can't believe Carter Reynolds is your father!" Sara burst out excitedly the moment the heavy doors of city hall swung closed behind them. "I can not believe it," she repeated, thinking of the articles she'd seen about him in the "Palm Beach Social Section" of Bell Harbor's Sunday newspaper.

"I've never been able to believe it myself," Sloan said wryly. "Actually, I've never had any reason to believe it," she added as they walked across the parking lot toward her car.

Sara scarcely heard that; her thoughts were racing down another track. "When we were little kids, you told me your parents got divorced when you were a baby, but you forgot to mention your father is… is… Carter Reynolds!" she said, lifting her arms to the sky, palms up, as if addressing heaven. "My God, just his name makes me think of yachts and Rolls-Royces and banks and… money. Mountains and mountains of glorious money! How could you keep a secret like that from me all these years?"

Sloan hadn't had a private moment to think about his call, but Sara's awed exuberance only hardened her own determination to remain unaffected by Carter Reynolds's illness, his tardy attempt to get to know her, and especially his money. "He isn't my father, except in the biological sense. In all these years, I've never received so much as a birthday card or a Christmas card, or even a phone call from him."

"But he called you today, didn't he? What did he want?"

"He wanted me to come to Palm Beach for a visit so we could get to know each other. I told him no. Absolutely no," Sloan said, hoping to eliminate any debate from Sara. "It's too late for him to try to play father," she said as she slid her key into the lock on the door of her car.

Sara was intensely loyal to Sloan, and under ordinary circumstances she would readily have empathized with Sloan's decision to reject a parent who had rejected Sloan since babyhood. However, from Sara's point of view, there was nothing "ordinary" about being the daughter of a man who could make Sloan into an heiress. "I don't think you should be so hasty," she said, thinking madly for some sort of excuse she could offer for the inexcusable. She voiced the first lame possibility that came to mind.

"I don't think men need to be close to their children the way women do," Sara reasoned. "It's as if they lack some sort of parental chromosome, or something."

"Sorry," Sloan said lightly, "but you can't attribute his utter disinterest in me to defective genetics. From everything I've read, he positively dotes on my sister. They play tennis together; they ski together, they play golf together. They're a team, and a winning one. I've lost count of how many trophies I've seen the two of them holding on to."

"Your sister! That's right! My God, you have a sister, too!" Sara exclaimed, sounding amazed. "I can't believe it… you and I made mud pies together, we did homework together, we even got chicken pox together, and now I discover that you not only have a rich socialite for a father, but you also have a sister you've never told me about."

"I just told you nearly everything I know about her—which is only what I've seen in the newspapers. Beyond that, all I know is that her name is Paris and she's a year older than I am. I've never heard from her, either."

"But how did all this happen?"

Sloan glanced at her watch. "I've only got an hour to eat and change clothes, then I'm on duty until nine. If you really want to talk about this, could we do it at my place?"

Sara was almost as flexible as she was fascinated. "I really want to talk about this," she said, already starting toward her red Toyota two parking spaces away. "I'll meet you at your place."

The stucco house Sloan had bought years ago was on a corner directly across from the beach—a tiny two-bedroom place on a narrow lot in a ten-block neighborhood of tiny, forty-year-old houses. The aging neighborhood's proximity to the ocean combined with the diminutive size of the houses had made them extremely desirable to young people with the energy and determination to fix them up but without a lot of cash to do it. As a result of the imagination and dedication of these first-time home owners, the entire neighborhood had acquired a quaint, eclectic look with avant-garde clapboard houses existing in happy harmony next to storybook cottages of stucco and brick.

Sloan had invested all her savings and all her spare time in her own house and had turned it into a picturesque stucco cottage with white window boxes and sparkling white trim that flattered the slate gray color of the stucco. When she first bought her house, the stretch of beach across from it had belonged almost exclusively to the residents of Sloan's quiet neighborhood. Back then, the street had been quiet, the residents lulled by an undulating silence that deepened and withdrew as each new breaker flung itself onto the beach and receded into the sea.

