Then she remembered her father, finding the pieces in the storeroom when she was sixteen. “I spend ten years teaching you to paint,” he’d said. “And this is what you do?”

“Junk,” she said now and covered it up again.

In the back, she found the last piece she’d done, the one Andrew had called the Temptation Bed, its leaf-covered frame now all set up thanks to Nadine and Ethan, with the mattress on it and the quilt Gwen had made to go with it folded at the head. Spot jumped up on the bed and sat down at the foot, shivering a little in the air-conditioning, and Tilda petted him while she considered the work she’d done before she’d become Scarlet Hodge and Matilda Veronica. The headboard was covered with the leafy spreading arms of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and beneath its branches a naked blond Adam grinned at a naked dark Eve, her short curls growing like little question marks around her head. Behind them in the painted bushes, animals prowled, the purple snakes and blue monkeys and orange flamingos from the other pieces of furniture, all winking and grinning at the first human figures Tilda had ever painted that weren’t copied from the Old Masters. Everything was free and wild and wrong, not real painting at all.

I couldn‘t paint like this now, she thought. I know too much. It was like making love: once you learned how much you had to lose, you could never be completely free doing it again.

She sighed and propped the cows up against the headboard under the tree, and thought about the other five Scarlets, out roaming wild with Mason stalking them, and faced what she’d known since Gwennie had dropped her bomb: she wasn’t going to be safe until she had them all back.

“Oh, hell,” she said, and Spot put his nose under her hand and flipped it up, breaking her concentration. “I’ll find a home for you tomorrow,” she told him, patting him, and then she jumped when Eve said from behind her, “We’re not keeping him?”

“You scared the hell out of me,” Tilda said, clutching Spot.

“Sorry.” Eve threaded her way through the dustcovers to sit down at the foot of the bed, her purple pajamas clashing nicely with the leafy green footboard. She was holding a large Hershey’s Almond Bar, Tilda noticed with interest. “Nadine’s really set on keeping him.” She broke the end of the bar off, tearing the paper, and tossed the rest of it to Tilda. “She named him Steve.”

Tilda put the dog down on the bed and picked up the bar. “Steve?” She looked down at the beady-eyed, needle-nosed little dog staring avidly at the chocolate in her hands.

“He’s not hungry,” Eve said. “Nadine got him designer dog food and four kinds of biscuits.”

“Yes, but Steve?”

“Nadine and Ethan and Burton were watching Fargo again, and she decided he looks like Steve Buscemi.”

Tilda broke a chunk off the bar and squinted at the dog. “Not much.” She bit into the chocolate, felt the waxy sweetness rush her mouth, and twenty years fell away, and she and Eve were back in bed, whispering over torn brown wrappers with silver letters. The bars had definitely been bigger. And she definitely felt better. “Who the hell is Burton?”

“Nadine’s latest. Very pretty. No sense of humor. Has a band. She’s singing.”

“He won’t last if he doesn’t laugh.” Tilda sat down at the head of the bed, and the dog moved up beside her.

“I hope he doesn’t. He’s a pill.” Eve made kissing noises at the dog. “C’mere, Steve.” The dog crawled slowly across the bed to her, and she stretched out and propped her head up on one hand, scratching the dog behind the ears with the other.

“So,” Eve said, looking innocent. “Tell me everything, Bundle of Lust.”

TILDA CHOKED ON HER CHOCOLATE. “Nothing to tell,” she said when she’d gotten her breath back. “What’s up with you and Andrew?” She picked up the quilt and shook it out until it settled over Eve and the dog, its pattern of appliquéd leaves looking like a forest floor across the bed.

Eve looked up at her and smiled. “Come on, Vilma…”

Tilda broke off another piece of chocolate. “Really, what’s Andrew upset about?”

“Louise,” Eve said. “There was this guy at the bar and he looked like fun and I was done for the night so I had a drink. Well, Louise had a drink. I don’t think I’d be his type. I never am.” She shrugged that off. “Andrew’s just overprotective.”

“He’s overpossessive,” Tilda said. “He wants you home being safe little Eve.”

“Then he shouldn’t be paying me to be dangerous Louise,” Eve said, rolling onto her back. “I hate it when he makes me feel guilty. He was never jealous of you and Scott.”

“He’s never jealous of me at all,” Tilda said, wiggling her fingers at the dog.

“He knew Scott was all wrong for you. He knew it wouldn’t last.” Eve held out her hand. “Give me the chocolate.”

Tilda tossed the bar down to her. “Scott was perfect.” She patted the quilt. “Come here, Steve.”

The dog romped down the length of the bed to her, landing in her lap with a clumsy splat, and she laughed because he liked her so much.

“See, his name is Steve,” Eve said. “And I don’t think you want a perfect guy. I think you’ve got some Louise in you. I think you want a burglar in the night.”

Tilda petted the dog. “I am so not Louise.”

“Like Barbara Stanwyck in The Lady Eve,” Eve went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “She says she wants a guy to take her by surprise like a burglar.” Eve rolled up on her elbow, chocolate on her mouth, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “So tell me about your burglar. Was he hot?”

“So Andrew’s mad at you,” Tilda said, gathering the dog up in her arms.

“That good, huh?” Eve broke off another piece of chocolate. “Was he perfect?”

“No.” Tilda thought about his kiss in the closet and shivered. “Not even close.”

“Oooh,” Eve said, grinning at her. “Perfect.”

“See, this is why I should never talk to you about boys,” Tilda said. “You encourage me to be bad, and I get into trouble.”

“You bet,” Eve said.

“Give me the damn chocolate,” Tilda said, letting Steve settle back onto the bed, and Eve tossed it to her.

“So why did he steal the painting for you?”

“I think he felt sorry for me.” Tilda broke off another piece.

“And the Bundle of Lust part?” Eve said. “Come on. Give it up.”

“There’s nothing,” Tilda said primly, but she started to grin in spite of herself.

“Til-da’s got a se-cret” Eve sang, her perfect voice making even that sound good, and Steve pricked up his ears.

“And you’re how old?” Tilda said, trying to sound mature.

“Thirty-five, but I’m not meeting burglars and doing God knows what.”

“Kissing,” Tilda said and then laughed when Eve shrieked in delight and Steve jerked back.

“More,” Eve said.

“There’s not much to tell,” Tilda said, trying to sound offhand. “I opened a closet door, and he jumped me and gave me an asthma attack, so I bit him. Then he criticized my clothes and told me he was no gentleman and kissed me.”

“Ooh, ooh,” Eve said. “How was it?”

“Pretty damn hot,” Tilda said, feeling safe enough in the basement with Eve to tell the truth. “I frenched him.”

“Yes,” Eve said, and Tilda laughed again.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Tilda said, breaking off another piece of chocolate. “I was scared and he was standing between me and disaster.”

“For which you say, ‘Thank you very much,’ not ‘Let me lick your tonsils.’”

“It was the adrenaline. It had to go somewhere and it ended up in my mouth. Plus I knew I was never going to see him again, and we were in a dark closet, so it was like it wasn’t me.” Tilda felt cheered by how reasonable it all sounded.

“That was the last you saw of him?” Eve said, disappointed.

Tilda nodded. “Except for about twenty minutes in the diner when he threatened me, told me I have bug eyes, and stuck me with the check.”