“You will,” he said. “It’s your kind of game. Now pack.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, upstairs, Gwen was trying to figure out what to do with Mason. He was a nice man and a competent lover and she wanted him out of her apartment, out of her building, and possibly out of her life, although that was probably an overreaction. Why couldn’t he be like other men and leap out of bed, citing morning meetings or something?

“That was wonderful, Gwennie,” he said, kissing her again.

Get off my leg. “It was,” she said, “but I think you should go. Nadine is downstairs, and I don’t want her to think-”

“Of course,” Mason said, pulling her close. “You’re absolutely right.” He kissed her again, and then got out of bed, which gave her a chance to grab her robe, wondering why she was so cranky. Mason had been very sweet, and first times were always a problem, or at least they had been in her teens which was the last time she’d had a first time-

“You don’t need to see me out,” Mason said when he’d dressed, coming around the bed to kiss her again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He looked at the clock that said twelve-thirty, and added, “Or I guess I’ll see you today.” He smiled at her, almost shy. “It’s a brand-new day, Gwennie.”

“Yep,” she said, smiling back and thinking, Leave.

She walked him to the door, and patted his arm, and he had started down the hall, when Ford came up the stairs, passing him on the way. He stopped when he saw her.

What? Gwen thought, sticking out her chin. You’re a hit man. Cut me a break.

He shook his head at her and went inside his apartment, slamming the door behind him, and she felt like hell, which was ridiculous.

She went back into her apartment and into the bedroom and looked at the rumpled bed, all white in the lamplight, like the site of a virgin sacrifice. Which was damn funny when you considered how long it had been since she’d been a virgin and the kind of track record she’d had before she’d married Tony.

Maybe another vodka was in order. She was turning into a real lush, but at least she had good reason. She had problems. She tied her robe tighter, and went back into the hall, and Ford opened his door.

“Listen,” she said, before he could say anything. “Don’t give me any crap. I’m having a hard life.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Hey, I get to make my own choices.”

“Not when they’re that bad,” Ford said. “You couldn’t wait another week, could you?”

“Why another week?” she said, and thought, Davy. “Listen, you have to stop killing people.”

“Killing people?”

“Someone overheard a phone call,” Gwen said, looking at the ceiling.

She heard him move, and when she brought her eyes down he was there, and then he kissed her, his body blocking out all light and his mouth blotting out all thought, and she should have slapped him silly.

Instead she almost crawled inside his shirt in her enthusiasm for his mouth, and when he finally broke the kiss, he had to push her away to look her straight in the eye. “Okay, it’s only a mistake if you do it again,” he said.

“Hey,” she said, holding up her left hand. “I’m engaged.”

He took the ring off her finger as she pulled her hand away. “And now you’re not,” he said, pocketing it.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she said, trying not to be the kind of woman who was turned on by domineering men, which was a laugh, considering Tony. “I’ll kiss anybody I want. I’ll get engaged to anybody I want. I’ll sleep with anybody I want. Give me back that ring.”

“No,” he said.

“I’m still engaged,” she said and went back into her apartment, slamming the door in his face, suddenly feeling pretty damned good. The world had swung around and two men had jumped her in one night, not bad for a middle-aged former singer and grandmother of one. It was almost like the old days, guys lining up, and all she had to do was choose. And it was happening because she wanted it to, because she needed the change, because she was done sleeping through life.

And Tilda was fine with her leaving. She could go.

For the first time in years, Gwen felt no interest in a Double-Crostic.

But just because she wanted it to happen, that didn’t mean she was with the right guys. Okay, definitely not Mason, she thought. What was I thinking? Well, she’d been thinking about the mortgage, but maybe they could work something out. And definitely not the hit man across the hall, either. She’d done the charming-crook thing with Tony. Forget it.

But definitely somebody. There will definitely be somebody. Definitely, I am back in the game.

She went to change the sheets, and found herself humming one of those obnoxious songs with forgettable lyrics and an unforgettable tune, cha-cha-ing around the mattress with a spring in her step as she reclaimed her bed. When the bed was smooth and new again, she picked up the phone and called down to the office. “Ethan?” she said, when he answered. “What is this?”

She hummed a few bars and Ethan said, “Wait. Let me get Nadine.”

“What?” Nadine said when she picked up the phone and Gwen hummed again. “It’s that Beach Boys thing,” she said. “Something, Jamaica, oooh, I’m gonna take ya.”

“ Aruba, Jamaica,” Gwen said, the song dying on her lips.

“Where is Aruba anyway?” Nadine said.

“The Caribbean,” Gwen said. “Bring me up the vodka, would you, honey?”

“ABOUT MUSSOLINI and Grandma,” Tilda said, later that night in bed, as Davy was dozing off, his arms around her.

“You have to ask before we do it,” he said sleepily into her neck.

“Right,” Tilda said, trying to free her arm from under him. “When do you think we’ll be playing that one?”

“Whenever you want,” he mumbled.

“No,” Tilda said, “I meant when …” Her voice trailed off as he began to snore.

Steve took that for a signal and jumped up on the bed.

“What I want to know,” Tilda said to Davy’s unconscious body, “is when are you leaving me, you bastard, and are you coming back?” She swallowed. “Because I’m believing in you and that can’t be good.” He snored again and she had a moment’s suspicion that he was faking it. Then she remembered that he hadn’t had any sleep the night before, that he’d sold furniture for hours straight, that he’d moved the entire contents of her studio up five flights of stairs, and that he’d just made athletically passionate love to her. “He’s really out, Steve,” she said to the dog. “But tomorrow we ask him. We are not going to be those people who dillydally and then regret it. He said he loves me. He said he’s going to get rid of the forgeries. He’s staying. Right?”

Steve sighed and stuck his nose under the quilt. Tilda lifted the edge for him and he tunneled under.

“You’ll never leave me, will you, Steve?” she said to him. Then she looked over at Davy and said, “You never will, either.”

She looked around the attic, now stacked full of easels and foam core board and paint and canvas, even her drawing board in one corner, and she thought, This is so much better. This is so right.

She looked at Davy again, asleep beside her, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. Then she slid down under the covers between the two men in her life and fell asleep.

THE NEXT MORNING when Tilda went down for muffins, Eve was sitting in the office, looking like death.

“What?” Tilda said, still on a high from the night before. “What happened?”

“Can we go someplace else?” Eve said. “I want to get out of here.”

“Sure,” Tilda said, “What’s wrong?”

“I told Simon I was me,” Eve said.

“Oh, boy,” Tilda said. “Let’s go.”