Summer House

Baxter

Prologue

It was a perfect June day, one of the precious few awarded those in the Northeast who had endured another bleak winter, another rainy spring. The early morning sun was warm and energizing, and a light breeze, carrying with it the fragrance of honeysuckle, sweetened the air. Everywhere the pale green buds that had emerged only weeks earlier were exploding into voluptuous bursts of color, rich reds, yellows, and pinks.

It was the kind of day that brought to mind the word rebirth. In fact, it was this very word that kept echoing through Ben Gilbert’s mind as he jogged down Emerson Road, totally lost in his own thoughts, absorbed in an exuberant mood. He loved being one of the few people out on the streets of this quiet Westchester suburb early in the morning. He barely noticed the even row of meticulously maintained houses that he passed, the staid brick colonials, charming salt boxes, whimsical Tudors, or occasional ranch house.

He breathed deeply, feeling a surge of satisfaction at his own strength and stamina as he cut across the sidewalk that ran the length of the elementary school, then continued on toward the Harrington Town Library. He was pushing himself just a bit harder than usual.

Fifteen minutes before, he’d left his silent house, wide awake even though his wife was still in bed, asleep. As always, just slipping on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt had invigorated him. After five minutes of stretching out on the front lawn, he’d eased into a slow, steady jog along the same route that he’d been running almost every morning for the past twelve years, ever since his fiftieth birthday.

He always thought of Monday mornings as a time to rev up into full gear all over again, after a two-day hiatus. After this jog, he would follow the same routine he followed every weekday morning. He would hurry back into the house to gulp down coffee and spend a few minutes with his wife. Then he would shower, shave, and don a business suit, all in time to catch the 8:11 bound for Grand Central Station.

He loved his work, presiding over the company he had started some thirty-five years earlier. Benjamin Gilbert Associates was a small but successful promotional firm, consisting of a staff of a dozen or so creative men and women who came up with clever ways of promoting clients’ products: running a sweepstakes for a leading laundry soap, putting a free package of a new flavor of gum into a popular children’s cereal, coming up with a gimmicky giveaway for a major fast-food chain. He also employed a handful of marketing types who executed the plans, along with some sales representatives who helped bring in new clients. Once a client had signed, all he had to do was write a check and then sit back and bask in the glory—as well as the increased sales and profits.

B.G.A. was Ben’s baby. It was his life’s work, a little piece of himself that managed to thrive in the competitive field of marketing and sales promotion alongside big names like Donnelly and Synergistics and D. L. Blair. And he loved every aspect of it, from coaching his people before they made a sales pitch to a prospective client, to running numbers on his calculator, to listening to one of the new kids breathlessly present his latest brainstorm.

Even so, the early morning was still his favorite part of the day. The streets were empty, the air was fresh, the world was silent except for the chirping of birds and the rhythmic slapping of his blue and white Nikes against the concrete sidewalk.

That sound turned to a dull thudding as Ben veered off onto the manicured front lawn of the town library, ignoring the Keep Off the Grass sign. Hell, no one was around to see him, anyway. There was one other sound that accompanied him: the huff, puff of his breath as he pushed toward the end of the three-mile course he’d plotted out for himself a dozen years earlier when he’d decided, once and for all, to fight against the approach of old age.

At first, Ben had used this time to think about the day ahead. The appointments to go to, the memos to write, the decisions to make. After a while, however, he had taught himself to relax as he ran. Now he allowed himself the luxury of letting his mind drift over much more pleasant, relaxing topics.

His wife, Pat, for example. Today he was trying to decide what he could possibly get her as a gift for their wedding anniversary at the end of August. Forty-two years. That certainly sounded like a very long time. Why, then, he wondered, did it now seem as if the whole thing had sped by?

