What are you thinking? Skinny-dipping at the reservoir. You oughta be ashamed, flirting like that.”

He laughed. “It’s harmless. I dated your sister, so we’re like siblings.”

That stopped me. “Yuck.”

“Well, I wouldn’t flirt with my actual sister, Anne.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, Charlotte’s why I’m here. I’m supposed to buy some old pot for her birthday.”

“Some old pot?”

“Yeah, and if I don’t get it Emily will kill me.”

“So Emily hasn’t changed?”

“No, she’s mellowed. These days, she’d kill me painlessly.”

“We can’t have that. When’s Charlotte’s birthday? Wait, I should know this—must be this weekend.”

I nodded. He still knew her birthday. Pathetic.

“How is she?”

“Good. Three kids. Happily married.” I looked at him. “Very happily.”

“Mmm. Pity I missed her. She came into the store? My assistant must’ve been here—I’m surprised she didn’t mention seeing Charlotte Olsen.”

“Maybe she was wearing a scarf and sunglasses. It’s some kind of lacquer pot. Asian or something.”

“The Japanese Three Friends teapot?” He moved toward a display of Zen-looking kitchenware in a bright nook under the stairs. “The bamboo, pine, and plum design represents the Confucian virtue of integrity under—”

“No, no,” I said. “Not a teapot. No virtues. It’s a box, I think.”

“Oh! The lacquerware cosmetic box?” He moved the teapot aside. “An interesting piece. Made from bamboo which is coated with layers of lacquer—twenty-five, thirty layers. The lacquer’s a resin secreted by a plant at points of injuries—so they cut channels in the bark of the Rhus verniciflua, the sumac trees which…” He babbled on as he searched for the box—then suddenly stopped. “Oh, I forgot—it’s gone.”

“You sold it?!” I said. “I’m dead. I was supposed to come in two days ago.”

“It’s not sold. It’s on loan to a decorator. When do you need it?”

“Tonight.”

“Yikes. Well, I’ll give him a call. What time?”

“Dinner’s at six.” Charlotte insisted on an early dinner, for the kids. And I’d promised her I’d bathe the little monsters before the party. I didn’t have time to swing back here after work. “Do you think…it’s asking a lot, but could you drop it by Charlotte’s?”

“You want your antique delivered? Like it’s a pizza?”

“Think of it more as a house call—like a doctor.” It certainly wasn’t an invitation. I’d meet him, grab the gift, and disappear. This was a delivery only.

He shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“To resist?” I asked.

He made a noncommittal noise. “Okay, I’ll deliver it.”

“Thank you!” I said. “You saved my life.”

I paid the extortionate sum for the old relic, sight unseen. Gave Ian Charlotte’s address, pretending that I didn’t know he’d memorized it from his cyber-stalking, and thanked him profusely.

He told me he’d see me a little before six. “Oh, and don’t worry about the rug,” he said, eyeing the mud.

I glanced down. “I won’t.”

CHAPTER 08

I jogged muddily uptown a few blocks to Element and I slipped into Wren’s office before the sleek and nonsweaty salesgirls could bar the door. Wren hit Enter a few times, pretending she hadn’t been playing solitaire, and looked up at me. “You’re a walking Fashion Don’t.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you’re a—” She was impeccable. Wearing a deep V-neck black cashmere sweater, knee-length black skirt, a jade necklace and red heels. “You’re a—okay, I’m a disaster. I need a new everything.”

“Why?”

Because I just had false-memory sex with a man who thinks this is what I look like. “Charlotte’s birthday’s tonight.”

“I thought it was just family.”

“It is, mostly.”

“Then why…?”

“You remember Ian?”

“With the overbite?” she asked.

“That’s Liam, and it wasn’t an overbite. It was a gap. A chasm. He could whistle with his mouth closed. Anyone would’ve broken up with him. That wasn’t my fault. If you’re going to—”

“Oh, that Ian. Who you asked to give you a little ba-da-boom at Emily’s book party.”

