“Won’t you come in?” The housekeeper escorted him to a sunroom that looked like it was lifted from some island hotel. Everything was new and color coordinated, as if all the furniture and every picture on the walls had been bought from the same store on the same day.

Peyton tried not to fidget, but it was hard, after all the time he’d spent waiting to see Lisa. He couldn’t believe it was about to happen.

“So you’re Peyton Cabot.”

He turned to see a woman who looked older than his mother standing in the doorway. “Yes, ma’am. I’m pleased to meet you.” Standing to greet her, he offered his hand, then awkwardly lowered it as she didn’t let go of the book and newspaper she was holding.

The woman was dressed the same way her house was furnished—as if she had opened a catalog, turned to the Miami section, and ordered everything there. She was wearing slim pants that hit above the ankles and high heels, both in a bright shade of coral, with an ankle-length, coral-and-blue, sleeveless coat sort of thing over them. Big jewelry, big hair that looked dyed black. Lipstick and long fingernails—both the exact color of her pants. She had what Peyton’s mother called a “nothing-better-to-do tan”—a dark hue that could only be achieved by doing little else besides sunbathing.

“Have a seat,” she said.

Peyton sat back down on palm-print cushions as the woman took a seat in a matching chair across from him.

“I gather you’ve seen this?” She laid a newspaper on the glass-topped coffee table between them. It was a copy of the Miami Herald with a big picture of Peyton on the front page. He was sitting at a table by the pool at The Breakers. No doubt Peggy Martell had snapped it when he wasn’t looking.

“I don’t understand,” Peyton said.

“Oh, I think it’s pretty clear. You told this reporter that you were making this journey in hopes of a rendezvous with a mystery girl you call your very own Venus.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I didn’t say that. She said it—the reporter, I mean.”

“I’m curious as to when and how a boy your age would have seen a painting of Venus, Mr. Cabot?”

“I haven’t, ma’am. That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you. All I said was that Lisa—I didn’t call her by name—was a beautiful girl with red hair. The reporter called her that—that Venus.”

“Well, just so you know, here is the image that my young, innocent niece apparently conjures in your lascivious brain.” She opened the book she had been holding—some kind of art encyclopedia—and turned it around.

“Good grief!” Peyton stood up in shock as he saw the painting of a woman with long red hair—and not a stitch of clothing—reclining on a bed. “I’d never talk about Lisa like that! Especially in a newspaper!”

“But you think about her like that all the time—don’t you?”

“Is Lisa here?”

“No. Once I told her about this article so she’d know what you’re made of, I sent her home where her parents could keep her safe.”