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the inside of the lamp when Myra Ditmeyer sauntered in. She wore a breezy vermilion suit that matched the shade of her lipstick. The powerful punch of her scent filled the little shop.
    "Well, Shelby, always keeping those clever hands busy." With a smile of pure pleasure, Shelby leaned over the counter to kiss Myra's powdered cheek. If you want some acerbic gossip or just plain fun, there was no one, in Shelby's opinion, better than Myra. "I thought you'd be home planning all the wonderful things you're going to feed me tonight."
    "Oh, my dear, that's all seen to." Myra set down her alligator bag. "The cook's in a creative spin even as we speak."
    "I've always loved eating at your house." Shelby pulled the wire through the top of the lamp. "None of those stingy little meals or inedible sauces disguised as exotic." Absently she tapped her foot to the beat of the radio. "You did say Mama was coming."
    "Yes, with Ambassador Dilleneau."
    "Oh, yeah
    the Frenchman with the big ears."
    —
    "Is that any way to talk about a diplomat?"
    "She's been seeing him quite a bit," Shelby said casually. "I've wondered if I'm going to have a Gallic steppapa."
    "You could do worse," Myra pointed out.
    "Mmm. So, tell me, Myra
    cord with a few
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    "
    …
    deft turns. "Who've you set up for me tonight?"
    "Set up," Myra repeated, wrinkling her nose. "What an unromantic phrase."
    "Sorry. How about
    who are you planning to loose Cupid's arrows on?"
    —
    "It's still unromantic when you're smirking." Myra watched Shelby screw in a light bulb.
    "In any case, I think you should be surprised. You've always been fond of surprises."
    "I like giving better than getting."
    "How well I know. How old were you? Eight, as I recall, when you and Grant

    …
    surprised a small, rather influential gathering in your mother's parlor with uncomfortably accurate caricatures of the Cabinet."
    "It was Grant's idea," Shelby said, with a lingering twinge of regret that she hadn't thought of it first. "Papa laughed about it for days."
    "He had a unique sense of humor."
    "As I recall you offered Grant two thousand for the one of the Secretary of State."
    "And the scoundrel wouldn't sell it to me. Good God," she mused. "What it would be worth now?"
    "It would depend what name he signed to it, wouldn't it?"
    "How is Grant? I haven't seen him since Christmas."
    "The same
    brilliant, grumpy." A laugh stole through the words. "Guarding his
    —
    lighthouse fortress and his anonymity. I think I might sneak up there and bother him for a couple of weeks this summer."
    "Such a gorgeous young man," Myra mused. "What a waste for him to seclude himself on that little bit of coast."
    "It's what he wants," Shelby said simply. "For now."
    "Excuse me?"
    Both women looked toward the door where a young man stood in a crisp messenger's uniform. Shelby glanced at the basket over his arm. "Can I help you?"
    "Miss Shelby Campbell?"
    "Yes, I'm Shelby."
    He shifted the basket he carried from his arm to his hand as he walked to her. "Delivery for you, Miss Campbell."
    "Thanks." Automatically, she reached into the cash drawer for a dollar. "Who's it from?"
    "Card's inside," he told her, pocketing the bill. "Enjoy." She played the game. Shelby had been known to study and poke at a package on Christmas morning for twenty minutes before ripping off the paper. There were such possibilities in the unknown. She tilted the package from side to side, peered at it, then cupped her chin on both hands and stared at it.
    "Oh, come on, Shelby!" Myra shifted her weight from foot to foot with impatience.
    "Lift off the cover; I'm dying to see."
    "In a minute," Shelby murmured. "It might be
    a picnic. Who'd send me a picnic? Or a
    —
    puppy." She bent her ear close and listened. "Too quiet for a puppy. And it smells like
    d held it. "That's funny,