“Yeah. Him.”

“God, you were so in love.”

“I wasn’t—”

“He’s back in town? Are you gonna ask him again?” In an atrocious English accent, she said, “Fancy a shag, Ian? I may be an old slapper, but—”

“I never asked him—I never used the word ‘shag,’ thank you very much.”

Still Dickensian, she said, “Please, sir, may I have another?”

“Would you stop it?”

She giggled. “Well, you did ask if he wanted to get laid, right?”

“Lei-ed! Like a lei, a Hawaiian—” I said, and Wren snorted. “Hey, at least I do get laid. Don’t make me talk about naked Kevin.”

That sobered her right up. “I still can’t believe you did that.” She meant squirt her with water.

“Has he called yet?”

“If I get pneumonia, it’s your fault.”

“He’ll call,” I reassured her. “You’ll see him Wednesday, anyway. Wet T-shirt night.”

“This, from the girl who wants to use my discount?”

But Wren never could resist dressing me up. I wanted the green Ana Sui dress with red chrysanthemums—because it had the same color combination as Wren’s necklace and shoes—but she insisted on more practical items. Although she did encourage me to splurge on a gorgeous pair of Blumarine shoes guaranteed to make my legs look like Nicole Kidman’s, and my feet feel like victims of Chinese foot-binding.

Still. When we finished shopping, I looked positively almost kinda Charlotte-esque. If you squinted.

Barely made it to work by one o’clock, wearing one of my new outfits. I’d bought three, but only spent $700, which sounds like a lot—sounds like more than my weekly after-tax pay, actually—but is in fact a bargain, as I got maybe $1000 worth of clothes. I could return one or two items, but these were the kind of prices—I mean, pieces—that made me look both curvy and skinny. I was definitely ten pounds lighter than I’d been in the soccer shorts. Maybe fifteen.

“Morning, Polliwog,” Rip said when I knocked on his open door. “Or should I say afternoon? Hey, you know where I can find the Wilkenson file?”

I posed in the doorway instead of answering. He had to have noticed I’d dropped ten pounds.

“Oh, um—how’d the shopping go?” he asked. “What did you get Charlotte?”

I turned sideways to show off my new curves.

“Was forty bucks enough?”

I gave up and tromped into his office. “I got her a plant.” I’d picked up something at Honeysuckle, Charlotte’s favorite florist, after leaving Element. “Forty was fine.”

“A plant?”

“She loves plants. It’ll be great. Oh, and Emily insisted I go in with her on some antique thing, for Charlotte.”

“So you got two gifts? She’s the rich one, you know.”

“Rich, beautiful, perfect. How could I forget?”

“How could anyone forget? You bring it up every ten minutes.” He looked suddenly concerned “Um, listen. I’m showing the Brenners a couple houses at five o’ clock—not sure when we’ll be done….”

“You’re going to miss the party.”

“No, no. I’ll be there.”

“How late?”

He shook his head. “She’s the mildew-sniffer, it’s like showing a house to a bloodhound. I don’t know if we’ll be done by six. Probably not. Probably seven. You want me to cancel? I can put them off a few days.”

“You’d put off clients, for me?” He’d built his company one client at a time, with word-of-mouth and customer service. He babied his clients terribly—and it was nice to hear he’d baby me even more. “What if you lose the sale?”

“You’re worth it.”

I gazed adoringly. “Wren says I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Of course you don’t.”

I laughed, hoping he was joking. “I promised Charlotte I’d bathe the kids before dinner, so I have to go early. Just come when you’re finished. But thanks.”

“It’ll all be over tomorrow. At least for another year.”

“Yeah.”

Except it wouldn’t. Sure, I hated Charlotte’s birthday. And maybe I was overreacting to Ian’s sudden reappearance. But what really troubled me was the VD. I didn’t dislike my job, but it was going exactly nowhere. Rip was wonderful, but that made things even worse—why wasn’t I head-over-heels?

