“Then tell them that’s so,” Faith replied, looking at her watch. “Five minutes to go.” She walked around the living room, moving a lamp here or a pot there. “Betty, you’d better wait in the kitchen. Anybody asks, you’re a friend of Theresa’s and you don’t have anything to say. Hide your cases.” Betty packed up and moved to the kitchen, while Faith flicked a few hairs off the dining room table. “Okay, Laurence, you’re on the piano, until I call you over. Anybody asks, you don’t take requests.”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Rodgers and Hart, Irving Berlin, like that. It will bore these people rigid. Nothing up-tempo.”

Laurence sat down and began playing “Blue Skies.”

“Perfect!” Faith sang out as the doorbell rang, and she went to answer it.

—

LAURENCE WATCHED FROM THE PIANO, only occasionally glancing at his hands. They were a motley lot; quite young to sixtyish. He spotted the one from two nights ago instantly; no more than nineteen, dressed like the adolescent he was, unkempt hair, a camera with a long lens slung around his neck.

—

“ALL RIGHT, ladies and gentlemen, gather ’round,” Faith called out, beckoning them toward her. Theresa came in with a tray. “I’m Faith Mackey, you all know who I am. That’s my daughter, Theresa, from a much earlier, very brief marriage. This is my house. Theresa and her boyfriend picked it out for me, and I bought it sight unseen a few days ago. Her boyfriend left this morning for New Jersey. Laurence Hayward will join us shortly, and he will answer your questions, within reason. He’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, so don’t make a fool of yourself. For your information, we are all at this moment somewhere in the state of California, and that is where you are reporting from, though you won’t be specific. Got that?” The crowd responded with a murmur. “NO MAKING STUFF UP! You’ll get honest answers to respectful questions, and you’ll stick with them and our location story for your reporting. If you stray, you won’t be invited to another of these, ever, on either coast or in between. The fact that I bought this house is on deep background—not even the real estate agent knows I’m the buyer, and I want to keep it that way. I’m a publicist for others, not myself, so my vacation home will be our little secret. Blow it at your peril.

“Now, the bar is open, so help yourselves, but first sign the agreement forms stacked there, and with your real names, addresses, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses, plus the name of the medium you represent and the name of the person you report to. If you do not complete those forms, our little soiree will, for you, be a lot shorter than planned.”