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component of her physical arsenal—and against the black, her skin looked creamy and lush. In this dress she wasn’t just some overweight, not even properly divorced loser; in this dress she was a babe, a piece, a cougar. She experimented with a small, predatory snarl in the polished glass.
    The unexpected success of the dress started her mind thrumming, her synapses snapping. So what if Ennis would be here? He had no claim on her, none at all. Maybe she would meet someone tonight, here at the wedding in Great Neck. Someone whose identity was as yet unknown to her, but who would have a profound effect on her life. She could almost feel the aura. It might be a guy—wouldn’t
that
would be nice? But it might also be a professional contact, someone to whom she might turn for guidance, counsel, advice—or something more concrete, like a new job. A job in which she would be both immersed and engaged, not just spinning her wheels.
    Maybe she could parlay her most recent experience with Ginny into something better. An arts organization or some other culturally minded nonprofit? She could see herself in development or PR; she was good at writing grants and at igniting a spark in the hearts and minds of those with money to burn.
    Still gazing at her not-at-all-shabby appearance in the mirror, Gretchen coiled her wild mass of hair into a loose topknot. The added height made the line of her neck look longer—a welcome and slenderizing effect. She let her hair go, and it sprung loose from her fingers, as if glad to be free again. Surely that stylist downstairs would have some bobby pins; Gretchen would go downstairs and find out. She’d inquire about having her brows done too. Nothing like a well-waxed pair of eyebrows for facing your future.
    And even if she didn’t meet someone tonight, Gretchen resolved to start making calls on Monday, putting out some feelers. She knew a few people, and those few might know a few more. She might even sign up for an online dating service, though she had shunned the idea in the past. But her best friend, Shelby—divorced three years this month—had done so and met a sweetheart of a saxophonist, who had been wooing her with intimate weekends at his beach house and his lush, fruity music.
    Gretchen thought about what her grandmother had been trying to say earlier. That her approach to her own life was too vague, too diffuse. According to Lenore, she needed to know what she wanted and go after it, like a panther stalking its prey. Like Teddy. And Angelica.
    Well, maybe Lenore was right. Maybe Gretchen had been too vague, too soft, too willing to let things happen instead of making them happen herself. Her eyes went once more to the mirror. Was it ridiculous to think that a becoming new dress could signify a change of mind, a change of heart? Gretchen didn’t know. But she fully intended to find out.

Four

    S tanding in the crowded Continental arrival lounge at JFK, Lincoln Silverstein bit down on the stale, brick-hard granola bar and cracked his back molar. Blame, like debris from an explosion, shot out in all directions. He blamed the stingy airline for not providing any food, thus driving him, in his ravenous state, to foolishly attempt to eat the year-old granola bar that he found lodged deep in the recesses of his carry-on bag. He blamed Jerry, the tightwad owner of the telemarketing company where he was currently employed, for excising the dental coverage from the already meager insurance plan. Without insurance to help defray the cost of the dentist’s visit, Lincoln had studiously ignored an intermittent pulsing in that molar, a pulsing that, it was all too clear now, was a signal of the impending dental calamity that had now befallen him. While he was at it, he blamed the manufacturers of the granola bar—brittle, sugary excuse for food that it was—his ex-wife, Betsy, for divorcing him, and Aaron Schulkind, his best friend throughout grammar and middle school, who had defected to