“Over eighty years ago,” Cora Lee said, sitting down across from Charlie. “The village was really bohemian, then. So many famous names-Jack London, John Steinbeck, and a lot of lesser folk, all a close-knit group with Anna Stanhope. She worked for years in that small stone studio, hidden back in the woods.” Cora Lee’s dusky Creole beauty was set off by a simple cream velvet suit. Blond, bejeweled Gabrielle was overdressed as usual in a long blue satin gown, too much bright jewelry, and a pale real fox wrap. Donnie looked handsome indeed in a cream-colored cashmere suit, pale blue shirt, and tie-perhaps a bit overdressed or citified for the village, but a man whom all the women on the terrace were glancing at with thinly concealed interest.

“Where’s Lori?” Charlie asked Cora Lee. “She didn’t want to come?”

“We left her and Dillon holed up with that…” Gabrielle began; she went quiet at Charlie’s annoyed look and the faint shake of her head. Gabrielle looked surprised. Donnie hugged her closer, looking back at Charlie with sour disapproval, as if his ladylove could do or say no wrong.

“…busy with their playhouse,” Gabrielle finished, almost simpering. “I never saw two children work so long at anything. It’s really quite unusual.”

Everyone at the table knew that Gabrielle thought the playhouse was silly, that young girls should not undertake that kind of challenge against adult contenders. That two young girls could never complete such demanding carpentry work, that there was no way they could produce an acceptable construction, let alone win the huge prize they were hoping for. Gabrielle’s criticism was a sharp bone of contention between her and Cora Lee, one that Cora Lee tried her best to hide in deference to Donnie’s infatuation with her housemate.

Obviously, Charlie thought, Gabrielle had not bothered to look at the nearly finished playhouse, had not wanted to see how wonderful it was, and how well constructed. Nor had she considered that Dillon had trained for some time as a carpenter’s apprentice to Ryan Flannery. As Donnie tried to cheer Gabrielle, cajoling and flattering her, Charlie noticed her ring.

Reaching across the table, Charlie gently took Gabrielle’s hand, holding it up so the large diamond on her third finger gleamed in the firelight. Everyone at their table stopped talking, then all talked at once congratulating them as Gabrielle and Donnie beamed. Gabrielle managed to blush, and Donnie’s blue eyes were as bright and excited as the eyes of a boy. Across the table, Cora Lee smiled upon the happy couple like a proud parent.

“When did this happen?” Lucinda said. “When did you become officially engaged?”

“This afternoon,” Gabrielle said softly. “Donnie…I…It was a surprise. I…I’m still shaken. And it looks like we might move up to the city, too.”

“A job offer,” Donnie said. “They called this afternoon. A large company. If it pans out, looks like I might work myself into a managerial position within a year.”

They were still exclaiming and congratulating when the waiter brought additional menus and took drink orders, then turned away to linger, again, inside the door to the kitchen, keeping an eye on the tables. He returned with two additional menus as Clyde Damen and Ryan Flannery crossed the patio to join them.

Ryan looked beautiful tonight, her short dark hair windblown, her green eyes set off by a green velvet pullover, topping a slim black skirt, a green velvet shawl around her shoulders. The cats liked seeing their human friends dressed up; they were used to seeing Ryan and Charlie in comfortable jeans and work boots, Ryan because she was a builder, Charlie because she and Max kept horses up at their small ranch among the Molena Point hills.

And Clyde, who favored old worn jeans and ragged T-shirts, had made an effort, too. Joe Grey’s housemate was turned out in a tan suede sport coat, a black turtleneck, and cream slacks, was newly shaved, and his dark hair freshly cut. As he held Ryan’s chair, Dorothy looked up at Ryan questioningly.

“Nothing yet,” Ryan said, sitting down. “We could be in our graves before we get this permit.” As the project’s contractor, Ryan was out of patience waiting for city and county permits and the final okay from the historical society. “The planning commission knows you want to have the classrooms ready by spring semester, they know you have four new teachers coming.”

Dorothy nodded. “Without the new space, we’ll be really crowded. Well, we’ll make do-crowded doesn’t really matter, if the kids are excited about what they’re learning. Give them an intellectual challenge, show them how to run with it, and they’re happy.

“They’re looking forward to the new quarters, and to having a real fireplace in the big classroom, but they understand about the Historical Society-they know the old stone house is the only real monument left to Anna Stanhope.”

Lucinda said, “Her studio in the woods must have been lovely then, before her son cut down so many trees and built that big ostentatious mansion-though in the long run, that turned into a blessing, as if it was always meant to be a children’s home.”

“Strange to think,” Charlie said, “about the wild parties and unleashed sex and drugs that went on, when those things were far less common. And now the Stanhope house is a children’s refuge from just that kind of ugliness.”

“Those artists did more partying than work,” Gabrielle said, fluffing her fur wrap. “They just played at being artists and writers.”

“Not all of them,” Cora Lee said. “Not Anna Stanhope, she was a serious painter. She must have managed, somehow, to protect her privacy and working time. She was very dedicated, and very fine. She left a huge legacy of work.” Anna Stanhope’s paintings appeared in many fine collections and were included in many art histories, the landscapes jewel rich in color, the essence of scenes they saw around them every day in the shifting California light.

“Haven’t you ever wondered,” Gabrielle said, “why her son boarded up the house all those years? I’m surprised the city let him.”

“It was his property,” Dorothy said. “He paid the taxes. He wasn’t breaking any law if he wanted to close it up. And he did come down from San Francisco sometimes, to check on its condition.”

“To clear out her paintings,” Gabrielle said. “Sold them a few at a time, in that gallery in the city.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to flood the market,” Cora Lee suggested. “They’ve increased so much in value.” Cora Lee’s own background as an artist lent her a quiet authority that silenced her housemate. Donnie, caught between his cousin and his fiancée, kept out of it, silently sipping his drink. Dulcie was watching him, frowning, when her own housemate appeared hurrying up the street to join them.

Earlier in the evening, Dulcie had lain on the bed as Wilma dressed, and the tabby had pawed through Wilma’s jewelry box helping to choose which barrette Wilma would wear. They had agreed on an onyx-and-silver creation to clip back Wilma’s long silver hair and to complement her soft red jacket and long paisley skirt. Wilma Getz might be in her early sixties, but her tall figure was as slim as a girl’s. She walked several miles a day, and since she’d been kidnapped last summer, she worked out more often at the village gym, intending to be in far better shape if another of her old ex-parolees surprised her.

Dulcie watched her swing in through the patio’s little iron gate, cross between the crowded tables, and pull out the last chair at the big round table, sneaking a look underneath to see if the cats were there waiting for a bit of supper. Not seeing them, she glanced up to the roof, and hid a little smile.

When the waiter came for their orders, Wilma chose a shrimp bisque and, for dessert, a rich crème brûlé. Both were among Dulcie’s favorites. When Wilma ordered two of each, one meal for herself and one to go, Dulcie, above on the roof, hungrily licked her whiskers.