That had been the end of her romantic foray last night. Sylvie had seen it before. Sisters who were self-appointed watchdogs for their eligible brothers. Even after she had married Harold, Sylvie had never been able to break the ice between her and his sister Goldie. A sister-in-law could be far worse than any mother-in-law. And tended to be around forever.

Last night Violet had complained because the patch didn’t work. This morning she’s complaining because it fell off. Eyeing Violet with a manufactured look of sympathy on her face, Sylvie sized her up quickly. Early seventies, a good ten years older than her brother, with an expensive gray-and-white cotton dress that fell in a precise line from shoulder to mid-calf. It looks like a cover for an ironing board, Sylvie thought, and immediately proceeded to admire it. You’re not going to squeeze me out, toots, she exulted as for a fleeting moment Violet visibly thawed.

“Gray is my favorite color,” she acknowledged, then pointed in the direction of the bar. “That young man looks familiar. I’m sure we have met him somewhere.”

Sylvie and Milton turned to follow her outstretched index finger. Cameron Hardwick was the object of Violet’s attention.

Terrific, Sylvie thought. Let him keep her busy. Jumping up, she waved vigorously to Cameron, beckoning him to the table. He picked up his drink and began to cross the deck toward them.

Sylvie explained, “Cameron is seated at our table.”

“I don’t remember him, Violet,” Milton said.

When Hardwick reached them, Sylvie swiftly began introductions. “And Mrs. Cohn is sure she knows you from somewhere.”

Violet was staring at him with the intensity of a hawk about to descend on its prey. “I never forget a face. They used to say Herbert Hoover could kiss a baby when it was fourteen months old and recognize it twenty years later when it was eligible to vote. As my brother will verify, I have that same talent.”

And I’ll bet she never forgets a grudge either, Sylvie thought.

Violet narrowed her eyes. “It was ten or twelve years ago. Which trip? Oh, I know. Milton, remember when we went to Greece?” She turned to Sylvie. “It was eleven years ago. My dear husband Bruce had just died.” Her face brightened. To Sylvie her smile was a triumphant snarl. “You were working in the Olympic Hotel as a waiter.”

Hardwick’s face darkened to crimson, then purple. “I’ve never been to Greece. I think you ought to have that memory of yours checked.” He turned on his heel as Milton Wanamaker jumped up. “See here,” Milton protested.

Sylvie put a restraining hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry I asked him over. I had no idea—”