“Dozens of times, especially after she told me she was quitting the business. She was only forty-seven, for God's sake, and she could have—” he broke off. “Maxine, leave it!” he commanded one of the little Yorkies, who had found something that looked decidedly unpleasant in the gutter. “Nasty!” he added to the dog, and scooped her up.

“What did Lu tell you?”

“Just some crap about how she'd been around for a long time and there's nothing more pathetic than an over-the-hill diva who doesn't know when it's time to go.”

“I meant, what did she say about my mother?”

“Nothing. That was family. Lu's very Italian about family—you don't talk about the secrets.” He looked at Carrie. “Of course, she'd probably talk to you …”

“I'm not sure she'd think I'm family,” Carrie said hastily. “We don't really know each other.”

George and the Yorkies accompanied Carrie to the corner. She'd refused his offer to hail a cab for her because she wanted to walk and clear her head. She kissed George on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, and started down Sixth Avenue.

“Carrie,” George called out. She turned. “Lu thinks of you as family. She may not have the answers to all of your questions, but she'll tell you everything she can. I know she will.”

CARRIE'S APARTMENT SEEMED even more claustrophobic than usual when she walked inside. The furniture loomed out of the darkness at her and there was an overpowering scent in the air of flowers past their prime. It was time to get rid of Uncle Paulie's roses. She'd been avoiding doing it, but saving a basket of dead flowers wasn't going to make her feeling of loss go away. But when she leaned down to pick up the basket, a light suddenly went on behind her. Carrie whirled around, scattering dead rose petals on the floor.

“Howie, what the hell are you doing here?” she demanded as soon as she'd made out the figure in her ugly oversize chair. “How did you get in?”

“Sometimes, a cigar is not a house key,” he said. He seemed to be having trouble saying words that began and ended with s.

“Are you drunk?” Howie wasn't a drinker; two glasses of wine with dinner was his limit.

“Don't change the subject,” he slurred. He heaved himself out of her chair and swayed in place for a couple of seconds.

“You are. You're wasted—”

Howie waved his hand dismissively “The point under discussion is this.” He held up a house key. “When we didn't get married, I had the key for your apartment… I never gave you it back…” He stopped to consider the syntax of what he'd just said. “Or whatever. You never asked me for it to be given back.” He stopped again, then seemed to decide to plow on. “Thing is, I still have it.”

“And you used it to break in here.”