une was a hard month in Seattle. It was in this season, the school bells rang for the last time and the peonies and delphiniums bloomed, that the locals began to complain that they'd been cheated. The rains had started in October (invariably Seattleites swore it had come early this year); by the last week in May, even the meteorologically challenged denizens of Seattle had had enough. They watched the news religiously, seeing the first tantalizing shots of people swimming in the warm waters farther south. Relatives began to call, talking on cell phones as they stood outside to barbecue. Summer had come to every other corner of America.

The locals saw it as a matter of fairness. They deserved summer. They'd put up with nine solid months of dismal weather and it was past time for the sun to deliver.

So, it was hardly surprising that it rained on the day Nora Bridge celebrated her fiftieth birthday. She didn't take the weather as an omen or a portent of bad luck.

In retrospect, she should have.

Instead, she simply thought: Rain. Of course. It almost always rained on her birthday.

She stood at the window in her office, sipping her favorite drink-Mumm's champagne with a slice of fresh peach-and stared out at the traffic on Broad Street. It was four-thirty. Rush hour in a city that had outgrown its highway system ten years ago.

On her windowsill, dozens of birthday cards fanned along the gleaming strip of bird's-eye maple.

She'd received cards and gifts from everyone who worked on her radio show. Each one was appropriate and lovely, but the most treasured card had come from her elder daughter; Caroline.

Of course, the joy of that card was tempered by the fact that, again this year; there had been no card from Ruby.

"You'll be fine tomorrow," she spoke softly to her own reflection, captured in the rainy window. She gave herself a little time to wallow in regret-ache for the card that wasn't there--and then she rallied. Fifteen years of therapy had granted her this skill; she could compartmentalize.

In the past few years, she'd finally gotten a grip on her tumultuous emotions. The breakdowns and depressions that had once plagued her life were now a distant, painful memory.

She turned away from the window and glanced at the crystal clock on her desk. It was four-thirty-eight.

They were down in the conference room now, setting out food, bottles of champagne, plates filled with peach slices. Assistants, publicists, staff writers, producers, they were all preparing to spend an hour of their valuable personal time to put together a "surprise" party for the newest star of talk radio.

She set her champagne flute down on her desk and opened one of her drawers, pulling out a small black Chanel makeup case. She touched up her face, then headed out of the office.

The hallways were unusually quiet. Probably everyone was helping out with the party. At precisely four-forty-five, Nora walked into the conference room.

It was empty.

The long table was bare; no food was spread out, no tiny bits of colored confetti lay scattered on the floor. A happy-birthday banner hung from the overhead lights. It looked as if someone had started to decorate for a party and then suddenly stopped.

It was a moment before she noticed the two men standing to her left: Bob Wharton, the station's owner and manager; and Jason Close, the lead in-house attorney.

Nora smiled warmly. "Hello, Bob. Jason," she said, moving toward them. "It's good to see you."

The men exchanged a quick glance.

She felt a prickling of unease. "Bob?" Bob's fleshy face, aged by two-martini lunches and twenty-cigarette days, creased into a frown.

"We have some bad news."

"Bad news?"

Jason eased past Bob and came up to Nora.

His steel-gray hair was perfectly combed. A black Armani suit made him look like a forty-year-old mafia don.

"Earlier today, Bob took a call from a man named Vince Corell."

Nora felt as if she'd been smacked in the face. The air rushed out of her lungs.

"He claimed he'd had an affair with you while you were married. He wanted us to pay him to keep quiet."

"Jesus, Nora," Bob sputtered angrily.

"A goddamn affair. While your kids were at home. You should have told us."

She'd told her readers and listeners a thousand times to be strong. Never let them see you're afraid. Believe in yourself and people will believe in you. But now that she needed that strength, it was gone. "I could say he was lying," she said, wincing when she heard the breathy, desperate tone of her voice.

Jason opened his briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope. "Here."

Nora's hands were shaking as she took the envelope and opened it.

There were black-and-white photographs inside. She pulled out the top sheet. It wasn't more than halfway out when she saw what it was.

"Oh, God," she whispered. She reached out for the chair nearest her and clutched the metal back. Only pure willpower kept her from sinking to her knees. She crammed the pictures back into the envelope.

"There must be a way to stop this." She looked at Jason. "An injunction. Those are private photographs."

"Yes, they are. His. It's obvious that you... knew the camera was there. You're posing. He's probably been waiting all this time for you to become famous. That piece in People must have done it."

She drew in a deep breath and looked at them. "How much does he want?"