Bell Harbor's population explosion had put an end to all that as families with young children looked for a beach without the noise and antics of the college crowd, and they discovered Sloan's beach. Now, when Sloan turned onto her narrow street at four P.M. on Sunday, it was lined with vehicles parked bumper-to-bumper, some of them directly in front of No Parking signs and others partially blocking residents' driveways. And although she knew the surf was still rising and falling, she couldn't hear it above the delighted squeals of the children and the music from their parents' portable radios.

Sara grabbed the only parking space in sight, and Sloan bit back a smile as she watched Sara force a dark blue Ford sedan to back up so that she could claim the space for herself. The driver let her bluff him out.

"You really have to do something about all those cars," Sara decreed as she hurried over to Sloan, brushing a smudge off her pants leg. "They're packed in so tight that I had to squeeze between my car and the one in front of it, and I got dirt on my leg."

"I count myself lucky when they're not blocking my driveway," Sloan joked, unlocking her front door. Inside, the house was cheerful and bright, furnished in casual rattan furniture with pillows covered in a print of palm leaves and yellow hibiscus on a white background.

"I'd count myself lucky if you'd tell me about Carter Reynolds. How did he know where to phone you today?"

"He said he called my mother."

"So the two of them have stayed in touch over the years?"

"Nope."

"Wow," Sara breathed. "I wonder what she thought of his sudden interest in you."

Sloan could have bet serious money on her mother's probable reaction, but instead of replying, she tipped her head toward the answering machine, where the red message light was flashing frantically and the call counter indicated that three new messages were waiting. Suppressing a weary smile, she walked over and pressed the message playback button. Her mother's voice burst out with exactly the tone of youthful delight Sloan had expected to hear. "Sloan, honey, it's Mom. You're going to get a wonderful surprise today, but I don't want to spoil it because I want you to be as surprised as I was. But here's a hint: Sometime today, you're going to get a phone call from a man who's very important to you. Call me at home this afternoon before you go on duty tonight."

The second message was recorded two minutes after the first one, and it was also from Kimberly Reynolds. "Honey, I was so excited when I left you the last message that I wasn't thinking straight. I won't be home until nine tonight, because we're having a sale on Escada and we're very busy at the shop, so I told Lydia I'd stay and help until we close. And you can't call me here at the shop, because it upsets Lydia so much when employees use the shop's phone, and you know how bad her ulcers are. I don't want to give her another attack. I can't stand the suspense, so please leave me a message on my answering machine. Don't forget…"

Sara looked understandably stunned. "She's completely thrilled about his phone call."

"Of course," Sloan said, shaking her head in amused disbelief at her mother's typically naive optimism. According to Sloan's birth certificate, Kimberly Janssen Reynolds was her mother, but the reality was that Sloan had raised Kimberly and not the reverse. "Why are you surprised?"

"I don't know. I guess I thought Kim would be carrying some sort of grudge."

Sloan rolled her eyes at that. "Are we talking about my mom—the same sweet woman who can't refuse anyone anything because she's worried she'll seem rude or hurt their feelings? The same woman who just let Lydia bully her into working an extra six hours, but who dares not use Lydia's telephone because she's worried that the overbearing witch will have an ulcer attack if she does? The same underpaid, overworked woman who has run Lydia's shop for her for fifteen years and who brings in more customers than all the rest of Lydia's clerks combined?"

Sara, who loved Kimberly almost as much as Sloan did, started to laugh as Sloan finished her comic diatribe. "I can't believe you actually thought the same woman who practically raised you could carry a grudge against Carter Reynolds, merely because he walked out of her life thirty years ago, broke her heart, and never looked back or contacted her again."

Grinning, Sara held up her hand. "You're absolutely right. I must have had a moment of temporary insanity to even suggest such a thing."

