She glanced back at the egg and felt a chill of excitement rush through her. Yes, she thought, this summer will be their most memorable. She turned to Jenny and smiled. The old surge of motivation rerooted itself in her soul. For Tess, at long last, had come up with a plan—a plan that might assure her financial security and reopen those long-closed doors to her future.

  The summer days passed quickly. Tess and Jenny spent the mornings in the studio; later, they biked to Look Park or visited with Dell. Tess wasn’t concerned about getting behind on her work: She was confident that it was only a matter of time before her plan would yield results. Besides, her time with Jenny was limited, and it was Jenny who had provided her inspiration.

  In the evenings they walked along Main Street, listening to the summer street bands from Ecuador and Chile and Back Bay Boston. Tess was often reminded of the many summer nights she and Jenny had strolled, hand in hand, past the people and the shops. It had felt, Tess knew, so right, so good, as though she were the beautiful child’s mother, as though they were a happy, little family. But now when they walked side by side, the warmth was laced with a small sadness that Jenny was too old to hold on to Tess’s hand. Still, Tess felt the pride.

  Thankfully, they had not seen Willie Benson. Yet Tess had been careful not to let Jenny go anywhere alone, and Jenny didn’t seem to mind. Her early tentativeness had waned, and Jenny had once again become animated, trusting, and eager to learn. They talked about horses (Jenny had won second place in the all-around at her school’s equestrian competition), books (Jenny didn’t play video games—the noise had disturbed Grandmother Hobart), and boys (Jenny still didn’t have a boyfriend, though there had been Luke Sanders, the nineteen-year-old groom her father had caught kissing Jenny in the stables last year and had promptly fired). They looked through Tess’s old scrapbooks—Jenny was especially captivated by the photos and ticket stubs and receipts for pizza that Tess had accumulated at Smith. Jenny especially loved hearing Tess’s stories of her college years. Jenny, however, didn’t talk much about her parents, and Tess decided that perhaps it was better that way. Hearing about Charlie and Peter and the wonderful life they had only reopened old wounds.

  One day, in mid-July, they sat in the studio working on a series of ornaments Tess was creating for a local Christmas shop. She had not told Jenny about the new design she’d submitted to the Blackburn Gallery, one of the most prestigious glass galleries in the world. She had not told Jenny that being surrounded by her youth, her potential, and her beauty had inspired Tess to again try for the success that had eluded her.

  Night after night, Tess had crept out to the studio and worked on her sketches—painstakingly detailed sketches of the most elaborate, exquisite vase she had ever created. She had based the design on Jenny’s Fabergé egg, and if Blackburn commissioned Tess to craft it, it would be the break she had wanted all her life, the break she’d relinquished all hope for years ago. Alone in her studio, hunched over the cluttered desk with only a small lamp for light, Tess refused to consider that it might not happen. Still, she had not told Jenny. She wanted to save it as a wonderful surprise.

  Jenny was unusually quiet on this hot summer day as she sat, rolling amber glass, ignoring the thin layer of perspiration that coated her delicate skin. She had taken quite naturally to the craft; her upper body strength was developing, and Tess was giving her more and more responsibilities each day. But this morning, Jenny was working slowly. Finally, she spoke.

  “Aunt Tess?” she asked. “Do you think I could go to school here?”

  Tess positioned a blowpipe in the annealing oven. “I’m sure getting into Smith won’t be a problem for you,” she answered.

  She handed Jenny the warmed blowpipe. Jenny took it and dipped it into the mold, adding a top to the ornament. “I wasn’t talking about college,” she said. “I was talking about now. I want to finish high school here.”

  Tess removed another small medallion of colored glass from the kiln beside the furnace, and affixed it onto another blowpipe. So this is it, Tess thought. I’m going to have to hear about Charlie and Peter and all those things I’d rather not know. It was the one inevitable part of Jenny’s visits that Tess always detested. She took a deep breath and pretended to study the position of the glass. “I’m sure your parents would like to see you finish at Windsor-Larkin.”