There was a pregnant pause, after which Jason stepped closer. "A half million dollars."

"I can get that amount-"

"Money never kills this kind of thing, Nora. You know that. Sooner or later it'll come out." She understood immediately. "You told him no," she said woodenly. "And now he's going to the tabloids."

Jason nodded. "I'm sorry, Nora."

"I can explain this to my fans," she said. "Bob? They'll understand."

"You give moral advice, Nora." Bob shook his head. "This is going to be a hell of a scandal. Jesus, we've been promoting you as a modern version of Mother Teresa. Now it turns Out you're Debbie Does Dallas."

Nora flinched. "Not fair, Bob."

"Believe us," Jason said. "The trailer-park set in Small-town U.S.A. will not understand that their idol just had to be free."

Bob nodded. "When these photos hit the air, we'll lose advertisers instantly."

Nora clasped her trembling hands and tried to appear calm. She knew it wasn't working. "What do we do?"

A pause. A look. Then Jason said, "We want you to take some time off."

It was all coming at her too fast. She couldn't think straight. All she knew was that she couldn't give up. This career was all she had. "I can't-"

Jason moved closer; touched her shoulder gently. "You've spent the better part of the past decade telling people to honor their commitments and put their families first. How long do you think it will take the press to uncover that you haven't spoken to your own daughter since the divorce? Your advice is going to ring a little hollow after that."

Bob nodded. "The press is going to rip you limb from limb, Nora. Not because you deserve it, but because they can. The tabloids love a celebrity in trouble... and with sexy pictures. Hell, they'll be jumpin" up and down over this."

And just like that, Nora's life slipped beyond her grasp.

"It'll blow over," she whispered, knowing in her heart that it wasn't true, or if it was true, it wouldn't matter, not in the end. Some winds were hurricane force and they demolished everything in their path. "I'll take a few weeks off. See what happens. Spend some time coming up with a statement."

"For the record," Jason said, "this is a scheduled vacation. We won't admit that it has anything to do with the scandal."

"Thank you."

"I hope you make it through this," Jason said. "We all do."

Jason and Bob both spoke at once, then an awkward silence descended. Nora heard them walk past her. The door clicked shut behind them.

She stood there, alone now, her gaze blurred by tears she couldn't hold back anymore. After eleven years of working seventy-hour weeks, it was over.

Poof. Her life was gone, blown apart by a few naked photographs taken a lifetime ago. The world would see her hypocrisy, and so too--oh, God--would her daughters.

They would know at last, without question, that their mother had had an affair-and that she'd lied to all of them when she walked out of her marriage.

Ruby had a pounding headache. She'd slept on and off all day.

Finally, she stumbled into the kitchen and went to the fridge. When she opened it, the fluorescent lighting stabbed her aching eyes. Squinting, she grabbed the quart of orange juice and drank it from the container. Liquid trickled down her chin. She backhanded it away.

In the living room--what a joke; if you were living in this empty room, you were either dying or too stupid to keep breathing--she leaned against the rough wall and slid down to a sitting position, stretching her legs out. She knew she needed to walk down to Chang's Mini-Mart and pick up a newspaper, but the thought of turning to the want ads was more than she could bear. The job at Irma's hadn't been much-had been godawful, in fact--but at least it had been hers. She hadn't had to stand in a hot line, begging for a chance, saying I'm really a comedian again. As if she were special, instead of just another loser in the string of men and women who came to Hollywood with a cheap one-way ticket and a dream of someday.

The phone rang.

Ruby didn't want to answer. It could hardly be good news. At best, it would be Caroline, her über-yuppie, Junior League sister who had two perfect kids and a hunk of a husband.

It was possible that Dad had finally remembered her, but Ruby doubted it. Since he'd remarried and started a second family, her father was more interested in midnight baby feedings than in the goings-on of his adult daughter's life. Frankly, she couldn't even remember the last time he'd called.

The ringing went on and on.

Finally, she crawled across the shag carpet and answered on the fourth ring. "Hello?" She heard the snarl in her voice, but who gave a shit? She was in a bad mood and she didn't care who knew it.

"Whoa, don't bite my head off."

Ruby couldn't believe it. "Val?"

"It's me, darling', your favorite agent."

She frowned. "You sound pretty goddamn happy, considering that my career is circling the hole in the toilet bowl."

"I am happy. Here's the scoop. Yesterday I called everyone I could think of to hire you. And baby, I hate to say it, but no one wanted you. The only nibble was from that shit-ass, low-rent cruise line. They said they'd take you for the summer if you promised no foul language... and agreed to wear an orange sequined miniskirt so you could help out the magician after your set."