As he jogged through the town where all four of his and Pat’s children had grown up, he passed a hundred different reminders of them. There, in front of the elementary school, was the curb where his oldest son, Michael, then barely six years old, had fallen off his bicycle. Over here was the town library, where at the ribbon-cutting ceremony three decades before, Julie had read a poem she’d written. Behind the library, on Maple Drive, Ben could pick out the houses that had been on the paper route of his third child, Wesley. And there was the home of the nice woman who had once bought a dozen boxes of Girl Scout cookies from Katy. Little Katy— now, it was difficult to believe, thirty-three years old.

Yes, those four children—now four adults with jobs and homes and families of their own—gave him a lot to think about. Summer was coming, and he wondered if he’d get to see them. He hoped that at least once over the next two or three months they’d manage to squeeze in a visit, find the time to travel out to the Gilberts’ summer house on Shelter Island, off the eastern end of Long Island. They were all so busy.

Suddenly, as he veered off onto Parker Lane, the turn that signified that he had just begun his third mile, Ben felt a stabbing pain in his chest and down his left arm. He was having trouble catching his breath and, at the same time, he broke into a cold sweat. He stopped, doubling over, stricken with pain, overcome with fear.

Oh, my God, I’m having a heart attack!

Ben’s mind was racing.

I’m dying! Oh, Lord, I’m dying, and there’s no one around to help me....

The pain lasted for what seemed an awfully long time, although in retrospect he would realize it was no more than five minutes. He dropped to the curb, the corner of someone’s front lawn, someone he didn’t even know. He clenched his eyes shut and just sat there waiting, waiting....

And then, it was over. The pain stopped. The fear melted just as abruptly. He began to feel like himself again.

I’m alive, he thought. My God, I’m alive! Ben was so relieved and so happy that tears actually sprung to his eyes. I had a heart attack and I survived. I survived! I’m still alive!

More than anything, he wanted to see Pat.

His wife’s face loomed ahead of him, clear in his mind’s eye, as he shuffled home, his hand covering his heart in the same way a person who’d fallen might have cushioned a scraped elbow. He could see her as clearly as if he were looking at a photograph of her: her broad smile; her even if unremarkable features; her green eyes; her wavy blond hair streaked only slightly with gray, cut just at the jaw line.

His sudden need for her bordered on desperation. All he knew was that he wanted her to console him, to tell him everything would be all right, to reassure him that the danger was over. Only she was in his thoughts as he stumbled on toward home.

He quickened his pace as soon as he saw the familiar white colonial-style house up ahead, with its welcoming front porch, slate blue shutters, and vibrant marigolds and zinnias. He went around to the back door, into the kitchen.

How comforting it was to see Pat in their large kitchen, the place where she always seemed most comfortable. It was a pleasant room, large and sunny, one that managed to retain its air of homey friendliness even though it was outfitted with every modern appliance and cooking aid available: a complicated-looking food processor, a microwave, a sleek white toaster oven that had always looked suspiciously futuristic to him.

As usual, Pat was the picture of efficiency, humming softly as she worked, looking as if she had everything under control. Indeed, she had the coffeepot perking, the toaster oven glowing, the butter softening. And in the midst of it all, she stood at the counter next to the sink, still dressed in her bathrobe and slippers, absorbed in slicing a cantaloupe in half.

She was a strong, competent woman, one who had weathered her share of bad news and hardships. Yes, she would see him through this, forge ahead without tears, without useless emotionalism, considering such frivolities a mere waste of everyone’s time. She would supply the strength he needed, strength which, at the moment, seemed to have totally eluded him. After all, if their forty-two years together had taught him anything it was that taking charge was one of the things that Pat Gilbert did best.

Good morning, Ben. She glanced up from her work space, the square of butcher block that was set into the Formica counter, only long enough to ascertain that it was, indeed, her husband who’d just come in through the screen door.

Coffee’ll be ready soon. Did you have a nice run? Oh, this melon is perfect. I just love summer fruits, don’t you? Peaches, plums, strawberries, melons, of course ... Or do you want to take a shower first?

She looked up then, as if she were surprised that he hadn’t said anything or moved across the kitchen to help himself to some coffee. When she saw the look on his face, she gasped.