  Jenny folded her arms and leaned against the counter that ran the length of one wall. “I want to go to a real high school.”

  “Windsor-Larkin is an excellent school.”

  Jenny wrinkled her nose. “It’s filled with kids like Darrin and Patsy, not real kids.”

  Tess smiled but kept her head bent so Jenny could not see. “Rich kids, you mean.”

  “Snotty kids.”

  “I see,” Tess said, as she sat down and hoisted the pipe to her mouth. She pressed her lips against it and began to tap small breaths into the opening. At the tip, the honeylike amber began to swell.

  “It’s not like my parents would care.” Jenny turned and straightened the blowpipes on the counter. With her back to Tess, she added, “My father might, but he’d get over it. My mother wouldn’t care where I was as long as I wasn’t home.”

  Tess stopped. She took the pipe from her lips. The piece wasn’t ready, but it didn’t matter. A bit of scrap wasn’t as important as what Jenny was trying to tell her. She swallowed her need not to know and asked, “What’s wrong, Jenny? Aren’t you getting along with your mother?”

  Jenny didn’t answer.

  “Most fourteen-year-old girls don’t like their mothers much,” Tess continued. “When I was fourteen my mother was the queerest mother in the world. She didn’t know anything. She was so old-fashioned—”

  “It’s not like that,” Jenny interrupted. “This started a long time ago. She’s … she’s always too busy for me. She’s either volunteering at the public TV station or at a hospital auxiliary meeting. I’d rather be here,” she said in a small voice. “With you. And Grover.”

  Tess tried not to show the secret pleasure she found in Jenny’s words. Charlie, it seemed, hadn’t turned out to be the perfect mother. Charlie, it seemed, didn’t have everything after all. She walked to the oven and put her arm around Jenny. She noticed the girl’s eyes were veiled with tears. She wanted to tell Jenny that of course she could come live with her. She wanted to tell Jenny how happy she was that Charlie wasn’t a good mother. But the pain in Jenny’s eyes stopped her. She couldn’t hurt Jenny more than she already was. “I’m sure your mother’s work is important,” Tess said, as she hugged her. “But so are you.”

  Jenny bit her lip, trembled, then began to cry. “Not to her.”

  Tess didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t seen Charlie in a half-dozen years. And she’d only seen Jenny with Charlie three or four times. She had no idea what their relationship was like. Still, she knew that just because Charlie was raised in a loving home with loving parents didn’t ensure competent motherhood. But Charlie had been the one who had been willing to make whatever sacrifices were needed for her to become a mother. Charlie had been the one who’d wanted children so badly, that she’d been willing to risk everything. Tess hadn’t been that strong. Neither had Marina. “I’m sure your mother tries her best,” Tess said.

  Jenny shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

  Tess rubbed Jenny’s arm. “Jenny, she loves you.”

  Jenny slipped from Tess’s grasp and walked to the other side of the dim studio. She studied the metal shelves lined with yesterday’s ornaments, picked up a tapered globe, and ran a finger across it. “She couldn’t care less about me.”

  Tess stepped toward her. “You’re wrong, Jenny.”

  Jenny stared at the ornament in her hand. Then she pulled back her arm, let go, and hurled the globe across the studio. Tess watched the glass hit the wall and shatter into painful bits.

  Jenny burst into tears and ran from the studio.

  Tess started to go after her but stopped in the doorway. She watched as Jenny fled up the brick path toward the house, and realized that this was most likely only part of being a teenager. There was no way Jenny could be unhappy in that luxurious home with all that money, with Peter for a father and Charlie for a mother. There was simply nothing Tess could do, because Tess, after all, was not Jenny’s mother. Never had been, never could be. She could only be her friend: The line had been drawn long ago.

  She turned back into the studio and plucked the mail from her box by the door. Maybe there was a letter from Blackburn. Maybe some good news would cheer them both up. She sat on the small stool and thumbed through the stack of envelopes. A late notice on her mortgage payment. A second notice on her gas bill. No letter from Blackburn.