Ruby's head throbbed harder. She rubbed her temples. "Let me guess, you're calling to tell me there'sa man named Big Dick who has a night job for me on Hollywood and Vine."

Val laughed. It was a great, booming sound, with none of the strained undertones she was used to hearing. A client got to know the subtle shades of enthusiasm-it was a skill that came with being at rock bottom on the earning-potential food chain.

"You won't believe it. Hell, I don't believe it, and I took the call. I'm going to make you guess who called me today."

"Heidi Fleiss."

There was a palpable pause; in it, Ruby heard Val's exhalation of breath-he was smoking. "Joe Cochran."

"From Uproar? Don't screw with me, Val. I'm a little-"

"Joe Cochran called me. No shit. He had a sudden cancellation. He wants to book you for tomorrow's show."

How could a world spin around so quickly? Yesterday, Ruby had been pond scum; today, Joe Cochran wanted her. The host of the hottest, hippest talk show in the country. It had been patterned after Politically Incorrect, but because Uproar was broadcast on cable, the show explored racier issues-and foul language was encouraged. It was a young comedian's dream gig. Even if she wasn't so young anymore.

"He's giving you two minutes to do stand-up. So, kiddo, this is it. You'd better spend the time between then and now practicing. I'll send a car around to pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning."

"Thanks, Val."

"I didn't do anything, darling'. Really. This is all you. Good luck."

Before she hung up, Ruby remembered to ask, "Hey, what's the topic of the show?"

"Oh, yeah." She heard the rustle of papers.

"It's called "Crime and Punishment: Are Mommy and Daddy to Blame for Everything?"

Ruby should have known. "They want me because I'm her daughter."

"Do you care why?"

"No." It was true. She didn't care why Joe Cochran had called her. This was her shot. Finally, after years of crappy play dates in smoke-infested barrooms in towns whose names she couldn't remember, she was getting national exposure.

She thanked Val again, then hung up the phone. Her heart was racing so hard she felt dizzy. Even the empty room looked better. She wouldn't be here much longer, anyway. She would be brilliant on the show, a shining star.

She ran to her bedroom and flung open the louvered doors of her closet. Everything she owned was black.

She couldn't afford anything new...

Then she remembered the black cashmere sweater. It had come from her mother, disguised in a box from Caroline two Christmases earlier. Although Ruby routinely sent back her mother's guilty gifts unopened, this one had seduced her. Once she'd touched that beautiful fabric, she couldn't mail it back.

She grabbed the black V-necked sweater off its hanger and tossed it on the bed.

Tomorrow she'd jazz it up with necklaces and wear it over a black leather miniskirt with black tights. Very Janeane Garofalo.

When Ruby had picked out her clothes, she kicked the bedroom door shut. A thin full-length mirror on the back of the door caught her image, framed it in strips of gold plastic.

It was hard to take herself seriously, dressed as she was in her dad's old football jersey and a pair of fuzzy red knee socks. Her short black hair had been molded by last night's sweat fest into a perfect imitation of Johnny Rotten. Pink sleep wrinkles still creased her pale face. Remnants of last night's makeup circled her eyes.

"I'm Ruby Bridge," she said, grabbing a hairbrush off the dresser to use as a mike. "And yes, you're right if you recognize the last name. I'm her daughter, Nora Bridge's, spiritual guru to Middle America." She flung her hip out, picturing herself as she would look tomorrow--hair tipped in temporary blue dye, a dozen tacky necklaces, tight black clothes, and heavy black makeup. "Look at me. Should that woman be telling you how to raise kids? It's like those commercials on television where celebrities come on and tell you to be a mentor to a kid. And who does Hollywood pick to give out advice?

"A bunch of anorexics, alcoholics, drug addicts, and serial marriers. People who haven't spent ten minutes with a kid in years. And they're telling you how to parent. It's like-"

The phone rang.

"Damn." Ruby raced into the living room and yanked the cord out of the wall. She couldn't be bothered for the next twenty-four hours. Nothing mattered except getting ready for the show.

Like all big cities, San Francisco looked beautiful at night. Multicolored lights glittered throughout downtown, creating a neon sculpture garden tucked along the black bay.

Dean Sloan glanced at the wall of windows that framed the panoramic view. Unfortunately, he couldn't leave his seat. He was-as always-trapped by the flypaper of good manners.