Satisfied with that, Sloan pressed the playback button again. Message number three was also from Kimberly and had been recorded only fifteen minutes before Sloan and Sara walked into the house. "Honey, it's Mom. I'm at a pay phone in the drugstore on my break. I called the police station, and Jess told me you'd already gotten a long distance phone call from your father, so I'm not ruining your surprise by leaving this message. I've been thinking about what you should take with you to Palm Beach. I know you've been spending every cent you can spare on your house, but we'll have to start shopping for a complete new wardrobe for you. Don't worry honey, by the time you leave for Palm Beach, you'll have loads of beautiful clothes."

Sara suppressed a chuckle while Sloan erased the messages and reset the answering machine.

Sloan picked up the phone, dialed her mother's number, and left a message on her answering machine as Kim had asked her to do. "Hi, Mom, it's Sloan. I spoke to Carter Reynolds, but I am not going to Palm Beach. I have no desire to get to know that side of the family, and I told him that. Love you. Bye." With that, she hung up the phone and turned to Sara. "I'm starved," she announced as if the subject of Carter Reynolds were already buried and forgotten. "I think I'll fix a tuna sandwich. Would you like one?"

Silently, Sara turned and watched Sloan walk into the kitchen and begin opening cupboards. Now that the shock of the discovery was wearing off, Sara was as hurt as she was baffled by the realization that Sloan and Kim had kept this enormous secret from her. They were her family, closer to her than any family that she'd ever known.

Sara's own mother had been an abusive alcoholic who didn't care or even notice when her four-year-old daughter began spending most of her time next door with Kimberly and Sloan Reynolds. Seated beside Sloan at an old kitchen table with a white Formica laminate top and stainless steel legs, Sara had learned to draw with fat crayons in the coloring book Sloan was always willing to share with her, and it was Kim who lavished praise on Sara's efforts. The following year, when both girls went off to the first day of kindergarten, they were holding hands for courage and wearing identical Snoopy backpacks that Kim had gotten both of them.

When they came home, they were both proudly clutching drawings with big stars put there by their teacher. Kimberly promptly taped Sloan's drawing onto the refrigerator, but when the girls ran next door to present Sara's mother with her drawing, Mrs. Gibbon had tossed it onto a cluttered table, where it landed on one of the round wet spots left by her whiskey glass. When Sloan tried to explain about Sara's star, Mrs. Gibbon screamed at Sloan to shut up, which humiliated and frightened Sara to tears. But Sloan didn't burst into tears or even look afraid. Instead she picked up Sara's drawing and took Sara by the hand; then she led her back to her own house. "Sara's mommy doesn't have a good place to put her pictures," Sloan had explained to Kimberly in a small, fierce, shaking voice that sounded strange to Sara. Sloan got the tape out and hung Sara's picture next to hers. "So we'll just keep them right here, won't we, Mommy," she decreed as she pressed the heel of her hand hard against the tape to make sure it was secure.

Sara held her breath, fearful that Mrs. Reynolds might not want to waste such treasured display space on drawings Sara's own mother didn't want, but Kimberly hugged both little girls and said that was a very good idea. The memory was etched forever in Sara's mind, because she never again felt completely and utterly alone. It was not the last time Sara's mother caused misery, nor the last time that Sloan interceded for Sara or someone else while she fought back tears and terror. It was not the last time that Kimberly hugged them or consoled them or bought them expensive matching items for school that she couldn't afford. But it was the last time that Sara felt like a helpless outsider in a cruel, bewildering world where everyone except her had someone to turn to and trust.

In the years that followed, their childish drawings were replaced by their report cards and school pictures and newspaper clippings with their names underlined in red. Coloring books and crayons that had littered the kitchen table gave way to algebra books and term papers; conversational topics changed from teachers who were mean, to boys who were hunks, to money, of which there was never enough. By the time they were teenagers, Sloan and Sara realized that Kim simply could not manage money, and it was Sloan who took over budgeting; some of their other roles were reversed as well. But one thing remained constant, even as it deepened and grew: Sara knew she was a valued, essential part of a family.

