In the darkening twilight, lights glowed from the distant boat marina, blurring into mist as a bank of fog moved in over the lake. A gull winged its way shoreward. A sport fishing boat, trailing a wake like a silver ribbon, passed and vanished from sight.

Below the trail that passed the house, a fresh breeze rippled the water. It tugged at Allison’s long diamond earrings and loosened tendrils from her upswept honey-blond hair. She raised a manicured hand to control the damage but made no move to go back inside to the party.

Behind her, on the other side of the French doors, her guests were sampling pâté with truffles, caviar, tiny Bavarian sausages, and a rich selection of vintage wines. Fifteen minutes from now they’d be sitting down to a dinner of black bass on cabbage, caramelized plantation shrimp, pea tendrils, and walnut toffee tartlets. Allison had put weeks of work and planning into this forty-seventh birthday dinner for her husband, to say nothing of the small fortune the caterer had cost. But the result had been worth the effort. From the food to the décor, from the mellow piano jazz CDs that Burke liked, to her own chic little black Armani dress—everything was perfect.

So why did the thought of going back inside make her want to lean out past the rail and puke all over the hydrangeas?

Filling her lungs with the moist air, Allison struggled to calm her nerves. She would have to rejoin the party soon or there’d be even more talk. But every time she turned toward the doors, the snippets of conversation she’d overheard returned to stab her in the back.

“So, Burke’s got himself a little trophy wife. How old is she? Thirty, maybe thirty-five? Lord, what would Kate say? The poor dear must be turning over in her grave!”

“And just look at this place! That leather couch alone must have cost three thousand dollars. The woman’s going through his money like a cat through a tin of sardines. Let’s hope Burke had the sense to draw up a prenup.”

“I’ll wager he’s going to need one. They got married last year—you remember that fairy-tale wedding at Top of the Rock. How much longer do you give it before they’re talking through their lawyers? Six months?”

“A year, tops. Care to lay a little bet?”

“Fifty bucks? You’re on!”

Allison willed herself not to cry. Tears were hell on mascara, and the last thing she wanted was to walk back into the party with raccoon eyes. But she’d tried so hard to make Burke’s friends like her. All that effort, and now this. She might as well have spat in their judgmental faces!