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jumped in and then the cops arrived—I remember the sirens. There were arms and legs everywhere. I got an elbow in my face and I must’ve fallen on my wrist. Not sure what happened to Max.” Daisy tried to shake off the memory. But she couldn’t forget the dazed grimace on Max’s face— was blood trickling over his eye? —as the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance. All of that anguish directed at her. Not that she blamed him, really, although it wasn’t completely her fault. If they had left the restaurant when she’d wanted, none of this would’ve happened. If Max hadn’t been so cheap about her $7.50 drinks, they would’ve been out the door. If he hadn’t confessed about Tina— what the hell was he thinking ? But Jason was most at fault. This disastrous night happened because Jason was an ass!
    Charity consoled her best friend with an embrace. “Daisy, Daisy, Daisy.”
    The ice pack went back on her eye. “I’m cursed.”
    They sat silently for a minute then Charity looked thoughtful. “Just out of curiosity, before the fight, you didn’t get lucky, did you?”
    Pulling away, Daisy dropped both her jaw and the ice pack. “Are you kidding?”
    “Were you at least having fun?”
    Daisy stared.
    “Well, were you?”
    She pondered the question, remembering Max’s kiss. “It wasn’t the worst night . . .”
    “That’s the important thing.”
    “I don’t think that’s the important thing.”
    They sat in silent commiseration, for the first time aware of the conversation hum around them. Then Charity heard a familiar laugh and looked over her shoulder. Her handsome husband—a silver-haired poster boy for Eddie Bauer—chatted congenially with the two police officers. Catching his wife’s gaze, Bob Wagstaff excused himself and joined her.
    “ Evening, ladies.”
    “What took you so long?” Charity asked.
    “I had a Louixs and a snifter of Rémy Martin to finish. And I made a few phone calls.”
    “Phone calls?” Charity griped.
    Bob held up his hand to halt the protest. “So, Daisy, the crime spree continues, eh?”
    Daisy moaned from both her humiliation and her throbbing wrist. But mostly from humiliation.
    “Here’s the good news,” he said. “The police aren’t pressing charges. I talked with Pietro at the restaurant and persuaded him to handle this privately, but he expects someone to pay for the damages.”
    “Well I’m certainly not! Jason started it!”
    “Calm down, Daisy,” Charity said. “I’m sure Jason can be persuaded to share half—”
    “Half? But it was all Jason’s fault!”
    “Why don’t we discuss this after you’ve had a good night’s sleep and are thinking more clearly?” Bob suggested.
    “I’m not paying a penny.”
    “Uh-oh,” Bob mumbled.
    “What?” Charity looked around.
    “ Clod Standish.” Bob smiled at a fifty-ish man with bronzed skin and teeth white enough to bring a ship into port at night. “It looks like Jason has brought in the big guns. I’d better go see what we’re up against.”
    “He looks familiar,” Daisy said, still irritated. “I think I’ve seen him in the restaurant. Of course, slaving over hot burners doesn’t let me hobnob much. Jason always did the social stuff. So who’s Claude Standish? Why is Bob so worried?”
    “Actually it’s Clyde. Bob doesn’t like him.” She gave Daisy a moment. “Clyde is the attorney when it comes to personal injury. Remember the guy who got scalded by coffee when the lid came off his cup? Clyde got him three hundred grand. And that pregnant airline passenger who was manhandled by airport security? Two million.”
    “Maybe I should hire Clod .”
    “By the look on Bob’s face, I’d say Jason beat you to it.”
    Bob returned. “Well, ladies, the plot thickens.”
    “What’s Clyde suing for?” Charity asked.
    “Oh, who cares?” Daisy snapped. “Nothing will stick. There are witnesses—”
    “Shush.”
    “Well, for starters,” Bob began with his courtroom face,