Ben! What’s wrong? You look awful. You’re as white as a ghost! What happened?

Oh, God, Pat, he cried, sinking into a chair and burying his face in his hands. I think I just had a heart attack.

Oh, no! She dropped the knife onto the butcher block and rushed over to him. What happened? Are you sure? Should I drive you to the emergency room—or call Dave Jennings? ...

No, no, don’t do that. Don’t call Jennings. I’m fine now. Really.

Haltingly he told her what had just happened: the pain he’d suddenly experienced while running, the tingling sensation in his arm, the shortness of breath. Pat interrupted with questions every so often, in between punctuating his report with a distraught Oh, my God! or Oh, no, Ben!

Is there anything I can do? she asked when he had finished. "I don’t know what to say.... What do you want me to do?’’

Her voice was soft and meek, like a scared little girl’s. He would never have expected her to react this way, with such vulnerability, with such naked fear. Seeing her like this made Ben even more frightened than he had been before.

Just hold me, Pat, he said in a hoarse voice, his arms already reaching for her. All I want is for you to hold me.

* * * *

That evening, while Pat was showering in the bathroom off the master bedroom, Ben sat on the edge of their queen-sized bed. Even though he was perched right in front of the television, he hadn’t turned the set on. Instead, he was just staring, without seeing anything that was in front of him.

He didn’t see the room around him, an elegant if impersonal collection of sleek modern furniture, tasteful fabrics in shades of brown and beige, and a sense of harmony that brought credit to the keen eye of an experienced interior designer. He didn’t see the gray-haired man in the blue-and-white-striped cotton pajamas reflected in the dark TV screen, handsome with his salt-and-pepper hair and tanned, even features, despite the lines around the eyes, the haggard look around the mouth.

He didn’t even see Pat, at first, when she came out of the bathroom. She looked fresh and almost girlish in the flowing peach chiffon nightgown she had just put on, a flattering garment whose soft color accented her pale hair and made her green eyes even greener. She had tried to look her best this evening.

Between his failure to notice her and the look on his face, she knew immediately that her husband was a million miles away.

A penny for your thoughts, she chirped. All day long she had been trying to be cheerful. She hadn’t even protested very much when he continued to refuse to see a doctor or even let her telephone Dave Jennings, a longtime friend and golf buddy who just happened to be an internist. He kept insisting that he was fine now, that he just needed to rest, to take a couple of days off from work. Hell, maybe he’d even imagined the whole thing, misread what was nothing more than a muscle spasm or a sudden wave of tiredness, something that served him right for pushing himself so damned hard. Sure, he’d see Jennings, or maybe some other doctor ... but not quite yet.

After she’d spoken, Ben looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her. Hmm? Oh, sorry, Pat. I was just thinking.

Obviously you were thinking. Smiling, she sat down next to him on the beige quilted bedspread and draped her arm lightly around his shoulders. I was just wondering what you were thinking about.

I was thinking about what happened today. He spoke in a monotone.

Of course. Her smile faded. She thought for a few moments, then spoke in a voice hoarse with emotion. I just don’t understand it, Ben. You’re so—so youthful. Look at you—especially compared to all our friends. And you’ve always been the picture of health. Why, you were a swimming champion in college, and then a track star.

Right, he remembered with a grimace. Until that stupid injury put me out of commission.

But that was just a short-term thing. Your neck and your shoulder healed so quickly that even the doctors were impressed, remember? Goodness, you must have told that story a million times.

That was a long, long time ago, Pat. I’m an old man now. At least, I’m beginning to feel old, he thought ruefully.

Ben, what about the children? Pat reminded him gently. They’ll have to be told, of course.

No! he barked, so abruptly and so unexpectedly that she started.

I just thought that—

No, I don’t want to tell them. This time, Ben’s tone was much more gentle. I don’t want them to know. Not yet.

All right. Pat studied her hands.

