“No. But now he’ll freak even more.”

Freak was probably the right word. Joan’s stomach lurched again and, after a split-second hesitation, she poured some extra vodka into the shaker. “You want a double?”

“You bet.” Heather perched herself on one of the high swivel chairs at the breakfast bar. She tapped her long, red fingernails against the Arborite. “I don’t get why you had to publish them.”

“Because that’s what you do with novels.”

“But why sell them at all? You don’t need the money.”

Not a bad question. Joan supposed she could have kept the manuscripts to herself. But it wouldn’t have been the same. As much as she protected her privacy and solitude, she loved reading the reviews, and she got a big kick out of the reader comments that were sent to the unofficial Jules Burrell Web site. There was something satisfying in knowing a story she’d created spoke to people in so many different corners of the world.

“Joan?”

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” said Joan, capping the lid on the shaker.

“You bet it wouldn’t have been the same.” Heather gave a hollow laugh. “Hundreds of Daddy’s friends and associates wouldn’t have read your sweaty little saga and second-guessed his parenting skills.”

Joan flinched. She hadn’t meant to hurt her family. She knew the Batemans ranked popular fiction writing right up there with mud wrestling.

“Do you think he read it?” she asked, shaking the martinis.

Heather shook her head. “No.”

“Did you read it?”

“When would I have read it? I called the jet right after reading the article this morning.”

Joan poured the cosmopolitans into long-stemmed glasses, wondering if her family might be pleasantly surprised if they read her work. She realized that a big part of her was proud of her stories. “I could give you a copy. Are you curious at all?”

Heather stared contemplatively at her drink. “Quite frankly, I’m scared to death.”