The guests looked as if they were enjoying the barbecue, based on the nearly empty collection of plates. The drinks had been refilled a few times, and even the hats had sparked comments and laughter—as any icebreaker should. Dispersed among the torn wrapping paper were the vintage Leica camera I’d given Marisa for her collection and a canvas camera bag filled with disposable cameras from Jo-Jo and Jack.

Marisa raised her soda glass to her lips as she nodded at something Jo-Jo was saying. Those two plus Clare had been three peas in a pod. They’d gotten into more than their share of trouble. Daddy had had to clean up a few of their messes, but the twins had known how to humor him and soothe his temper. I’d seen right through them. God, if I’d pulled half the shit they had, Daddy would have tossed me out on my fanny. When he finally gave me clearance to crack the whip, I’d been less forgiving. And yet nothing I came up with sidelined them for long.

Even the car accident hadn’t really slowed Marisa down. That signature red hair was gone, but if anything, the shorter haircut made her look more attractive. Her clear eyes, cheekbones, and pale skin now all popped, and it was hard to admit how striking she was. Kurt certainly was enjoying the show. I’d even caught David stealing a few glimpses, though he’d had the decency to look chagrined when our eyes met.

The waiter came into our room, cleared the plates, and refreshed our drinks. Next on tap was the cake (topped with ruby slippers), after which I could safely put this birthday to bed.

“Do you have an early day tomorrow?” David asked me.

“Since it’s Saturday, I opted to take it off.” I was a lawyer, operated my own firm, and working weekends was standard. If business kept on, I’d add a paralegal and perhaps an associate next year. “I knew this was going to be a late night.”

“So you won’t be in a rush to get to bed early?” he asked softly.

Warmth spread over my face. We’d been lovers for six weeks now and were still in the can’t-keep-hands-off-each-other phase. I shifted in my seat, already anxious to cut the cake and leave. “No. No rush at all.”

“Good.”

The flicker of candles on a chocolate cake on a cart appeared in the doorway. Four waiters had gathered, and they began to sing “Happy Birthday.” At first Marisa didn’t look up, seemed almost mutinous. But as the others at the table started to sing and clap, she found a smile and watched as the waiter set down the round cake with thirty-one candles. (The extra was for luck.) As the song wound down, Marisa drew in a breath, closed her eyes, and blew on the flames, which she extinguished immediately.