thunderous chords, then an experimental noodling of notes, and the

chords again. Emma took her board from him to prop it against the wall.

"They're back here." After a moment's hesitation, she took Michael's

hand and led him down the wide white hallway.

He'd never seen a house like it, though he was too embarra.s.sed to say

so. Arched doorways opened on room after room where abstract paintings

were slashes of frantic color against white walls. Even the floors were

white so that Michael was unable to shake the feeling he was walking

through some kind of temple.

Then he saw the G.o.ddess, the portrait of the G.o.ddess above a fireplace

of white stone. She was blond and sulky-mouthed, wearing a white

sequined dress that skimmed dangerously over the globes of her lush

b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Wow.1)

"That's Angie," Emma told him. Her nose wrinkled quickly,

automatically. "She's mained to P.M."

"Yeah." He had the oddest feeling that the portrait's eyes were alive

and fixed on him hungrily. "I, ah, saw her last movie." He didn't add

that after he had, he'd experienced fascinating and uncomfortably erotic

dreams. "Man, she's something."

"Yes, she is." And even at not-quite thirteen, Emma was aware what that

something was. She gave Michael's hand an impatient tug, then continued

on.

It was the only room Emma felt at ease in-the only room in the mausoleum

of a house where she imagined P.M. had been given a chance to express

his own taste. There was color here, a mix-match of blues and reds and

sunny yellows. Music awards lined the mantel; gold records dotted the

walls. There were a couple of thriving plants near the window. A pair

of lemon trees that Emma knew P.M. had started from seed.

Her father was seated at a beautiful old baby grand that had been in a

movie whose t.i.tle always escaped Emma. Johnno sat beside him,

smoking his habitual French cigarettes. There was a litter of papers on

the floor, a big pitcher of lemonade sprinkled with condensation on the

coffee table. The gla.s.ses, ice melting lazily inside them, were already

leaving a duo of rings on the wood.

"We'll keep it moving through the bridge," Brian was saying as he

pounded out chords. "Keep it fast, overlap the strings and horns, but

keep the guitar the dominant force."

"Fine, but it's still the wrong beat." Johnno brushed Brian's hands

aside. His diamonds winked on each pinky as he moved them over the

keys.

Brian took out a cigarette, flipping it through his fingers. "I hate

you when you're right."

"Dad."

He looked up. The smile came first, then faded as he focused on

Michael. "Emma. You were supposed to ring if you wanted to come back

early."

"I know, but I met Michael." Her lips curved, charmingly, so that her

dimple flashed. "I wiped out, and he helped me get my board."

Because she wanted to leave it at that, she hurried on. "And I thought