"So what's one more nut? Go be a blushing bride, Julia. Give your grandma a kiss and stop worrying."

Julia managed a sickly smile. "Thanks for the pep talk. But I'm never going to be a blushing bride."

"Of course not." With pats on both her shoulders, he released her and nudged her toward the living room. Once again she reminded herself that she was tough, strong, a former attorney, a company president. A Wellesley graduate. A big sister-whose little sister was apparently having some kind of breakdown and whose little brother looked like a poster child for the National Slob Foundation.

She could handle this. She handled everything. Handling things was her raison d'etre.

Walking into the living room, she shaped another false smile-she'd had so much practice faking smiles, she was getting good at them-absently rubbed her cheek in case Esther had left a lip print on it, and headed directly for Grandma Ida, who sat at the edge of an oversized leather chair, apparently afraid the thing would swallow her if she settled too deeply into it. "Grandma Ida," Julia greeted her. "What a lovely surprise! You'll stay for dinner, won't you?"

Adam couldn't remember the last time anyone had hosted a party in this apartment. Not that this gathering of relics and relatives exactly qualified as a party. They were playing no tunes, inhaling no illegal substances, chugging no beer. No one was flirting. No one was even smiling. That phony smile of Julia's didn't count.

The food sure smelled good, though. Trying to eat like a normal person in his mother's home was more challenging than getting his honors thesis on imaginary numbers finished before the due date. Adam had grown up learning about the four food groups, but his mother had only two food groups in her kitchen: diet food and off-the-diet food. Celery sticks and Cheez Nips. Cherry tomatoes and Cherry Garcia ice cream. Fat-free yogurt and fudge.

He wanted some of that good food Lyndon and his friend had whipped up. But he didn't want to have to tolerate the company the food was intended for. If Joffe were around, it wouldn't be so bad. He was cool, and Adam was both pleased and a little surprised that Julia had found him. Before him, she'd always dated yuppie guys suffering from ego erectus. Joffe had a healthy ego, but it seemed proportional to the rest of him.

Well, Adam wouldn't be tolerating the company, because Julia had made it very clear he wasn't welcome to join them. Maybe Lyndon could fix him up a plate to bring back to his room, where he could watch Saturday Night Live reruns on Comedy Central while he ate.

Shit. He was so bored. In the past two weeks he'd seen dozens-maybe hundreds-of Saturday Night Live reruns, featuring every cast from Chevy Chase to Cheri Oteri. He needed something more. He needed things to do. He needed his friends.

Julia had told him to call Tash. Not a bad idea, except that it was only the middle of the afternoon in Seattle and she was probably busy liberating a dolphin or something. His ex-roommate, Buddy, was down in D.C., same time zone, but he'd landed an internship at the Department of Agriculture and Adam couldn't bear the thought of whining to him about how he had nothing to do.

He should get a job, but doing what? Selling shoes? Delivering restaurant take-out orders on a bicycle? Even working at Bloom's would be better than that.

He needed a job, and he needed some local friends.

Closing his eyes, he pictured a skinny, duck-toed woman with a toothy grin. He'd gotten her phone number that day at Lincoln Center. What the hell? They could have some laughs, if she wasn't busy doing her barre work or whatever dance students at Juilliard did to give them those graceful hands and flexible hips.

When he opened his eyes he was smiling. Elyse, he thought. Why the hell not?

Ron arrived at six-forty, weary and apologetic. His editor had gotten an angry call from a Fortune 500 company whose questionable hiring practices had been the subject of Ron's business column in last week's Gotham magazine. Ron had had to spend the next two hours reviewing his notes with his editor, playing the tapes of his interviews and proving to her that he could substantiate every single word he'd written, every accusation, every fucking punctuation mark.

"Don't use that language," Julia whispered. "Everyone's here, including my grandmother."

"Have my parents killed each other yet?"

"No. Your mother is drinking sherry and critiquing the quality of the living-room couch's upholstery. Your father has barely said a word. He brought flowers, though."

"Why is your grandmother here?"

"She didn't want to watch Ferris Beuller's Day Off. Don't ask."

Ron gathered her into a hug. She could tell he was tired by the weight of his arms and the faded glow in his eyes. His kiss was slow, more warm than hot, but it reassured her. He made a sound that was half a sigh, half a groan, then pulled back. "This is going to be fun," he said, and she caught a glint of a smile teasing his lips.

His kiss had been fun. Leaving her mother's apartment after this doomed dinner party, returning to Ron's apartment and kissing him some more-even if he was so tired the kisses led nowhere further-would be fun. The hours between now and their departure were going to be excruciating.

"I liked that eloping idea we discussed," she murmured.

"We can still do that. It's not too late."

"Ronny?" Esther bellowed from the living room. "Is that you? Finally?"

"It's too late," Julia said, slipping her hand into his and leading him into the living room.

