“Fine.” When she discovered she was getting ready to pout, she shrugged instead. “It’ll give me a chance to—”

“Nope.” Reading Laura well, Kate shook her head. “You’re not setting foot in the shop today.”

“Oh, come on. This is just silly. I can—”

“Lie in bed,” Margo continued, “walk the cliffs, read a book, get a facial.” Over the sheets, she grabbed Laura’s foot, waggled it. “Pick up a sailor and . . .” Remembering the girls, she backtracked. “Go for a sail. Mrs. Williamson is planning an elaborate birthday feast for you tonight, to which we have all invited ourselves. At that time, if you’ve been a good girl, you’ll get the rest of your presents.”

“I have something for you, Mama. I have something and so does Ali. Annie helped us pick them out. You have to be good so you can open them tonight.”

“Outnumbered.” Laura took a contemplative sip of her mimosa. “All right, I’ll be lazy. And if I do something foolish, it’ll be your fault. All of you.”

“Always willing to take the credit.” Margo took J. T. back as he began to fuss. “He’s wet,” she discovered and, laughing, handed him to his father. “And it’s your turn, Josh. We’ll be back at seven sharp. Oh, and if you decide on that sailor, I’ll want to hear every detail.”

“Gotta go,” Kate announced. “See you tonight.”

They went out as quickly and as noisily as they had come in, leaving Laura alone with a bottle of champagne and a cooling breakfast.

She was so lucky, she thought, as she settled back against the pillows. She had family and friends who loved her. She had two beautiful daughters, and a home she had always called her own.

Then why, she wondered as her eyes swam with sudden tears, did she feel so useless?

The trouble with having free time, Laura decided, was that it reminded her of the days when most of her free time had been eaten up by committees. Some she had joined because she enjoyed them—the people, the projects, the causes. Others, she knew, she’d involved herself with because of pressure from Peter.

She had, for too many years, found it easier to bend than to stand.

And when she had rediscovered her backbone, she had also discovered that the man she had married didn’t love her, or the children. It had been the Templeton name he had married; he had never wanted the life she dreamed of.

Sometime between Ali’s birth and Kayla’s, he dropped even the pretense of loving her. Still, she stuck with it, maintained the illusion of marriage and family. And the pretense was all hers.

Until the day she walked in on that most pathetic of clichés: her husband in bed with another woman.