The caterers were even willing to deliver champagne to stair-sitters, and Jane Harrison had the same sort of effervescence as the sparkling wine. Their friendship had initially been created by sharing any number of totally erroneous concepts about love, life and sex-late at night over potato chips-at the private high school they’d both attended. After fifteen years, Jane was still the talker-her children, her interests, her divorce-while Anne still listened, not unhappy to dole out numerous affectionate servings of compassion, as long as Jane didn’t expect her to bare her own soul. But Jane certainly never did that, so gradually Anne felt her limbs relax again, her pulse obediently slow as Jane chattered.

Twenty minutes lapsed, full of laughter and old memories, before another tray of champagne lilted past and Jane rose and stepped forward to retrieve fresh glasses for the two of them. Out of nowhere, Anne felt a shivery touch at the nape of her neck.

Jane turned around, her blue eyes widening as she took in the retreating figure in a black tux. When he was out of sight, she grinned impishly at Anne, setting down both champagne glasses. “Did you see that hunk?” she whispered appreciatively, sighing as she refolded the rose chiffon over her chunky legs. “Wonder what he was doing upstairs?” she added with a wicked little smile. “You don’t know him, do you? What’s the matter, darling?”

“Nothing. Oh, of all the ridiculous… I seem to have lost some hairpins.”

They both searched. Nothing remotely resembling a hairpin was anywhere near the stairs. With a smile, Anne cut off the conversation with Jane and maneuvered quickly down the hall to a bathroom. Apprehensively, she forced herself to look in the mirror. The loss of a half-dozen hairpins made a difference to a mane of hair that reached her waist. The style, rearranged, was of necessity less severe, with looser loops and curls that were not anywhere near as…perfect.