Scattered through the ornately gilded ballroom of this Russian Hill mansion were a dozen or so tables, each one draped in shimmering gold fabric and topped by a layer of opalescent silk. The china at each place setting was white with platinum trim. Four or five couples sat at each table, making idle conversation. The women were expensively, beautifully gowned and the men wore tuxedos. The party's hostess, a local socialite, had hand-chosen the guest list from among the wealthiest of San Francisco's families. Tonight's charity was the opera, and it would benefit mightily, although Dean wondered how many of the guests actually cared about music. What they really cared about was being seen, and even more important, being seen doing the right thing.

His date, a pale, exquisite woman named Sarah Brightman-Edgington, slid a hand along his thigh, and Dean knew that he'd been silent too long. With practiced ease, he turned to her, giving her the smile so well documented by the local society media.

"That was a lovely sentiment, don't you think?" she said softly, taking a small sip of champagne.

Dean had no idea what she was talking about, but a quick look around the room enlightened him. An elderly, well-preserved woman in a deceptively simple blue dress was standing alongside the ebony Steinway. No doubt she'd been waxing poetic about the opera and thanking her guests in advance for their unselfish contributions. There was nothing the wealthy liked quite so much as pretending to be generous.

It was, he knew, the official beginning of the end of the evening. There would be dancing yet, some serious schmoozing and even more serious gossiping, but soon it would be polite to leave.

There was a smattering of quiet applause, then the sound of chairs being scooted back.

Dean took hold of Sarah's hand. Together they slipped into the whispering crowd. The band was playing something soft and romantic, a song that was almost familiar.

On the dance floor, he pulled Sarah close, slid his hand down the bare expanse of her back, felt her shiver at his touch.

The crowd eddied and swirled around them. Overhead, thousands of tiny lights twinkled like stars. There was a faint, sweet smell of roses in the air.

Or maybe that was the scent of money...

He gazed down at Sarah's upturned face, noticing for the first time how lovely her gray eyes were. Without thinking about it, he bent slightly and kissed her, tasting the champagne she'd drunk. He could tell by this kiss where the night could go. She would want him. If he cared to, he could take her hand, lead her out of this crush, and take her to his bed. She would offer no objections. After that, he would call her, and would probably sleep together a few times. Then, somehow, he would forget her. Last year; a local magazine had named him San Francisco's most ineligible bachelor because of his reputation for nanosecond affairs. It was true; he'd certainly slept with dozens of the cities" most gorgeous women.

But what the reporter hadn't known, hadn't even imagined, was how tired Dean was of it all. He wasn't even twenty-nine years old and already he felt aged. Money. Power. Disposable women who seemed to hear his family name and become as malleable as wet clay. For more than a year now, Dean had felt that something was wrong with his life. Missing.

At first, he'd assumed it was a business problem, and he'd rededicated himself to work, logging upwards of eighty hours a week at Harcourt and Sons. But all he'd managed to do was make more money, and the ache in his gut had steadily sharpened.

He'd tried to speak to his father about it. As usual, that had proven pointless. Edward Sloan was now-and always had been-a charming, frivolous playboy who jumped at his wife's every command. It was Mother who held all of the ambition, and she'd never been one to care overly about things like fulfillment or satisfaction. Her comment had been as he'd expected: I ran this company for thirty years; now it's your turn. No whining will be allowed.

He supposed that she'd earned that right. Under his mother's iron fist, the family business, begun by her grandfather and expanded by her father, had become a hundred-million-dollar enterprise. That had always been enough for her. All she ever wanted. But that same success felt vaguely hollow to Dean.

He'd even tried to talk to his friends about it, and though they'd wanted to help, it was clear that none of them understood his feelings. It wasn't so surprising, after all. Although they were all from the same background, Dean had grown up in a slightly different world than his peers.

Lopez Island. Summer Island.

He'd spent ten perfect years in the San Juan Islands.

There, he and his brother, Eric, had been-for a short time-ordinary boys. Those remote islands had formed and defined Dean somehow, provided a place where he felt whole.

Of course, Ruby had been there. And before she went crazy and ruined everything, she'd taught him how love felt.

Then she'd shown him how easily it was broken.

Dean sighed, wishing he hadn't thought about Ruby now, when he had a beautiful, willing woman in his arms...

Suddenly he was tired. He simply didn't have the energy to spend tonight with another woman he didn't care about.

"I'm not feeling well," he said, wondering briefly whether it was a lie, or not quite one.

She smiled up at him, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. Her hand moved up his arm, curled possessively around the back of his neck. They were always possessive, he thought tiredly. Or perhaps that was merely his sense of it.

"Me, too," she purred. "My place is just around the corner."