  Tess rested her head on the finishing bench, and slowly began to cry.

  At six o’clock, there was a knock on the studio door. The door swung open and Dell sauntered in, carrying a covered casserole dish. Tess watched from her refuge atop the old daybed in the back room. She pulled herself up and went into the studio. “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d drop off some dinner for you and Jenny.”

  Tess nodded and folded her arms across her stomach. “Thanks,” she said.

  Dell set the dish on the bench. “I stopped at the house first. I didn’t think you’d be working so late.”

  “I’m a little behind.”

  Dell nodded. “Where’s Jenny?”

  Tess shrugged. “Up at the house.”

  “I went there first. No one came to the door.”

  Tess walked to the bench, picked up her bills, and tucked them in the pocket of her skirt. “We had an argument this morning. I’m sure she’s around somewhere. Teenagers are a pain in the ass.”

  “Maybe you’ve been spending too much time together.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Dell sighed. “I don’t want to upset you, Tess, but the truth is, Jenny’s been attached to your hip this summer. It’s not healthy for either one of you. It’s time she made friends her own age.”

  Tess frowned. “You heard what Joe said about Willie Benson. I can’t let Jenny go off on her own.”

  “But you’re smothering her.”

  “I’m protecting her.”

  “Overprotecting her. There’s a difference. You need to find a balance.”

  Tess raised the lid off the casserole dish and looked inside. Whatever it was, it was indiscernible, yet it smelled delicious, comforting, motherly. Like Dell’s kitchen. Like Dell. “How the hell am I supposed to know how to be a mother?” she asked. “I’ve never had the chance.”

  “Your choice.”

  Tess blanched at yet another reminder of the danger of confiding in someone. She slammed down the lid of the dish.

  “Tess,” Dell said, “I’m not trying to criticize you. I’m trying to help.”

  “Thank you, Mother Teresa,” she said icily. “But Jenny and I are doing just fine.”

  “Then don’t you think we should go check on her?”

  “Now who’s being overprotective?”

  “So sue me,” Dell said and headed out the studio door.

  Tess sighed and wondered if Dell was right. Was she smothering Jenny? Should she let her make friends? The responsibility of being a ten-week-a-year, half-assed mother was overwhelming. How was she supposed to make these decisions? And how did Dell know so much?

  Dell, she thought. Dell had complained that Jenny was “attached to her hip.” But what the hell did Dell want? There were some things Tess was willing to risk … and some things she was not. And Willie Benson was at the top of the list of nots.

  She picked up the casserole, locked the studio, and caught up with Dell on the path. The night was quiet; dusk was setting in. In the distance, music played: the street bands, perhaps, or summer students at Smith with their windows open.

  “What was the argument about?” Dell asked.

  Tess shrugged. She didn’t want to get into it with Dell right now, until she knew if the postmenopausal witch had once again possessed Dell’s mind, and her mood. “It doesn’t matter.”

  They walked in the kitchen door. Tess set the dish on the table and went to the foot of the stairs. “Jenny,” she called.

  There was no answer.

  Dell started up the stairs. Tess shook her head and followed her.

  “I’ll handle this,” Dell said. “I know how to deal with teenage girls.” But this time her tone wasn’t critical: it was strong, supportive. The way Dell usually was.

  And the fact was, Dell did know how to handle teenage girls. Tess remembered that without Dell, Charlie’s life would not have turned out as well. Without Dell, Marina might not have survived. But what about Tess? Had Dell made Tess’s life better … or had she guided her down the wrong road, the road to nowhere?

  She watched the woman’s long braid sway as they climbed the stairs and thought about Dell’s influence on her life. Charlie and Marina had thrived. Charlie had money, Charlie had Peter. Marina—God, Marina had everything, including two husbands under her belt and most likely a third on the way. No, Charlie and Marina were not impoverished … they were not lonely. But what about Tess? Tess wondered if she had fallen too easily into Dell’s quiet, predictable lifestyle, where todays passed into yesterdays without challenge, and tomorrow would be no different than today. She wondered if, in her own need to be loved, Tess had become one of Dell’s obedient dolls, someone for Dell to fuss over, someone to mother, shrouded in a disguise of emotional support. Tess fixed her eyes on Dell’s worn heels as they flapped against the insoles of her wooden sandals and wondered how much Dell thought about Tess’s future … and how supportive she would be if she knew that Tess was about to change it.