But I have been thinking about them. The children, I mean. I’d like to see them all this summer. You know, have sort of a family reunion. All the kids, all their spouses, all our grandchildren. Out at the beach house on Shelter Island. For a week, maybe two ...

Why, that’s a marvelous idea!

Pat was relieved. Given what had happened earlier that day and how pensive he’d been ever since, he could have come up with all kinds of dreadful ideas: selling the house and moving into a condo; emigrating to some retirement village down in Florida; even dragging out his will again and agonizing over every detail, just as he had a few months earlier when he’d read that magazine article quoting the latest life-expectancy statistics.

But a family reunion—that was something nice. Automatically, she started planning, calculating: who would sleep in which room, what meals she’d prepare for such a large group, how best to keep her three grandchildren entertained....

That wasn’t all I was thinking about, Ben went on, sounding almost guilty. I was also thinking about the business.

Of course. The business. Perhaps you should take a few weeks off, Ben. Lord knows you’re due for a vacation. Some time to yourself, especially now ...

No, no. What I mean is, I was thinking about B.G.A.’s future. He spoke hesitantly. There’s something I have to do, Pat. Something I’ve been putting off for a long time—for too long.

Why don’t you worry about all that tomorrow? Pointedly Pat pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. What you need right now, Ben Gilbert, is a good night’s rest.

Ben, however, said nothing. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten that Pat was even in the room with him as he drifted back into his reverie once again.

Yes, he was thinking, it’s time to bring the whole family together. So what if they’re busy, so what if they’ve got their own reasons for preferring not to find the time to visit. It’s something we can’t put off any longer. We’ve got work to do. For the family business ... and for ourselves. It’s time for me to see them all together, and this summer is when I have to do it. After all, this may turn out to be my last chance.

Chapter One

No matter how early she went to bed, the five o’clock radio alarm was always an unwelcome intrusion. As Julie Gilbert Kane was dragged into consciousness, she wondered, just as she did every weekday morning, if she was crazy to have a career that forced her out of bed at such an ungodly hour.

At least you’re not going off to some boring, dead-end job, she reminded herself, turning over and burying her face in her soft down pillow. After all, being cohost on WCBC’s New Day, New York is a dream career, one that you worked for and fantasized about ever since you graduated from Wheaton College and moved to the city to begin your research job at the station.

Besides, this is your last day of work before vacation. Think of it: three weeks off! Three long, glorious, carefree, relaxing weeks ...

It’s going to be another hot one, the deejay said cheerfully. Temperatures in the low nineties, humidity at eighty-seven percent, winds out of the southwest at six miles per hour.

Inwardly, Julie groaned. High temperatures, high humidity— typical for a New York August, and not exactly ideal weather for a three-hour car trip. Good thing the air-conditioning in the BMW had just been repaired.

Today, the White House is expected to issue a statement—

She snapped off the radio, then glanced over at the other side of the king-sized bed to make sure the deejay’s chirpy voice hadn’t woken her husband up. Little danger of that; as usual, he was lost in a deep sleep, the lavender-and-blue-striped sheets pulled way up over his head. Brad still had a good two hours of sleep ahead of him, and his posture made it clear that he had every intention of taking full advantage of them.

As for Julie, she was wide awake by now. She had even forgotten her resentment over being roused so early. Automatically she fell into her routine, one which—hopefully, God and network willing—she would continue to perform hundreds of times more.

After climbing out of bed, she retrieved her French cotton bathrobe, pale yellow dotted with sprigs of white flowers, from the chair. She slipped it on over its matching nightgown, and buttoned a few of the tiniest buttons she had ever seen.

How serene her bedroom looked, with its mauves and lavenders and pale blues against a backdrop of rich cream, the colors even more subdued in the dim morning light that sneaked in through the narrow slats of the blinds, concealing the large French windows. She’d decorated it herself a year and a half earlier, when she and Brad had first moved into this luxurious three-bedroom co-op that overlooked the East River. Just being in this room made her feel good. It was such a calming environment, exactly what she needed before rushing off to the studio. Certainly, being cohost on a weekday morning television talk show was the job she had always longed for. Even so, it wasn’t easy.

