That’s about as realistic as…

  Well, as her mother suddenly turning over a kinder, gentler leaf.

  “Mom,” Cassie says, realizing she’s filling a glass from the tap, “I’ve got bottled water in the fridge.”

  “This isn’t for me. It’s for your poor philodendron.” Regina marches back to the living room and dumps the glass into the wilted plant. “These things are almost impossible to kill, yet you’re managing. Do you ever water this?”

  No, she never does.

  Once in awhile, Alec will sprinkle it with the remains of his squirt bottle of Poland Spring, but that’s about it.

  Cassie thinks of her parents’ apartment on East Sixty-Second Street, with abundant healthy house plants clustered in each sunny window.

  Regina prides herself on knowing the botanical name of each and cares for them single-handedly. When she’s not busy overseeing the legal affairs for the City of New York or planning her upcoming congressional campaign, that is.

  Cassie sighs inwardly.

  Even if she marries Alec, lands in a thriving pediatric practice, has a waterfront mansion and a brood of beautiful children…

  She’ll still somehow feel inadequate.

  She’ll never live up to her mother’s perfectionist expectations; why bother trying?

  Why bother with any of this?

  The wedding, the medical career, the stupid, half-dead philodendron…

  Right now, she wants to shed every last burden.

  But what about Alec?

  He loves her.

  And she does love him.

  She just wishes he would give her more time. And space.

  Cassie closes her eyes and pictures herself on her horse’s glossy light brown back, precisely the color of a perfectly toasted marshmallow. She’s surrounded by a vast green meadow, the wind in her face…

  Then she opens her eyes, and there’s her mother, shaking her head as she pinches several withered yellow-brown leaves from the twining philodendron.

  “Looks like somebody’s having a birthday party,” comments the gray-haired, heavyset woman behind the cash register at Party City.

  What is there to do but nod in agreement and watch her painstakingly ring up the purchases?

  Pointy bubblegum-pink paper party hats, matching plates and cups, a bag of pink and white balloons, another of little horns that unfurl tissue tubes when you blow on their plastic mouthpieces. Plus a big, shiny pink “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banner, wrapping paper, a package of candles.

  “Only ten?” asks the woman, whose plastic name tag readsMarge .

  “That’s just how many I need.” Smile pleasantly. Look her in the eye. Be casual.

  “My granddaughter is ten years old, too, next week,” Marge comments. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years already. They sure have flown by.”

  For you, maybe, Marge.

  They haven’t flown by for me at all.

  “Did you want to get some goody bags, too? We have some on the shelf that match this pattern.”

  “No, no goody bags.”

  “Are you sure? My daughter says you can’t have a party without goody bags.”

  “I’ve already got them.”

  “Then you’re ahead of the game.”

  Very observant of you, Marge. I’m way ahead of the game.

  “I hope the birthday girl enjoys her special day.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she will.”

  Marge hands over the white plastic bag filled with party supplies. “You have a nice night, now.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  And tomorrow night is sure to be even nicer.

  CHAPTER 8

  “I’m in a bind, I need a huge favor. Can you help me?”

  Holding the phone to her ear, Brynn sits back on the rumpled bed and exhales heavily through puffed cheeks.

  Leave it to Fee to barge right back into her life—at six fortyAM , no less—after a week-long absence, with an immediate and brazen request for a favor.

  And not just any favor…ahuge favor.

  “I don’t know, Fee…What is it?” Brynn asks reluctantly, watching a towel-clad, damp-haired Garth pad back into the bedroom.

  “I swear Pat is a first-class jerk.”

  “So what’s the favor? Do you need me to find him and beat him up for you?” Brynn cracks.

  “Believe me, if I thought you were serious, I’d take you up on that. He won’t take Ashley for me tonight, and I have an important thing to go to in Boston.”

  “A meeting?”

  A moment’s hesitation, then Fiona clarifies, “It’s a date, actually. With a client.”

  “Is that good for business?” Brynn asks, and wonders why she bothered. As if Fiona would ever do anything that isn’t good for business.