"Hi, everyone," he said, then made the rounds of the room, hugging his father, kissing his mother's cheek, kissing Julia's mother's cheek and smiling and nodding at Grandma Ida, who shrank from him as if afraid he might try to kiss her cheek, too.

"You should have gotten here earlier," his mother carped. "This is an important occasion. We have to make wedding plans."

"Nobody's made any plans yet," Sondra said, giving Ron a warm smile. "We're just getting acquainted. Look at these beautiful flowers your father brought. Aren't they lovely?"

"It was lovely of you to invite us," Norman said. "Lovely flowers for a lovely hostess."

Julia didn't think now was the right time to mention that she'd made all the arrangements, issued all the invitations and twisted all the arms to make this dinner party happen. If Norman wanted to think her mother was the lovely hostess, Julia wouldn't interfere.

Lyndon appeared in the doorway to announce that dinner was ready. "I don't have any help," Esther told Julia's mother as she rose from the couch. "You're very lucky, having help. I understand your husband died a couple of years ago?"

Sondra's smile dissolved into an appropriate expression of sorrow. "From food poisoning, may he rest."

"Not that it's my business, but it's nice you don't have to be all alone. You have help."

"He's my help," Grandma Ida announced. Esther looked bewildered, but she let the subject drop.

The group filed into the dining room. Julia realized that Grandma Ida's presence made the table more symmetrical. Her mother sat at one end, Grandma Ida at the other, and Lyndon deftly guided Esther to one side of the table and Norman to the other, steering them to seats that weren't directly opposite each other. "What fancy plates," Esther commented, lifting her dinner plate and tilting it to scrutinize its gleaming surface. "What is this, Wedgwood?" She flipped the plate over to look. "Royal Doulton. Very nice."

"It was our wedding pattern," Sondra said, slightly misty-eyed. "All these years and I still love it. Julia, you and Ron haven't registered yet. Add it to your to-do list."

Julia didn't want to register for china. She had handsome ceramic dishes; she didn't need a set of expensive bone china that would take up precious cabinet space and never get used.

"What are we supposed to register for?" Ron asked.

"I'll explain it later," Julia told him.

"Your daughter has excellent taste," Norman commented, his cheeks creasing with dimples as he smiled at Sondra.

"You mean, for when she registers her patterns?"

"I mean, she has excellent taste in men."

"She takes after me," Sondra boasted. "I have excellent taste in men, too."

Julia swallowed to keep from gagging. Besides the discomfort of being referred to in the third person while she was in the room, she knew her father had been a difficult man and a less than wholly devoted husband. Her mother's taste in men was debatable.

She noticed her mother's smile, not quite so misty as she gazed at Norman. Sondra had touched her hair lightly, tucked a strand behind one ear and tilted her head toward him when she'd made that remark about her taste in men. Was she flirting with Ron's father? The possibility was too horrible to contemplate.

Howard circled the table, filling the crystal goblets with Chardonnay. "A toast to our wonderful children," Norman proposed, raising his glass.

"Can I toast with my sherry?" Esther asked, ignoring the wine and lifting her glass of sherry.

"Do you really think it matters?" Norman asked acerbically. "We're drinking a toast to the children."

"I don't like white wine," Grandma Ida said. "I'll toast without." She held up her empty hand, her fingers curled around an imaginary glass.

"To our wonderful children," Sondra said quickly, and everyone drank-or, in Grandma Ida's case, mimed drinking-before tempers could flare out of control.

Julia steered her mind back to the subject of registering. While Lyndon carried serving dishes out to the table, she pondered what she should register for. Not china, not silver flatware, but maybe some kitchen appliances. The new microwaves had features her old one lacked. A matching set of utensils would be nice, and perhaps one of those wooden blocks with the different-sized knives protruding from stab-sized slits. And neither she nor Ron owned an electric eggbeater. If they ever wanted to make meringue, they'd be in big trouble.

All those items were sold at Bloom's. Would it be terribly tacky to register at her own store? Did they even have a bridal registry? If they didn't, they should. She'd have to talk to Dierdre about setting one up. Susie could do a nice article about it in the Bloom's Bulletin.

Assuming Susie didn't leave the city for good. Was she running away? From home, or Casey? Why couldn't she and Casey resolve things between them, one way or another? People broke up and made up all the time without leaving town. And why did Susie have to leave town to work on Rick's movie? Why did she call it a movie, anyway? It was supposed to be an infomercial. Cheap and informative and utterly lacking in cinematic artistry.

Julia realized Norm was holding the platter of poultry for her to help herself, and she dragged her focus back to the table. "You never told me your mother was so charming," he murmured.

She almost retorted that she'd met him only once, and during that meeting, the subject of tax loopholes had dominated the conversation. She might have added that after twenty-eight long years of knowing her mother, she had a better comprehension of her mother's charm quotient than he did. But she only smiled and used the two serving forks to lift the smallest hen onto her plate.

