Alice and Poppy nodded as if they understood, which Poppy really couldn't, but Alice probably did because she had two children, too: one nearly normal, the other, regrettably odd.

"But tell me some good news." Elinor's gaze fell on Alice. "Like that isn't polyester you're wearing."

"Elinor," Poppy stepped in and said, quite breathlessly, "do you think my Duane is your blackmailer?"

Elinor's head started to hurt, the shards of a migraine poking at her eyes. "Duane? Your husband? Why? I barely know the man." This wasn't the time or the place to reveal to Poppy that Duane had once . . Oh, never mind, Elinor thought. That had been meaningless, and blackmail was not. "As much as I'd love to stay and chat," Elinor continued, forcing herself to stand up again and push through her pain, "I have a plane to catch."

"I'll drive you to the airport," Alice said. "We can talk on the way."

Elinor had planned to drive herself to JFK, but this was a better idea. If Janice still lingered on the premises, she'd think that Alice and Poppy were taking her to the club for b.l.o.o.d.y Marys, or to a hair appointment, perhaps, at Yolanda's.

Besides, it was so hard to drive when one had a migraine and the sun was so f.u.c.king bright.

Twenty-three.

Kevin was late getting to CJ's. She wondered if Ray had forgotten to pa.s.s the message on to his son, but she hadn't wanted to call the house. She hadn't yet decided what to do or not do about Ray; she hadn't yet decided why she was so bothered when all she had wanted was casual s.e.x.

Finally the boy limped into the yard, pushing his bike. He had two b.l.o.o.d.y shins, and his bike had a flat tire.

"I hit a rut," he told CJ.

She spent the next twenty minutes picking gravel from his knees, cleaning his wounds, and bandaging them, while Luna watched with great interest.

Finally, CJ was done. As she sped toward Elinor's, her sister called.

"Where are you?"

"Sorry. Minor emergency. I'm on my way now."

"Well, hurry. I'm en route to the airport, thanks to Alice and Poppy. Be careful when you get to the house. Janice might be around."

CJ didn't have a chance to ask why.

"Pick me up Friday at four o'clock, okay? JFK?"

CJ said yes because she never said no. d.a.m.n fool that she was.

Once at the house, CJ parked in the garage and closed the door. No sense announcing to the blackmailer that someone was home if, as Elinor feared, he decided to show up.

Speaking of visitors, there was no sign of her niece.

CJ walked around back and let herself in with the key Elinor kept under the downspout by the kitchen window. It always amused CJ that Elinor had copied that childhood tradition, as if her palatial abode was no different from the small, headmaster's Tudor on the grounds of McCready's or the cottage at Lake Kasteel.

She carried her bag through the back hall, past the felt-landscaped billiard room, the softly b.u.t.tered morning room, the stainless-steeled kitchen.

All was as it should be: elegant, sparkling, perfect. There were no people, of course. The day staff only appeared Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sat.u.r.day mornings. After all, it wasn't as if the family was there every day.

CJ trundled up the backstairs in search of a guest room. She'd brought a mystery she'd been meaning to read, along with a biography of a Supreme Court justice for balance. As long as she was going to be sequestered, she might as well relax and enjoy it. If there was something CJ was used to, it was being alone.

In the end, she'd chucked the s.e.xy attire and packed nondescript cotton capris, knit camisoles, and a couple of big shirts. She'd thrown in a fleece nightshirt and fuzzy socks. It sometimes was freezing in Elinor's house, as if they had first dibs on the air-conditioning in Westchester County.

At the top of the stairs she set down her bag and examined her choices: to the right was a large room in taupe tones. A thick down comforter frosted the sprawling, king-size bed; a sitting area featured a posh, silk-covered chaise; a rich walnut writing desk sat in an alcove.

"Too big," CJ said as if she were Goldilocks who'd gone for a walk in the forest.

To the left was a smaller room done in pale greens. The bed was only a queen size, and in place of the chaise were a single wing chair and a footstool. There was no desk.

"Too small," she said with a smile.

She ambled down the hall past the room Janice used. It was loaded with books but no personal items: She hardly was there anymore.

At Jonas's room, CJ paused in the doorway. His presence was everywhere. From the poster-sized photograph of Times Square at night, to the caricatures of theater stars that had been signed and framed as if this were Sardi's; from the orange life vest that he'd stashed in the corner, to the shelf with small trophies won in the lake fishing derbies, to the navy bedspread that was slightly askew, the room was her son's. She'd been there on more than one occasion, usually when they'd come up from Washington for his birthday, when he'd tugged her upstairs to see his new train, to play with his new Super Nintendo, to hear his new sound system, to try his new laptop.

CJ blinked. She realized she'd been standing in the doorway too long. Too long for memories that were best kept under wraps.

She turned from Jonas's room and continued down the hall toward the master suite, wondering when she'd become such a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t.

The bedroom was still white, as she remembered.

Inside the room, her footsteps whispered on the thick carpet. Long white drapes were gently pleated across the wide windows. The huge bed, adorned with plump bundles of pillows, faced the tall, white marble fireplace.

CJ moved through the room and peeked into the bath, the steam room, and the Jacuzzi. With a small sigh, she turned toward the sitting room. That's when she noticed that something had changed.

The sitting room had been off to the left in the bedroom. It was a shady nook, the coziest spot in the grandiose house.

But where an archway had been, now there was a door. A closed door.

CJ tiptoed toward it, as if she was being watched. Perhaps Elinor had transformed the s.p.a.ce into a closet or a storage room.

With a slow turn of the bra.s.s handle, CJ quietly pushed the door open.

It was not a closet. It was not a storage room. It was another bedroom with another door that led back into the hall. The decor was different-not pouffy but plain, with a simple twin bed and a deep leather chair, an overfilled bookcase and a small window garden that held green shoots being rooted in the morning sun.