I had no plan and no passion. I was cast in the shade of my sisters, and though I secretly longed for the sun I was like a…I was a, um…yeesh. I couldn’t even think of a good metaphor. What I was, was a loser.

So I brought Rip the Wilkenson project. I updated the Web site with new listings, and returned a few phone calls. Then I fired up my properties database and stared at the wall. Ten minutes later, I grabbed my Recent Developments file. I had a new entry: The Cypress Property, where I walked Ny. I called Villa Realty, and the receptionist put me through to the listing agent, a woman named Melissa Kent.

“Hi, I’m calling about the property for sale on Cypress Road.”

“Have you driven by?” Melissa Kent said warmly. “It’s a beautiful piece of land.”

“Oh, I walk my dog there all the time,” I blurted. “I love it. I was wondering who the owner is.”

Her voice grew twenty degrees colder. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Well…what?”

“I’m not at lib—”

“No. I mean why?”

“The owner would like to remain anonymous.”

“How’s he gonna sell it if he’s hiding behind— What is he, the Wizard of Oz? I’m interested in information. Lot size, asking price, zoning and easements. I promise not to bother him. Or her. Them. Whatever.”

“You walk your dog there?” she asked.

“That’s how I saw the sign.”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could help.”

“Well, you could—by telling me what I want to know.”

“The thing is, the issue is that the owner got some unpleasant phone calls from dog-walkers who felt he shouldn’t sell ‘their’ land.”

“Oh, this isn’t like that. I’m in the business. I’m calling for an agent. All I need is a little information.”

She said nothing, and her silence managed to convey deep suspicion.

“Honest,” I said, and started lying. “The broker actually has a client already.” More silence, so I got desperate. “A very eager client. Very wealthy. A sheik. From Kuwait.”

“I see. And what was your name again?”

I lost my nerve, blurted “Paloma,” and hung up. Dammit.

I tried to focus on work, but couldn’t. Finally gave up and barged into Rip’s office. “Would you call that sea hag at Villa Realty?”

Rip looked startled. “Um, Anne…”

One of the other agents sat across from him at the desk. Mike Malley. Mike was a straight-shooting, foul-mouthed man of about forty. Santa Barbara born and bred, his father had been a fisherman and Mike looked like that’s where he belonged: on some boat slippery with fish guts, drinking beer with other burly men. He mostly sold commercial space and had one great advantage as a salesman—nothing ever entered his brain that didn’t escape through his mouth, so you had to trust him.

“Sorry, Mike,” I said. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Not a problem,” Mike said, standing. “Sea hags wait for no man. I know, I married and divorced one.”

“No, no—stay. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“We’re done.” Mike motioned closing the door behind him. “You want privacy?”

“Please,” I said.

“You two keep it up,” he said. “And we’ll have to get a new cleaning company.”

He closed the door, and Rip and I looked at each other—then, by common consent, decided to let Mike’s last statement go unanswered.

“Which sea hag?” Rip said. “You really shouldn’t barge in when I’ve got—”

“Melissa Kent,” I said. “At Villa. She won’t tell me who owns the property on Cypress—where Ny and I walk.” I picked up his phone and started dialing.

“Wait,” he said. “Anne. No.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to get between you and— I don’t care if you— I think it’s great that you have your ideas for development. You could get your license and really make them happen. I know you could. But—”

“It’s ringing,” I said, and handed him the phone. “Ask for Melissa.”

He glared at me, but asked the receptionist for Melissa. They chattered happily for a minute—apparently they’d done some business together. Then they chattered happily for another minute. For a third. A fourth.

I poked Rip and whispered. “Ask her!”

He said, “Listen, Melissa, I’ve got a question for you.” But before he could ask, she apparently started spilling the goods. He said, “Uh-huh? Interesting. Great. When?”

