She knocked again. She waited.

After another minute, Poppy said, "d.a.m.n."

She crossed the lawn, marched toward the garage, and climbed the stairs that led to Fiona and Bern's apartment. This time, her knock was more insistent.

Lights were lit; slippers shuffled across the hardwood floor. The door opened. Moments later, Bern was escorting Poppy toward the main house.

"Your momma's been having her spells again," Bern said. "When that happens, she likes it if Lucky stays in the house."

"But Lila's room is right down the hall."

"She's not much good in these situations."

Poppy realized then that Momma's life was a little drama, with people and roles and, no doubt, performances, too. "Why wasn't I told that her spells have come back?"

"Your momma didn't want to worry you. She says you have enough problems these days."

Bern unlocked the kitchen door and decoded the alarm. Poppy had a fleeting fear that they'd find Lucky under the covers with Momma, naked and hugging her old-moneyed bones.

What would Poppy say?

What would Lucky say?

Should she fire him on the spot, or would Momma protest?

Lucky was a dozen or more years younger than Momma. He had a low forehead and a p.r.o.nounced facial tic, but he was dependable, and Momma liked that. She also liked the fact that he did everything for her, that he responded to her every whim. His demeanor always seemed professional enough, but Poppy suspected that not much stopped Momma when she was having a spell and needed brandy and warmth.

Poppy tagged along behind Bern as they made their way up the sweeping, curved staircase. She wondered if they should leave Momma alone...then she thought about Doris Duke and all the money her "companion" had made off with after her death...not to mention the rumors that he had somehow helped accelerate her demise.

Oh! Poppy thought. Oh!

But when they reached Momma's bedroom, they found Lucky parked on the settee outside the door. His head drooped as he dozed; his shirt was fully b.u.t.toned and his pants, fully zipped.

Twenty-two.

The next morning, Poppy called Alice and asked if she'd please pick her up at Momma's and please not ask why she was wearing the same clothes she'd had on last night.

So Alice did and she didn't.

"Neal commented on the dress when I left," Alice said after Poppy was settled inside the Esplanade. "He asked since when had I taken to wearing polyester. I asked since when had he earned the right to question my fashion sense, Mr. White Shirt with Pinstripes." She'd hoped a little light humor might help erase the maudlin look on Poppy's face. It did not. She turned the AC vent toward her. "Good Lord, I was right. Polyester is hot."

Poppy didn't reply.

Alice drove down the driveway, past the chauffeur, who was washing the Lincoln stretch limo as if Poppy's mother had somewhere important to go.

"It's Duane," Poppy said suddenly, because she'd never been good at keeping secrets.

"I wasn't going to ask."

"The visitor last night was a woman."

"Who?"

"I have no idea. I didn't go in."

Alice steered the car along the shady country road toward the highway that led to the city. She wondered if their friends were as bothered by Poppy as she had become, or if it was another menopausal annoyance, like the occasional black hairs that sprung from nowhere in particular and instantly took root on her chin. "If you didn't go in, how do you know it was a woman? Did you peek in the windows of your own house?"

If Poppy was offended, she didn't show it. "I just know, Alice. Whether or not he's been sleeping with Elinor, Duane has been cheating on me for years. Do you think I am stupid?"

The question, of course, was an interesting one. Alice might have played along if it hadn't been for the fact that Poppy had crossed the boundary of their unspoken rule: she'd said something really bad about her husband, something not playful or malingering, like the fact he wore pinstripes. She'd said something really, really bad by acknowledging that marriage was not immune to unpleasantness even when housed in over-privileged rooms. CJ was the only one of them who remained unaffected. Then again, CJ never discussed her ex-husband, who had seemed like a pretty nice guy on the surface.

As did Neal, the bore.

And Malcolm, the disinterested.

Duane? Well, he'd never seemed what Alice could call nice. And now, good Lord, Poppy was considering his potential for perpetual adultery on top of the blackmail.

Alice could not disagree, which was such a pity when one considered that sweet stiffness to Duane's p.e.n.i.s.

"Well?" Poppy asked. "Do you? Do you think I'm stupid?"

Alice fanned herself again and readjusted herself on the leather, wishing the tingles would abate. "Of course you're not stupid. Do you think Duane's...visitor...has something to do with Elinor's blackmail?" She glanced over at Poppy, whose eyes seemed rimmed with the same color red as her hair, as if she'd been crying all night.

"Idon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknow." Poppy spewed out her thoughts as if they'd been one word, not three. Or nine.

Without looking either way, Alice pulled onto the shoulder and made a U-turn.

"What are you doing?" Poppy asked.

"We're going to Elinor's. We're going to ask if she thinks Duane is blackmailing her. I'm tired of p.u.s.s.yfooting around." She wasn't even sure if that's what they'd been doing, but she liked the way that it sounded.

Elinor loved her daughter. She'd often been pleased that Janice took after her, that she was self-sufficient and did not need a mother hovering about the way Elinor's mother had, the way her father had. The way everyone had, with silent expectations for the older twin, the less appealing one.

