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in a way.”
    He grabs the carved rosewood balustrade, his soles tapping on the smooth, polished marble steps. Josie can’t believe she’s walking upstairs with Lennox Cruz. The Birchall’s three wings have nearly fifty rooms—plus the requisite number of other areas hidden away—perfect for a romp in the dark. She used to explore here as a child, always getting lost on purpose, back when her mother would drop her off. Her grandmother and Lady Birchall used to play bridge while Josie explored. More than once, she imagined running through the closed rooms with Lennox Cruz.
    “I think I might like it here,” Lennox says.
    She watches him ascend, unable to take her eyes from his shoulders. They’re broad in the right kind of way. Not hugely muscled at all. She wants to reach out and place her hands against them …
    “So why would Stella send you here?” she asks. “I can’t imagine.”
    They reach the landing. He stands at the railing overlooking the vestibule. He surveys the scene. Lady Birchall’s palatial home is partly decorated in polished stone and burnished metals, partly in ostentatious ornamentation of rococo, and even partly contemporary. The parquet floor of the vestibule is so shiny Josie often thinks she’s walking on water when she enters. The place feels a bit castle-like to her because Lady Birchall’s husband wanted a touch of Europe in north Georgia. “To compete with the Biltmore,” he used to say, before dying at the ripe old age of ninety eight.
    “You can’t imagine?” he asks.
    He stares at her longer than he should have. It’s the sort of stare that makes a girl wonder. It’s the sort of stare that makes her gaze at him doe eyed. The awkward moment that follows—she peering down at the vestibule floor as if a pile of gold has appeared, he smiling at her as if he might nibble on her neck—makes her curse herself for an idiot. He knows about the crush, she tells herself. He’s always known. He knew in sixth grade when they were biology partners and he helped her dissect that frog. He grabbed her hand holding a scalpel, leaning in real close, and helped with the incision. He knew in seventh grade when she asked him for a personal photo and he gave it to her. Then he stopped coming to school for the rest of the year for some reason. She has always wondered if it was because of her. It’s my crush, she thinks. He’s always known about my crush. But he has remained at arm’s length. When he met Stella and left to be an actor and Josie went to U.G.A. for college, she moved on. He married Stella Spivey… and got sent here ... to Josie ... to Husband Rehab .  
    “No, I can’t imagine,” she says and actually bats her eyes.
    Mr. Creeley comes charging into the vestibule. He points one finger at her, as if he might make a complaint. He’s a skinny old man who looks dressed up enough you’d think he might be a fifth-grade substitute teacher. The annoyance in those eyes means he’s happy to be in a bad mood and even winning the lottery wouldn’t improve it.
    “Let me out of this goddam house!”
    Josie glares back. He stomps off in a huff. Across from the drawing room is the recessed den with a TV. It seems Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Reiner have learned they aren’t getting out of the house and have decided to watch some prime time.
    Lennox went down the second floor hallway. She follows. Somehow, he knows to go to the right. He walks past the other men’s doors and stops before his own. The frame is stained dark, the heavy wood boards forming a bulky portal. Lennox seems fit for it, though, as he stands there.
    “Ah, my room.” He reaches out and touches his name on the cardboard that Alice must have taped to the door. “My wife doesn’t know I’m here.” He looks at Josie. “I was hoping you can help me with a few things.”
    She doesn’t know …?
    “That’s what I’m here for,” Josie says.
    “The only reason I came was because of you—and because my mom said you