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Stark could not think of anything particularly witty or clever to say, so he stayed silent as she eased the little car into traffic.
    After the first block he noticed that he did not feel the usual pressure to make conversation. It was a relief.
    Two blocks later Desdemona turned a corner, drove partway down an alley behind an aging brick building, and used a remote control to open the steel gate of a parking garage. Inside, she slipped the Toyota into a parking stall.
    Stark got out and walked her to the elevator.
    “Do you want to come upstairs to my place to call a cab?” Desdemona asked as they waited for the elevator doors to open.
    Stark suddenly realized that he wanted to go upstairs to her apartment more than he wanted anything else in the world. This was supposed to be his wedding night. “No, I'll get out at the lobby. I can find a cab on the street.”
    The elevator opened. Desdemona stepped inside. Stark followed. He thought she tensed as the doors closed again. He watched her out of the corner of his eye and could have sworn that she was doing some sort of deep-breathing exercise. Before he could figure out how to ask her politely if something was wrong, the elevator opened at the lobby level.
    Desdemona leaned on the button that held the doors open as Stark got out. She searched his face. “Are you going to be all right?”
    “Yes.”
    “I'm really sorry about what happened today.”
    “Forget it.”
    “It must have been hell for you.”
    “Like I said, you get used to it.”
    “I don't believe that for a minute.” Desdemona fleetingly touched the sleeve of his corduroy jacket. “Take care of yourself.”
    “Okay.” Stark paused. “Mind if I give you some advice?”
    “On computer security matters?”
    “No. Family matters.”
    The red highlights in her hair gleamed in the overhead light as she tilted her head to one side. “What advice?”
    “Don't cosign those loan papers for your cousin's wife.”
    “I'm the only one in the family who has a decent credit rating,” Desdemona said.
    “It's too risky. It's virtually the same as loaning the money to her.”
    “So?”
    “It's never smart to lend money to relatives,” Stark said patiently.
    Desdemona's expression turned oddly wistful. “Your family isn't very close, is it?”
    “What's that got to do with anything?”
    “Nothing. I'm sorry you couldn't meet my parents and my brother, Tony. Tony's in L.A. He's got a shot at a soap.”
    “He's in the laundry business?”
    Desdemona laughed. “A soap opera. My folks are doing My Fair Lady at a dinner theater in Tucson.”
    “You seem to have a rather large family.”
    “Luckily for me.”
    Stark eyed her speculatively. “From the sound of it, I'd say they're the lucky ones. You're apparently the financial linchpin of the whole operation.”
    Her eyes widened in surprise. “You don't understand. We're a family . We all stick together. You know the old saying, the only thing a Wainwright can depend on is another Wainwright.”
    And they're all depending on you, Stark thought. “I've never heard that particular saying.”
    “It's a family motto. Say, before you go, let me give you this.” Desdemona reached into the purse that was slung over her shoulder and took out a small business card. “I realize that the last thing you want to think about at the moment is the possibility of catering another major social event. But you never know.”
    Stark accepted the card. “Thanks.”
    Desdemona took her finger off the button. “Good night, Stark.”
    “Good night.” Stark saw the curious tension return to her eyes as the elevator doors closed.
    He hesitated a moment longer, and then finally he turned and walked out of the lobby.
    He found a cab almost immediately. He got inside and leaned back against the seat. With one blunt finger he traced the words Right Touch Catering on the crisp white card Desdemona had given him. Then he put the card into the pocket of his jacket.
    He felt weary