I handed him a pen and mimed that he should be writing this down. So he wrote. I flopped down in the other chair and waited. What I needed was a vision for the property. Maybe a long, winding drive which followed the existing trail, with just a few houses, Montecito cottages really—at two million a pop—hidden among the trees and meadows. Or possibly just one hilltop mansion, a sprawling property with an Olympic pool and more lawn than Versailles.

“Uh-huh,” Rip said. “Right.” More from Melissa. “Okay. Great, thanks.” He made a final notation. “See you then. Bye.”

“So?” I said, as he hung up. “What? What did she say?”

“She asked me to lunch.” He showed me the paper. It said Tuesday, 1:30, Village Grill. “Wants some advice about a house in Summerland I sold a couple years ago.”

“What about the Cypress property?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Rip!”

“Polliwog, I’m not getting involved in your…whatever. Especially not after Melissa tells me this funny story about a crazy woman who just called, raving about sheiks.”

“You could have pretended you had clients,” I said. “All I wanted was the information.”

“That’s so unprofessional, I can’t even tell you. Did you check MLS?” The multiple listing service.

“It’s not in MLS yet.”

“So wait.” He stood and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m off to pick up the Brenners. See you tonight?”

“Maybe I should call the city clerk’s office,” I said. “The tax assessor. Get in touch with the owner directly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just because.”

“You’re bored. You don’t like the job.”

I didn’t say anything.

“We can change your title,” he offered. “VP of Administration.”

“It’s not that.”

“Princess of Post-it Notes?”

“I’m fine, Rip. I just want—I dunno. I’m ready for a change.”

“Take the course, get your license. You’d be a great Realtor. You know you should.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not living up to my potential.”

He shook his head. “Do I need to bring anything to Charlotte’s?”

“Just the plant from the back of my truck when you get there. It’s too heavy for me to lift.”

“Sure. And Anne? Keep away from the tax assessor’s office.”

I worked until 5:15, and didn’t place any calls Rip would disapprove of. Double-checked the weekend’s open houses, and tidied some loose ends. It was Friday, and the weather was gearing up for the weekend. I stepped out of the office into a bright and balmy afternoon, with a hot sun and a cool breeze. One of those days that even the locals go to Long-boards on the wharf to sip margaritas and eat calamari.

In even better news, my pale lilac top and linen skirt still looked good when I got home—the true test of new clothes. The linen didn’t even wrinkle in the truck. See? It pays to spend more. Not to mention all the time I saved, not having to stare at my desolate closet, wondering what to wear.

Hair and makeup were another story. I was nearing the end of my haircut cycle, so everything was a bit shaggy and my roots were showing. A bad sign, considering my hair wasn’t colored. I tended to be a makeup minimalist—lipstick, blush and mascara, all done in two minutes. If I wanted to go glossy I usually relied on Charlotte to fix me up, but I couldn’t ask on her birthday. Besides, she’d wonder why, and I didn’t want to explain about Ian. Not only that we’d had counterfeit imaginary sex, but that he was stopping by with her gift.

I honestly didn’t know why I always skipped a beat with Ian. Kevin the nude model was just as handsome, and a whole lot nakeder. Rip was wonderful, and he was all mine—not engaged to some mysterious woman and a purveyor of aged yuck. Ian was an awkward childhood humiliation who kept reappearing, like an uncomfortable suspicion. At least I hadn’t invited him anywhere. Sure he was going to stop by the party, but a delivery didn’t count as an invitation.

So I did my hair and makeup myself, adding lip gloss and foundation in an attempt to appear polished, and avoided seeing Charlotte altogether.

I snuck in from the patio and up to the kids’ bedrooms, where I found Hannah doing handstands against the wall in the hallway. She was seven, and from birth had been the prima donna her mother had never become. Hannah ruled the house with an iron—though diminutive—fist. The only person she’d consistently obey was David, who she physically resembled and completely adored. Charlotte was too gentle to impress her, and she listened to me about half the time. I’d gone Emily on her tiny pink butt once or twice, and it had apparently made an impression. Her little brothers—Kyle, five, and Tyler, four—were her minions, and did her evil bidding with hyperactive glee.