Given all that, it was understandable that she was shaken by the discovery that there was one enormous family secret to which she had never been privy.

Sara sank down at the kitchen table and thought about how often she had sat at kitchen tables with Sloan and Kimberly. Thousands of times.

Sloan looked over at her friend. "Would you like a sandwich?" she repeated.

"I realize this is none of my business," Sara said, feeling a little like an outsider for the first time since she'd met Sloan and Kimberly, "but can you at least tell me why you kept all that about your father a total secret from me?"

Sloan swung around, startled by Sara's hurt tone. "But it wasn't a big secret, not really. When you and I were kids, we talked about our fathers, and I told you about mine. When my mother was eighteen, she won a local beauty contest and the first prize was a trip to Fort Lauderdale and a week in the best hotel. Carter Reynolds was staying at the same hotel. He was seven years older than she, impossibly handsome, and a hundred times more sophisticated. Mom believed it was love at first sight and that they were going to get married and live happily ever after. The truth was, he had no intention of marrying her or even of seeing her again until he found out she was pregnant, and then his disgusted family gave him no choice. For the next couple of years they lived near Coral Gables, scraping by on what he could earn, and Mom had another baby.

"Mom thought they were blissfully happy until the day his mother arrived at their house in a limousine, offered him a chance to come back into the family fold, and he grabbed it. While my mother was in tears and shock, they persuaded her that it would be selfish of her to try to hold on to a man who wanted his freedom, or to try to keep both his babies away from him. They convinced her to let them take Paris back to San Francisco with them for what Mom thought was a visit. Then they got her to sign a document agreeing to a divorce. She didn't know that in the small print she had relinquished all her rights to Paris. They left in the limousine, three hours after his mother arrived. End of story."

Sara was staring at her, her eyes filled with tears of sympathy and outrage for Kim. "You did tell me that story a long time ago," she said, "but I was too young to understand the… the ruthlessness of what they did and the torment they caused."

Sloan took instant advantage of Sara's own words to press home her point "And now that you do understand, would you want to admit you're related to that man or his family? Wouldn't you want to forget it?"

"I'd want to kill the bastard," Sara said, but she laughed.

"A healthy reaction and honest description of the man," Sloan said approvingly as she put two tuna salad sandwiches on the table. "Since killing him was not an option to my mother and since I was too young to do it for her," Sloan finished lightly, "and since talking about him or my sister or anything associated with that day used to make her incredibly sad, I convinced her when I was seven or eight that we should pretend none of them ever existed. After all, we had each other and then we had you. I thought we had a pretty terrific family."

"We did. We do," Sara said with feeling, but she couldn't smile. "Wasn't there anything Kim could do to get Paris back?"

Sloan shook her head. "Mom talked to a local lawyer, and he said it would cost a fortune to hire the kind of high-powered attorneys she'd have needed to fight theirs in court, and even then he didn't think she'd win. Mom has always tried to convince herself that in living with the Reynolds family Paris has had a wonderful life with advantages and opportunities that Mom never could have given her."

Despite her objective tone, Sloan felt swamped by anger. In the past, her strongest emotion had been indignation on her mother's behalf and contempt for her father. Now, as she recounted the story, she was a grown woman, and what she felt was far more fierce than indignation; it was empathy and compassion so intense that it made her chest ache. For her father—that callous, selfish, cruel destroyer of innocence and dreams—what she felt for him was not merely contempt, it was loathing, and it grew as she considered his presumptuous phone call earlier. After decades of neglect, he actually believed he could make a phone call and his abandoned wife and unseen daughter would leap at the chance for a reunion. She shouldn't have just coldly dismissed him on the phone; she should have told him she'd prefer spending a week in a snake pit to a week with him anywhere. She should have told him he was a bastard.