Laura closed her eyes. What good would it be to deny it, to defend herself and leave her child vulnerable? “If it is, I’ll do what I can to make it easier for him, and for you.” On legs that weren’t quite steady, Laura rose. “There are things I can’t change, I can’t fix. And I can’t stop you from blaming me for it.”

Fighting to control both grief and temper, Laura took a slow breath. “I don’t want you to be unhappy, Ali. I love you. I love you and Kayla more than anything in the world.”

Ali’s shoulders slumped. “Will you ask him if he could come to the dinner? It’s next month, on a Saturday.”

“Yes, I’ll ask.”

Shame eked through the anger and misery. She didn’t have to look at her mother’s face to know she would see hurt. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

“So am I.”

“I’ll tell Kayla I’m sorry, too. She draws really good. And I . . . I can’t.”

“You have other talents.” Gently Laura turned Ali around, cupped her shoulders. “You dance so beautifully. And you play the piano so much better than I did at your age. Better than I do now.”

“You never play anymore.”

There were a lot of things she didn’t do anymore. “How about a duet tonight? We’ll play. Kayla can sing.”

“She sounds like a bullfrog.”

“I know.”

And when Ali looked up, they grinned at each other.

Another crisis averted, Laura decided, as she settled down with her family after dinner. There was a cheery fire blazing in the hearth and rich, creamy cake to be devoured. The curtains in the parlor were opened to a starry night. And the lights inside glowed warm.

Birthday presents had been unwrapped, opened, and admired. The baby was sleeping upstairs. Josh and Byron were puffing on cigars, and her daughters, fences mended for the moment, were at the piano. Kayla’s booming frog of a voice competed with Ali’s skillful playing.

“Then she went for the Chanel bag,” Margo was saying, comfortably curled on the sofa as she talked shop. “It took her more than an hour, and she just kept piling up stock. Three suits, an evening gown—your white Dior, Laura—four pairs of shoes. Count them, four. Six blouses, three sweaters, two silk slacks. And that was before she started on the jewelry.”

“It was a red-letter day.” Kate propped her bare feet on the Louis XIV coffee table. “I had a hunch when the woman pulled up in a white stretch limo. She’d come up from L.A. because a friend of hers had told her about Pretenses.”