"Don't make me responsible for my brother again-I'm not his mother! I've done what I could to make his life work out for him. It's not my duty to take care of my brother for his entire life!"

"All right, Catherine. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please. Calm down. Here. Have a drink."

"I'm just so angry at him, Piet. That he would betray me-cheat me! Doesn't he have any responsibility for himself?"

"Please. Catherine. Look, let me take you home now. You're tired, and we have to get up early tomorrow."

They rode back to Amsterdam in silence. Catherine cradled the two account ledgers against her chest. She was too tired to think and gave Piet a perfunctory goodnight kiss on his cheek when they arrived at the hotel. As soon as she was back in her room, she put through a call to Kit. It was after midnight in Amsterdam, but only evening in New York. Briefly she explained what she and Piet had found. She still wanted to see the Bloemenveiling, she told Kit, but she planned to fly home that evening. She was very tired, and sadly, she had accomplished what she'd come for.

Almost. She still wanted to see the flower auction, so she left a wake-up call for three-thirty and was ready at four-thirty in the morning. Piet had warned her there would be a lot of walking, so she wore a cashmere sweater with jeans and loafers, and her mink coat and scarf. Piet was waiting for her just outside the hotel. It was still dark, and slightly misty.

"Are you tired?" Piet asked as she slid in next to him.

"Tired? I don't even know. I feel the way I did when Drew and Lily were first born-exhausted but functioning."

"Why not lean back and nap? We'll have almost an hour. It will be too dark to see anything, and there's nothing to see in November anyway."

"I doubt if I could fall asleep," Catherine said. "I feel a little crazy. I keep thinking about Sh.e.l.ly, all I've done for him. He's my brother! How could he do this to me!"

"I'm sure he doesn't think of it that way. That he's doing it to you. I think Sh.e.l.ly sees you as being terribly self-sufficient, even invulnerable. And he wasn't taking enough money to really damage Blooms." Piet leaned forward and switched the radio onto a cla.s.sical station. "Relax. Lean back. Close your eyes."

Catherine obeyed, even though she was certain she wouldn't sleep. And she didn't sleep, but her mind drifted free on the humming of the car's engine and the music.

Piet's voice broke into her daze. "Ah, Catherine, there it is. Wake up-you can see it, the Centrale Aalsmeerse Bloemenveiling. It is only two stories high, but in terms of floor s.p.a.ce, it is the largest building in the world."

Yawning, Catherine opened her eyes and saw a streak of dawn light illuminating the dark around an enormous building sprawling in the midst of a flat landscape. Piet drove his way past armies of cars, vans, and trucks through a parking lot and around to the side.

"There are many wings in this building. Many different auction rooms. I will take you to the wing that is only for export. The Dutch and local people can't buy here; they have their own wing. There are auction rooms for potted plants, cut flowers, bulbs, roses. Roses are very important always. I will take you to the rose auction. You'll like it."

The bright lights of the corridors and rooms of the auction building jarred Catherine awake as she trailed behind Piet. She was here at last! Most of the flowers she and Jason and Leonard placed in their arrangements began their mornings here, fresh-picked from the acres of hothouses and greenhouses in Aalsmeer. They pa.s.sed groups of men, most of whom nodded and greeted Piet. She saw few women. She was aware of how foreign she looked.

"Here," Piet said, pushing a door open for her. "The roses."

Inside the echoing, gleaming hall were hundreds of thousands of long-stemmed roses, laid in bunches on dozens of carts. Mostly the roses were the much loved deep red, but there were also white, yellow, and every shade of red ranging from pale pink through coral to vermilion.

"Everything here has been inspected by the auction commissioners and the price negotiated and established with the grower," Piet said. "Also the buyers, like me, must inspect the roses and compare what is available with what we need. The roses are sold in bundles of twenty-five or fifty. Depending on what Blooms and GardenAir need for any given day, I buy around a thousand or more lots each day. Now follow me. I will introduce you to Harrie Brouwer, my main buyer. He inspects the flowers on each cart and makes note of which carts have the flowers we want."

Catherine looked around cautiously. "Will Sh.e.l.ly be here?"

