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regularly in Palo Alto, and they both have young children. Aside from those points in common, they are an ill-assorted pair to be friends. Bridget has a warmth and common sense valued by everyone she knows; Melanie comes from a well-connected Palo Alto family and knows something, usually something detrimental, about everyone who’s anyone in this town. She is not much taller than I am, always perfectly groomed, and always seems skeptical of my right to live in the same town that she does.
    Richard took Melanie aside for a low-voiced conversation. I told Barker to sit, and for a wonder he did. I gave Moira the bristle blocks I still had in my hand, and she amused herself by throwing them at Richard.
    A dull roar came from somewhere down the street, growing louder and louder. The students craned their necks, peering down the sidewalk. Even Richard broke off to listen.
    Claudia and the three boys lurched into view. They might have been drunks coming home from a carouse, especially since they were singing, at the top of their lungs, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.” Actually, they had reached eighty-three. Claudia sang, too, providing a bass note.
    Melanie sighed in disgust. Claudia and the boys, pausing in front of the driveway for a grand finale, attempted some harmony. “Eighty-two bottles of beer on the wall,” they howled happily.
    “Really, Claudia.” Melanie spoke as soon as she could make herself heard.
    The boys flung themselves at the steps to hug Barker, and he writhed happily. “We had beer!” Corky shrieked. "Lots of beer!”
    “Root beer,” Claudia amended. “Hello, Melanie. Who’s this?” She gave Richard Grolen an interested stare.
    Before Melanie could reply, Drake’s car pulled up and he charged up the front walk. He had noticed the Stanford van, and he didn’t look happy.
    I sat down on the porch step, deafened by the kids’ screams and Barker’s answering yowls. Moira took careful aim and hurled the last of the bristle blocks, bouncing it with great accuracy off the center of Drake’s forehead.
    It was going to be a long afternoon.
     

Chapter 5
     
    Despite those intoxicating root beer floats, the boys demanded lunch. I was happy to slink away from the melee in the front yard. Melanie had assumed hostess duties and was introducing a glowering Drake to Richard Grolen, while Claudia gave Richard the frank, approving once-over she reserves for sexy younger (to her, anyway) men.
    Moira and I ushered the boys into the house. I checked the list of acceptable food items Bridget had posted on the refrigerator, and got out the peanut butter. In just seven hours they would all go to bed (“Eight P.M. firm for bedtime,” Bridget had written. “Seven-thirty for Mick if he’s getting cranky.") and I would be free to collapse.
    Corky helped himself to juice and splashed it on the floor. Sam protested the waste and got his own mug out. I took control of the juice pitcher but lost the peanut butter knife to Mick, who pushed a chair up to the counter and loaded the knife up before looking around for a target. The front door opened, and Barker took the role of doorbell.
    I finished pouring juice and regained control of the peanut butter knife. Melanie Dixon appeared at the kitchen door.
    “Do you think we could get some tea or coffee or something?” Melanie's hair was mussed and her eye makeup smudged. Given her usual impeccable appearance, this was a sure sign that something had her ruffled.
    Claudia pushed through the kitchen door after her. “Don't be silly, Melanie.” She plucked Mick off the chair he was teetering on and set him firmly in his booster seat at the table. “Can’t you see Liz has her hands full? I notice you’re not burdened with your children this morning.”
    “I left them with Maria,” Melanie said stiffly. Her glance at the Montrose quartet spoke volumes; her perfect little daughters, Amanda and Susana, would never be so vociferous. “I just stopped by on my