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twice-engaged never-married
thirty-four-year-old sister. But she was thrilled for the deliriously in love,
although no less judgmental, Vivian, and for the equally in love Blaine
Prescott, M.D. “But I’m very glad they have.”
    “I know you are,” Bea said. “And don’t worry about how late
the evening may be. I’ll see you when I see you. If I get sleepy, Agatha and I
will take a nap in the guest bedroom. What would you like me to do if
you-know-who calls? I’d be delighted to give him a piece of my mind.”
    “I know. But I was thinking it might be best to just let
voice mail pick up any calls. Maybe he’ll leave a message, something the police
could use if it comes to that . . . which, with luck, it won’t.”
    Bea’s expression was sympathetic but stern. The man had
warned he would call again. “You are going to discuss this with Blaine
and Vivian.”
    “Yes”— Mother— “I am.”
    Her sister and brother-in-law’s
undivided attention was not the reason Mira had said yes to Vivian’s suggestion
that they drive downtown together. And she had initially declined . . . as, she
felt sure, Vivian had known she would.
    It was one of those safe offers, like inviting someone to a
dinner party when you knew they had other plans. You got credit for the invitation
without incurring any risk that the invitee might actually appear.
    It was the black-tie—not the charity—aspect of the Harvest
Moon Ball that virtually ensured Mira would say no. Dress-up for Vivian’s
sister meant jeans instead of scrubs.
    For years, and with a request of anonymity, Mira had made
generous donations to the Grace Memorial Hospital benefit. This year, and
unbeknownst to her until the program for the evening’s silent auction arrived
in the mail, Blaine had added her name to the Chagall that he and Vivian were
donating. The painting, purchased in the south of France during Blaine’s first honeymoon, had no place in his marriage to Vivian.
    Mira had been a little miffed that her name had been included
without her consent. But she had decided against making an issue of it. Blaine’s intentions were admirable. He had undoubtedly decided that linking her and Vivian
in print was a first step toward the real-life reconciliation he hoped to
orchestrate.
    Either that, Mira mused, or the psychiatrist renowned for his
commitment to women’s mental health had developed a scholarly interest in
aberrant relationships between sisters.
    Whether his motives were altruistic or academic, Blaine was going to be disappointed.
    There wasn’t a previously unrecognized disorder to be
unearthed here, a deviation so profound it should be added to the psychiatric
watch list. The Larken sisters’ lives rarely intersected, rarely had, and when
they did, the contact was glancing at worst, without damage of any kind.
    For the same reason, an emotional reconciliation wasn’t in
their future. She and Vivian were not estranged. How could they be? It
was hard to be estranged from a stranger.
    If ever baby Mira had reached for her three-year-old sister,
only to be rejected, she had no memory of it—no memories whatsoever of longing
for closeness to the sister who had always been so far away.
    Faraway sister. Faraway mother. Faraway father. That was Mira’s
family. The family of Quail Ridge. The Larkens gathered for photo ops: the
annual Christmas card portrait, Marielle’s frequent Mother of the Year honors, and
Vivian’s similarly frequent academic awards.
    The ideal family pretense hadn’t bothered Mira. Not that she
had perceived it as pretense. That was the way her family was, and she was a happy
child. Besides, she had found a family of her own in the neighborhood dogs. The
enthusiastic creatures gave her the unconditional love that wasn’t available in
the Larken mansion. Mira reciprocated in kind. And, although she had no deep,
dark secrets, her canine companions provided an attentive audience for whatever
she had to say. It was to her tail-wagging