Which was good, because right now, all Poppy wanted was to get out of yesterday's clothes, whether her husband was being a jacka.s.s or not.

"Do you want me to go in with you?" Alice asked.

"No," Poppy said. "I'm sick of being scared." She gave quick air kisses to Alice and wished her good luck in Orlando, wondering if Alice knew that Poppy envied her, with her nice, normal family, and play dates with her granddaughter filled with glitter and sequins.

She marched through the garage and into the house. She said h.e.l.lo to Nola, who was scrubbing the kitchen, then asked if she knew where the mister was.

"I brought lunch into the study. For him and that other man."

Man?

"Duane has a guest?" Poppy asked, trying to feign surprise. "Who?"

Nola shrugged her shoulders and returned to her mop and pail. "Mr. Duane said the man is his brother. I didn't know that he had one."

Twenty-seven.

On her way to the study, Poppy stopped in the powder room and tried to look better than she felt.

Duane's brother?

The one who'd bankrupted the family silver mine?

Her light blue eyes reflected perplexity. Had Duane ever mentioned his brother's name?

At least it isn't a woman, she reminded herself. At least it wasn't a harlot that Duane had brought home to mock their marriage and force Poppy into making a decision she would rather put off because divorce was so unpleasant and who had time for that?

At least it wasn't a conspirator in blackmail.

It was his brother, for crying out loud.

Rearranging her hair as best she could, she wondered if she'd been too hard on Duane. She dabbed on lipstick and pinched her cheeks. She wished she could take a shower and change her clothes before meeting her brother-in-law.

She wondered if he'd be as nice as Yolanda's brother.

She smiled again and put both hands in her pockets. Then she touched something with her right hand. She pulled out the card. Manny's card.

Detective Manuel Valdes.

Twelfth precinct.

Brooklyn, New York.

A shiver shivered through her. She shoved the card back in her pocket, hoping she'd remember to remove it before sending the jeans to the laundry. Not that she'd ever use it. Not that she needed a cop in her life.

"Duane?" Poppy called from the doorway into the study. "Darling, I'm home. I didn't know we had company." She slowly crossed the rosewood floor to where the two men sat facing one another, on opposite sides of the big desk. A pile of papers was strewn over the top.

Politely, the men stood in unison.

"Poppy," Duane said, "my lovely bride. We missed you last night."

She slow-blinked her lashes, a reaction to being called lovely. "Momma had a spell. I fell asleep, and then it was too late to call."

"Oh, poor Momma. How is she today?"

He had always acted as if he liked her mother, though Momma said he knew she could see right through him. "She's better. Now please, introduce me to our guest."

The visitor stepped forward and offered his hand. "Fred Manley. Duane's brother." He was older than Duane and had weathered, too-much-sun skin. The resemblance, however, was striking, though instead of a polo shirt, he had on denim, and instead of Ralph Lauren pants, he wore washed-out jeans. Oh, yes, and he had on a belt with a big silver buckle. And leather-tooled cowboy boots on his feet.

"Well, well," Poppy said as he took her hand and kissed it with dry lips. "I guess it's time that we met."

"If I'd have known how pretty you are, I wouldn't have wasted all these years."

He apparently had the gift of sweet talk, like Duane. She wondered what Momma would have to say about that. "So," Poppy asked, retrieving her hand, "to what do we finally owe the pleasure?"

Duane folded his arms and puffed out his cheeks. "Fred has a plan to reopen the mine."

"The silver mine?"

"Yes," Fred said. "And I've brought you a small gift."

He picked up a square of black velvet that sat on the desk. He folded back the corners and offered it to Poppy. Nested atop the velvet were several pieces of gleaming silver. Uncut, unstamped, glorious silver.

If Momma had been there, she'd have just died.

"Do you like it?" Duane asked. "I told Fred how much you love silver."

If he was being sarcastic about what he called the family's "eccentricity," she decided to ignore it. "Well," Poppy said, "it is lovely, isn't it?"

"And there's plenty more where that came from," he said. "I've had my men out there looking. They found a huge vein. All I need is to convince my little brother here to come home and give me a hand."

Home? Was he asking them to move to Nevada?

"Whoa," Duane said. "We have a few other matters to discuss first. Like logistics, brother Fred. I mean, Poppy and I live here in New York. I have no intention of pulling up stakes and going away from poor Momma. Especially now that the spells are back."

Had he moved from sarcasm to being condescending? She'd never been good at deciphering Duane. "Duane's right," she said with caution. "I couldn't leave Momma now." Her gaze fell back to the pretty pieces of silver.

"No problem. After things are up and running, we'll have enough cash flow for you to rent a jet. You can come back and forth on weekends. Once we have a strong workforce, once a month ought to do it."

In spite of the buckle and the boots, Fred seemed rather sensible. And if Duane was out of town more than he was in, Poppy would have a chance to think. After all, womanizing was one thing, but the fact that she'd considered her husband capable of blackmail was quite another. Besides, wouldn't a long-distance marriage be easier to manage than a troublesome, costly divorce? In the interim, maybe Duane would change?

She asked the men to please sit, then she made herself comfortable in the tall wing chair next to her brother-in-law. "Tell me your plans," she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Maybe we could work out the travel arrangements."

"There are other arrangements we need to talk about, too," Fred said.

"He's talking about capital expenses," Duane said. "Start-up funds. You know."

She supposed she'd asked for that. She supposed he would have expected her to be naive, to never imagine that the whole plan was contingent upon her money. The comfort she'd felt took a decided turn, as Momma would say.

"Really?" she asked, aware of the chill that had crept into her tone. "How much do you need?"

"Only five hundred thousand," Duane's brother replied. "Half a million ought to do it."