“I’m doing gymnastics,” Hannah said, and shook her head to get the hair out of her face.

“You’re getting dirt on the wall, banana,” I told her. Like I was one to complain about making messes with sneakers. I grabbed her ankles and spun her around. She squealed—she loved roughhousing—and I carried her into her bedroom and tossed her on the bed.

She bounced on her mattress. “Do it again!”

But I sent her to round up the imps, instead. Fortunately, because this involved bossing them around, she was easy to convince.

Still, it was a quarter of six by the time I got the bath running. I offered a prayer to the God of Ritalin that the little nerve-wrackers would leap quickly in and out of the tub. Sadly, the God of Ritalin had apparently been replaced by the God of Cocoa Puffs.

I’d finally corralled the boys in the bathroom when Hannah discovered she couldn’t find Bath Barbie.

“It’s not a bath without Bath Barbie,” she wailed.

“Check your room, quick, while the boys get in,” I told her. “She’s probably hiding under the bed.”

“Bath Barbie doesn’t hide.”

“Then she’s napping—go!”

“She doesn’t nap, either,” she said. “She’s Bath Barbie. She bathes.”

I herded her into her room. “Check in the pile—” the mountain of toys in the corner. “And the closet.”

“She’s not in the closet,” she whined. “I can’t take a bath without Bath Barbie.”

“You might have to make do with—” I glanced around the room “—Bath Bunny. Or I’ll just toss you in the tub with your Bath Brothers.”

That got her attention. She started digging through the heap of toys and I went back to the bathroom and was greeted by the sound of splashing. The little angels were bathing themselves!

“What great guys you are—” Then I stepped inside. They’d poured a gallon of shampoo into the tub, and were sitting amid heaps of bubbles, fully dressed. Playing Tidal Wave. “Out! Out!”

They collapsed in giggle fits. Usually they were easier than Hannah, because they were used to bowing under the lash of her tyranny. But, of course, not tonight. I grabbed a couple of soggy shirts and dragged them from the tub.

“You little monsters. You know better than that.”

“Tyler had an accident,” Kyle explained, as I yanked them out of their clothes.

“I had an accident,” Tyler said.

“He was cleaning up.”

“What kind of accident?” I asked, sniffing the air like a nervous antelope.

“She’s not under the bed!” came Hannah’s voice, from her room.

“Look in the closet!” I yelled. “Is she in the dollhouse?”

“A wee-wee accident,” Tyler said.

Thank God. “So why’d you get in?” I asked Kyle, tugging his socks off as he sat with his bare bottom on the floor.

He started giggling again. Clearly it had just looked like a good time. “We used soap,” he told me.

“You used shampoo.” I sluiced off the top of the bubble-mountain with my arm, remembering a moment too late that I was still wearing my $200 pale lilac ensemble. “Dam-arnit!” I said. “Now you two—back in there and wash.”

“She’s not in the dollhouse!” came the Bath Barbie update. “Aunt Anne, the doorbell’s ringing!”

“Look under the bed,” I yelled. “Would someone get the door?” And, to the boys: “Back in the bath! Or you can forget about birthday cake.”

“But we decorated it,” Tyler said, tears imminent.

Like a good mother, I immediately backtracked. “You can have cake! Just take your bath fast, and I’ll give you extra. You’ll be fat as Ny in no time.”

In their world, fat as Ny was a wonderful goal. They both did the hot-pepper-excited hop before splashing tubward. I’d have to sneak them extra bites, when Charlotte wasn’t looking.

“It’s still ringing!” Hannah yelled. “Somebody should get the door—oh!”

“Hannah?” I called from the hall. “Pick someone else if you can’t find Bath Barbie.”

“Help!” she cried, in a muffled voice. “Help me!”

Uh-oh. I raced into her room. She was gone. “Hannah?”

“I’m stuck.” A little voice, from behind the bed. “Back here.”

