he day after Lucy’s wedding, Clare had taken a vow of sobriety. The following Thursday evening at 5:32, she broke it. But really, a girl had to celebrate.

She held a bottle of Dom Perignon in her hands and worked the cork with her thumbs. After a few moments it popped and flew across her kitchen, hitting a deep mahogany cupboard and rebounding behind the gas stove. A gossamer mist rose from the mouth of the bottle as she poured into three tall champagne glasses. “This is going to be good,” she said through an unrepentant smile. “I stole it from my mother.”

Adele took a glass. “Stolen champagne is always the best kind.”

“What year?” Maddie asked as she took a glass.

“Nineteen ninety. Mother was saving it for my wedding day. Just because I’ve given up on men, doesn’t mean a vintage bottle of champagne should suffer.” She clinked glasses with Maddie and Adele and said, “Here’s to me.” An hour earlier she’d been given an oral HIV test, and within minutes found out she was negative. One more weight lifted from her shoulders. Her friends had been with her when she’d received the good news. “Thanks for going with me today,” she said, and took a sip. The only sad part of the celebration was that Lucy was not with them, but Clare knew that her friend was having a wonderful celebration of her own, soaking up the sun in the Bahamas with her new husband. “I know you both are busy, and it meant a lot that you were there with me.”

“Don’t thank us.” Adele wrapped an arm around her waist. “We’re friends.”

“I’m never too busy for you.” Maddie took a drink and sighed. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a drink of anything that wasn’t low carb. This is fabulous.”

“Are you still doing the Atkins?” Clare asked. For as long as she could remember, Maddie had been on one diet or another. It was a constant battle for her to remain in her size six jeans. Of course, as writers, spending so much time sitting put on a few pounds and was something they all battled. But for Maddie it was a never-ending struggle.

“I’m doing South Beach now,” she said.

“You should try going back to the gym,” Adele advised, and leaned her behind into the black granite countertop. Adele jogged five miles every morning out of fear that she would someday inherit her mother’s wide butt.

“No. I’ve belonged to four and quit each one after a few months.” Maddie shook her head. “The problem is I hate to sweat. It’s just so gross.”

Adele raised her glass to her lips. “It’s good for you to sweat out all the evil toxins in your body.”

“No. It’s good for you. I like my evil toxins to stay right where they are.”

Clare laughed and grabbed the bottle by the neck. “Maddie’s right. She should keep all her evil toxins buried deep and hidden from the unsuspecting world.” The three of them moved to the living room, which was stuffed with the antique furniture that had been in Clare’s family for generations. The arms of the medallion-back sofas and chairs were covered with doilies a great-grandmother or aunt had constructed with her own hands. She set the bottle on the marble-topped coffee table and took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs.

Maddie sat across from her on the sofa. “Have you ever thought of getting those guys from the Antiques Roadshow in here?”

“Why?” Clare asked, and picked a white thread from the left breast of her sleeveless black turtleneck.

“To tell you what some of this stuff is.” Maddie pointed in the direction of the burgundy gout footstool and the cherub pedestal.

“I know what it is and where it all came from.” She dropped the thread into a cloisonné dish.

Adele studied the Staffordshire figurines on the mantel. “How do you keep all this stuff clean?”

“It’s a lot of work.”

“Get rid of some of it.”

“I can’t do that.” She shook her head. “I have the Wingate illness. I think it’s in our genes. We can’t seem to part with family heirlooms, not even the horrible stuff, and believe me, my great-grandmother Foster had truly hideous taste. The problem is, we used to have a large family tree but we’ve been winnowed down to just a few branches. My mother and myself, a few cousins in South Carolina, and a mountain of family antiques.” She took a sip of champagne. “If you think my house is bad, you should see my mother’s attic. Sheesh. It’s like a museum up there.”

Adele turned from the mantel and moved across the Tulip & Lily rug to the sofa. “Did Lonny steal anything when he left? Besides your dog?”

