“Nice meeting you.”

She managed a smile. “Nice meeting you, too.”

“Name’s David, by the way. David Wakefield.”

“I’ll remember that.” Was there any chance of forgetting it, ever? “Thanks for the pumpkin.”

The You reporter appeared in Ashley’s office promptly at ten o’clock the following morning. She was fair skinned, attractive, smartly dressed, obviously tenacious and aggressive. Determined not to get too cozy, Ashley sat at her desk and offered the reporter the chair in front of her. Ashley had worn black for the occasion. Intimidating. But the reporter didn’t look intimidated. In fact, as she arranged her tape recorder and flipped open her notepad and settled herself in for the millennium, she looked as if she’d eat Ashley alive, given the opportunity.

Ashley didn’t intend to give her the opportunity.

“My name’s Pat Oberlin.” She smiled. “And you’re Sybil’s mystery lady.”

“I’m Ashley Wakefield.” She folded her hands on her desk and recited the instructions she’d given numerous clients when facing the press: “Keep smiling...don’t criticize...don’t be defensive...be clear and concise...” She could think of a dozen different clients who’d be snorting now with glee, seeing the shoe on the other foot.

The interview proceeded smoothly. Ashley told of her work at Touchstone, with the institute, impersonal things she didn’t mind discussing.

Then Pat Oberlin asked about “romantic interests.” Ashley said, “None at the moment.” It was, she thought, the distressing truth.

“Do you consider yourself a jet setter?”

“No.”

“But you lead an active social life?”

“I try to.”

“I see.” Oberlin switched tactics. “What about your childhood?”

“Very happy.”

“You grew up on a farm?”

“Yes.” How much more clear and concise could she be?

“Tell me about it. What was it like?”

“A mixture of hard work and fun.”

“What about your family?”

“My parents died when my twin brother and I were a few months old. Our uncle, my father’s brother, raised us. And that’s all I’m going to say about them. It’s the condition for this interview, remember?”

“Right, right. So you went from the farm to Boston University, where you majored in communications. You were a scholarship student.”

Ashley shifted in her chair: Pat Oberlin had definitely done her homework.

“Your first job was in the public relations department of a Boston management consulting group. According to former co-workers, you made maybe seventeen, eighteen thousand a year. You quit in 1982, and a few months later started up this outfit, revamped Currents with your own money into a slick, expensive magazine that still doesn’t pay for itself, and, rumor has it, donated a sweet million to the New England Oceanographic Institute. You also started turning up at high-class parties all over New England and Manhattan, bought a condo here in Boston, land on Cape Cod, a co-op in New York. You took up flying, bought your own plane. You wear dresses that cost just about what you used to make in a year. So. As you can see, it just doesn’t add up.”