“I’m going to miss him, too,” Eve said miserably, and Tilda thought, You’re going to? Not Louise?

“Miss who?” Nadine said, coming in from the hall. “Steve, baby, poochie, how’s the nose?”

Steve lifted his head from his food bowl, barked once, and went back to eating.

“Doesn’t he have a beautiful voice?” Nadine picked up the orange juice carton. “So who’s leaving?”

“Nobody’s leaving, baby,” Eve said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “How was singing with Burton last night?”

“The singing part was good,” Nadine said, pouring her juice. “The Burton part, not so. He wants to see me today, though, so maybe he’s sorry.”

“What did he do?” Eve said, moving into dangerous mother mode.

“Well,” Nadine said, sitting down at the table. “He acts like he’s this big rebel, walks on the wild side, but it turns out he’s pretty conservative after all. He didn’t like the Lucy dress at all.”

“What a fool,” Eve said. “You look great in the Lucy dress.”

“I know.” Nadine sounded perplexed. “I think I may have misjudged him. Men are so seldom what they seem to be.”

“Tell me about it,” Tilda said, thinking of Davy upstairs, asleep in the security of federal employment. She picked up her orange juice glass, “I have to go work. I start that Monet in New Albany tomorrow.”

She went down to the basement, Steve with her in case Ariadne decided to come down to the gallery. She really didn’t think Davy was going to arrest her, she wasn’t even sure he was really FBI, but he was still a danger. She locked herself in her dad’s studio, cut a piece of foam core board to dimensions in ratio with the wall in New Albany, and began to lay in the colors for the bathroom lilies while she obsessed on the question. “You’d think he would have told me,” she said to Steve, who lay with his chin on his paws, gazing patiently up at her. “I told him I painted murals. But is he honest with me? No, he says he’s in sales. He consults. What the hell is that, consults!” She was still obsessing when somebody knocked on the door two hours later.

“What?” she said when she opened the door, and was only marginally relieved to see it was Andrew. “Oh. Hi.”

“Can I talk to you?” he said, coming in and pulling the door shut behind him.

“Sure.” Tilda went back to the drawing board.

“It’s about Simon. And Louise.”

“Get a life, Andrew.”

“I can’t really blame him.” Andrew pulled up a stool and sat down beside Tilda. “He seems like a nice guy and Louise probably made the first move.”

“She jumped him at the door.” Tilda picked up her brush. “Real bundle of lust, our Louise.”

“But she’s sleeping with him here” Andrew said. “Suppose Nadine finds out?”

“Finds out what? Nadine knows about Louise.”

“She doesn’t know Louise is a…”

“Yes, Andrew?” Tilda said, laying in another ultramarine wash.

“She thinks Louise just sings,” Andrew finished.

“Andrew, you’re a good man, but you’re an idiot. Nadine knows exactly what Louise is. Nadine is smarter than the rest of us put together.”

“Well, she shouldn’t be seeing it.” Andrew shifted on the stool. “I wish Eve would give up Louise.”

Tilda sighed. “Right. Then who headlines the Double Take?”

Andrew blinked at her. “Well, she’d be Louise there. Just on stage.”

“You know,” Tilda put down her brush. “There are times when you talk like a straight guy.”

“What?” Andrew said, appalled. “What did I say?”

“You only want Eve to be sexual in service to you,” Tilda said. “That sucks, Andrew. You dealt her a lousy hand, and now you want her to play by your rules.”

“That’s not fair. I didn’t know I was gay. I meant it when I said I loved her. I do love her.”

“Yeah,” Tilda said. “Well, if you love her, respect her for what she is.”

“I would,” Andrew said, frowning, “if I knew what that was. I don’t think she does.”

“Well, she’s the one who gets to figure that out, not you.” Tilda picked up her brush again.

“So it didn’t go well with Davy, I hear,” Andrew said.

Tilda set her jaw. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Eve said you had lousy sex on the couch.”

Tilda looked at the ceiling. “Are there families that don’t discuss each other’s sex lives? Because if there are, I’m going to go live with them.”

“Why didn’t you marry Scott?” Andrew shook his head. “The sex was good. He was perfect for you.”

“And yet, he left me,” Tilda said. “Anything else depressing you want to talk about?”

“No.” Andrew stood up. “Talk to Eve, will you?”

“I don’t need to,” Tilda said, keeping her back to him. “She’s already decided to keep Louise at the Double Take. All your wishes are granted.”

“Well, that’s good,” Andrew said and went upstairs, much relieved, leaving Tilda below, much annoyed.

At least her next mural was Monet, easy to copy. Even Monet had forged the water lilies, turning them out like a factory. She didn’t feel nearly as guilty painting one on a wall. Monet would have done the same if somebody had paid him enough.

Why didn‘t you marry Scott?

Tilda sat back from the drawing table and looked at the bank of white cabinets, full of family secrets. “You’ve mortgaged your life to them,” Scott had said, but he didn’t get it, and that’s why she couldn’t marry him. She’d already betrayed enough family by going straight. The least she could do was make sure everybody survived, that everything her father had worked for wasn’t lost. It wasn’t going to take that much longer. Maybe fifteen years. She could do it. Scott didn’t understand.

Of course, that was because Scott didn’t know there were three hundred years of bad Goodnight forgeries in her basement.

There was no way she could have told him about the buried gallery of Durers and Bouchers and Corots and God-knew-who-elses, all painted by Goodnights, most of them before they changed the family name from Giordano, and every one a little too wrong to safely sell. She couldn’t tell him about those, she couldn’t tell anybody, and it was probably a bad idea to marry a guy you couldn’t tell everything to.

She stood up and began to clean her brushes for the next day. She had a painting to retrieve that afternoon, and the guy who was helping her get it back might be working for the FBI.

“As God is my witness, Steve,” she said to the dog. “Once I get these paintings back, I will never go wrong again.” He looked skeptical, so she sighed and went upstairs to get ready to scam with a possible Fed.

THREE BLOCKS AWAY, Clea went into her bedroom to get her purse for an early brunch with Mason and saw Ronald standing over the unconscious body of Thomas the Caterer.

“What are you doing here?” she said to him, closing the door behind her. “And what did you do to Thomas?”

“He was in your closet,” Ronald said virtuously. “I caught him stealing.”

Clea forced herself not to frown. Then she forced herself not to beat Ronald senseless with her Gucci bag. “Ronald, you caught him cleaning. He’s the new hired help.”

“Oh.” Ronald looked down at him. “Well, I just tapped him a little.”

“With what? A tire iron?” Clea tilted her head to look at Thomas. He was breathing okay and he didn’t look unnaturally white or red even though he had a red mark and a bad bruise on his forehead. “Why’d you hit him twice?”

“I didn’t,” Ronald said. “The first bruise was already there.”

Clea straightened. “Well, now what are you going to do with him?”

“I’ll get rid of him,” Ronald said. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“You will not get rid of him, I need him to make dinner tonight.” Clea shook her head at his general callousness and stepped over Thomas to get to her dressing table. “What are you doing here, anyway?” she said, as she sat down to check her face.