No, it was pressured, exhausting, demanding. But that didn’t mean that Julie Kane didn’t relish every moment.

She flicked on the bathroom light and found herself in another delightful room—once again, a reflection of her handiwork. Cornflower blue Laura Ashley wallpaper; ruffled curtains; baskets filled with scented soaps in pastel colors; a framed lithograph of plump, smiling cherubs.

She noted all of it with pleasure before studying her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She was relieved to see that this morning there were no obvious flaws that needed disguising. No puffy eyes, no blemishes, no pallor to her fair skin. What was it those fashion magazines used to call it, back in the early sixties when she had clung to every word as if it were the gospel truth? Oh, yes, porcelain complexion. As ridiculous as that expression may have been, it was actually fairly accurate in her case, she thought, not without satisfaction. And it showed off so well the high cheekbones, the small chiseled nose, the slightly pointed chin, and the inquisitive green eyes.

Julie ran her fingers through her straight, shoulder-length blond hair. Its shade was naturally light, but its ash-blond color was lightened—and its occasional gray strands banished— with subtle platinum streaks. Highlights, or so hairdressers always liked to call them. Well, whatever they were called, they certainly did their part to help Julie Kane look every inch the Golden Girl.

It was just the right look for the female half of the New Day show’s team. The perfect image for a morning talk show host whose job it was to interview whomever happened to be famous that week—politicians and bestselling authors and actors. It was all done to inform and entertain her audience, the sleepy early birds of the New York metropolitan area, who were gulping down their breakfast coffee and blow-drying their hair and searching, panic-stricken, for the final draft of that big report they’d been working on all night.

Julie was out of the bathroom in less than ten minutes, after washing her hair in the shower and brushing her teeth. The finishing touches would be taken care of at the studio—the natural-looking makeup and the curl and body that would be added to her blunt-cut hair, thanks to electric rollers and gobs of hair spray and the never-erring meticulousness of Mr. Nevins. All she had to do was show up.

The one exception was her clothes. These were up to her. Stepping stealthily around the pastel-colored bedroom, she slipped on the outfit she’d already decided to wear: a pale pink suit with a perky square-cut jacket and a hip-hugging straight skirt; a coordinated blouse in an even paler shade of pink; and, of course, a colorful scarf, today’s selection a flattering collage of pinks and lavenders. A jaunty square of silk, tied differently every day, had become Julie Kane’s trademark.

With twenty minutes left before the studio car was to arrive, Julie was faced with a choice. She could go into the kitchen and make herself a cup of coffee. The alternative to that was waiting until she reached her office at the WCBC studios, where her secretary, Meg, would be more than happy to ply her with all the caffeine she wanted, as well as anything else—muffin, donut, Danish—she could talk her boss into consuming. She was positively motherly, that one, always concerned that Julie, with her slender five-foot-ten frame, wasn’t eating enough. A second possibility was using the extra time to go through her notes, brushing up on the backgrounds of the guests she would be speaking with later on that morning.

Today, however, as she so often did, Julie bypassed both these options. Instead, she crept down the carpeted hallway and silently slipped into the bedroom at the very end. Joshua’s room.

As soon as she went in, she was overcome with such strong feelings that her heart felt as if it had been folded in half. It was a type of surrender, a giddiness, a kind of love she had never experienced before giving birth to her only child two and a half years earlier. She barely noticed the room itself; the simple, well-designed wooden furnishings from Workbench; the colorful Marimekko wallpaper and matching curtains; the countless toys and games and stuffed animals piled up all around the nursery. She only had eyes for her Josh, the little golden-haired angel asleep in his bed, both hands tucked sweetly underneath his round cheeks.

