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intoned, “ If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down .” Harriet peered at her. “What do you think about crushes?”
    “Ridiculous.”
    “Pointless.”
    “Childish.”
    Harriet was vastly relieved. “I don’t understand all these girls turning suddenly stupid and going around telling everyone they’re in love.”
    “In love is not the same thing as a crush .” Annie landed on the last word with a sneer of disdain, but something had changed in her voice.
    Harriet stared at her. “Annie?”
    “What?” Annie’s tone was offhand, but her cheeks had a definite flush.
    “Are you trying to tell me you’ve fallen in love?”
    “Of course not,” said Annie, turning as red as a beefsteak tomato.
    “Who is he?” Harriet’s tone was demanding.
    Annie paused, then lifted a hand to her forehead like the star of a Hollywood film.
    Her voice was Cassandra D’Amore’s. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
    “I don’t believe this. What’s wrong with you?”
    “Nothing is wrong, H’spy, I’m a woman in love. With an older man.” Harriet stared. “It’s not Mr. Grenville, is it?”
    “Yuck!” Annie opened her mouth, pointing down at her tongue in a vomiting gesture. “That’s revolting!”
    “Then who ?” Harriet practically screamed.
    “I have a right to my secrets.” Annie picked up her cocoa and gulped.
    Not from me, thought Harriet, watching through narrowed eyes. Not from your best friend. And certainly not from a spy.
     

Chapter 5

    When Morris Feigenbaum’s last patient left for the day, Harriet headed back home. She opened the heavy front door and looked at the tray on the sideboard where the maid always left the day’s mail. There was nothing of interest, just a phone bill, an L.L.Bean catalog, and a New Yorker magazine full of cartoons about rich people’s parties. No letters from Montreal. Somebody has to explain this to me, thought Harriet. It had been bad enough to lose Janie and Sport to the ranks of the mushy deluded, but Annie’s declaring that she was in love was the last straw. There’s nobody left, thought Harriet, flopping down on her belly on the couch. I’m the last bastion of sanity.
    “Harry? Is that you?” Harriet’s mother came into the library wearing an evening dress, her head tilted to one side as she put on an earring.
    “It’s me,” said Harriet, prone.
    “Oh, hi, darling. I thought you were over at Annie’s.”
    “I’m back.”
    “That’s nice.” Her mother sounded distracted. “Your father is late, for a change.
    We’re supposed to go out with the Connellys, and he simply can’t wear his suit. It’s a black-tie reception. I bet he’s forgotten.”
    “I haven’t.” Her father’s voice boomed through the doorway. “Though if I had the knack of forgetting an evening with Sylvia Connelly, I’d be a happier man.” He leaned down to kiss Harriet’s cheek. “You look like you’re swimming indoors.
    I hope that’s not preadolescent moping I see.”
    “No, Daddy.”
    “Good. That would make me feel old.” Perhaps because Harriet’s father worked in television, it seemed to her sometimes that he had a permanent layer of sarcasm.
    “Harry, you have to get dressed,” said her mother.
    “I know, I know. Can’t a man say hello to his daughter?”
    “You’re going out again?” said Harriet.
    “Yes dear,” her mother answered. “You’re staying here and Cook will be staying too. I left you our number.”
    “We won’t need to call you!” Harriet exclaimed. “I can fend for myself.” She picked up a pillow and headed upstairs, stamping loudly on each stair tread.
    She unlocked the old toy box at the foot of her bed and took out her green notebook. As always, the sight of the volumes arrayed in numerical order gave her a ripple of pride. Ole Golly had called the green notebooks Harriet’s oeuvre , which was a French word for “body of work.” My oeuvre looks pretty substantial,