“Neither of us was wearing anything at all,” Laurence pointed out, and everyone laughed.

“They wouldn’t publish that . . .” Theresa began.

“They almost certainly would,” Stone said.

“Oops.”

“Maybe I should just invite them to the house,” Laurence said. “Although I wouldn’t know whom to invite.”

“Just get a copy of everything at the supermarket checkout and call the editors,” Susannah said. “If you want to go down that road.”

“The other night you said I should ignore them.”

“Two ways to go, mutually exclusive.”

“Once they took some pictures and asked some questions, wouldn’t they go away?” Laurence asked.

“That’s a toss-up,” Susannah said. “Could go either way. They might leave you alone, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Perhaps you should hire a publicist,” Stone said.

“What for?”

“If you want to get your picture in the papers, you hire a publicist,” Susannah said. “If you want to keep your picture out of the papers, you hire a publicist.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Laurence said.

“I’m afraid it does,” Stone interjected. “A publicist becomes a buffer between you and the media. He or she will know the bad ones and the fairly good ones, and can play them off against each other. They’ll know that their best chance of cooperation is through a professional, which is what they think of themselves.”

“I don’t know any publicists, and I don’t know how to find one.”

“There are, basically, two kinds,” Stone said. “L.A. and New York. You don’t really need both unless you’re a married movie star who is sleeping with the nanny. There’s a woman in New York, Faith Mackey. I can introduce you to her.”

“What does someone like that cost?”

“You can afford it,” Stone said. “If it doesn’t work out, you can fire her.”

“Maybe that’s what I should do, hire her,” Laurence said. “Theresa, what do you think?”

“I think it can’t hurt, and it might help.”

“All right.”

“I’ll have Faith call you tomorrow,” Stone said. “I warn you, she can suck all the oxygen out of a room, but she’s very good at what she does.”

“I’ll look forward to speaking with her,” Laurence said.

—

THE FOLLOWING DAY Laurence and Theresa were having lunch on the terrace when Laurence’s cell phone rang. A glance told him the call was a 917 area code, New York. “Hello?”

“Laurence? This is Faith Mackey.”

“How do you do?”

“I do very well, thank you. I’m on the road from Albuquerque, about half an hour south of Santa Fe. What’s your address?”

“One seventy-eight Tano Norte.”

“Just a sec. Got you on Google Maps. Be there in forty-two minutes.” She hung up.

“Who was that?” Theresa asked.

“Faith Mackey, Stone’s publicist lady.”

“Why did she hang up?”

“She’s south of here, says she’ll be here in forty-two minutes.”