Maybe she was tired of being mysterious.

“We have some intriguing photographs of you, Ashley,” Sybil Morgenstern went on. “Partying in Newport and the Berkshires, shopping in New York, playing female exec in Boston, rescuing dolphins on the Cape, stomping around under your plane—”

“It’s called ‘preflighting,’” Ashley interrupted. “It’s the pilot’s manual and visual check of the aircraft before—”

“Whatever.”

Ashley sighed. She was in a daze. “So the skinny photographer with the jeans works for you.”

“He works for himself. Best paparazzo in town—but a germ. Rob Gazelle. He also has the most stunning shots of you the other night at the New England Oceanographic Institute. The dress was a Givenchy, wasn’t it? Maybe fifteen grand? And the jewels. They’re something.”

“Damn.”

“Mmm. We can just run the photos, Ashley. They’ll make a hell of a spread. But look.” Her tone changed, becoming conspiratorial, maternal, affectionate. “Look, Ashley, we don’t want to do a hatchet job on you. We just want to know who you are.”

“I’m founder and president of Touchstone Communications, publisher of Currents, a director and trustee for the New England Oceanographic Institute. That’s me, Ms. Morgenstern. Thanks for your interest—”

“It’s not enough and you know it.”

“I’m afraid it’ll have to be.”

“Rob did some digging. We know all about your rustic roots, Ashley. The farm, the pigs, the cows.”

Ashley winced as if in pain. “We never had cows.”

“No matter. That little tidbit will go into our piece, and you know us: we’ll draw our own conclusions. I should think you’d want to tell the story yourself.”

Licking her lips, Ashley wondered what would happen if the tiara and the choker were plastered all across the country in a national magazine. But there seemed nothing at all she could do about it. And maybe, she thought, she didn’t want to do anything.

“I’ll agree to an interview,” she said abruptly, “but on one condition.”

“No conditions.”

“Then no interview. All I want is for you to promise to leave my family out of this. I respect their privacy. If you don’t agree, you can just go with what you have.”

Sybil was silent for a moment. “All right. Your condition is accepted. I’ll have my reporter in your office in the morning.”

When Ashley hung up, Caroline looked at her and groaned. “Good Lord, Ashley, I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.”

Ashley exhaled, her shoulders sagging. “So do I, Caroline. So do I.”

“Are you going to warn the folks at home?”

“Not on your life.”

Late Monday morning, Lillian Parker turned in to the horseshoe-shaped driveway of the Wakefield farm and parked behind a disreputable-looking Land Rover. It was a gorgeous day: high blue sky, utterly cloudless and crisp. Summer was finally over.

The farm was everything she had imagined.

By last night, she had recovered enough from the shock of seeing Ashley Wakefield to remember that Rob Gazelle owed her a favor, and to work up the courage to call him. He hadn’t wanted to tell her anything: he was on Sybil Morgenstern’s payroll. But he was persuaded, and finally he told her what she wanted to know.