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idiot.

    ―Thank you. Perhaps you‘d like some tea or some other refreshment?‖ Laurel motioned to a silver tea set in the corner. I‘d assumed it was for decoration only.
    ―No, I‘m fine. I would like to hear about the position, though. If you don‘t mind.‖
    ―Ah. Normally, it is the employer who asks the questions in an interview, no?‖
    ―Yes, normally,‖ I agreed, feeling a little bold from the carafe of red wine on the plane.
    ―But nothing today has been normal.‖
    She laughed, and I liked her for it. ―Actually, there is very little I want to ask, Miss Smith.‖
    ―Please, call me Megan.‖ I leaned back a little on the settee, trying to look comfortable.
    ―Megan, then. Debra Wurtzel is a dear friend. We have known each other a long time.
    We spoke at some length about you. She recommended you very highly. You read the article about my granddaughters in Vanity Fair , yes?‖
    ―Yes. On the plane. They‘re beautiful.‖ I glanced behind her at the dozens of framed photographs lining the shelves. There were pictures of Laurel with heads of state and Hollywood elite, but not one of her with her granddaughters.
    She offered a Gallic shrug and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt. ―The good fortune of a gene pool. How much do you know about me, Megan?‖
    ―Honestly? Only what I read this afternoon,‖ I answered, and resisted the urge to put my fingernails in my mouth.
    ―Everyone, it seems, has written about me. Tom, Harry, Dick. No one gets it right.‖
    I bit my lip to keep from laughing at the Harry-Dick thing.
    ―I started with nothing, Megan. I like to work hard, and I like this quality in others.
    Everything I have, I have earned.‖ She entwined her fingers. ―I have succeeded at many things. Anything worth doing is worth doing with excellence, don‘t you agree?‖
    I nodded. I did agree. But even if I didn‘t, what was I going to say?
    ―There is one thing—one important thing—at which I have failed. Raising my granddaughters.‖
    For the briefest moment, I thought I saw a flash of genuine sorrow in her eyes. Then it was gone.
    ―Perhaps, over the years, I would not allow myself to see the truth,‖ she continued. ―But now the entire world is aware that my granddaughters do not use their brains for anything more complex than choosing a shade of nail polish. I blame myself for this.‖

    As she looked toward the ocean, I thought I saw another flash of pain in her clear gray eyes. ―I‘d like to change that. I shall provide the motivation, which we shall get to in a moment. Unfortunately, I cannot be the one to help them put their minds to better use.
    For one thing, I travel far too much on business. You‘ll see me here at Les Anges only rarely. That is why the person to help them, dear, will be you.‖
    So she wanted me to teach her granddaughters. But why? The twins were about to come into an eight-figure trust. Maybe they weren‘t bright, but they were filthy rich. I‘d met enough legacies at Yale to know that filthy rich could get you a long way in this world even without a functional IQ.
    Laurel waited for my eyes to meet hers. ―You are wondering why this matters so much to me, no?‖
    ―Yes,‖ I admitted.
    ―Megan, the twins‘ late parents went to Duke University, in North Carolina,‖ Laurel explained. ―As did my late husband. I have always expected that the girls would go there also. To Duke.‖
    I knew Duke. It wasn‘t Yale, but it was a really good school and hard to get into. But the twins were legacies, legacies whose grandmother could surely donate a building or ten to the school. The rules for mere mortals—grade point average, SAT score, killer application essay—simply didn‘t apply to legacies like that.
    That‘s what I told Laurel, albeit a bit more diplomatically.
    ―In ordinary cases, you may be right,‖ Laurel agreed. ―But I received a phone call from Aaron Reynolds yesterday. He is the president of Duke. I‘ve known him for