No more fucking ballet. No more fucking anything. Just a white cross in beautiful, prestigious Arlington cemetery because her mother's family was loaded with military connections and had somehow earned Bethie and her children the honor. Mandy and war heroes. Who would've thought?

Kimberly had barely been able to make it through the funeral. She had thought the irony might drive her mad, and she didn't think her mother could take it if she had started laughing hysterically, so Kimberly had spent the whole service with her lips pressed into a bloodless line. And her father? Once again, it was so hard to know what her father thought.

He'd been calling her lately. Leaving gently inquiring messages because she wouldn't pick up the phone. She didn't return his calls. Not his calls, not her mother's calls. Not anyone's calls. Not now. Not yet. She didn't know when. Maybe soon?

She didn't like the anxiety attacks. They shamed her and she didn't want to speak to her overly perceptive father when he might catch the fear in her voice.

Guess what, Dad? I couldn't teach Mandy to be strong, but apparently she's inspired me to be a flake. Whoo-hoo! Lucky you. Two fucked-up daughters.

She arrived at the shooting club. She pushed through the wooden door into the dimly lit lounge area, and the cooler air swept over her like a welcoming breeze. The club boasted a small, utilitarian lounge, empty this early in the morning, then the door leading to the cavernous shooting range. Kimberly didn't look at the threadbare sofa or the tall display case filled with shooting medals or the line of animal-head trophies mounted on the wall. She was looking for him. Even as she told herself that wasn't why she'd been so excited to get here first thing this morning, she was looking for the new gun pro, Doug James.

Thick brown hair, sprinkled with silver at the temples. Deep blue eyes, crinkled with laugh lines at the corners. A tall, well-toned body. A broad, hard-muscled chest. Doug James had started at the rifle association six months ago, and Kimberly wasn't the only female who was suddenly very interested in lessons.

Not that she thought about him that way. She wasn't like Mandy, always on the lookout for a man. She wasn't like her mom, incapable of defining herself except through a man's eyes. Anyway, Doug James was almost as old as her father. A happily married man, besides. And he was a terrific shot, of course. Had won a lot of shooting competitions, or so the rumors went.

All in all, he was a highly capable instructor, who was working wonders with her stance.

And a patient man. Kind. Had a way of looking at her, as if he was genuinely interested in what she was saying. Had a way of greeting her, as if he was made happier by her simply entering the room. Had a way of talking to her, as if he understood all the things she didn't say… the nightmares she still had of her sister where she was in the car with Mandy, grabbing desperately at the wheel… the sense of isolation that would sweep down upon her suddenly, with her sister gone, her parents fragmented, until she felt like a speck of sand in a vast, uncaring universe.

The need she had today, to come here and fire a mammoth firearm at a puny paper target as if that would bring her world back together again. As if that would make her strong.

She walked up to the counter, where the head of the rifle association, Fred Eagen, was bent over a stack of paperwork.

"I'm ready for Doug," she said.

"Doug's not here today. Called in sick." Fred flipped over the next document, signed the bottom. "He was going to try you at your apartment. You must've already left."

Kimberly blinked. "But… but…"

"I guess it came on quick."

"But…" She sounded like an idiot.

Fred finally looked up. "If a guy gets sick, a guy gets sick. Hell see you next week."

"Next week. Of course, next week," she murmured and struggled to recover her bearings. Sick. It happened. Why should she feel this bereft? He was just a gun instructor, for God's sake. She didn't need him. She didn't need anyone. Why oh why were her hands suddenly shaking so badly. And why, oh why, did she suddenly feel so desperately, keenly alone?

She took her gun. She went out to the firing range and set up. Earplugs and protective eye gear. Box of ammunition. Smell of cordite in the air. The fragrance of her youth, the comforting weight of her Glock, loose in her hand.

She set up targets fifty feet back. She annihilated paper hearts, she shredded paper heads. But she already knew now, that it wouldn't be enough. She had not come here for the practice. She had come here for a man.

And more than anything else that had happened in the last month, that proved to her that something wasn't right anymore. Strong, logical Kimberly wasn't the person she had always thought herself to be.

When she left, she was walking too fast again, and even though it was ninety-five degrees out, she fought a chill.

Bethie was nervous. No, she was giddy. No, she was nervous. Okay, she was both.

Standing outside her stately brick town house in Society Hill on a sunny Wednesday morning, she ran a quick hand over her sundress and picked imaginary lint from the tiny purple flowers that patterned the gold silk. Next she inspected her freshly painted toenails, now colored Winsome Wine, whatever that meant, and peeking out from strappy gold sandals. She didn't detect any signs of smudging. She glanced at her hands. Fine, as well.

She'd risen at five A.M.; for the first time in months, anticipation of good things had brought her instantly awake and eager to start the day. With Tristan not due to arrive for another two hours, she'd celebrated her morning with a long overdue bubble bath followed by an impromptu pedicure. She'd even done her fingernails, and it still shocked her to look down and see two well-groomed hands. It had been a while, longer than she wanted to think.

Now she had a large wicker picnic basket slung over her left arm. She'd bought it years ago on a whim, one of those impulse buys based more upon the life she wished she was leading than the life she truly led. She had thought of it immediately when Tristan had suggested they go for a drive, and had dedicated twenty minutes of her morning to locating the basket in the back of her kitchen pantry. She'd then stocked it with crackers and Brie, grapes and caviar, a fresh French baguette and a bottle of La Grande Dame champagne. Tristan struck her as a man of refined tastes, and yes, she was definitely trying to impress.

She glanced at her watch. Ten past seven. She grew nervous again. What if he didn't show? She was leaping to conclusions. After all, last night she'd been nearly twenty minutes late, but she'd still kept their date.

She wanted him to arrive. She wanted to go on a drive, far away from this house that was too big and this city that held too many memories. She wanted one afternoon when she stepped out of a middle-aged, divorced woman's skin and lived with the sun on her face.

Last night, coming home from her first date in years, she had realized that it was time to move forward again. Not easy, but time.

A short beep-beep broke into her thoughts. Bethie looked down the. narrow street to see a little red convertible with New York plates dart around the corner and come flying down the lane.

"My goodness, what is this?" she asked as Tristan came to a screeching halt, ran a hand through his hair, and beamed.

"Your carriage, my lady."

"Yes, but what is it?"

"The Audi TT Roadster two twenty-five Quattro," he announced with pride, "based loosely on the 1950s Porsche Boxter. Cute, isn't she?"

He swung open the driver-side door and came bounding around the front, looking somehow flushed, windblown, and dashing all at once.