Ridiculous! Lane muttered to himself. How likely was it that an attractive young woman with a successful career would come rushing up to Newport to play house with a woman she hadn’t seen in years? Lane figured that now that she had been left the place, Maggie Holloway would take a good look at all the work and expense involved to fix it up and would decide to sell it. But in the meantime she was coming here to take up his time, time that he needed to spend getting that suite put back in order to make it suitable for viewing. The management of Prestige Residence Corporation had made it clear that they would not tolerate empty living space.

Still, an uneasy thought would not go away: Was there any other reason Nuala had backed out of the arrangement? And if there was, had she confided it to her stepdaughter? What could it be? he wondered. Maybe it was all to the good that she was coming to see him after all.

He looked up from his work as the door to his office opened. Odile wandered in, as usual without knocking, a habit that drove him crazy. And one that she unfortunately shared with Nurse Zelda Markey. In fact, he would have to do something about that. Mrs. Shipley had complained about Nurse Markey’s habit of opening doors without waiting to be invited.

As he expected, Odile ignored his look of annoyance and began speaking. “William, I don’t think Mrs. Shipley is that well. As you saw, she had a little episode after the funeral Mass yesterday and a dizzy spell last evening. I wonder if she shouldn’t go into the nursing section for a few days of observation?”

“I intend to keep a close eye on Mrs. Shipley,” Dr. Lane said brusquely. “Try to remember, my dear, that in our family, I’m the one with the medical degree. You never finished nursing school.”

He knew it was a stupid thing to say and regretted it immediately, knowing what was coming next.

“Oh, William, that’s so unfair,” she cried. “Nursing is a vocation, and I realized it wasn’t for me. Perhaps it would have been better for you-and others-if you had made the same choice.” Her lip quivered. “And I think you should keep in mind that it was only because of me that Prestige Residences considered you for this job.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment; then, as usual, Odile became contrite. “Oh, William, that was unkind of me. I know how devoted you are to all our guests. It’s just that I want to help you, and I worry that another episode could ruin you.”

She came over to the desk and leaned over him. She reached for his hand, lifting it to her face, moving it so that it caressed her cheek and chin.

Lane sighed. She was a lightweight-“a ninny,” his grandmother would have snapped-but she was pretty. He had felt himself most fortunate eighteen years ago, to have convinced an attractive-younger-a woman to marry him. Plus, she did care about him, and he knew her frequent, sugary-warm visits to the residents delighted most of them. She might seem cloying at times, but she was nonetheless sincere, and that counted for a lot. A few residents, like Greta Shipley, found her vacuous and irritating, which to Lane only proved Mrs. Shipley’s intelligence, but there was no question that here at Latham Manor, Odile was an asset to him.

Lane knew what was expected of him. With virtually no show of the resignation he felt, he stood up, put his arms around his wife and murmured, “What would I do without you?”

It was a relief when his secretary buzzed him on the intercom. “Miss Holloway is here,” she announced.

“You’d better go, Odile,” Lane whispered, forestalling her inevitable suggestion that she stay and be part of the meeting.

For once she didn’t argue but slipped out the unmarked door of his suite that led to the main corridor.

The night before, blaming the three-hour nap she had taken earlier, Maggie had been still wide awake at midnight. Giving up on going to sleep anytime soon, she had gone downstairs again and, in the small study, found books, several of them fully illustrated, on the “cottages” of Newport.

Carrying them up to bed, she had propped pillows behind her back and read for nearly two hours. As a result, when she was admitted to Latham Manor by a uniformed maid who then called Dr. Lane to announce her arrival, she was able to take in her surroundings with some degree of knowledge.

The mansion had been built by Ernest Latham in 1900, as a deliberate rebuke to what he considered the vulgar ostentation of the Vanderbilt mansion, The Breakers. The layout for the two houses was almost the same, but the Latham house had livable proportions. The entrance hall was still overwhelmingly large, but was, in fact, only a third of the size of The Breakers’ “Great Hall of Entry.” Satinwood-rather than Caen limestone-covered the walls, and the staircase of richly carved mahogany, carpeted in cardinal red, stood in place of the marble staircase The Breakers boasted.

The doors on the left were closed, but Maggie knew the dining room would be there.

To the right, what originally must have been the music room looked most inviting, with comfortable chairs and matching hassocks, all richly upholstered in moss green and floral patterns. The magnificent Louis Quinze mantel was even more breathtak ing in reality than it had appeared in the pictures she had seen. The ornately carved space above the fireplace stretched to the ceiling, filled with Grecian figures, tiny angels, and pineapples and grapes, except for the smooth center, where a Rembrandt-school oil painting had been hung.

It really is beautiful, she thought, mentally comparing it with the unspeakably squalid condition of a nursing home interior she had surreptitiously photographed for Newsmaker magazine.

She realized suddenly that the maid had spoken to her. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I was just trying to take it all in.”

The maid was an attractive young woman with dark eyes and olive skin. “It is lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “Even working here is a pleasure. I’ll take you to Dr. Lane now.”

His office was the largest in a suite of offices along the back of the house. A mahogany door separated the area from the rest of the first floor. As Maggie followed the maid down the carpeted corridor, she glanced through an open office door and noticed a familiar face-Janice Norton, the wife of Nuala’s lawyer, sat behind a desk.

I didn’t know she worked here, Maggie thought. But then I really don’t know much at all about any of these people, do I?

Their eyes met, and Maggie could not help feeling uncomfortable. She had not missed the bitter disappointment on Malcolm Norton’s face when Mrs. Woods revealed that Nuala had canceled the sale of her house. But he had been cordial at the wake and funeral yesterday and had suggested that he would like to have a chat with her about her plans for the house.

She paused just long enough to greet Mrs. Norton, then followed the maid down the corridor to the corner office.

The maid knocked, waited, and at the invitation to enter, opened the door for Maggie and stepped back, closing it once Maggie was inside.

Dr. Lane stood up and came around his desk to greet her. His smile was cordial, but it seemed to Maggie that his eyes were appraising her professionally. His greeting confirmed that impression.

“Ms. Holloway, or Maggie, if I may, I’m glad to see that you look a bit more rested. Yesterday was a very difficult day for you, I know.”

“I’m sure it was difficult for everyone who loved Nuala,” Maggie said quietly. “But I’m really concerned about Mrs. Shipley. How is she this morning?”

“She had another weak spell last evening, but I looked in on her just a while ago, and she seems quite fit. She’s looking forward to your visit.”

“When I spoke to her this morning, she particularly asked if I would drive her out to the cemetery. Do you think that’s a good idea?”