Only her calves were showing, sticking up between the bed and the wall. “You fell down the bunny hole,” I said, laughing.

She kicked her feet. “Bath Barbie’s down here, but I can’t reach her.”

“Hold on…” Her bed was a heavy wood four-poster, painted white with green vines on the posts. I heaved it away from the wall as the doorbell rang again—and Hannah fell sideways to the floor and disappeared with a clunk.

A second later, she poked her head up, dust bunnies tangled in her hair. Which now needed washing. “I can almost reach her!”

“Doesn’t Mommy ever clean?” I crawled under the bed, hooked a finger around Bath Barbie’s neck and dragged her out. “Ta da!”

Hannah grabbed her triumphantly. I made her say thank you, and the doorbell was still ringing as we entered the hall on our way to the bathroom.

“Will somebody get that?” I yelled down the stairs.

“I’ll get it,” Hannah said.

“Someone other than you.” I marched her into the bathroom and Kyle and Tyler were gone. All that remained was a pile of sodden clothes and a trail of wet footprints on the terra-cotta floor.

“Get in,” I told Hannah.

“It’s dirty.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Run a new one. I’ll be up in a minute to help wash your hair. I have to find your brothers.”

I turned and caught sight of myself in the mirror. The steam from the bathroom and exertion from the kids had caused my face to sweat and my hair to frizz. One of my sleeves was frothed with bubbles and there were dust bunnies clinging to my skirt. I opened the bathroom door and Tyler launched himself at me like a greased piglet.

“Here we are!” he said. Wet, naked, and clinging to my new clothes.

“We answered the door.” Kyle swaggered in, naked and dripping.

“Thanks,” I said. “Who was it?”

A man stepped in from the hall. “Me.”

I brushed a cobweb from my face. “Ian! Hi! How are you? Stay for dinner?”

CHAPTER 09

Okay, so I invited him. So what? Anyone would have done it. It was a reflex. An impulse. It doesn’t mean anything. I’d actually intended to invite him. It was planned. Premeditated. It was only polite. He’d delivered the gift, I couldn’t not invite him. He was being kind of pushy, when you thought about it. What kind of person arrives to a party with a gift? The kind who expects to be invited. He basically invited himself. It was boorish. Rude. I really expected better….

Actually he’d been wonderful. He brought the age-encrusted relic, beautifully gift-wrapped. He didn’t cringe at my dust-bunny meets bubble-thing appearance. And he’d even shepherded the naked boys into clothes while I finished with Hannah. I really had no other choice but to invite him.

I only hoped Charlotte wouldn’t be mad. Emily certainly was. I was downstairs in the living room enjoying aperitifs and appetizers, when Emily culled me from the herd of crostini-eaters and backed me against the French doors. “It’s her birthday,” she snapped. “Nobody wants the high school boyfriend at her thirty-fifth birthday.”

“So I invited him,” I said. “So what? Anyone would have done it. It wasn’t planned or premeditated. There were dust bunnies on my ass—”

“How could you be so selfish? How do you think Charlotte feels?”

Before I could answer, Charlotte’s silvery laugh floated from across the room where she was chatting with Ian. They were standing by the mantel, candlelight illuminating their faces. Charlotte was stunning in a short, burgundy velvet dress with a mandarin collar. She laughed again and touched Ian’s arm. They were glowing so brightly, it took me a moment to realize that David, for some reason wearing a green Hawaiian shirt, was with them.

“Oh, she’s weeping,” I said, wondering why I’d chosen pale lilac instead of burgundy velvet.

“She always looks happy,” Emily said. “That doesn’t mean she is.”

“What does Charlotte Olsen have to be unhappy about?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said.

“Name one thing.”

Emily opened her mouth, then closed it again. Even her oversized brain had trouble with that one. Finally, she said, “Her bratty younger sister.”

“Oh, Emily, you’re not that bad,” I told her, and slipped back toward the safety of the herd.

