"Why can't we vote on it now?"

"Because if we vote on it now," Bea said, "we can't vote on it next time, and since I already said we're voting on it next time, voting on it now would be pointless."

While Judith's brain was busy trying to sort all that out, Bea glanced at her agenda. "Okay. Committee reports. Alison, do you have all the houses for this year?"

"Yes. We have all four." Alison reached into her notebook. "Here are some photos, along with the owners and addresses."

Alison passed out the info sheets on each house, and she felt a little thrill when Bea's eyes widened with surprise.

"You did it?" Bea said. "You got Edith Strayhorn to let us use her house?"

"I took her to tea last Saturday and told her it would be a shame if the residents of Plano never got to see the inside of such a perfect example of late nineteenth century Queen Anne architecture. She still wasn't thrilled at the prospect, but she finally said yes."

"We've been trying to get her house for years," Bea said. "Good job."

Alison was still glowing over that achievement. Edith's house was a landmark in East Plano, rising in stately elegance on 15th Street. The other houses on the block were merely pale imitators.

"So what do you guys think of the other houses?" she said.

"I like the one-story bungalow," Karen said.

In spite of the fact that the Strayhorn house was a wet dream for anyone who liked historical architecture, the bungalow was Alison's favorite. It looked like a storybook house, with ivy climbing up trellises, beds overflowing with flowers, and the kind of front porch where people sank into wicker chairs, drank lemonade, and stayed a while. Also on the list were an early twentieth century home with fish scale and diamond shingles on the gables, and an elaborate Victorian-era cottage with a sunburst pattern above the front door.

"I've seen this Victorian cottage," Judith said, pointing at one of the sheets and crinkling her nose as if she'd smelled rotten eggs sitting in a pile of dog poop. "It's at the end of the street next door to a gas station."

"That's what older areas of town tend to be like," Alison said. "If we excluded houses next to gas stations and convenience stores, we'd never be able to get houses for the tour."

"Convenience store?" Judith said, drawing back with horror. "Are you telling me one of them is next to a convenience store?"

Alison sighed. Had she said that? "Judith. That was just an example."

"But what a great idea," Heather said. "If we run out of refreshments, we can hop next door for a couple of bottles of Gatorade and a box of Ding Dongs."

Judge Jimmy and Bea snickered a little at that. Karen got a quizzical look on her face that said she thought Heather might actually be serious. And Judith looked at Heather as if she were the most shameless human being ever to draw breath.

"We need to get another house," Judith said.

"Nah," Heather said. "One next to a gas station is no big deal. Beats the one last year that was next to a whorehouse."

Every bit of color drained away from Judith's face, making her look even pastier than she already was. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," Alison said. "She didn't say anything."

"It was that little cottage on Sixteenth Street," Heather went on. "Those two women who lived next door did a booming business."

Alison's eyes drifted closed. Ah, God. Heather, why must you always say what everybody else is thinking?

"We never knew for sure what those girls did for a living," Bea said quickly. "Now, next on the agenda-"

"Yeah, we did," Judge Jimmy said with a knowing nod. "I know hookers when I see 'em. They were definitely hookers."

"But Judith doesn't want to hear that," Bea said, "so maybe we shouldn't talk about it."

Judith glared at Bea. "You told me they were actresses and that was stage makeup."

"Well," Heather said, "sometimes there is a lot of acting involved in-"

Alison kicked Heather under the table. Bea cleared her throat and looked at her agenda again. "Okay. Photographs of the houses for the program. Alison, can you do that again this year?"

"No problem."

"Okay. On to food and beverage. Karen?"

"Maggie's Cafe is donating appetizers, as always," Karen said. "And Brennan's Beer and Wine has agreed to donate the wine. As always."

And, as always, Karen had poured her heart and soul into the project, always searching for new and exciting ways to improve the event. Atta girl, Karen. Keep breathing.

And, as always, Judith's mouth scrunched up with irritation the moment Karen spoke the word "wine." She wasn't above preaching that the path to hell was littered with empty alcohol bottles. Alison pitied the poor kids who had her for a teacher. If they listened to Judith, prom night was going to be a real bore.

"I just want it to be known that I'm against serving alcohol at this event," Judith said.

"I believe we're all aware of that," Bea said.

"The bottom line," Heather said, "is that alcohol loosens people up. Mimosas in the morning, wine and beer in the afternoon. They'll buy more raffle tickets. We'll make more money."

"You're a CPA," Judith said. "Of course all you think about is the bottom line. But this isn't just about the money."

"So it's not about the money?" Heather said. "Hmm. Then somebody needs to define 'fund-raising' for me."

Judith's face got all red and crinkly at that, and by the time the meeting was over, she still looked like a dried-up cranberry. She gathered her belongings and marched from the room with a snotty dismissiveness that made Alison wish she'd trip over a trash can and fall flat on her face.

"Sorry about the whorehouse thing," Heather said as she and Alison walked up the stairs with Bea. "When Judith is around, my mouth starts moving and I can't stop it."

"Don't worry about it," Bea said. "If not for the comic relief, I'd probably haul out my gun and blow her brains out."

"You carry a gun?" Heather said.