  “Trust me, it’s very good for business. Anyway, I won’t be back until really late, so…”

  “Why won’t Pat take Ashley?”

  “Why do you think? Spite. I asked him right in front of her last night, and he said he’d have to check his schedule and let me know. I just woke up to a text message from him saying he’s busy.”

  “Maybe he really is.”

  “Doing what? WatchingLaw & Order reruns?”

  Brynn yawns, checking the clock. Almost time to go wake the boys. She wishes Fiona would just get to the point…And she’s pretty sure she knows what it is.

  “I even tried calling Sharon in Albany to see if she’d come down, but her daughter said she’s away on some casino trip with a busload of old farts from the senior center.”

  “Her daughter said that?”

  “More or less. So can you, Brynn?”

  She decides to feign ignorance. “Can I what?”

  “Take Ashley for me tonight? She’s really no problem—”

  “I know she isn’t—”

  “And she’d help you with the boys, and the dishes, and she could clean up around your house a little.”

  “For God’s sake, Fee, you don’t have to sell her domestic skills to me. Of course I’ll take her. I love Ashley.”

  And I know you do, too. I just wish you’d figure out how to show it more often.

  “Thanks, Brynn.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Brynn watches as, facing the mirror, Garth drops the towel. She can’t help but admire her husband’s muscular shoulders, buttocks, legs. Experiencing a wanton stirring in the pit of her stomach, she casts another glance at the clock.

  No, she has to get the boys moving.

  Then she looks back at Garth, still standing there naked, and his reflection grins and bobs a suggestive eyebrow at her.

  “Can you keep her overnight?” Fiona is asking.

  “Sure, she can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that, Brynn. I don’t want to put you and Garth out of your room. Ashley can sleep on the couch.”

  Brynn shrugs, not bothering to tell Fiona that Garth probably won’t even make it to their bed. It’s a Thursday. He won’t be home until late.

  “Listen, it’ll be fine. I’ll take all the kids out for pizza or something,” she says distractedly, as Garth turns away from the mirror with a lascivious grin.

  “Great. I owe you a huge favor, Brynn.”

  “No problem. See you later.”

  She hangs up as her husband descends on the bed. She wishes she had time to quickly brush her teeth and comb her bed-head. And she’s wearing one of his old thermal long-sleeved shirts and a pair of Old Navy flannel pajama bottoms circa 2000.

  “I’ve got to get the boys up,” she protests, giggling, as Garth wraps his arms around her and kisses her neck.

  “They can wait a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes? Is that really all I get?”

  “Hey, it’s all about the quality, not the quantity.”

  Sinking back against the pillows in her husband’s embrace, Brynn puts all thoughts of the boys—and Fiona, and Ashley—right out of her head for the time being.

  Resting up for her bash tonight, Matilda Harrington is sipping Splenda-laced espresso and lazily flipping throughVogue in her sun-splashed living room when the florist truck arrives.

  She sits up in her chair and leans forward to look through the tall bay window.

  There’s her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Stallsman, tapping her way along the block with her white cane and guide dog. Tildy wonders, as always, why she doesn’t just hire somebody to do her errands for her. Not that she herself has ever offered to help. But you’d think that someone who can afford to live in this neighborhood would be able to afford a gofer.

  The deliveryman emerges onto Commonwealth Avenue carrying a tall bouquet.

  Uh-oh. It isn’t tulips, is it?

  No, thank goodness.

  Even from half a story above the street, she can see that it’s roses. Red ones. And only a dozen.

  “Lena! Somebody’s coming to the door,” she calls.

  The housekeeper’s footsteps dutifully venture from the kitchen to the front hall.

  Tildy turns her attention back to her magazine. There’s a darling Marc Jacobs cashmere twinset that would be perfect for her trip next weekend with—

  “Ms. Harrington? These are for you.”

  She looks up to see Lena standing in the doorway with a tall, cut glass—perhaps crystal?—vase.

  Yes, a dozen red roses.

  He gets ten points for sentimentality; none for creativity or expenditure.

