“Surprise!” Big Cyndi shouted. “I designed these bridesmaid dresses myself. It’s my gift to you both.”

“We don’t even have a date yet.”

“True fashion stands the test of time, Mr. Bolitar. I’m just so glad you like them. I was going to go with a sea-foam color, but I think the fuchsia is warmer. I’m more a warm-tone person. I think Terese is too, don’t you?”

“I do,” Myron said. “She’s all about fuchsia.”

Big Cyndi gave him the slow smile—tiny teeth in a giant mouth—that sent children shrieking. He smiled back. God, he loved this big, crazy woman.

Myron pointed at the door on the left. “Is Esperanza in?”

“Yes, Mr. Bolitar. Should I let her know that you’re here?”

“I got it, thanks.”

“Would you please tell her that I’ll be in for her fitting in five minutes?”

“Will do.”

Myron knocked lightly on the door and entered. Esperanza sat at her desk. She was wearing the fuchsia dress, though on her, with the strategic rips, it looked a bit more like Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. Myron stifled a chuckle.

“Make one comment,” Esperanza said, “and die.”

“Moi?” Myron sat. “I do think, however, that sea foam would work better on you. You’re not a warm-tone person.”

“We have a meeting at noon,” she said.

“I’ll be back by then, and hopefully you’ll be changed. Any hits on Lex’s credit cards?”

“Nothing.”

She didn’t look up at him, her eyes down examining some paper on her desk with a tad too much concentration.

“So,” Myron said, aiming for nonchalant. “What time did you get home last night?”

“Don’t worry, Daddy. I didn’t break curfew.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is.”

Myron looked at the swirl of trite-but-true family photographs on her desk. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, Dr. Phil, I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t give me that sanctimonious face. I didn’t do anything beyond flirting last night.”

“I’m not here to judge.”

“Yeah, but you do it anyway. Where are you off to?”

“Suzze’s tennis academy. Have you seen Win?”

“I don’t think he’s in yet.”

Myron grabbed a taxi west toward the Hudson River. The Suzze T Tennis Academy was located near Chelsea Piers in what looked like, and maybe was, a giant white bubble. When you entered the courts, the air pressure used to inflate the bubble made your ears pop. There were four courts, all filled with young women/teens/girls playing tennis with instructors. Suzze was on court one, all eight months pregnant of her, giving instructions on how to approach the net to two sun-soaked blond teens with ponytails. Forehands were being drilled on court two, backhands court three, serves on court four. Someone had put down hula hoops in the corners of the service line as targets. Suzze spotted Myron and signaled for him to give her a minute.

Myron moved back into the waiting room overlooking the courts. The moms were there, all in tennis whites. Tennis was the only sport where spectators liked to dress like the participants, as if they might suddenly be called out of the stands to play. Still—and Myron knew that this was politically incorrect—there was something hot about a mom in tennis whites. So he looked. He did not ogle. He was too sophisticated for that. But he looked.