There were about twenty people. The immediate family and a number of Charlotte’s and David’s closest friends, mostly from David’s hospital. We milled around, sipping wine and talking about medicine: this crowd could really get in a lather about HMOs and payment plans. They were the unsexy friends that Charlotte and David preferred. There was a B-list of friends, too, made up of people on, well, the actual A-list, from Charlotte’s modeling days. But most of her real friends were of the unglamorous sort.

I avoided Ian, doing an invisible contra dance with him across the room. Every time he approached, I withdrew. He went left, I went right. I almost got trapped between a blond sofa and a brunette neurologist during one do-se-do, but slipped nimbly out to the deck and back in through the kitchen to save myself. My theory was that if we weren’t seen together, I could pretend it hadn’t been me who’d invited him.

As I closed the door to the kitchen behind me, a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. I froze. It would be Emily hopping after me with her hatchet. I turned slowly, resolved to meet my doom, and saw that the heavy hand belonged to the caterer. A harried-looking woman in her late forties with no body fat and an inordinate number of freckles.

I beamed in relief and babbled, “Oh! I was just outside. On the deck. Then I came in. Here. To the kitchen.”

“We’re ready to serve dinner,” she told me, wiping a strand of hair from her face.

“Right. Right! Should I let everyone know?”

She thought that was a fine idea, so I slunk into the other room and told Emily, the idea being that she’d spring into action and shove everyone into their chairs. She glared at me, instead. “He’s flirting with her!”

Oh, here we go. I peeked over her shoulder. Ian was chatting with David. Charlotte was nowhere in sight. “What, telepathically?”

Her glare hardened. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Calm down, Em.”

“I won’t calm down. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s harmless flirtation. They dated, they’re like siblings.” I shuddered, unable to believe I’d just said that. “I mean, not like sibling-siblings. More like cousins. Kissing cousins. No. That’s wrong, too. Anyway, it’s harmless.”

“They dated?” she asked. “Who dated?”

I glanced at her wineglass. “How much have you had?”

“Anne, focus.” She nodded across the room. “She’s half his age.”

I followed her nod. Dad was talking with the caterer at the kitchen door. Looking a little more animated than usual, but nothing sinister. Well, he was intensely focused on her face. Probably trying to see if he could identify freckle constellations. I expected him to rear back any moment and say: “There! I found Cassiopeia!”

But he didn’t rear. He drained his wineglass and chuckled as the caterer refilled. He gestured, offering her a sip, and when she refused he made serious inroads into that glass, too. Hmm. He wasn’t much of a drinker, normally.

“Ah-ha!” Emily said.

“So he’s flirting a little….”

“She’s half his age.” Emily lived in fear that Dad would marry a woman who was younger than his daughters. “She’s twelve!”

“She’s pushing fifty,” I said. “And he doesn’t have a chance, anyway. Coming on to a caterer is no cakewalk.”

“It’s not funny.”

“What is up with you? She’s just asking if he wants tabouleh.”

“You’ll see,” Emily said. “She’s already got him drinking. She’ll be bringing him waffles in bed, next.”

“Better than cold cereal.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Forget it.”

She stalked into the thick of the party and herded everyone toward the dining room, like a bad-tempered sheepdog. I watched her and sighed. A bad-tempered sheepdog who was feeling out of control of her own life. Her book, her family: Emily always lashed out when she was worried.

I trailed behind as I worried about her being worried. Her book must really be a problem. Maybe she’d told Jamie she wanted another publisher. I glanced at him, settling down between a househusband and a dermatologist. He was extracting his napkin from the napkin-ring, and he smiled when he saw me looking—totally unconcerned.

Maybe it was only my overactive imagination. I took a calming guzzle of wine and surveyed the room. The party had a Moroccan theme and the dining room had been decorated in casual Casbah. The room was lit by candles in the hanging silver candelabra, with other white candles placed among the fuchsia and violet silks lining the table. More silk had been artfully twined around the chair backs and gold-embroidered white pillows had been placed on the seats.

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