Kathleen turned to Mary Lisa. “I think it’s rather rude of you to leave tonight, Mary Lisa.”

George said, his eyes still on Kelly, “This is a no-guilt household, Kathy. This is Mary Lisa’s vacation, she doesn’t need to spend it in our pockets. As for you, Kelly, I rather wish you would.”

Kelly said, “I’m twenty-five, Dad. I’m an adult. I’m moving back to my apartment after this weekend, so this is all rather silly, isn’t it?” Her parents remained silent, and Kelly added, too brightly, “I thought you played bridge tonight, Mom. Isn’t it your turn to have all the ladies here?”

“No, no bridge tonight. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mary Lisa, your sister is throwing a party for you tomorrow night.”

Mary Lisa’s dinner roll fell off her plate. She said slowly, “Why would Monica throw a party for me?”

Her father burst out laughing. “Your sister isn’t stupid, sweetie. You’re important. You’re a TV star. You’re a celebrity, which means you can draw people to her. Politically, it’s a smart thing to do. She’s fast, I’ll say that for her. And you know what? It’ll be an excellent party, Monica’s that good.”

When Mary Lisa finally escaped to her room, she called Lou Lou, but Lou Lou wasn’t home. Her machine’s message said, “Tonight I’m working off two pounds on the dance floor. Tomorrow’s Saturday, don’t call me too early. Bye.”

Twenty minutes later, Mary Lisa led her friend Judy Reinbold in only as far as the living room doorway, knowing to her toes that one more step into her mother’s domain would be a mistake. She remembered her mother didn’t like Judy’s parents, and would find a way to show it to their daughter. “Say hi to everyone, Judy, then we’re off.”

Judy Reinbold had the biggest, whitest smile west of the Mississippi. “Hi, everyone!”

“Wait! Come in here, Mary Lisa, and bring Judy.”

“Sorry, Mom, we’ve got to go. We’re already late, right, Judy?”

“Whatever you say, Mary Lisa.”

Mary Lisa laughed as she ran to Judy’s car at the curb. “You wouldn’t have wanted to take another step into the house, trust me on that.”

SHE was not running on Saturday morning because she hoped to see John Goddard again. No, she always ran in the mornings, no matter where she was. Yet, if she was honest about it, she found herself looking around quite a bit, and she was wearing lipstick, a lowering realization.

She had pretty much given up on him when she saw a man running out of the low-lying fog toward her, his pace fast and smooth. She slowed up when she realized it really was John Goddard. He pulled up in front of her, panting.

“I can’t come closer or you’ll run in the opposite direction. I’m sweating like a stoat.”

“Are you running off your anger about this conspiracy thing Patricia Bigelow is talking about?”

“Nah. Pat’s good. She’s a street fighter. You hear how she’s implying I’m going after Milo because of my father’s lawsuit with him?”

Mary Lisa nodded. “It was a major topic at my parents’ dinner table last night.”

“It’s her job to try to head us away from Milo, but I really could do without all the innuendo.”

“My dad was saying most everyone likes your dad, so my guess is it might backfire on her.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” he said.

“Are you going to Monica’s party tonight?”

“I suppose so. She’s sure put it together fast. You’re the big guest of honor, right?”

Mary Lisa nodded. “My dad says that she’s doing this because I’m a celebrity, and people will listen to what I say. It seems weird to me. Can you imagine caring what Barbra Streisand or Johnny Depp thinks about politics? Let them stick to acting, that I know they do well. Hey, I hope you can tell me where I can buy a dress for this shindig. Trust me when I say I didn’t bring anything appropriate.”

“Just a second.” He pulled his cell phone out of his shirt pocket, punched in a single digit. “Hello, Mom? Question. Where can a girl get a party dress on really short notice?”

He listened, then handed the phone to Mary Lisa. “Mrs. Goddard?”

“Mary Lisa, how lovely to speak to you. We’re talking about your sister’s party tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What size are you?”

“Ah, it depends-a size two or four, I guess.”

“Isn’t that perfect? John’s sister is that small, well, not now, she isn’t, since she’s six months pregnant. Have John take you to her house and you can dive into her closet. I know she’ll be thrilled. She’s always telling everyone she wants to be Sunday Cavendish after the baby’s born. She can do it now. I’ll call her. Bye, dear.”

Mary Lisa handed back the phone. “Well, I really don’t know what to do now. Your mother wants me to borrow a dress from your pregnant sister.”

“Good idea. Come along, we’ll go see Ms. Granola Bar.”

“What?”

He walked toward his silver BMW parked behind a couple of stunted trees on the highway. “Beth was always a health nut. I started calling her that when she was fourteen or thereabouts. She’s always been skinny as a stick. As a matter of fact, right now she’s beginning to look like a spider that’s just eaten something big. The doctor says it’s twins.”

“Two inside her at the same time? Oh, my.”

“I know, I can’t imagine it either. It’s odd, but you don’t look skinny.”

“Thank you. How tall is your sister?”

“She’s not as tall as you. Your legs are longer.”

“Why are you doing this for me?”

“I’m not, my sister is.”

“Come on, don’t be a bonehead.”

“Truth is, I’ve always admired Sunday Cavendish too. I’ve wondered, though, if she could take it as well as dish it out.”

“Trust me on this, she can take just about anything.”

“I guess whoever plays Sunday Cavendish needs to.”

“I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

Mary Lisa had never seen the house Mark and Monica had bought from a divorcing Portland portrait gallery owner three years before. Set amid a small enclave of expensive homes, it was the jewel of the neighborhood with flowing lines, endless wooden floors, and ocean views from most every window. Because Monica had their mother’s good taste, and Mark’s money, English antiques coexisted happily beside chrome and glass and white plastic cubes and soaring metal sculptures in fantastic twisted shapes.

The evening was balmy and clear, a half-moon sparkling over the water, a fairy-tale night, Mary Lisa thought. But she wondered how she could ever have been so stupid as to believe she’d loved Mark Bridges, fantasized about him endlessly in her every waking moment, even lost her brain to the extent she’d gladly have given up acting for him. She shuddered, remembering the shock of pain at his betrayal. She saw him across the long living room, listening to Mr. Crammer, who owned the local First Regional Bank of Oregon. Mark laughed, and it was too big and too loud and there was nothing behind it she wanted to know about. Once again, she felt immensely grateful that he’d been faithless. Monica stood in the midst of another group of people, smiling and nodding, looking charming. She had the knack of looking with intense focus directly into a person’s face when they spoke, making an instant intimate connection. It was a politician’s skill. Mary Lisa wondered if Monica loved Mark Bridges as much as Mary Lisa had sworn she herself had three years ago, before she’d received their wedding invitation in her mailbox in L.A.

She glanced at Kelly, wondering how she would treat John Goddard, the man she said she’d booted out of her life, because John Goddard was most certainly coming to this party. Kelly wore a short pale green cocktail dress that wouldn’t have covered Mary Lisa’s butt since Kelly was so much shorter than she was. She’d curled her streaked hair so it fell in waves to her shoulders. She looked as lovely as their mother, who was dressed in a long black gown, diamonds at her ears and throat, as ultrastylish and self-assured as Sunday Cavendish’s mother, Lydia. As for Mary Lisa’s father, George Beverly was born to wear a tux; he was, without a single doubt in Mary Lisa’s loving eye, the most handsome man in the crowd of a good hundred people who milled about in the large open rooms, helping themselves to Monica’s endless supply of very good champagne.