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to it. Ain-ee-wun hee-ahh. Not a California native. I shrug, not wanting to encourage her. Sloppiness. It always repels me.
    “So how do you know . . . the people here?” she asks. Hee-ahh again. She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her eyes and mouth both open wide. I can hear her breathing through her mouth. Distasteful.
    Then I feel a hand at my elbow. It is cold and damp. I turn. It’s Deborah herself, who has apparently finished administering to the rug. The gold-skirt woman is staring at her, her mouth still open, clearly flummoxed. “So you two found each other,” Deborah says, gesturing at me, then at the woman. “Why am I not surprised.”
    I am at a loss for words. Finally, I inanely stick out my hand. “Helen R—”
    “Richter,” says Deborah. “Yes, I know. Helen Richter, meet MJ Taylor. I’m assuming you both know who I am.”
    “Taylor?” I ask the woman in gold. “Are you related to John?”
    “Related?” the woman begins to laugh. She’s most definitely had too much to drink. “I guess you could say so.”
    “But not by blood,” suggests Deborah. She is smiling.
    “No, not like that,” the woman says, then falls silent.
    There’s an awkward pause as Deborah briefly accepts the goodbyes of a couple of guests, then gives us her attention again. “You two have more in common than you realize,” Deborah says. She appears as composed as ever. “In fact, we all three share something quite . . . intimate.”
    “I don’t understand,” I say, but a drum has started pounding in my chest. I can feel blood rushing in my ears. I realize I haven’t eaten anything for nearly forty-eight hours.
    “Excuse me,” I say, and stumble over to the nearest empty chair. I put my head between my knees. The dizziness passes.
    I stay there for a moment, then gradually sit up, hoping to be left alone. But no. Both Deborah Taylor and MJ Taylor are standing next to me. MJ looks genuinely concerned and is holding out a glass of water. Deborah simply observes me.
    “I think you’re beginning to get it,” says Deborah. She smiles. It strikes me that she doesn’t have a very nice face.
    MJ still looks bewildered, she glances from me to Deborah and back again. “What’s going on?” she asks. Goin aw-an. Definitely southern roots.
    “What’s going on is the inaugural meeting of John Taylor’s spouses,” says Deborah. “Would we qualify as a coven? A harem? What is the term for a group of wives?”
    “Circle,” I say. “We are a circle of wives.” Then I close my eyes and this time don’t fight the dizziness.

6
MJ
    I SOMEHOW GET HOME AFTER that disastrous reception. How I did it without ending up with a DUI I don’t know. I’m not a drinker. It only takes a couple glasses of wine on an empty stomach to put me way under, and the wine coupled with the stress, and then the shock unhinged me completely. Three wives! And of course it had been me who jogged that woman’s elbow so she spilled her red wine all over Deborah’s apparently very valuable carpet. Well, despite knowing everything else, she didn’t seem to know that. Be grateful for small victories, I tell you. Or “Yee- haw” as my mother would say sarcastically when underwhelmed by an event.
    How do I feel? Humiliated. I’ve clearly been outsmarted and outgunned at every point. Those fantasies I’d had of starting a quiet conversation with Deborah in which I calmly informed her of the situation now seem borderline hallucinogenic. Not since I dropped acid in my twenties have I felt so displaced from reality as standing in Deborah’s living room with her and that other “wife.” What was her name, Helga? Heidi? Something that begins with an “H.” She managed to hold on to her wits and, more importantly, her dignity. Even at my best I only muddle through life, grateful for the goodwill most people bear toward dumb creatures. At least Deborah doesn’t seem inclined to strip me of my assets, meaning, this house. “We’ll have that