"Hell, yes." She looked back and forth between Alison and Heather. "Don't you?"

"Uh...no," Alison said.

"What kind of Texans are you?"

"Ones who don't want to shoot ourselves in the foot," Heather said.

"Yeah, I used to be uptight about guns, too. Then about ten years ago I got mugged in the parking garage coming off the night shift at Med City. I've been packing ever since." She patted her purse and gave them a smile. "And even if the law doesn't allow it, it makes me happy just to know I could take Judith out."

Alison knew there was a reason she liked Bea. They had the same homicidal fantasies.

"We're going for a drink at McCaffrey's," Alison said. "Want to come along?"

"Can't. My book group's tonight. We're reading an autobiography of a onelegged woman who climbed Mt. Everest. Only one leg, but plenty of balls. I like that."

Well. What an interesting woman that would be. Anatomically speaking.

"Next time then," Alison said.

Bea nodded and climbed into her ancient Jeep, and Alison and Heather headed down the street toward McCaffrey's.

"Thank God," Heather said. "If Judith ends up with a hole in her head, Bea's an even better suspect than I am."

"I swear next year I'm booking a tour home next to a crack house."

"Judith would have a heart attack," Heather said. "Oh, wait. That's not a bad thing. Bea would save a bullet." They turned on 15th Street to head west. "I don't like old buildings. I hate meetings. I want to rip the head off anybody who even speaks the words 'mission statement.' And people like Judith Rittenaur make me insane. So tell me again why I'm on that board?"

"Because you're a CPA, our last treasurer embezzled two thousand dollars, and we needed somebody honest." She paused. "And I begged."

"Oh, yeah," Heather said with a weary frown.

"So you don't want to help with the home tour this year?"

"If somebody else collects the money, I'll put it in the bank. Does that count?"

"Old houses are nice," Alison said. "Stable. Comfortable. Permanent."

"Drafty. Musty. Creaky. With spiders and rats in the basement. I like my brand-new condo just fine, thank you."

Just then Alison's phone rang. She looked at the caller ID, and her heart did a tight little somersault.

"It's him," Alison said.

"Who?"

"Brandon."

"So answer it."

She stopped and punched the talk button. "Hello?"

"Hey, Alison. Brandon Scott. I just wanted to let you know I have your first match."

Alison's heart was suddenly beating double time. "You do?"

"Yep. And you're going to love him."

Brandon sounded so confident that he might has well have said, I found you a husband. Put on a wedding dress and be at the church at four, which made the tiny hairs on Alison's arms stand up with excitement.

"Good," Alison said, trying to play it cool. "That's good. Tell me about him."

"I'll e-mail you his photo and his information," Brandon said. "Then you can get back to me and tell me if it's a go."

"But what if he doesn't want to go out with me?"

"I already talked to him. He's looking forward to meeting you."

So he'd seen her profile. And her photo. And he wanted to meet her anyway?

No. She had to stop this. The worst thing she could do was act like a loser no matter how many times she'd lost.

"Just a minute..." Brandon said, and Alison heard the clacking of a keyboard in the background. "There. I sent it to you. Can you give me a call back once you decide?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"I already know what your answer's going to be," Brandon said, that self-assurance coming through loud and clear once again. "But I'll wait patiently, anyway."

She could actually hear the smile in his voice, which made a smile pop out on her own lips. His positive attitude was as contagious as the flu.

"So he has a match for you?" Heather said after she hung up.

"Yes," Alison said, trying not to sound smug. "He e-mailed me some information about him."

Heather grabbed Alison by the arm and pulled her over to a nearby bench. "Let's have a look."

Alison swiped through a few screens on her phone and pulled up Brandon's e-mail. "Okay," she said. "His name is Greg Faraday."

"Alison Faraday..." Heather said, trying the name out. "Okay. That'll work."

For a long time now, Heather had been insistent about first and last names sounding good together, an obsession that began about the time she'd dated a guy whose last name was Feather.

"He's a pharmaceutical salesman," Alison said. "Lives near the West Village."

"Hmm. High-rent district." Heather leaned in for a look, then raised an eyebrow. "Six-figure income, huh? Yeah, right. That's what they all say."

"This isn't match dot com. These men are thoroughly screened."

"How old is he?"

"Thirty-four. His profile says he wants to get married, and he's open to the idea of having children."

"Open to the idea? Does that mean he really doesn't want kids, but he doesn't want to say so?"

Alison rolled her eyes. "It probably means that he's open to the idea of having children. Will you stop reading everything under the sun into this?" She scrolled down, pleased to see he actually admitted to liking actionadventure movies and sports cars, and there wasn't a word about walks in the park and heartto-heart talks while sitting in front of a roaring fire with a glass of fine wine. Finally. A man who didn't pander to a woman just to get a date, then plop himself in front of Sylvester Stallone movies and NASCAR and holler at his woman to make him a sandwich.

"Oh, my," Alison said, trying not to swoon. "He's six feet tall."

"Yeah? Subtract four inches for exaggeration, and he's only five eight."

"Once again," Alison said impatiently, "these candidates are thoroughly screened by my matchmaker. He makes sure they're telling the truth."