“No.” Lonny’s fondness for her antiques had been something they had in common. “He knew he didn’t want to make me that angry.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not since Monday. I had the locks changed yesterday, and I get my new mattress delivered tomorrow.” She looked down into her glass and swirled the light blond champagne. Less than a week ago she’d been naively happy. Now she was moving on without Lonny. New locks. New bed. New life. Too bad her heart wasn’t moving as fast as the rest of her. Not only had she lost her fiancé, she’d lost a very close friend. Lonny had lied to her about a lot of things, but she didn’t believe that their friendship had been a pretense.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand men,” Adele said. “They’re seriously whacked in the head.”

“What did Dwayne do this time?” Clare asked. For two years Adele had dated Dwayne Larkin and thought he just might be Mr. Right. She’d overlooked his undesirable habits, like smelling the armpits of his shirts before he put them on, because he was buff and very handsome. She’d put up with his beer-swilling, air-guitar-playing ways, right up to the moment when he told her she was getting a “fat ass.” No one used the F word to describe her behind; she’d kicked him out of her life. But he wouldn’t go completely. Every few weeks Adele would find one or two of the things she’d left at his house sitting on her front porch. No note. No Dwayne. Just random stuff.

“He left a half-empty bottle of lotion and one no-skid footie on the porch.” She turned to Clare. “Remember the no-skid ladybug footies you gave me when I had my appendix out?”

“Yeah.”

“He only gave me the one back.”

“Bastard.”

“Creepy.”

Adele shrugged. “I’m more annoyed than afraid. I just wish he’d get tired and stop.” She’d called the police about it, but an old boyfriend returning his former girlfriend’s stuff wasn’t against the law. She could try and get a restraining order, but wasn’t sure it was worth the hassle. “I know he probably has more of my stuff.”

“You need a big boyfriend to go scare the crap out of him,” Clare provided. “If I still had a boyfriend, I’d lend him to you.”

Maddie lowered her brows as she gazed across at Clare. “No offense honey, but Lonny wouldn’t have scared the crap out of Dwayne.”

Adele leaned back against the sofa. “That’s true. Dwayne would have tied him into a knot.”

Yeah, that was probably the truth, Clare thought, and took a sip of her champagne. “You should talk to Quinn when he and Lucy get back from their honeymoon.” Quinn McIntyre was a detective with the Boise Police Department and might know what to do.

“He investigates violent crimes,” Adele pointed out, which was how Lucy had met the handsome detective. She‘d been researching online dating, he’d been searching for a female serial killer. Lucy had been his number one suspect, but he’d saved her life in the end. In Clare’s heart and mind, it had all been very romantic. Well, except for the creepy part.

“Do you think there is a right man out there for every woman?” Clare asked. She used to believe in soul mates and love at first sight. She still wanted to believe, but wanting to believe and actually believing were two different things.

Adele nodded. “I like to think so.”

“No. I believe in Mr. Right Now.”

“How’s that working for you?” Clare asked Maddie.

“Fine, Dr. Phil.” Maddie leaned forward and set her empty glass on the coffee table. “I don’t want hearts and flowers. I don’t want romance, and I don’t want to share my remote. I just want sex. You’d think that wouldn’t be too hard to find, but damn if it isn’t.”

“That’s because we have standards.” Adele tipped her glass and drained it. “Like a paying job. No artists who sponge, and no false teeth that pop out when he talks, unless he plays hockey and is extremely hot.”

“He can’t be married or homicidal.” Maddie thought a moment and, typical of her, she added, “And heft would be nice.”

“Heft is always nice.”

Clare stood and refilled the glasses. “Not gay is a must.” She was still waiting for the bing-bing moment. When she would know and could see why she picked cheaters and liars time and again. “The only good thing to come out of the breakup with Lonny is that my writing is going surprisingly well.” She found comfort in her writing. Comfort in being transported for several hours a day into a world she created when the reality of her real life sucked.

The doorbell chimed and the Muzak version of “Paperback Writer” filled the house. She set down a glass and looked at the porcelain clock on the mantel. She wasn’t expecting anyone. “I don’t know who that could be,” she said as she got up. “I forgot to enter the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes this year.”

