"A lot, I guess." Quinn took another gulp of Guinness as his brothers exchanged glances.

"Have you winterized her yet?" Michael asked, and Quinn saw the glint in his eye.

"Jaysus, Mike. I've only known her a couple weeks. I think it's a little early for that."

"You can never do it soon enough," Michael said, quite serious. "I'll never forget what happened with Bridget Feeney-gorgeous woman, but she went totally psycho on me that winter. It was like a five-month-long case of PMS. I should've tested her in the fall, but I forgot. I was distracted by her ass."

Pat frowned. "What the hell does winterized mean? I have a feeling you're not talking about antifreeze."

Michael and Quinn nearly busted a gut.

"Actually, it is kind of like that," Quinn said.

"Look, Pat," Michael explained patiently. "You can never really know a woman until you go through a Chicago winter with her, OK? The cold, the wind, the flu, scraping ice off the car, shoveling out your parking space-from November to March, that's when the real woman comes out.

"Incredibly bad things can happen during that time, let me tell you," Michael continued. "Ugly things. But if you can stand her during winter, you've got a good one. Sheila passed with flying colors. It's one of the reasons I married her."

Pat's mouth hung open. "Lovely. But that doesn't explain why in God's name the woman married you, Michael." Then he turned to Quinn, frowning. "Are these lucky gals aware they're being tested?"

"No," Quinn said. "That would skew the results."

Pat scowled at him.

Quinn held up his hands in defense. "It's nothing awful, Pat. All you do is ask a couple basic questions, like what she'd enjoy doing on a Sunday afternoon in February."

"And this accomplishes what?" Pat asked.

"Well," Michael said thoughtfully, "the best answers involve food, televised sports, beer, and sex in any combination."

"There's a range of good answers," Quinn added. "But if she mentions sex and beer, things are looking up."

Pat shook his head. "Good God, I'm glad I'm a priest."

They all felt him before they saw him-the room pulsed with energy when the door opened and Jamie Quinn strolled in, exchanging warm greetings all around.

"Hello, boy-os," he said, eventually sliding his big, sturdy body in next to Pat. "Did I miss anything?"

Pat nodded and gestured with his pint glass. "We were just talking about Stacey's new girlfriend, Da."

Jamie leaned toward his oldest and tapped a beefy fist on the table, grinning. "It's about damn time, lad," he said, settling back in the booth. "Well now. Let's just hope she's not the pain in the arse that Laura was, shall we?" He winked at Pat and Michael. "That woman gave me pontab of the gullet every time I saw her."

Audie lay sprawled out on the Italian couch, realizing yet again that she hated the feel of leather against her skin, especially in the summer, realizing yet again that for all its glitz, she hated this apartment.

It was sleek and huge and she felt insignificant and uncomfortable in it. The city lights and the dark lake were beautiful at night, beautiful and big and powerful-but all it did was make her feel small.

She thought of her old apartment in Wrigleyville, with the big oak tree in the backyard, its crooked little back porch, the neighborhood sounds and the cooking smells, the old clawfoot bathtub, the cozy bedroom. It fit her like a favorite sweatshirt-warm and comfortable and not trying to be anything it wasn't.

Why she let Marjorie convince her to move to Helen's place was anyone's guess. She was making a lot of stupid decisions around that time, if her memory served her correctly-one right after the next. She took on a job she didn't want and couldn't do. She agreed to pretend she was somebody she wasn't. She started living a life that belonged to someone else.

All for her mother. All for a woman who never loved her.

Audie closed her eyes at the awful memory of her mother's last hour. Her face was swollen and bruised from the attack and her hair was matted with blood. And the terror in her voice, the pleading…

It was the desperation that was Audie's undoing. The woman who was always perfect, polished, and poised was gone, and in her place was an old lady who was bleeding and trembling and could barely speak.

"I'm counting on you," her mother had whispered as they rolled her down the hallway. "Swear to me. Don't disappoint me, Autumn."

She was twenty-eight years old the night her mother died, but Helen could still slice her to the quick with those familiar words: Don't disappoint me. She said it, then reached for Audie's hand and died.

In her more self-pitying moments, Audie realized she had become Homey Helen to prove to her mother that she was worth loving, that she could be something other than a disappointment.

Stupid decisions, certainly.

And now what? Was a year long enough, Audie wondered? Did Helen ever look down from the Elizabeth Arden salon in the sky and feel rotten for putting her daughter in this position?

"Can I bag the Banner renewal and go back to my old life?" Audie asked out loud. "Will you forgive me if I at least try to be happy, Mom?"

Audie sighed. The woman was dead. She couldn't hear her and she couldn't love her. If Helen had ever wanted to do either of those things, she would have done them while she was alive.

With a sudden burst of energy, Audie hopped up from the couch and kicked a soccer ball down the long, dark hallway, hearing it smack dead center against the far wall.

"She scores," she mumbled to herself, "and the crowd goes wild." She heard her feet shuffle over what seemed like acres of carpets and wood floors before she reached the kitchen.

She walked around the long curved counter of teak and stainless steel and reached for the refrigerator handle.

"Gross." There were things in there that scared her.

"Crap." There was nothing to drink except water.

"Oh, hell." She opened the pantry to discover she was even out of tea bags.

Audie turned around and put hands to hips over her nightshirt-one of Griffin 's soccer jerseys from his pro days. What was she doing? Was she nuts? It was a balmy Friday night in the big city and there she was-a reasonably attractive, pseudo-successful, still somewhat young woman, alone in her dark castle tower, talking to dead people, with nothing to eat or drink.

She was pathetic. She should be out enjoying her life.

Oh, wait. She had no life.

Her life lately consisted of following Marjorie's business plan, hanging out with Stanny-O and eating way too many Frango Mints, and waiting each day by the mailbox for the next death threat.

Oh, and let's not forget the best part about her life-Stacey Quinn! The intensely sexy cop who kissed her until her spine fused, then disappeared with some lame excuse, then sent her a gift so inexplicably sweet and personal that it made her cry.

Enough of that, she told herself-no more thinking of Stacey Quinn tonight. She'd see him Sunday. That would have to be enough. She was sexually frustrated. That was her problem. And Stacey Quinn was simply the hottest thing she'd ever seen in her life!

She covered her face in her hands and groaned. "You're such a jerk, Quinn," she whispered. Then she smiled in the dark.

It was beyond her control, so she gave in and wondered what he was up to right then, who he was with, what he was wearing, and whether he thought of her. She wondered who got to hear the sound of that gravelly voice and who was lucky enough to hear him laugh.

She hoped to God it wasn't a woman.

The buzz of her doorbell nearly sent Audie through the ceiling. She ran across the wide living room to the foyer and flipped on the light, slamming her eyes shut in the brightness. She peered through the peephole to see the smiling face of-Tim Burke?