Like Elinor, Janice was clever, if not as attractive as Jonas. At twenty-eight, she hadn't yet found a man, perhaps because Malcolm hadn't corralled one, the way Father had corralled Malcolm for Elinor. Janice did have a career, which was off to a resounding start. Once in a while, however, she was p.r.o.ne to emotion-packed flare-ups that usually began with a surprise visit, like now, when she suddenly appeared in Elinor's bedroom, of all places, as Elinor was tossing a few things into her Chanel lambskin tote.

"Mother?"

"Janice?"

"What are you doing?"

"Shouldn't I ask you the same?"

"Why are you packing?"

"Why aren't you working?"

"I asked you first."

Good Lord. Elinor felt as if she was ten again, playing a game with CJ.

She sighed. "I'm packing for Washington. Your brother's engagement party is this weekend, in case you've forgotten."

"Of course I haven't forgotten. I'm staying at the Fairmont. Are you and Daddy?"

"I don't know yet. We might be at the town house." If circ.u.mstances were different, Elinor would have liked to stay at the hotel in the thick of the engagement party action, surrounded by any out-of-towners that might have been invited, pretending to play hostess, making everything look good. Now, she would prefer to hibernate if she could.

"Well, I don't intend to miss out on their scones in the morning," Janice continued. "I hear they're the best."

Janice resembled Malcolm, except she'd been cheated out of the dimples. Her hair was the same tawny color as his, though it was thick and unkempt, and would do a Rastafarian proud. Her eyes were the same shade of blue as Mac's, her cheek bones the same-high, well-defined. But Janice's jawline was set firmer than Malcolm's, more like her mother's, a cast of concrete that rarely relaxed into a genuine smile. Unlike her mother, Janice was awkward at small talk. Thankfully, she was smart and driven to research, and did not need to embrace the world's people.

Elinor sighed. "Janice, why are you here?"

"They think I've altered my results." She tried knifing a hand through her ma.s.sive locks.

Elinor, of course, had no time for this. "Who thinks you altered what results?"

"My supervisor. She thinks I altered the results of my research."

"Did you?"

"Did I? Did I?"

"Now, Janice, you know I don't understand your work. Where is your father?"

"I thought he was here."

"He was here for the weekend with the congressman and Betts. He's gone back to work. Did you look at the town house?"

"I told you. I thought he was here." She stood in the doorway, hands in the pockets of her khakis. As Janice had never taken great pains with her hair, her wardrobe was equally mismatched to her genetics: DNA, mitochondria, whatever.

"What are you wearing to the party?" Elinor asked, because talking about style was easier for her than talking about Janice's job. She closed the tote with nonchalance, hoping Janice hadn't noticed that Elinor had packed a lightweight gauze sundress that was hardly Washington-wear.

"I might get fired."

"Before the party?" Well, of course, that was the wrong thing to say, which was no doubt why Janice spun on her Birkenstocks and stomped away.

Elinor's shoulders went rigid. She checked her watch. She needed to leave for the airport in twenty minutes. And where was CJ? She'd promised to be there by the time Elinor left. And now, what about Janice? Would she believe their lie about Elinor's seamstress and CJ's decorators?

And what if the blackmailer showed up right now?

The doorbell rang. It was loud. Insistent.

It must be CJ.

Unless...

Unless...

Elinor's mouth went dry. Her blood pressure skyrocketed, her chest compressed. She stood, perfectly coiffed, perfectly groomed, like the topiaries in Malcolm's garden. And, just like the trees, she was welded to the ground, unable to move, unable to speak.

Would a blackmailer ring the doorbell? Wouldn't he act with more theatrics, like breaking in through the French doors?

The bell rang again. Elinor felt frozen in an Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k moment.

Then, the murmur of voices.

Male?

Female?

Friend?

Foe?

Was it Alfred himself, reincarnated?

"Mottthhher," Janice bellowed up from downstairs, her syllables protracted with sarcasm. "You have company."

Elinor could run. She could flee down the back stairs and out to the garden. She could run through the woods and call CJ on her cell and order her to pick her up at the far end of the lake. They had explored every winding pathway of the land when they'd been kids. They'd even carved a few of their own. Surely Elinor wouldn't get lost.

That's what she would do. She'd run.

Any minute now.

As soon as she could get her feet or her legs or some part of her to move.

Then she remembered that her cell phone was in her purse on the breakfront in the dining room.

She clutched the Chanel as if it were a life preserver and she was going under. Then a voice called to her from the doorway.

"Elinor? Are you all right?"

It was Alice. And Poppy. What on earth did Alice have on?

The women stepped into the room. Elinor closed her eyes. "Janice said . . I thought..."

Alice sighed. "Janice is gone. Did you two have a fight?"

Elinor let go of the Chanel and sank onto the bed. "We always fight. She wants me to be just like her father."