“It’s probably the missionaries,” Adele called after her. “They’ve been casing my neighborhood on their bikes.”

“If they’re cute,” Maddie added, “invite them in for a drink and a little corruption.”

Adele laughed. “You’re going to hell.”

Clare glanced over her shoulder and paused long enough to say, “And you’re trying to pull the rest of us down with you. Don’t even think about sinning in this house. I don’t need that kind of bad karma.” She moved into the entry, opened the door, and came face-to-face with the poster boy for sin and corruption standing in the shade of her porch and gazing back at her through a pair of dark sunglasses. The last time she’d seen Sebastian he’d looked sleepy and unkept. Tonight his hair was combed and he’d shaved. He wore a dark green Stucky’s Bar T-Shirt tucked into beige cargo pants. She didn’t think she would have been more shocked to discover that Prize Patrol really was standing on her porch with a big check and balloons.

“Hey, Clare.”

She leaned to the left and looked behind him. A black Land Cruiser was parked at the curb.

“You got a minute?” He pulled the sunglasses from his face, slid one earpiece down the loose collar of his shirt and hooked them slightly left of his chin. He stared back at Clare through green eyes surrounded by thick lashes that she’d found so hard to resist as a little girl.

“Sure.” These days she didn’t have that problem, and stepped aside. “My friends are here and we’re just about to form a prayer circle. Come on in and we’ll pray for you.”

He laughed and walked in. “Sounds like my idea of good time.”

She shut the door behind him, and he followed her into the living room. Maddie and Adele looked up, their glasses suspended in midair, their conversation hung in mid-sentence. Clare could practically read the cartoon bubbles above their heads. The same “Whoa, baby” bubble she would have had over her head if she didn’t know Sebastian. But just because Maddie and Adele had paused to appreciate a good-looking man didn’t mean they were suckers for a pretty face and would start checking their breath or flipping their hair anytime soon. They weren’t that easy to impress. Especially Maddie, who viewed all men as potential offenders until proven otherwise.

“Sebastian, these are my friends,” Clare said as she crossed the room. The two women stood, and Clare looked at them as a stranger might. At Adele, with her long blond hair curling halfway down her back and magical turquoise-colored eyes that sometimes appeared more green than blue, depending on her mood. And Maddie, with her lush curves and Cindy Crawford mole at the corner of her full lips. Her friends were beautiful women, and around them she sometimes felt like the little girl with the tight braids and thick glasses. “Maddie Jones writes true crime under the pen name Madeline Dupree, and Adele Harris writes science fiction fantasy under her own name.”

While Sebastian shook the hand of each woman, he looked into their eyes and smiled, a smooth tilt of his mouth that might have charmed more susceptible women. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. The sudden appearance of his well-hidden manners was another shock to Clare. Almost as big as opening her door and seeing him on her porch.

“Sebastian is Leo Vaughan’s son,” she continued. Both women had been to her mother’s house on several occasions and had met Leo. “Sebastian is a journalist.” Since she’d invited him in, she supposed she would have to be hospitable. “Would you care for champagne?”

He removed his gaze from her friends and looked at her over his shoulder. “No, but I’ll take a beer if you have one.”

“Of course.”

“Who do you write for?” Maddie asked as she raised her glass to her lips.

“I’m primarily a freelancer, although these days I work for Newsweek. For the glossies, I’ve written pieces for Time, Rolling Stone, National Geographic,” he answered, listing his impressive bona fides as Clare left the room.

She grabbed a bottle of Lonny’s Hefeweizen from the refrigerator and popped the top. She could no longer hear what he said, just the low rumble and deep texture of his voice. For a year she’d lived with a man in the house, but having Sebastian in the next room felt very odd. He’d brought a different energy into her home. One she couldn’t put her finger on at the moment.

When she returned to the living room, he’d sat in her chair, relaxed and comfy, as if he wasn’t going anyplace soon. He obviously intended to stay longer than a “minute,” and Clare wondered what had brought him to her door.