He reached up and took her hand, kissing the back of her knuckles gently "No, I'm really not feeling well, and I've got a crack-of-dawn conference call coming from Tokyo. I think I'll take you home, if you don't mind."

She pouted prettily, and he wondered if that was one of the things they taught wealthy young girls at schools like Miss Porter's. If not, it had been passed down from one generation to another as carefully as the secret of fire.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he said, although he didn't mean it. There were only two choices available to a man at a time like this: hurt her by not saying it, or hurt her by not doing it. One-lying now-easier.

Once he'd made his decision, Dean couldn't get out of the room fast enough. He maneuvered through the crowd like a Tour-de-France cyclist, saying good night to the few people who really mattered, getting Sarah's wrap (fur in June???), and hurried out to stand beneath the portico.

Sarah made idle chitchat as they stood there together, and he listened politely, answered at what he assumed were the appropriate places.

Finally, he heard his car drive up. The black Aston-Martin roared up the driveway and screeched to a halt. A uniformed valet jumped out of the driver's seat and rushed around to open Sarah's door, then helped her into her seat.

Dean nodded at the man as he walked past. "Thanks, Ramon," he said, getting into his car. He slammed the door shut and drove off, hitting the gas too hard.

It was a full minute before Sarah asked, "How did you know his name was Ramon?"

"I asked him when we arrived."

“Oh.”

Dean glanced at her, saw her perfect profile cameoed against the blackened window glass. "What? Is there something wrong with knowing his name?"

A frown darted across her face. She lifted a hand, pointedly. "Here's my house."

Dean pulled up the circular driveway and parked beneath an antique street lamp.

She turned to him, frowning slightly. "You're not what I expected. The girls... they talk about you."

He ran a hand through his too-long blond hair. "I hope it's a good thing, not being what you expected."

"I she said quietly. "I won't see you again, will I?"

"Sarah, I-"

"Will I?" she interrupted forcibly.

Dean took a deep breath, released it. "It's not you. It's me. I'm restless lately. It doesn't make for good company."

She laughed; it was a practiced, silvery sound that only held traces of mirth. "You're young and rich and sheltered. Of course you're restless. Poor people are driven and hungry. Rich people are restless and bored. I've been bored since grade school, for God's sake."

It was such a sad thing to say. Dean didn't know how to respond. He got out of the car and went around to her door, helping her out. Slipping a hand along the small of her back, he walked her to the door of her father's hilltop mansion. Quietly, he said, "You're too beautiful to be bored."

She looked sadly up at him. "So are you."

Dean kissed her good night, then returned to his car and raced home.

In less than fifteen minutes, he was standing in his living room, staring out at the night-clad city, sipping warmed brandy from a bowl-size snifter. On the walls all around him were framed photographs-his hobby. Once, the sight of them had pleased him. Now, all he saw when he looked at his photographs was how wrong his life had gone.

Behind him, the phone rang. He waited a few rings for Hester, his housekeeper, to answer it. Then he remembered that Hester had gone to see her kids tonight. He strode to the latte-colored suede sofa, collapsed onto the down-filled cushion, and answered the phone. "Dean Sloan." It was, he knew, an impersonal greeting, but he didn't care.

"Dino? Is that you?"

“Uh... Eric? How in the hell are you?" Dean was stunned. He hadn't heard from his brother in what... a year? Eighteen months?

"Are you sitting down?"

"That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't. I'm dying."

Dean felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. A cold chill moved through him. "AIDS?" he whispered.

Eric laughed. "We do get other diseases, you know. My personal favorite is cancer."

"We'll get you the best treatment. I can make some calls right now. Mark Foster is still on the board at-"

"I've had the best treatments. I've seen the best specialists, and they," Eric said softly, "have seen me." He took a deep breath. "I don't have much time left."

Dean couldn't seem to draw a decent breath. "You're thirty years old," he said helplessly, as if age were relevant.

"I should have told you when I was first diagnosed, but... I kept thinking I'd tell you when it was over, and we'd laugh about it.

"Is there any chance we'll someday laugh about it?"

It took Eric a moment to answer. "No."

"What can I do?"

"I'm going back to the island. Lottie's already there, waiting for me."

"The island," Dean repeated slowly. A strange sense of inevitability drifted into the room. It was as if Dean had always known that someday they'd end up back there, where everything had begun. Where everything had gone so wrong. Maybe a part of him had even been waiting for it.

"Will you come up?"

"Of course."

"I want us to be brothers again."

"We've always been brothers," Dean answered uncomfortably.

"No," Eric said softly, "we've been members of the same family. We haven't been brothers in years."