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understand.”
    “Tell them I’m sorry.” Her voice broke. “Tell them I love them, and I know I’ve made a horrible mess of everything, and that I’ll come back and clean it up, but . . . Not yet. I can’t do it yet.”
    “All right. I’ll tell them. But—”
    She disconnected before Meg could say anything else.
    Meg steeled herself and told Lucy’s parents about the call. “She’s doing this of her own free will,” the president had said, perhaps remembering her own long-ago rebellious escape. “For now, we have to give her the space she needs.” She made Meg promise to remain in Wynette for a few more days in case Lucy reappeared. “It’s the least you can do after causing this mess.” Meg was too weighed down with guilt to refuse. Unfortunately, neither the president nor her husband had thought to cover the cost of Meg’s extended stay at the inn.
    “That’s odd,” Meg said to the desk clerk. In addition to her natural beauty, the clerk’s highlighted hair, perfect makeup, blindingly white teeth, and assortment of bracelets and rings tagged her as someone who spent a lot more time and money on her appearance than Meg did. “Unfortunately, I don’t have another card with me. I’ll write a check.” Impossible, since she’d emptied out her checking account three months ago, and she’d been living on her precious last credit card ever since. She shuffled through her purse. “Oh, no. I forgot my checkbook.”
    “No problem. There’s an ATM right around the corner.”
    “Excellent.” Meg grabbed her suitcase. “I’ll drop this in my car on the way.”
    The clerk shot around the counter and wrenched the suitcase away. “We’ll have it waiting for you when you get back.”
    Meg gave the woman her most withering look and spoke words she’d never imagined would ever come out of her mouth. “Do you know who I am?” I’m a nobody. An absolute nobody.
    “Oh, yes. Everybody does. But we have our policies.”
    “Fine.” She hoisted her purse, a hand-me-down Prada hobo from her mother, and swept from the lobby. By the time she reached the parking lot, she’d broken out in a cold sweat.
    Her gas-guzzling fifteen-year-old Buick Century sat like a rusty wart between a shiny new Lexus and a Cadillac CTS. Despite repeated vacuuming, the Rustmobile still smelled of cigarettes, sweat, fast food, and peat moss. She lowered the windows to let in some air. A sheen of perspiration had formed beneath the gauzy top she wore with jeans, a pair of hammered silver earrings she’d made from some buckles she’d found in Laos, and a vintage maroon felt cloche hat that her favorite L.A. resale shop advertised as having come from the estate of Ginger Rogers.
    She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, but no matter how hard she thought, she couldn’t see a way out. She pulled her cell from her purse and did what she’d promised never to do. She called her brother Dylan.
    Even though he was three years younger, he was already a hugely successful financial whiz. Her mind tended to wander when he talked about what he did, but she knew he did it extremely well. Since he refused to give her his work number, she called his cell. “Hey, Dyl, call me right away. It’s an emergency. I mean it. You have to call me back right now.”
    It was useless to call Clay, who was Dylan’s twin. Clay was still a starving actor, barely making the rent, although that wouldn’t last much longer, since he had a degree from Yale drama school, a growing list of off-Broadway credits, and the talent to back up the last name of Koranda. Unlike herself, neither of her brothers had taken anything from their parents since they’d graduated from college.
    She snatched up her phone as it rang.
    “The only reason I’m calling you back,” Dylan said, “is curiosity. Why did Lucy bail on her wedding? My secretary told me an online gossip site is saying you’re the one who talked her out of getting married. What’s going on