Jane was sorry when the first chapter ended and there wasn't any more to read. The writing was as weird and wonderful as Desiree herself. In a few short pages, she'd made Jane smile twice and almost get teary once. She told of being born to parents who actually liked being compared to Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. She recounted a visit to an aunt as eccentric as she herself was now. In fact, the aunt could have been a model for the Desiree Jane knew. She hinted at lovers and marriages to come, at famous people yet to be met and savored, at heartbreak and hilarity that would unfold in good time. Desiree was an example of an interesting life coupled with a gift of storytelling. Jane hoped the rest of the autobiography was actually written and she could talk Desiree out of a copy.

“Mom! My swimsuit's got a hole in it!" Katie's banshee screech jerked Jane out of her reverie.

“Katie," Jane said with all the patience she could muster, "don't yell at me as if it's my fault."

“But what am I going to do? I have to be at the pool in half an hour!"

“Well, two solutions come immediately to my mind. One, you could fix it. Two, you could wear another one. You've got a whole drawer full of suits."

“Oh, Mother, they're all gross!”

The words "They weren't gross when I paid for them" were crawling up Jane's throat, trying to make a break for it. "Thread and needles are downstairs in the sewing cabinet," she said mildly instead. She got up to unload the dishwasher—just to drive home the point that she was too busy to volunteer for sewing duty.

Katie flounced off down the stairs to the basement, where Jane had a combination household office/ sewing room, and Jane settled in again with her manuscripts. She picked up one belonging to Bob Neufield. She had only a vague recollection of him from the time she had to go to a city council meeting. She'd been there on her husband's behalf when he wanted to widen the driveway and needed zoning approval. Mr. Neufield had attended with plans for a garden shed that would violate the setback regulations. Mr. Neufield, if she was remembering the right person, was in his late fifties perhaps, with a rigid military manner. Very tidy man. Extremely well pressed, short-haired, with a brisk, curt manner.