She knew her presence might wake him, but she didn’t care. As it was, she felt as if she never got enough of being with this little boy. Not that there could ever be such a thing as enough. The moments passed much too quickly, with frightening, almost supernatural speed: days turned into weeks, weeks into months....

He was practically a little boy already, and Julie couldn’t help marveling over how quickly the time had passed. Was it possible that her baby was already a walking, talking individual, making friends and insisting upon a certain kind of cereal for breakfast and happily relating, in a kind of jibberish that only she could fully understand, exactly how he’d spent every second of the time they’d been apart? As trite as it sounded, it seemed like only yesterday that he was born.

She sat down on his bed, and he stirred slightly. She was courting danger, she knew; even so, she couldn’t resist placing her hand lightly on his head. So what if he woke up? That was what Mrs. Pearl was for.

Josh sighed contentedly, as if, even in his deep sleep, he knew his mother was with him—and that he was safe. That was so important to her, especially now, with all the subtle and not-so-subtle tensions that were clouding up their family life. Satisfied, Julie tore herself away. She had lingered longer than she’d meant to, and it was time to throw on her jacket, pick up her burgundy leather Mark Cross briefcase, and hurry downstairs to meet her car.

Good morning, Mrs. Kane! The doorman bowed slightly as she strode out of the elevator, toward the glass front doors of East River Towers.

Julie couldn’t help smiling to herself, even as she politely returned his greeting and made a comment about what a warm day it promised to be. She was the building’s only television celebrity, and both the co-op’s employees and the other residents always treated her with deference. At one time it had made her feel uncomfortable. By now she was used to it.

The doorman, her husband, and even little Josh were pushed into the back of her mind as she climbed into the studio limousine. She thanked Gregory, her usual chauffeur, for opening the car door, and then immediately turned to the papers in her briefcase. It was only a fifteen-minute ride to Midtown Manhattan at this hour, when the streets of the city were, thankfully, still practically deserted, but that was just the right amount of time for her to ease herself into the day, to do the homework she had put off until this moment.

Leaning back against the plush blue velvet upholstery, Julie buried herself in her notes, prepared for her days in advance by a crackerjack team of researchers. Once she had been one of those researchers; now, she was the person in front of the camera who called upon their background work in order to speak with confidence and authority about each guest’s particular field of interest.

As she read through the typed pages, she saw that today’s show would be pretty routine. Her first guest would be a relatively unknown hopeful who planned to run for the Senate in the fall. Next there was the author of a diet book that, despite the absurdity of its basic premise, was breaking all kinds of sales records in the publishing industry. The show would end with an interview with the victim of a mugging who had joined forces with other victims in his neighborhood to form a citizens patrol force. It promised to be an interesting two hours, without being too taxing.

Once she had assured herself that she was in control, Julie put away her papers, stared out the window at the rows of bright flowers that had sprung forth all along the median of Park Avenue as far as the eye could see, and let her mind wander. Not to today’s show, not to Josh ...

No, it was time she forced herself to do some thinking about her husband—even though the mere thought caused an uncomfortable knot to form in her stomach.

Bradford Kane was known around town as the perfect guest at dinner parties. And it was not only because of the impressive stream of real estate coups he had pulled off, no small feat in a cutthroat city like New York, where land and buildings were more valuable than diamonds and gold. True, he was the epitome of success in the realm of wheeling and dealing, the quintessential entrepreneur of the 1980s—-at least, that was the label that New York magazine had approvingly awarded him a few months earlier when his picture graced their cover.

But that was only part of it. In addition, Brad Kane was intelligent, well-read, charismatic, clever, and articulate. He knew all the right people, wore perfectly fitted suits from Giorgio Armani and Yves St. Laurent, had a craggy face handsome enough to turn heads even at Lutece and 21. He was the type of man who could talk to anyone and make him or her feel like the most important person in the room.

And he had a knack for acquiring the things he decided that he wanted: that choice piece of land opposite Bloomingdale’s, the Stuyvesant Building, a Louis Quatorze table that everyone at the Parke-Bernet auction was drooling over. And the beautiful, glamorous cohost of New Day, New York.

