“Well, first of all, you have a lunch date today with a handsome young man—in fact, the person I had dinner with last night. He’s the son of an old friend of mine, and you’re meeting him at twelve-thirty at the Harvard Club. Do you know where that is?”

“West Forty-fourth, next door to the New York Yacht Club.”

“That’s right,” Wheaton said. “His name is David Rutledge. Now go do yourself some good.”

Kelli walked into the Harvard Club and surveyed the scene: to her left was a reception desk, and the door ahead of her, through which she now walked, opened into a large lounge with a fireplace and a lot of comfortable furniture strewn about. She looked around and saw a man coming toward her—tall, very slim, early thirties, dressed in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a blue chambray shirt, and a brown knit tie. A thick mop of sandy hair fell across his forehead. He had his hand out.

“Kelli Keane?”

“And you’re David Rutledge,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Shall we go in for lunch?” He led her into the dining room, a gothic glory with an enormously high ceiling and a quiet buzz from the tables. A headwaiter seated them near the fireplace. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“Oh, just a glass of Chardonnay,” she said. “I do have to go back to work later.”

He ordered the wine and a martini for himself, and they clinked glasses. She was showing some cleavage, and he was noticing. “Prunie speaks highly of you,” he said.

“That’s sweet of her. She says your mother is her old and dear friend.”

“My grandmother, actually; they were classmates at Stanford. Tell me about you. Where did you spring from?”

“I sprang from West Chester, Pennsylvania, and I worked on the paper in Philadelphia right out of Bennington, then I came here last year. How about you?”

“Charlottesville, Virginia, Herald Academy in Jamestown, UVA School of Architecture, then an MBA at Harvard. I went to work at Architecture Magazine right out of school, then moved to Architectural Digest six years ago. I was promoted to executive art director right before Christmas.”

“Congratulations! That sounds like a wonderful job.”

They chatted on through lunch, played who-do-you-know (nobody), then over a second drink warmed to each other.

She waited for him to bring it up, and he didn’t, so finally she said, “Prunie tells me you’ve got an interesting shoot next weekend.”

“Yes, we do.” He told her about the history of the house. “The architect is a cousin of mine, Tim Rutledge. He teaches at UVA.”

She pretended not to know about it. “It sounds beautiful,” she said. “I just love that sort of thing. You don’t need an assistant for the trip, do you?” she asked, trying to sound facetious.