He gazed across his living room, which was furnished with big chairs and an extra-long couch, and wondered what they’d be doing today. Was Lucy getting along with the other girls at that ritzy private school Nealy had stuck her into? Had Button learned any new words? Did they miss him? Did they even think about him?

And Nealy . . . it looked like she was getting ready to make a run for Jack Hollings’s seat in the Senate. He was happy for her—really happy—so he didn’t know why he felt as if something were tearing open inside him every time he saw a photograph of her decked out in one of her designer suits.

He was tired of being alone with his own misery, so he started upstairs to change into his running shorts only to be stopped by the doorbell.

The last thing he wanted was Saturday morning company. He stalked over to the door and jerked it open. “What d’you—”

“Surprise!”

“Surprise! Surprise!”

“Surprise!”

Seven of them. Seven surprises. His sisters burst inside and hurled themselves into his arms.

Mary Margaret Jorik Dubrovski . . . Deborah Jorik . . . Denise Jorik . . . Catherine Jorik Mathews . . . Sharon Jorik Jenkins Gros . . . Jacqueline Jorik-Eames . . . and Sister Ann Elizabeth Jorik.

Chubby and skinny; pretty and plain; college students, stay-at-home moms, professional women; single, married, divorced, bride of Christ—they exploded into his space.

“You’ve sounded depressed when we’ve talked to you . . .”

“. . . so we got together and decided to visit.”

“To cheer you up!”

“Out of the way. I have to pee!”

“. . . hope you have decaf.”

“Oh, God, my hair! Why didn’t you tell me it looked like . . .”

“. . . use the phone so I can call the sitter.”

“. . . all the publicity these past few months has been so hard on you.”

“Shit! I snagged my new . . .”

“. . . what are sisters for?”

“. . . anybody have a Midol?”

They were barely in the door before, one by one, they started drawing him aside.

“. . . worried about Cathy. She might be doing her bulimia thing again, and . . .”

“. . . ran up my Visa . . .”

“. . . need to talk to you about Don. I know you never liked him, but . . .”

“. . . obvious that the prof hates me . . .”

“. . . if I should change jobs or . . .”

“. . . all two-year-olds are temperamental, but . . .”

“. . . give communion, and the fact that Father Francis can consecrate the host, but I can’t . . .”

In little more than an hour, they got lipstick on his T-shirt, moved his favorite chair, snooped through his private organizer, borrowed fifty bucks, and broke the carafe on his Krups coffeemaker.

God, he was glad to see them.

Two of his sisters spent the night at the Drake, two more stayed with Mary Margaret at her place in Oak Park, and two stayed with him. Since he was sleeping like crap anyway, he gave them his king-sized bed and took the guest room.