“Oh.” Summer’s perfectly plucked brows V’ed down in confusion. “OK. I didn’t really want it.”

“So. What’s up?” Suspecting this conversation was going to be unpleasant, I dropped into the desk chair and assumed a listening attitude.

“I followed your advice.”

“My advice?”

“I did exactly what you told me to do.”

“Summer, I didn’t—”

“I told Pete he had to show more interest in the wedding.” Summer crossed one long tan leg over the other. “Or else.”

“Wait. What? I—”

“I said, ‘Petey, if this snideybutt attitude continues, I don’t think things will work out between us.’ ”

Summer’s double-D cups rose tremulously. Fell.

I waited.

The tearful account poured forth.

As I listened, short phrases winged in my brain.

Run, Pete.

Run fast.

Run far.

Mean. I know. But that’s the response my gray cells offered.

I didn’t let on. Just nodded as I supplied tissues and empathetic sounds.

The longer Summer talked, the more horrified I became. How could she have misinterpreted my comments so badly?

I imagined Pete’s anger at my perceived culpability. What was Harry’s favorite saying?

No good deed goes unpunished.

Yep. Serious castigation was barreling my way.

Finally the whole sad story was told. Ultimatum. Quarrel. Sobbing exit. Slamming door.

When she’d finished, I offered another tissue.

Summer dabbed beneath each lavishly mascaraed eye.

“So.” She drew a wet breath. “What do I do?”

“Summer, I really don’t feel comfortable—”

“You have to help me.” The tears started anew. “My life is ruined.”

“Perhaps I’ve done enough damage already.” I didn’t really believe it, but the conversation was going even worse than I’d anticipated.

“Exactly. That’s why you have to fix it.”

“I don’t think that’s my place,” I said gently.

“You have to talk to Pete. You have to bring him to his senses.” Summer was creeping closer to hysteria with every word. “You have to—”

“OK. I’ll phone him in the morning.”

“Honest to God?”

“Yes.”

“Cross-your-heart promise?”

Merciful God.

“Yes.”

For one awful moment I thought she would hug me. Instead she blew her nose. Which was now the color of my Christmas socks.

But the mascara remained flawless. I wondered about the brand.

I was still wondering when Summer’s head tipped to one side.

“Oh, sweetie. You are booty-pooty-ful.”

I followed her sight line.

Birdie had entered the room. He sat watching us, ears forward, tail curling around one haunch.

Summer wiggled her fingers and spoke in the same saccharine voice. “Oh, you just come here, you little precious thing.”

Right. In addition to thunderstorms, my cat dislikes strangers and the smell of strong perfume.

To my astonishment, Birdie padded over and jumped onto the couch. When Summer stroked his back, he dropped onto his fore-paws and raised his tail high.

Summer pursed up her lips and uttered another string of baby-talk gibberish.

The little traitor actually purred.