It was Malcolm's room. The separate bedroom Jonas had told CJ about.

She sat on the bed, then slowly reclined. She turned her face into the pillow and imagined she picked up his scent: musky, woodsy, Malcolm.

Then she rolled over, stared up at the ceiling, and felt the tears slide from her eyes.

Yes, she thought, this bed felt just right. In another time, in another life, all of this would have been hers. The house. The husband. The boy.

Twenty-four.

For the third day in a row, they were in the city. Alice had no idea if this was a smart thing to do, but she'd grown to enjoy the rush of adventure, the thrill of stepping out of her life into the unexpected.

Besides, today would be foreplay for Bud in Orlando and the real excitement to come.

With a tiny smile, she let the heat fill her body without waving it off.

Of course, they hadn't told Elinor about Manny's warning. She'd seemed annoyed enough by the concept that Poppy's Duane really might be behind this. When Poppy had pressed her again when they'd been curbside at Kennedy, the last thing Elinor said was, "No offense, Poppy, but blackmail is very complex. I don't think your husband is smart enough."

Hopefully, her words also negated Poppy's notion that Duane had been Elinor's lover.

Two blocks south of the Lord Winslow now, Alice pulled over. "Okay," she said to Poppy, "I'll get out here. Take over the wheel and drive around until you see me again." She opened her door and looked out for traffic. But before Alice got out, Poppy said, "No."

Alice turned toward her. "What?"

"I can't drive this thing, Alice. I drive a sports car. This is a truck."

"It's not a truck, Poppy. It's a Cadillac."

Poppy shook her head. "I can't. It's too big."

Alice sighed and closed her door. She set her clenched fists on the steering wheel. "Now's a fine time to tell me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't think about it until now. I guess I forgot Yolanda wouldn't be with us."

"Poppy," Alice said, "you said you'd drive the getaway car. We agreed this is our last attempt to help Elinor."

Poppy nodded, but her face was scrunched up like a scared little girl's. She looked like she'd cry at any second.

"Okay," Alice quickly said. "You don't have to drive. Just sit behind the wheel and stay right here."

"We can't park here! I'll get arrested!"

Alice wondered if anyone would tolerate Poppy if her best friends no longer did. "If a cop comes along, say something's wrong. Say your battery's dead. That you're waiting for the tow truck."

Poppy considered the option. "Well..."

"Well nothing," Alice said. "Just do it, Poppy. I won't be long." She slammed the door when she got out.

She'd worn sneakers, not ladylike heels, which helped make walking the two blocks to the hotel kind of fun. How long had it been since Alice walked anywhere that didn't involve shopping? Shopping wasn't even a pastime she enjoyed. But it was something she was expected to do because she was a woman and her husband was rich.

Breathing in the summer morning, she wondered if it would be tacky to buy a pretzel from the man on the corner. Surely it wouldn't be as bad for her figure as one of her father's tasty guglhuph cakes made with heaps of b.u.t.ter and eggs and raisins and almonds and sweet cherry juice.

Yum.

Good Lord, she thought as she stepped off the curb when the signal changed, when was the last time she'd thought about that? When was the last time she'd thought of her mother, who'd died, and her father, who'd closed up his shop and returned to his homeland and had been so brokenhearted he'd died the next year? Was that kind of devotion a thing of the past?

If Neal died tomorrow, she'd be sad for a while, but she'd carry on. Wouldn't she?

If she died, there would probably be a quick string of ladies willing to jump to his side, eager, even, to do things like go to the big dinner tomorrow that she couldn't, wouldn't make.

A tingle of guilt was swept away by a hot flash. She bypa.s.sed the pretzel man and kept walking.

When she reached the hotel, Alice realized she couldn't very well march through the bra.s.s-trimmed revolving doors in the tan polyester and sneakers. She turned onto the cross street and studied the building. She spotted a loading dock and an open door. Quickly, she darted inside.

"Wella beetcha moloro," a man suddenly shouted, or at least that's what his words sounded like to her.

She turned, flashed a smile, pointed to her watch. "I'm late," she responded. "I don't want to get fired."

He shrugged, waved her off, and turned away.

Alice walked quickly to another door at the rear of the dock. She turned the handle. It opened easily. So much for security.

Breathing again, she looked around. She was inside a long, gray corridor that looked like the bas.e.m.e.nt Poppy had described. All she needed was to find a service elevator. If she could get to the fourth floor, maybe she could find the housekeeper who took care of room 402.

Then, maybe later, she'd drive to the Lower East Side and buy a guglhuph or two. Neal might enjoy one while she was away.

Elinor was in coach because she did not want to call attention to herself. It had seemed like a good idea when she'd made the reservations. She'd forgotten, however, about the infamous middle seats, and wouldn't you know, that's what she'd been given, between a heavyset man who smelled like a turnip and a girl who looked ten or eleven.

She reminded herself it would only be for four hours and it would be worth it to seem ordinary. One of the crowd. Not Elinor Harding Young, Washington socialite turned s.l.u.t-on-the-run.

She shivered. Thankfully, she'd brought her noise-canceling headphones. She put them on now and wished it was as easy to do away with what Carly Simon had once called the noise going on in her mind.

Yolanda had finished her third color of the day when her cell phone danced to "Chilito Lindo." The peppy tune had been a favorite of hers when she was growing up, and now it made her think of her daughter, Belita, whom she hoped would be spicy and confident, with a great zest for life.

It was Manny.

"What are you doing?"

"It's Wednesday. I'm working."

"Oh."

"What about you? Did you win the lottery and now you're retired?"

"Very funny. I need to talk to you about your friends."

"You talked enough yesterday. You scared them sufficiently."

"Are you sure?"