Maddie and Adele were seated on the couch, listening to Sebastian’s journalistic tales. “A few months ago, I did a real interesting piece for Vanity Fair on a Manhattan art dealer who faked the histories of Egyptian antiquities in order to get around Egyptian export laws,” he said as she handed him the beer. He glanced up at her. “Thank you.”

“Would you like a glass?”

He looked the bottle over and read the label. “No, this is good,” he said, and Clare took a seat in one of the matching high-backed chairs. He crossed one foot over his knee and rested the bottle on the heel of his boot. “For a lot of years I bounced around from state to state and wrote articles for a lot of different news organizations, but I don’t write for the black-and-whites anymore.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Not for a few years, since I was an embed with the First Battalion Fifth Marine Regiment during the invasion of Iraq.” He took a drink of his beer while Clare waited for him to get to the reason behind his visit. “How many books have you ladies published?” he asked, and Clare realized he wasn’t going to talk about why he’d appeared on her porch, leaving her to wonder but have absolutely no clue. Other than to drive her insane with speculations.

“Five,” Maddie answered. Adele had eight publishing credits to her name, and like a good reporter, Sebastian followed up each answer with another question. Within fifteen minutes the two women who were hard to impress had become willing victims of Sebastian’s born-again charm.

“Sebastian published a book about Afghanistan,” Clare felt compelled by good manners to point out. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name of your book.” It had been years since she’d borrowed it from Leo and read it.

“Fractured: Twenty Years of War in Afghanistan.”

“I remember that book,” Adele admitted.

“So do I,” Maddie added.

Clare was not surprised that her friends recalled it. It had taken up the top slots on the USA Today and New York Times best-seller lists for weeks. Authors didn’t tend to forget or easily forgive a list hog. Except Adele, apparently. Clare watched as her friend wound a spiral lock of hair around her finger.

“What was it like being embedded with the Marines?” Adele asked.

“Cramped. Dirty. Scary as hell. And those were the good days. For months after I returned to the States, I’d just stand outside and breathe in air that wasn’t permeated with powdered sand.” He paused, and a slight smile touched the corner of his mouth. “If you talk to the military guys who are home now, that’s one of the things they appreciate most. Dust-free air.”

Maddie studied Sebastian as he took a drink, and the suspicious scrutiny that she subjected upon all men melted from her brown eyes. “They all look so young.”

Sebastian licked the beer from his bottom lip, then said, “The sergeant who commanded the vehicle I rode in was twenty-eight. The youngest soldier was nineteen. I was the old guy, but they saved my ass on more than one occasion.” He pointed at the champagne bottle with his beer and changed the subject. “Are you ladies celebrating?”

Adele and Maddie looked at Clare but didn’t answer. “No,” Clare lied, and took a sip. She didn’t feel like sharing that afternoon’s doctor visit with Sebastian. He might look normal and talk like a regular guy, but she didn’t trust him. He’d come to her house because he wanted something. Something he didn’t want to discuss in front of her friends. “We always drink when we get together to pray.”

He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes. He didn’t believe her, but didn’t press her either. Maddie raised her glass and asked, “How long have you known Clare?”

For several heartbeats Sebastian looked into Clare’s eyes before he turned his attention to the women across from him. “Let’s see. I was five or six the first time I spent the summer with my father. The first time I remember seeing her, she was wearing a little dress that was kind of gathered at the top.” He pointed to his chest with the mouth of his bottle. “And little girl socks that fold over around the ankles. She dressed like that for years.”

Growing up, she and her mother had fought a lot about clothing. “My mother was into smocked dresses and Mary Janes in a big way,” she said. “When I was ten it was pleated skirts.”

“You still wear a lot of dresses and skirts,” Adele pointed out.

“It’s what I’m used to, but as a child, I didn’t have a choice. My mother bought my clothes and I had to look perfect all the time. I was terrified of getting dirty.” She thought back and said, “The only time I got dirty was when Sebastian was around.”