Twenty-eight.

Alice stopped at the deli on her way home and picked up Neal's favorite for dinner. Since the kids had been out of the house and Neal was often late getting home, she'd seen little point in retaining a cook. For the nights they didn't dine out, she kept the refrigerator stocked with prepared things from Whole Foods. But when she was taking Kiley Kate out of town, she made sure to prepare a special meal. Tonight her guilt was called lamb chops.

She rinsed off fresh mint leaves and patted them dry. After three calls from Kiley Kate-should she wear the pink ribbons to match the pink sequins, would there be time for Sea World, should she bring the mousse to give her more curls, or the gel to straighten them out?-Alice went upstairs to shower and pack. By the time Neal came home, she'd be calm and collected, perhaps even cool. Maybe they'd even make love tonight. She was pretty sure it had been a long time.

Poppy knew she had to go to the police. She retreated to the bedroom after the revelation that Duane's brother was on the hunt for a half million dollars. She locked the door and tried taking a nap, but she couldn't keep her eyes closed. Instead, she soaked in the Jacuzzi for over an hour with only one thought: Do they think I'm stupid?

She reminded herself that Duane and his brother didn't know that she knew about Elinor and the panties and the ransom for the exact same amount. She reminded herself that the one consolation might be that they'd chosen to blackmail her friend instead of her. Clever Duane wouldn't want to upset his cash cow, whom, he probably figured, he could keep milking until death did they part.

Why had she ever trusted him?

When the water turned cold, Poppy shivered again. She got out of the tub, wrapped a thick robe around her, and went back to the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed by her nightstand. Then she opened the drawer and took out the picture of her father and her on the front porch swing. She remembered the creak of the old wooden slats that hung from the long metal chains. She remembered the scent of her father's pipe tobacco, the crinkle of the starch in his shirt, the warmth of his arm that encircled her. She remembered those things, and that she was loved. Her wonderful father, the only man who'd ever looked out for her, who'd ever looked out for Momma.

She held the picture to her chest and stayed very still, too sad to cry, too lonely to even bother with self-pity.

After a while, Poppy was ready.

She dressed in a cream-colored sundress and added a pretty pale orange shawl that CJ had painted and Poppy had insisted on buying when CJ had first been starting out on her own. Though she'd always considered Elinor and CJ just like her, Poppy knew that they hadn't been raised with the same financial perks. As much of a town leader as Mr. Harding had been, he'd still been a schoolmaster, with not much of a financial legacy. Unlike Elinor, CJ had not married smartly, and when that had ended...

But why was Poppy thinking about that now, as she stood in the mirror adjusting the shawl?

With a small sigh, she picked up the Miu Miu, which held clean underthings, a skirt and a top, and other essentials she'd need overnight. She double-checked to be sure she'd put Manny's card in the small zippered pocket. She'd call him from the car. Once she'd done that, Poppy knew she couldn't go home again until Duane and his brother were gone.

Elinor did not want to order room service for dinner. She'd been closed in on the plane, stuffed into a taxi, and sitting in her hotel room for two hours. Elinor detested being alone. She blamed CJ for that; she hadn't, after all, even been alone in the womb. For some reason, CJ never minded solitude. Another way that the twins weren't exactly identical.

Elinor marched into the open-air dining room and asked for a table for one.

"In the front," she requested. That way she could gaze at the people strolling on the sidewalk and maybe not feel as alone.

She ordered a dirty martini (not for its taste, but because she'd recently read that olive juice was good for the skin) and a pineapple shrimp dish. She turned her attention to the happy tour ists in their plastic sandals and hibiscus-print shirts, with their digital cameras dangling from their necks. Halfway through her martini, Elinor realized she was being watched, too.

CJ decided that reading would be a good distraction from all the nonsense created by her sister. She brought the cordless to the guest room at the top of the back stairs and went into the bedroom that she'd thought was too small. She changed into old sweats and a T-shirt, then sat in the wing chair with her feet on the footstool in order to avoid dozing again. She opened the book and began to read.

An hour or so later she got into bed and napped after all.

She woke up-no dreams this time-and realized the light in the room had changed from late afternoon to pale dusk. As enticing as it might seem, she decided she couldn't very well stay in bed until Elinor came home on Friday.

She could make dinner. Yes, that's what she'd do.

She'd make something elaborate that would take a long time.

She'd pour a small gla.s.s of wine and sip while she was cooking.

She'd turn on the news like a civilized American.

She'd call Kevin to check up on Luna.

Maybe she'd call Elinor to see if her cell worked.

Yes, there was plenty to do so she wouldn't be tempted to return to Malcolm's room, to Malcolm's bed.

Running her hand through her knotted hair, CJ grabbed the cordless and trundled downstairs. She scooted into the kitchen and halted abruptly.

There, at the sink, stood Malcolm.

Twenty-nine.

"CJ?"

"Mac?" She hated that she'd called him Mac and not Malcolm. She hadn't called him Mac to his face since, well, since then.

He laughed a small laugh. "Fancy meeting you here. In my kitchen."

"I...I was upstairs. Asleep." She wanted to comb her hair the right way. She wanted to brush her teeth. She wanted to put on the things she'd left behind . . the batik with the matching shrug, the capris, the cropped top. She wanted to thank G.o.d that as soon as she'd gone to Elinor's bedroom to try on the housekeeper's dress, she'd ducked into Mac's room, straightened the comforter, closed the door.

"Is Elinor here?" He never referred to E as his wife, not to CJ anyway.

CJ shook her head. "She had a crisis with the dress for the party. Her seamstress is in Philadelphia."

He raised an eyebrow. "Philadelphia?"