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toddlers, Grandaddy was a tough old son of a bitch; tougher, even, than Phyllida’s father. And unlike Phyllida’s father, who didn’t seem to care much for either of his children, Grandaddy played favorites.
    Uncle Norris’s daughter, Charlotte, was the only one Grandaddy ever really noticed. Not Phyllida, not even Grandaddy’s own namesake, Gilbert IV.
    Growing up, Phyllida couldn’t help envying her Southern cousin. But not so much for their grandfather’s attention. Nor for demure Charlotte’s natural grace, her genuine kindness and goodness . . . nor for the fact that she always seemed to do and say the right thing without even thinking about it.
    No, more than anything else, Phyllida was jealous of Charlotte’s effortless beauty. Even as a child, she was lithe and long-limbed, with wavy black hair, porcelain skin, and unusual purplish eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes. She even inherited the “Remington chin,” the same distinctive, comely cleft shared by Grandaddy and some of her ancestors, whom she’s seen in old family portraits.
    Today, Charlotte’s striking face and figure remain unenhanced by cosmetic surgery—unlike Phyllida’s.
    But in the end, none of that matters, does it? In the end, everything equals out.
    Phyllida has plain-old blue eyes, not aquamarine like those of her brother, father, and grandfather, nor Liz Taylor–violet like Charlotte’s. She considered—and dismissed—the notion of wearing colored contacts, despite how authentic-looking they are these days. But thanks to Dr. Zach Hilbert of Beverly Hills, Phyllida is now easily as stunning as her East Coast cousin.
    And Charlotte will be entitled to the same third of the family fortune Phyllida and Gib will get. No more, no less.
    Financial fair-mindedness was a proud trait of Grandaddy’s, and always had been.
    Phyllida’s father had always assured her of that. Grandaddy deplored his own father’s decision to cut his daughter out of his will. Great-Aunt Jeanne got nothing; Grandaddy got everything—on the stipulation that he not leave a penny of it to his sister upon his death.
    So Grandaddy’s estate would be divided equally between his two sons, Gilbert Xavier III—always called by his nickname, Xavy—and Norris.
    Nobody ever dreamed that neither son would outlive the father.
    Now, presumably, what was meant to belong to Phyllida’s father and his brother will be divided equally among their heirs.
    Presumably .
    Of course it will, Phyllida assures herself, watching her toddler’s little chest rise and fall rhythmically in the questionable old crib.
    In just a few days, when the will is read, she’ll find herself tens of millions of dollars richer.
    Then, to hell with the acting career, Hollywood, even Brian.
    For once in her life, Phyllida Remington Harper will have everything she wants. Everything she needs.
    But for now, there’s nothing to do but bide her time in this spooky Southern relic of a house.

    The huge plantation house kitchen reportedly once had a dirt floor and a fireplace big enough to walk into.
    It’s obviously been remodeled many times through the years. Royce doubts, however, that it’s been touched in the last couple of decades, other than to add a fairly up-to-date dishwasher and wedge a microwave into a nook on the soapstone countertop.
    Having spent the last few months pouring over design catalogues in the midst of redoing their new house in Savannah, he finds it fairly easy to identify each of the other upgrades with the era in which it was done.
    The painted white cabinets with glass-front doors and fold-down ironing board have to be from the twenties. The enormous black cookstove is Depression era. And the floor—black-and-white tile set in a checkerboard diamond pattern—is as blatantly 1950s as a tuna casserole served by June Cleaver in a bib apron.
    Retro style is all the rage in