"Probably not. Not in this room. He comes in at the other end of all this. He supervises the packing and attaching the appropriate invoices and loading. He'll be in another room. We'll go there after the auction." He turned. "Harrie, I want you to meet Catherine Bemish. The owner of Blooms. She's finally come to see our auction."

"I hope you enjoy it, Mrs. Bemish," Harrie said formally.

Then a Dutch voice over a loudspeaker announced that the auction was about to begin. Piet led Catherine up the banked seating arena to their seats. At each desk, each wholesaler had in front of him a microphone and a computerized b.u.t.ton linked electronically to a gigantic clocklike machine on the wall. Piet explained to Catherine that the numbers at the rim of the clock were the price, in Dutch guilders, of each lot of roses, beginning with the top price agreed upon beforehand by the grower and descending as the clock hand moved clockwise. Television screens set on walls displayed the quant.i.ty of roses, the length, the precise color, the name, and the set bottom price the roses had to bring in order to be sold.

The room buzzed with activity. It was always a gamble, Piet told Catherine, for the buyers to get the amount and quality of roses they needed at the lowest-possible price, but before another broker had bought them. Overpayment of even a few cents each day could eventually bankrupt a company, while buying carefully could make the company wealthy.

Today, for example, Harrie Brouwer needed to buy five hundred lots of red roses for export. The Dutch guilder, like the American dollar, was divided into 100 cents, and the clock started ticking at 100 cents per rose, which was approximately 50 American cents per rose. Harrie watched breathlessly as the clock hand ticked down to 99 cents, 98 cents, and at 88 cents he pressed his b.u.t.ton, stopping the clock. He then spoke into the microphone in Dutch, and immediately the television screens recorded that he had bought five hundred lots of twenty-five red roses for 88 cents a rose. The remaining amount of roses would now be sold for less than 88 cents, but Harrie had gotten the quant.i.ty and quality of roses he needed.

Several lots of roses were not bid on at the price the grower had demanded, and as Catherine watched, those roses moved along a conveyor belt through a gla.s.s wall to a chopping machine. Mechanized knife blades rapidly sliced through hundreds of luscious blood-red blooms.

"Oh, Piet, look! What a waste! All those lovely roses!" Catherine whispered, not wanting to disturb Harrie's concentration.

"It's necessary," Piet said. "To keep the market up and stable. So that these roses don't go out through the back door to be sold on a black market. The only way they can be sold is in this building. It protects the market."

"It's bizarre," Catherine said. "Like the American government paying farmers not to grow wheat to protect the American market, while millions of people are starving for bread all over the world."

"If you want to change it, you have a lot of work in front of you," Piet said, smiling.

When the auction ended, Piet led Catherine to the shed where the flowers Harrie had bought were being speedily bundled into special air freight boxes, all bearing the GardenAir or Blooms label. The room was cool. Rough-looking men, much like the men on 28th Street in New York, were handling the fragile long-stemmed flowers with practiced efficiency.

And there, in the midst of the work tables and carts, clipboard in hand, was Sh.e.l.ly.

Catherine clutched Piet's arm, signaling him silently. They watched as Sh.e.l.ly supervised another man bundling flowers into the boxes. Sh.e.l.ly wrote something on his clipboard. The air was full of laughter and the guttural grace of the Dutch language.

Catherine had decided not to confront Sh.e.l.ly yet; she didn't want him to call Carla. So now she smiled, trying to look happy to see him.

"Little sister!" he called out, startled but easy with it. "What a surprise! What are you doing here? h.e.l.lo, Piet."

"I decided it was time to see it all," Catherine said. "Business is quiet in New York, and I just had the urge to come."

"You always do things impetuously," Sh.e.l.ly said. He pulled Catherine to him in a bear hug and kissed her cheek.

Catherine returned his hug. As she did she looked down into the box of flowers he had overseen being packed. Next to the bundle of long-stemmed red roses lay a plastic container of blue chemical ice to keep the flowers cool and fresh. Caught in a red rubber band around the dark green th.o.r.n.y stems of the flowers was a small plastic packet of white powder-cut-flower preservative, according to the label.

Of course, it could actually be flower preservative. Or it could be cocaine.

Sh.e.l.ly caught Catherine's look. So did the worker.

"I didn't know we packed the flower preservative at this end," Catherine said.

