Molly knew it was the air of mystery around her marriage that was keeping the press interested, but she refused to comment on it, and so did Kevin. His courteous, formal calls to check up on her had finally stopped at her insistence. From the time he’d learned of her pregnancy right through her miscarriage, his behavior had been faultless, and the resentment she felt whenever she thought of him made her ashamed, so she stopped thinking about him.

“We think it’s a good idea to be cautious now.” Her editor slipped an envelope from the folder she had at her side and passed it across the table. Unfortunately, it was too large to contain a check.

“Luckily, Daphne Takes a Tumble hasn’t gone into final production yet, and that gives us a chance to make a few of the changes they’re suggesting. Just to avoid any misunderstanding.”

“I don’t want to make changes.” The muscles tightened in a painful band around Molly’s shoulders.

“I understand, but we think—”

“You told me you loved the book.”

“And we’re totally committed. The changes I’m suggesting are very minor. Just look through them and think about it. We can talk more next week.”

Molly was furious when she left the restaurant. By the time she got home, however, her anger had faded, and the bleak sense of emptiness she couldn’t shake off settled over her once again. She tossed aside the envelope with Helen’s suggestions and went to bed.

Lilly wore the shawl Mallory had given her to the J. Paul Getty Museum. She stood on one of the curved balconies that made the museum so wonderful and gazed out over the hills of Los Angeles. The May day was sunny, and if she turned her head a bit, she could see Brentwood. She could even make out the tile roof of her house. She’d loved the house when she and Craig first found it, but now all the walls seemed to be closing in on her. Like so much else in her life, it was more Craig’s than hers.

She slipped back inside the museum, but she paid little attention to the old masters on the wall. It was the Getty itself she loved. The cluster of ultramodern buildings with their wonderful balconies and unpredictable angles formed a work of art that pleased her far more than the precious objects inside. A dozen times since Craig’s death she’d ridden the sleek white tram that carried visitors to the hilltop museum. The way the buildings enfolded her made her feel as if she’d become part of the art—frozen in time at the moment of perfection.