Scarlett produced it, and Mrs. Amberson visibly bristled.

“Listen to me, Scarlett,” she said. “She angry, so she’s putting on a little show, pretending she has clout. Someone like Billy…now he can make or break a career. But not Donna Spendler. Ignore her.”

“But…”

“What could she possibly do to Spencer? What could she possibly do to this hotel? In two days, this show is going to be performed in front of over fifty influential people from the New York theater community. That’s what we have to pay attention to. I’m going to go freshen up before dinner.”

Marlene came out of the elevator as Mrs. Amberson was going up. She hadn’t spoken to Scarlett since the fight the other night, but her stance was no longer combative. Or, it wasn’t as combative as normal.

There was a grudging respect behind it, like she now accepted Scarlett as a fellow warrior.

“We have to set the table,” she said. “Mom said.”

The burning smell was much worse in the dining room. Scarlett and Marlene exchanged a look of mutual disgust as they worked. They were almost getting along until a familiar black car pulled up in front of the building.

“He’s back!” Marlene yelled, rushing for the door.

“Oh, God,” Scarlett said.

Chip was getting out with a freakishly tall arrangement of white and pink orchids when Spencer came skidding along on his bike.

“Oh, God,” Scarlett said again, almost dropping the plates in her rush to get outside.

Chip and Spencer were staring at each other like two cats who haven’t quite worked out if they’re going to claw each other apart or groom each other to death. Spencer was almost twitching in his desire to say something. Marlene, meanwhile, was swarming around Chip in unfettered delight, openly flirting and batting her eyelashes.

The arrangement he was carrying, aside from being three feet tall, was delicate and vaguely Asian, in a square vase wrapped in strips of bamboo. It looked very, very expensive.

“Those are pretty,” Scarlett said, stepping between the steelygazed Spencer and Marlene and her dance of love.

“Oh.” He looked down at the flowers as if he had forgotten he was holding them. “Yeah. I tried. Lo likes white, and this pink color seemed good. I was just going to leave them. I should just leave them…”

There was a look on his face that she recognized—a hopeful, pained look.

“No,” she said. “You can come in.”

Spencer coughed. A tiny, polite cough.

“You should,” Marlene said, tugging on his sleeve.

It was clear that Chip had planned to leave his flowers at the desk unnoticed, and instead, three separate Martins had accosted him on the street.

“It’s okay,” he said, passing Scarlett the flowers. “And if she doesn’t want them, you can keep them.”

There was so much sadness in his voice. Stupid Chip, with his bottomless bank account and his Number Ninety-eight status and his repulsive friends.

“Hello, Chip,” Spencer finally said. His voice was completely normal, but the delay was oddly menacing.