  Unless they aren’t from him.

  “You can put them right here, Lena.” She indicates the polished cherry end table beside her chair.

  The housekeeper sets the vase on a coaster and exits, leaving Tildy to examine the card propped amid the blossoms on a tall plastic prong.

  It’s plain white, preimprinted with “Happy Birthday” scrolled in gold type.

  Below, in unfamiliar script, is the message:

  See you tonight!

  Nothing more. Not even a name.

  He isn’t even supposed to be at her party tonight.

  She told him that if he couldn’t come alone, she didn’t want him to come at all.

  “You know I can’t come alone, Mattie.” Only he calls her that. He has from the start.

  “Well, I don’t want to watch you dancing withher all night,” Tildy said, knowing she sounded petulant, and not caring. It’sher party.

  So what does this note mean? Has he changed his mind? Is he possibly going to surprise her there—without his wife on his arm?

  It wouldn’t exactly be a surprise now that he’s tipped his hand with the flowers, but…

  Can these flowers be from somebody other than him?

  Could be. A dozen red roses? He’s sent her flowers often enough for her to realize these aren’t his style.

  But then who…?

  Not Ray Wilmington.

  God knows he’s sent her flowers before, but not roses, and, anyway, he knows he isn’t invited to the party.

  Unless this is his way of letting her know he’s planning to crash? Would he really be that bold?

  Somehow, she doesn’t think so.

  God, she hopes not.

  But if the flowers didn’t come from either of the two men who come most readily to mind, she’s got a mystery on her hands. She can’t think of a single person who would anonymously send her birthday flowers…

  Nobody she’s expecting to see tonight, anyway.

  This would be so much easier to pull off if Kylah was traveling out of town this weekend, but she isn’t.

  Which means Isaac had to make up something about why he won’t be home until late tonight. After midnight, probably.

  He told her he was invited to a bachelor party for one of the guys from work. She didn’t ask which guy, or where the party is being held, or why anyone would have a bachelor party on a weeknight.

  That she trusts him and respects his privacy makes him feel even guiltier for lying.

  But, as usual, he has no choice.

  He can’t tell her where he’s really going…again.

  Nor can he tell her, when she calls his cell phone just past four o’clock, that he’s sitting not in his office, but in a rental car, in a traffic jam well north of midtown Manhattan.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  Without missing a beat he replies, “I’m in a cab going to a meeting. What areyou doing?”

  “Same exact thing. Where’s your meeting?”

  “Uptown. Yours?”

  “Downtown. And never the twain shall meet,” she says with a sigh, and he emits the obligatory laugh.

  “I wish you were coming home after work tonight, Isaac. I feel like getting pizza and seeing a movie.”

  “Well, why don’t you do that? With one of your friends?”

  “Maybe I will. But I’d rather do it with you.”

  “Tomorrow night,” he promises her, inching forward beneath the green road sign that readsNORTHBOUND NEW ENGLAND THRUWAY .

  “Okay, sounds good.”

  He glances at the clock, then at the map on the seat beside him, wondering if there’s an alternate route.

  Rachel’s face smiles up at him from an 8 © 10 photo lying next to the map.

  “What don’t you want me to see?”

  So startled is he by Kylah’s question that he swivels to look over his shoulder, almost expecting to see her peering through the window somehow, watching him.

  What don’t you want me to see?

  Rachel. I don’t want you to see Rachel…not even her picture.

  But, of course, Kylah isn’t here, spying on him. There’s no one behind him, other than the frustrated occupants of a string of other cars at a complete standstill.

  What don’t you want me tosee?she asked. And Isaac comes swiftly to his senses as he realizes Kylah is talking about movies. Movies aretheir thing, together.

  What don’t you want me to see?

  He asked her the same thing just last Saturday afternoon, when he was headed to Loews Multiplex to kill a few hours while she had lunch with her sister.

  Her answer was immediate: “Nothing with a meet-cute, a good love scene, or John Cusack. Save those kinds of movies to see with me.”