“So, Margo’s a mommy.” Michael grinned at his hostess, who failed to look the least bit maternal in a peach-toned jumpsuit that clung glamorously to every curve.

“I’m a great mommy.” She kissed both his cheeks, European fashion. “I love being a mommy.” Drawing back, she took a long look and wasn’t disappointed. “What’s it been, Michael? Six years, seven?”

“Longer. I was trying to tear up the European circuit, and you were taking the Continent by storm.”

“Those were the days,” she said lightly and, tucking her arm through his, led him inside.

“Great place.” He wasn’t surprised by the elegance of the California Spanish, but he was by its coziness.

“Kate turned us on to it. You remember Kate Powell.”

“Sure.” They strolled out of the tiled foyer into a spacious room with a blazing fire and twin sofas in deep maroon. “How’s she doing? I heard she’s married now.”

“Still a newlywed. You’d like Byron, I think. We’ll have to have a party when you’re settled. Introduce you around.”

“I’m not much of a partier these days.”

“A small one, then. What can I get you to drink?” She glided behind a deeply carved bar. “Josh will be right down. He had a meeting run over.”

“Got a beer?”

“I think we can manage that.” From the small cold box under the bar she chose a bottle. “So it’s horses now.”

“It seems to be.”

He watched her open the bottle, pour beer smoothly into a pilsner. On the third finger of her left hand diamonds and gold flashed. Her hair was more gold, soft, flowing waves of it. And there were more diamonds at her ears. Still, he saw that it was her eyes that shined the brightest.

“You look good, Margo. Happy. It’s nice to see you happy.”

A little surprised, she glanced up. “Really?”

“You never seemed to be really quite there.”

“Apparently you were right.” She set the glass on the bar and pried the silver wine saver off a bottle of champagne. “But I’ve gotten there.”

“A wife, a mommy, and a shopkeeper.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “Who’d have thought it?”

“And doing a marvelous job at all three.” After pouring herself a flute of champagne, she toasted herself in turn. “You’ll have to come by Pretenses, Michael. We’re on Cannery Row.”

“I’ll come see your shop, you come see my horses.”

“That’s a deal. I’m sorry about your house.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “No big deal. I didn’t like it anyway. I was more pissed off about the stables. I’d barely gotten them finished when I lost them. Still, it’s just wood and nails. I can buy more.”

“It must have been horrible. I’ve seen film of mud slides and the aftermath of some. I can’t imagine being in the middle of it.”