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herself she would never make a wisecrack again.
    It was hard only for the first year or so. But every time she slipped, Ivy punished her with icy silence, and so Violet learned to keep it all locked inside a cold vault of shame. For a while, she missed the attention she used to get from the grown-ups. But even that paled in comparison to the joy of being back in Ivy’s good graces.
    Of course, as she matured and Ivy’s flaws, shortcomings, andhuman frailties became clear to her, Violet stopped worshipping her sister as a goddess and they became friends on the equal, if sometimes rocky, footing of adulthood. Still, the fear of her own verbal power never diminished. And although a grown-up Violet was well aware that this single childhood trauma had been the cause of her social anxiety, her fears persisted.
    Today, though, she wasn’t going to think about that. She was simply going to bond with her Dorothy Parker in the one way she knew would do the trick. Violet took the bottle of gin from the liquor cabinet and poured two more drinks. And then, instead of putting it back on the shelf, carried it with her into the study, where her thirsty friend awaited her.

Chapter 5
    The first thing Violet noticed was the grittiness beneath her lids. Then the pounding in her head. And finally the impossible stiffness in her neck. What the hell kind of position had she slept in? She opened her eyes and realized she’d spent the night passed out on the settee in the study. Only she couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason.
    Then she remembered. Or remembered most of it, anyway.
    Woollcott was curled up on her chest, asleep, legs twitching in the happy frolics of doggy dreamland. She waited until his muscles settled and gently put him aside. Then she sat up and looked around. The wingback chair was empty, and the guest book was on the coffee table, closed.
    Dorothy Parker had vanished.
    Violet considered opening the book, just to be sure what happened yesterday wasn’t her imagination. But she needed coffee first. She wasn’t learning anything until she quieted the pounding in her head.
    She shuffled into the kitchen and brewed enough for two, which might have felt silly if she wasn’t so groggy. But she really
had
spent the night drinking with Dorothy Parker, hadn’t she?
    Violet leaned against the counter drinking her coffee, waiting for the caffeine to kick in and dissolve her cobwebs. The phone rang—too loudly—and she checked the caller ID: Carl. Damn. Tomorrow was move-in day, and she hadn’t yet told him he wasn’t welcome. Or, moreprecisely, she had, but not emphatically enough to get through his granite skull. She let the machine pick up, as she was still too foggy to deal with him.
    Hey, babe, it’s me. Where are you? Oh, maybe you left to get Delaney. Call you later.
    Delaney. Right, it was Saturday. Violet looked at the clock. She didn’t have much time.
    She finished her coffee, poured two more, and carried them back into the study, still barely awake. Her plan was to set the cups down on the coffee table, then place the book on the chair, gently open it, and stand back. But when she reached the room she nearly dropped the cups.
    “Good morning, dear.” Mrs. Parker sat in the wingback chair, stroking Cliché and looking not the least bit hungover.
    Surprised and confused, Violet tried to focus. Was Dorothy Parker able to materialize at will? Hadn’t she explained that she couldn’t appear unless the book was open? Then Violet realized a certain furry companion had nosed open the book the day before, and must have done it again.
    “Woollcott?” Violet asked, indicating the open book on the coffee table.
    “It seems I have a fan.”
    Violet handed her guest a cup of coffee and lowered herself into the other chair. Woollcott jumped onto her lap, and the two women sat facing each other, drinking their coffee and stroking their little dogs.
    “What happened last night?” Violet said. “Who shut the book?