Janey replaced the phone in its cradle. “I don’t want to go food shopping now. And all that cooking. I don’t even have time!” she wailed in a ladylike voice.

A thought came to her that she didn’t even want to entertain. But like most crazy thoughts, if you give it a minute or two, it can take on a surprising sanity.

The food she had delivered to Ben’s apartment yesterday had obviously not been eaten. Heck, she’d probably never get paid for it anyway, and she still had the keys.

It was a lovely roast chicken with stuffing, mashed potatoes, and her special gravy. She’d also prepared peas and carrots, baby corn, and a key lime pie. It was enough for two meals for Ben, four for people with less hearty appetites.

Well, why not? He had lived in a walk-up, so there was no doorman. She’d ring the bell. If someone was there, she’d say she was only stopping by to express her sympathy.

Quickly untying her apron, Janey grabbed her coat, purse, Ben’s keys, and the bright-red thermal carrying case with her logo on the side, and ran out the door.

23

Action!” Jacques Harlow cried to his assembled group of actors in the parlor of the Settlers’ Club.

Daphne was sitting in the corner, out of the way, looking longingly at her fellow thespians who had actually been hired to act. Being a stand-in helped pay the bills, but all you really did was stand around while they set up the lights and the camera. Then when they’re ready, they kick you out and the “first team” comes in.

It was dispiriting.

She stared at the sheep that had been in Nat and Wendy’s apartment for so many years. Even though Wendy had been twenty years older, she and Daphne had become good friends. They’d sit and knit together or take walks around the park or sometimes Wendy would come down to Daphne’s apartment for a glass of wine when Nat’s poker-playing group got rowdy When Wendy became ill, Daphne promised to look after Nat, which she was more than willing to do. But he only wanted to spend time with his poker buddies. And those sheep!

“Don’t talk to me like that!” the lead actress was yelling as she backed toward the fireplace. “It makes me really mad!” Her leg hit Dolly the sheep, and she lost her balance, landing in a heap on the floor.

Thomas, who’d been watching from the doorway, screamed.

“Get him out of here!” the director cried.

Thomas ran out into the hallway, down the front steps, and out the door. He thought he’d have a moment of peace, but cable-television producer Stanley Stock was standing right there, his camera aimed at all the movie trucks. Thomas had turned around to go back inside when he heard Regan’s voice calling him.