He shrugged, clearly unrepentant. “You looked better messed up.”

Which showed his contrary nature. No one looked good messed up. Except maybe him. “When I visited my father,” Clare said, “he’d let me wear whatever I wanted. Of course, my clothes had to stay in Connecticut, so the next time I visited him they didn’t fit. My favorite was a Smurf T-shirt.” She remembered Smurfette and sighed. “But what I really wanted, and not even my father would get for me, was a ‘boy toy’ belt buckle like Madonna. I wanted one of those in the worst way.”

Maddie frowned. “I can’t imagine you ever wanting to be a boy toy.”

“I didn’t even know what it meant, but I thought Madonna was so cool rolling around in that wedding veil with all that gaudy costume jewelry hanging off her. I wasn’t allowed costume jewelry because Mother thinks it’s vulgar.” She looked at Sebastian and confessed, “I used to sneak into your father’s house when he was working and watch MTV.”

Tiny laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes. “Rebel.”

“Yeah, right. Rebel, that’s me. Remember when you taught me to play poker and you won all my money?”

“I remember. You cried, and my dad made me give it all back.”

“That’s because you told me we weren’t really playing for keeps. You lied.”

“Lied?” He took his foot from his knee, leaned forward and placed his forearms on his thighs. “No, I had an ulterior motive and big plans for that money.”

He’d always had an ulterior motive. “What plans?”

The bottle dangled from one hand between his knees as he thought a moment. “Well, I was ten, so I wasn’t into porn and alcohol yet.” He tapped the bottle against the leg of his cargo pants. “So, probably a stack of Mad magazines and a six-pack of Hires. I would have shared with you, if you hadn’t been such a crybaby.”

“So, your ulterior motive was to take all my money so you could share magazines and root beer with me?”

He grinned. “Something like that.”

Adele laughed and set her empty glass on the table. “I bet you were cute running around in your little dresses and polished shoes.”

“No. I wasn’t. I looked like a bug.”

Sebastian was conspicuously silent. Jerk.

“Honey, it’s better to be a homely child and a beautiful adult than a beautiful child and a homely adult,” Maddie pointed out in an effort to comfort Clare. “I have a cousin who was a gorgeous little girl, but she is one of the ugliest women you don’t ever want to lay your eyes on. Once her nose started to grow, it just didn’t stop. You may have started out a little short on looks, but you’re certainly a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you.” Clare bit her bottom lip. “I think.”

“You’re welcome.” Maddie set her glass on the table and stood. “I’ve got to get going.”

“You do?”

“Me too,” Adele announced. “I have a date.”

Clare stood. “You didn’t mention that.”

“Well, today is about you, and I didn’t want to talk about my date when your life isn’t so great.”

After both women said their good-byes to Sebastian, Clare walked them to the front door.

“Okay. What is between you and Sebastian?” Maddie asked just above a whisper as she stepped out onto the porch.

“Nothing.”

“He looks at you like there’s something more.”

Adele added, “When you left the room to get his beer, his gaze followed you.”

Clare shook her head. “Which doesn’t mean a thing. He was probably hoping I’d trip and fall or something equally mortifying.”

“No.” Adele shook her head as she reached into her purse for her keys. “He looked at you like he was trying to picture you naked.”

Clare didn’t point out that he didn’t have to try. Pretty much, he already knew.

“And while I would normally find that disturbing in a man, it was really hot when he did it.” Maddie also dug around in her purse for her keys. “So, I think you should go for it.”

Who are these women? “Hello. Last week I was engaged to Lonny. Remember?”

“You need a rebound man.” Adele took a step off the porch. “He’d be perfect in that capacity.”

Maddie nodded and followed Adele down the sidewalk toward their cars, parked in the driveway. “You can tell by looking at the man that he has heft.”

“Good-bye, you two,” she said, and closed the door behind her. As far as Clare was concerned, Maddie was preoccupied with heft, probably because she hadn’t been anywhere near heft in several years. And Adele…Well, she had always suspected that Adele sometimes lived in the fantasyland in which she wrote.