"We don't for Blooms," Sh.e.l.ly told her smoothly. He was completely relaxed. "But for GardenAir it makes it all much easier. Much quicker. Our clients can buy the flowers the moment they're unloaded from the truck. We don't have to hold them up putting on the packets, and they don't have to hold up their customers. It's just another service we offer."

"Good idea," Catherine said. "Look, do you have to stay here? Or can you come have breakfast-or lunch-or whatever you eat at this unG.o.dly hour-with Piet and me?"

"We're shorthanded today. One of the packers is sick. You and Piet go on without me. But let's have dinner tonight. Somewhere interesting. There's a great Turkish restaurant-"

"Sh.e.l.ly, I'm sorry. I'm flying back today."

"What? Why? You just got here."

"It was just an impulse trip. A spur-of-the-moment thing."

"Well, d.a.m.n," Sh.e.l.ly said. "I guess I could leave these guys-"

"No. Don't. It's not as if we never see each other anymore. Look, when will you be back in the States again?"

"I don't know. Christmas, I guess."

"That's fine. I'll see you then!" Catherine gave her brother a hug, and as she did, she was overwhelmed with a melancholy love. Touching her brother, she thought, My brother, and she felt his broad shoulders, strong arms, she smelled the maleness and the health of him. She wanted to weep with anguish and anger, she wanted to pound her fists against his chest.

She pulled away, her expression serene. Piet and Sh.e.l.ly exchanged a few notes on the day's work, then Piet led Catherine back through the enormous building to his car.

"Are you sure you want to go home today? You haven't seen anything of Amsterdam. You should at least see the Rijksmuseum."

"No, I need to get back. For one thing, I've got to talk to Carla. Until I've done that, I won't be able to concentrate on anything else. I'll be back sometime, Piet. I'll bring the children, and we'll all see Amsterdam together."

Piet helped her get her luggage from the hotel and stayed with her through the bore of checking her bags and getting through security at the airport. She would be leaving about the same time the flowers Blooms had ordered this morning would leave Amsterdam, and she and the flowers would both be in New York around nine in the morning. Amazing.

At the gate, Piet put his hands on Catherine's shoulders.

"You're a powerful woman, I hope you know that. You've always been a powerful woman, and now that you're older you haven't changed. Your birthday's in December; you're a fire sign."

"That's right," Catherine said, charmed. "What are you?"

"I'm air, my darling. So you see, it wouldn't have worked. I was attracted to you, but you would have consumed me."

"No, I couldn't have, Piet. You've always been like air, you've kept yourself invisible to me."

They smiled at each other. Then Piet kissed her good-bye, a long kiss full on the mouth, and she was gone.

The flight home was interminable. She could not sleep. She had thought her life was as orderly as life could possibly get. Perhaps she should have known, or at least antic.i.p.ated-for look how Sh.e.l.ly had been as a boy, as a student. He had loved drugs and fun then; how could she have forgotten what he was really like?

Yet he was her brother, part of her. She loved him, and the thought of tearing him from her life tugged at the cords of her heart.

She had phoned Kit from Schiphol airport to tell him what flight she was on. When her beloved lawyer Mr. Giles had died several years before, she had asked Kit if he would take over Blooms' and GardenAir's legal affairs, and he had agreed. This meant he'd had to ask for a reduction in his workload at Woodrow and Spiegel, and they had not been pleased. Yet he did such an excellent job on the cases he took that they couldn't do without him. Recently Kit and Catherine had been discussing Kit's leaving the firm to work full-time for Blooms and GardenAir. If that happened, Catherine would want Kit to be a full partner in the business-only fair, since Kit already contributed so much. Still, she held back. She was so used to being the one in charge. She and Kit already had to compromise with each other on disagreements about the children. What would the business do to their marriage? What would their marriage do to their business?

Kit met her flight. Riding into the city, he told her Lily had just called from school to say she was invited to a friend's home in Vermont over Christmas break. She wanted to go, because she loved to ski. Both children loved sports, but Lily was the jock.

"Skiing," Catherine said. "Immediately I think of broken legs."

"Lily's strong. She's coordinated. She'll have a great time. And Andrew called to say he got an A on his history exam."