Stop it! Julie immediately reprimanded herself. There I go again. Being negative. Being cynical. Brad loves me ... and I love him. We’re just going through a rough period, that’s all. It happens to every couple ... doesn’t it?

Fortunately, before she had too much of a chance to dwell on the uncomfortable feelings about her husband that had begun to nag at her lately, the sleek black limo pulled up in front of WCBC studios.

Here we are, Mrs. Kane, announced the driver.

Thank you, Gregory, she said graciously as she slid out of the car. He accepted the smile she offered him as if it were a gift.

It was just after six as Julie strode into her office. She was already in full gear: her movements energetic, her mind clicking away, her mood one of impatience for the day to get underway. She belonged here in this vibrant world, where things changed daily, where the emphasis was always on what was new. This was her world, her milieu, the place where she thrived. This was what she did best.

Good morning, Julie. Meg greeted her with a smile. The younger woman, a bit on the plump side but always fashionably dressed and impeccably groomed, had a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a pile of pink telephone messages in the other. She followed her boss into her office, already having launched into a friendly monologue about all the things that had already happened in the ten minutes since she’d arrived at work: New Day’s producer’s latest brainstorm; a meeting that had been scheduled for later that morning; some last-minute changes in the show’s format.

Poor Meg, Julie thought kindly. She gets here even before I do—and she comes in on the subway, all the way from Brooklyn!

Even so, she knew that her secretary—or, as she thought of her, her right hand—loved her work. Her loyalty, to both the station and to Julie, did not go unnoticed. Julie tried to show her appreciation as best she could, in the little ways she knew counted so much: a pretty silk blouse brought back from a vacation in Paris, a novel she overheard Meg mention that she’d been wanting to read, a bouquet of flowers on her birthday or her anniversary with the station or even just for the hell of it.

The two women had a good relationship, based on a mutual commitment to make New Day the best show it could possibly be, as well as a natural liking for each other. Julie often wondered what on earth she—and the show—would ever do without Meg.

... Oh, and Ron says be sure to ask this diet guru about the effects of exercise on the body’s metabolism.

Meg chattered away in her usual animated fashion as Julie hung up her jacket and got settled in at her desk. It was really a glass and chrome Parsons table, which fit in perfectly with the clean, simple lines of the office that Julie herself had decorated in the subdued shades of pink and mauve and blue that she loved so much.

Apparently he’s a real nut about those little trampolines, Meg went on. You know, the kind that people buy, use once, and then store in their closets for the next twenty years, constantly feeling guilty about not using them. Anyway, give him a chance to do his spiel about those. Oh, before I go, there’s one more thing—

Don’t tell me, Julie interrupted with a smile. You’re going to try to talk me into eating one of those two blueberry muffins that are sitting out there on your desk, the ones that are about six thousand calories each.

Nope. Meg blushed slightly. You’re off the hook, for once. I thought I’d bring one over to that cute new guy in accounting. You know, the one who just started here last week. She shrugged and, with a loud sigh, added, Hey, it’s worth a try, right? Don’t forget—I’m not getting any younger.

Don’t rush into marriage! Julie was tempted to warn. But then she realized how impulsive—and how silly—saying something like that would be. Just because things between her and Brad weren’t perfect at the moment was no reason to start overreacting to every little thing....

Anyway, what I wanted to mention was your vacation.

Uh-oh. Don’t tell me the station has changed its mind about letting me go for a full three weeks. Julie was only half kidding.

"Bite your tongue! No, nothing like that. Actually, I just wanted to tell you that I hope you have a terrific time. You and that handsome husband of yours deserve some time off together.’’

She forced a smile. Thanks, Meg.

She’s right, Julie insisted to herself when she was left alone once again. Brad and I do deserve a break. And that’s probably all we need—a chance to talk, to enjoy each other, to have some fun.

Yes,