At quarter of five, Janice Norton locked the desk in her office at Latham Manor Residence. Out of habit, she tugged at the handle of each one of the drawers and confirmed that they were indeed secured. It was a safeguard that William Lane would have been wise to adopt, she thought sarcastically.

Lane’s assistant, Eileen Burns, worked only until two each day, and after that Janice doubled as both bookkeeper and assistant. She smiled to herself, reflecting that her unquestioned access to Lane’s office had been extremely useful over the years. Just now when she’d copied the information she wanted from two more files, she’d had a sense that she should hold off. Call it a premonition.

She shrugged. Well, she’d done it, and the copies were in her briefcase and the originals where they belonged in Lane’s desk. It was ridiculous to get jumpy about it now.

Her eyes narrowed with secret satisfaction as she thought of the undisguisable shock on her husband’s face when Irma Woods had told them about Nuala Moore’s last-minute will. What pleasure she had had since then, berating him about repaying the mortgage on their own house.

She knew, of course, that he wouldn’t do any such thing. Malcolm was destined to wander forever through a field of broken dreams. It had taken her far too long to figure out that one, but working at Latham had been an eye-opener. Some of the guests there may not have had fancy backgrounds, but they had been born sucking on the proverbial silver spoon; they had never known a day’s worry about money. Others were like Malcolm, blue bloods with lineage they could trace back past the Mayflower to the aristocracy, even to the crowned heads of Europe, passionately proud that they were the great-great-nephews or whatever, nine times removed, of the prince regent of some idiotic duchy.

However, the blue-bloods at Latham differed from Malcolm in one very important way. They hadn’t rested on their genealogical charts. They had gone out and made their own fortunes. Or married them.

But not Malcolm, she thought. Oh, no, not handsome, debonair, courtly, so-well-bred Malcolm! At her wedding, she had been the envy of her girlfriends-except for Anne Everett. On that day, in the yacht club powder room, she had overheard Anne refer to Malcolm disparagingly as the “ultimate Ken doll.”

It was a remark that had burned into her mind, because even then, on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, dressed as she was, like a princess, in billowing yards of satin, she had realized it was true. To put it another way, she had married the frog. And then spent thirty-plus years trying to give reality the lie. What a waste!

Years of giving intimate dinners for clients and potential clients, only to see them take their lucrative accounts to other attorneys, leaving Malcolm with token bones to pick over. Now even most of those were gone.

And then the ultimate insult. Despite the way she had stuck by him all these years, knowing she would have done better to strike out on her own, yet clinging stubbornly to what little dignity she had left, she had realized that he was mooning over his secretary and planning to get rid of her!

If only he’d been the man I thought I married, Janice mused as she pushed back the chair and stood, flexing her stiff shoulders. Even better, if only he’d been the man he thinks he is! Then I really would have had a prince.

She smoothed the sides of her skirt, taking a modicum of pleasure from the feel of her slim waistline and narrow hips. In the early days, Malcolm had compared her to a thoroughbred, slender, with long neck, lean legs, and shapely ankles. A beautiful thoroughbred, he had added.

She had been beautiful when she was young. Well, look what that had gotten her, she thought ruefully.

At least her body was still in excellent shape. And not because of regular visits to spas and pleasant days at the golf course with her well-heeled friends. No, she had spent her adult life working, and working hard-first as a real estate agent, then for the last five years as bookkeeper in this place.

She remembered how, as a real estate agent, she used to salivate over properties that went for a song because people needed ready cash. How many times she had thought, “If only I had the money…”

Well, now she had it. Now she could call the shots. And Malcolm didn’t even have a clue.

Not ever to have to set foot in this place again! she thought exultantly. Never mind the Stark carpet and brocaded draperies, even in the office area. It might be pretty, but it was still a nursing home-God’s waiting room-and at fifty-four, she was hurtling rapidly toward the age when she would be a candidate for admittance herself. Well, she would get out of here long before that ever happened.

The phone rang. Before she picked up the receiver, Janice glanced around the room, checking lest someone might have tiptoed in behind her back.

“Janice Norton,” she said sternly, holding the receiver close to her mouth.

It was the call she had hoped to receive. He didn’t bother with a greeting. “Well, for once dear Malcolm got something straight,” he said. “That Wetlands Act amendment absolutely will go through. That property will be worth a fortune.”

She laughed. “Then isn’t it time to make a counteroffer to Maggie Holloway?”

After Liam’s call, Maggie sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and nibbling on some cookies she had found in the cupboard.

The box was almost full and looked as though it had been opened recently. She wondered if only a few nights ago Nuala had been sitting here sipping tea, eating cookies, planning her menu for the dinner party. She had found a shopping list next to the telephone: leg of lamb, green beans, carrots, apples, grapes, new potatoes, biscuit mix. And then there was a scribbled, typical Nuala note to herself: “Forgetting something. Look around store.” And Nuala obviously forgot to bring the list.

It’s funny, Maggie thought, but in an odd and certainly unexpected way, being here in Nuala’s house is giving her back to me. I feel almost as though I’ve lived here with her all these years.

Earlier she had glanced through a photograph album she found in the living room, and realized that the pictures of Nuala with Timothy Moore began the year after Nuala and her father divorced.

She also found a smaller album filled with pictures of herself taken during the five years Nuala had been part of her life. On the back pages were taped all the notes she had written to Nuala in those years.

The unmounted picture at the very end was of Nuala and her father and herself on their wedding day. She had been beaming with joy to have a mother. The expression on Nuala’s face had been just as happy. The smile on her father’s lips, however, was reserved, questioning, just like him.

He wouldn’t let her inside his heart, Maggie thought. I’ve always heard he was crazy about my mother, but she was dead, and wonderful Nuala was there. He was the big loser when she finally left because she couldn’t stand his carping.

And I was the loser, too, she reflected as she put the cup and saucer in the dishwasher. The simple act brought back another memory, that of her father’s annoyed voice: “Nuala, why is it so impossible to transfer dishes directly from the table to the dishwasher without first piling them in the sink?”

For a while, Nuala had cheerfully laughed about being genetically messy, but later she would say, “Dear God, Owen, this is the first time I’ve done that in three days.”

And sometimes, she’d burst into tears and I’d run after her and put my arms around her, Maggie thought sadly.

It was four-thirty. The window over the sink framed the handsome oak tree that stood to the side of the house. It should be trimmed, Maggie thought. In a bad storm, those dead branches could break and land on the house. She dried her hands and turned away. But why worry about that? She wasn’t going to stay here. She would sort out everything and earmark usable clothes and furniture for charity. If she started now, she could be done by the time she had to leave. Of course she would keep a few mementos for herself, but most things she would just get rid of. She supposed that after the will was probated, she would sell the house “as is,” but she preferred that it be as empty as possible. She didn’t want strangers going through Nuala’s home and perhaps making sarcastic comments.