"Good for him." The thought of Andrew was like sunshine to Catherine. She loved Lily, but like all mothers and daughters, they fought. Andrew was Catherine's golden boy. Oh, both children were wonderful and complicated. Sometimes she wondered if either one of them would want to work for Blooms, take it over someday.

She still hadn't talked about Sh.e.l.ly.

"Where are we headed?" Kit asked as he pulled onto the FDR Drive.

"I'd like to go right to Blooms. I want to talk to Carla. I'll have to fire her-today. After that, I a.s.sume it won't be long before we hear from Sh.e.l.ly."

"We could also start legal proceedings against them."

"I know. I thought of that during the flight. But Kit," she said unhappily, "I just don't think I could go through with it. I don't think I could take my brother to court."

"I understand. It's just as well. If we did prosecute him, the newspapers would have a field day, and that kind of publicity wouldn't do Blooms any good."

Kit parked in the alley behind Blooms.

"Unless Sh.e.l.ly is a total idiot," Catherine said, "he sent over correct invoices today. I was there when he was watching the flowers being packed. I saw him writing up the invoices. Oh, Kit," she said, suddenly sick at her stomach. "The thought of confronting Carla-stay with me."

"I will."

"Hey, boss lady. Hey, Kit," Jason greeted them. He was sticking orange mums into chicken wire shaped like a pumpkin.

They said h.e.l.lo to Jason, then took the elevator to the tenth floor.

"Oh, you're back-feeling better?" Sandra said, seeing Catherine. "You don't look very good, though, Catherine. Are you sure you should be at work today?"

"I'm just tired. Look, go down and take over the shop will you? Hold all calls. And send Carla up."

"Of course," Sandra said, her face white.

"We're grateful to you," Catherine said, "but let's talk later."

She touched the older woman on the arm, a gesture meant to comfort both of them. Then Catherine and Kit went into her office. She tossed her mink coat over the back of her chair. Kit hung his coat in the closet.

"Coffee?" she asked Kit. "Please."

She poured it and stirred in cream and sugar, the actions seeming exaggerated and clumsy as she moved, waiting with each second for Carla to appear. As she handed the cup to Kit, her hands shook.

"You wanted to see me?"

Carla stood in the doorway then, a perky look on her face. As she registered Kit's and Catherine's expressions, her face fell, and her hands flew together in front of her, fingers locking nervously.

"Yes, Carla. I think you know why. Come in-sit down. Carla, I've just come back from Amsterdam. I brought these back with me." Catherine took the two account ledgers from her satchel. "You and Sh.e.l.ly have been cheating Blooms. You've been cheating me. We know how you've worked it from beginning to end."

During her flight home, Catherine had imagined this scene over and over again, and each time she had envisioned Carla indignant, raging, insulted. Carla surprised her by simply bursting into tears.

"Oh, G.o.d, now you've gone and ruined everything," she sobbed.

"I have ruined everything?" Catherine said sarcastically, but Kit flashed her a warning look. Catherine stopped. In response, Carla, who had flinched and frozen at Catherine's bitter tone, began sobbing again.

"Tell me how I've ruined everything," Catherine said in as sympathetic a tone as she could manage.

"We were only going to do this a while. Until we had enough money to start our own company." Carla collapsed in despair, covering her tear-stained face with her hands.

Catherine handed Carla a wad of tissue. "Your own flower company?"

"Oh, no! Of course not! We'd never compete with you, Catherine. Actually"-Carla faltered a moment-"I don't know what kind of company. We never got that far. Sh.e.l.ly just said that if we did this, we could save up enough money to start our own company. And it didn't really hurt Blooms. Sh.e.l.ly said-"

Catherine listened, wanting to weep along with Carla. Sh.e.l.ly said. Sh.e.l.ly did. Sh.e.l.ly. Sh.e.l.ly. Charming, endearing, gorgeous, adorable Sh.e.l.ly. Of course Carla would be in love with him, had been in love with him for years. In the years she'd worked for Catherine, she'd learned how to dress. She had her hair cut stylishly; she'd made herself a pretty woman. But she'd never be the sort of woman Sh.e.l.ly would love. She didn't have the flair, the elegance-the money.

"I'm disappointed in you, Carla. You have to know that. You've worked for me for eighteen years now. I would have thought-"