  The door to Jenny’s room was slightly ajar. Dell stepped in.

  “She’s not here.”

  Tess peered inside. Jenny’s clothes were there; one of Tess’s scrapbooks lay open on the bed; Grover lay on the floor, panting. Everything looked as it should. Except that Jenny was not there.

  Then Dell pointed toward the bureau. “What’s that?” she asked.

  On the bureau stood the marble base for the Fabergé egg. But the Fabergé egg, like Jenny, was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Six thousand miles away, Marina Marchant turned her head on the pillow and looked out the tall window of her palace bedroom. Dawn washed its pink across the sky like a satin comforter draped over her country, Novokia, a tiny principality tucked against the Russian border, protected by the mountains of Finland. From her bed Marina could see the top of the smokestack from the old factory building as it rose beyond the palace gates—the smokestack that now marked the home of Princess Cosmetics—her venture, her hope for renewing the spirit of Novokia, her sole purpose in life. Her goals, Marina knew, were massive, but the rewards would be great. And if nothing else, they might help her atone for her past indiscretions, and the embarrassment she’d caused her father and her country.

  Still, it was going to be difficult: Humanity had not been high on Marina’s list of priorities these past years.

  She watched the sky etch its beauty across the deteriorating stone structure now, and thought about the pressures that today would bring. There was only one thing that could prepare her for stress: one thing that she could rely on to relax her, to smooth the edges of her angst.

  She reached beside her for the familiar penis: It was there, long and hard, and waiting for her. She gently clutched its firmness in her hand and began to stroke—smoothly, steadily. Slowly, her moistness began to grow. In her mind, Marina heard music. She softly began to smile.

  She closed her eyes and felt a touch upon her breast, gently caressing first its fullness, then encircling its stiffening nipple.

  Marina moaned. She parted her legs. The tip of the penis explored between them, searching for her sensitivity. She arched her hips and welcomed it. And then, it entered her, lingering a moment in her waiting wetness, her growing heat. She began to move. She felt the firm shaft begin to thrust in and out, in and out, skimming the walls within her, awakening the filaments of bliss. Suddenly it pulled back, then out, then touched the tip of her clitoris with a firm velvet tongue, moving around it, upon it, into it.

  From somewhere deep within her, the fever began to rise. And then the hardness plunged back into her, in and out, in and out. Fingertips pinched her nipple, pressing it tightly, tautly. Her wetness began to ooze, her muscles began to constrict. And suddenly there was no time, no space, no sense of earth. Her hips heaved upward, toward the ecstasy. And then she cried out softly, so no one would hear, so no one would know.

  Marina fell back against the feather mattress. Her heart pounded gently, her breath came in short puffs, as the throbbing between her legs continued to beat its satisfaction.

  Then the tears rolled from her eyes, the hint of hollowness that always followed, the unexpressed concession that Marina made toward loneliness. For no matter how independent, strong, or content Marina tried to convince herself she was, there was always that instant after orgasm when she longed for a man to hold her close, to rub her back, to kiss her hair. But there had been too many men: she had gambled too much and lost the game.

  She sighed and reached between her legs, then removed the flesh-colored plastic penis—the gift from her last husband. She reminded herself to put it in her bottom bureau drawer, where the servants would not find it. She wiped her tears, rose from her bed, and headed toward the shower, and another busy day.

  “You are up early, Father,” Marina said as she entered the family dining room and walked to the end of the long table where King Andrei sat, a gray morning coat around him, his white-bearded face fixed on the gold-rimmed cup in front of him. He was a big man, a striking contrast to her diminutive stature that she’d inherited from her mother. She kissed his cheek.

  “There’s trouble,” the king said.