"The Plaza is very expensive," Esther was saying. "Not that I want to count pennies at a time like this, but I'm a court stenographer-a divorced court stenographer," she added, shooting Norman a hostile look "-and money doesn't grow on my trees."

"The bride's family pays for the wedding," Grandma Ida announced.

"But the groom's family has certain obligations," Esther argued. "The liquor, for instance. Liquor at the Plaza-"

"I'll take care of it, Esther," Norman muttered.

"The way I see it," Sondra declared, "Julia and Ron will have one wedding in their lives, am I right? You don't scrimp at such a time."

"Wait a minute!" Julia held up her hands like a traffic cop trying to halt vehicles in all directions. "We're not getting married at the Plaza Hotel, so-"

"Now, Julia. We've already talked about this."

"You've talked about it. I've looked into some other options." She gazed around the table to find everyone watching her. Norman seemed curious, Sondra impatient, Esther apoplectic, Grandma Ida surly and Ron highly amused. Nothing about the discussion was amusing, and she resented him for finding anything to smile about at a time like this. "As you say, Mom, we'll have only one wedding in our lives. It should be what we want."

"Oy, gevalt." Grandma Ida pressed a hand to her chest. "You're not going to have one of those weddings on Coney Island, with everyone barefoot and the rabbi arriving in a boat, now, are you?"

The concept had never occurred to Julia. She exchanged a glance with Ron, who shrugged as if to say, What a great idea!

"There are some lovely venues we can rent," Julia said. "The Explorer's Club, the Player's Club, some other town houses. The Cloisters is available for catered parties, too, although-"

"The Cloisters? The medieval museum?" her mother asked.

"Yes. They're pretty restrictive, so-"

"That's a beautiful spot," Norman commented.

"But all those crosses and stuff." Esther shook her head. "The artwork there is very Christian. Paintings of Jesus, paintings of saints-as artwork, yes, it's very impressive. But at a Jewish wedding?"

"Still, they have lovely gardens," Norman insisted.

"A lovely garden with a big wooden crucifix? This is where you want Ronny getting married?"

"All right-forget the Cloisters," Julia said, intervening before a major war erupted between Ron's parents. "The sculpture garden at the Museum of Modern Art is another possibility. What I'm saying is, we can find a nice location and have Bloom's do the catering."

"Bloom's! What, you're going to serve bagels and lox at your wedding?" Esther shrieked.

"What's wrong with bagels and lox?" Grandma Ida retorted. "That's better than rowboats at Coney Island."

Julia rolled her eyes-and hallucinated the oddest sight: Adam walking down the hall past the arched dining-room doorway, carrying the platter of leftover canapes, and behind him a slender young woman with exquisite posture, her blond hair twisted into a bun at her nape and a neck as long as Alice's after she'd eaten the cake that said Eat Me. Who was that? Where was Adam taking her and the hors d'oeuvres?

As if it mattered. As if any of this mattered.

Elopement was sounding better all the time.

Eight.

Susie took the elevator up to the third floor of the Bloom Building. Amazing to think that a few weeks ago she would have gone out of her way to walk through the store just to catch a glimpse of Casey, to exchange a wink and a smile with him. Now here she was, sneaking up the back way like a coward.

She wasn't a coward. She was a mess, but cowardice had nothing to do with that.

She'd survived a long, dreary weekend, taking in two Jet Li movies, one Jackie Chan movie and a festival that her roommate Caitlin had dragged her to at a scuzzy little theater on Saturday night, featuring semi-pornographic videos of Japanese transvestite rock stars licking one another's faces, crotches and guitars. Susie wasn't sure what the videos were supposed to be about, especially since she didn't understand Japanese. Caitlin said they were called Fan Service, but as far as Susie could tell, the rock stars, not the fans, were being serviced.

Not that she'd count herself as a fan. The videos made her painfully aware that these days, the kind of men who attracted her tended to be tall and blond, with hazel eyes.

Casey would have found Fan Service fascinating. If he'd gone with her to the festival, he would have sat up half the night with her, picking apart the videos, laughing over the sillier stunts and dissecting the music. He would have spent the other half of the night licking her in all sorts of interesting places.

Julia had called her on Saturday while she was out. They'd played phone tag for the rest of the weekend, until Susie realized that she could talk to Julia on Monday when she went to the third floor to work on the Bloom's Bulletin. She felt totally uninspired about putting together the newsletter this week; her odds of coming up with a clever limerick were about as good as the odds of her father returning from the dead with a new recipe for gefilte fish stuffed into his pocket. But she could write up the pages of the bulletin pertaining to sales and specials at the store, interview Myron for an employee profile and spend enough time sitting at her hallway desk to make people think she took her job as Bloom's creative director seriously.

And she could talk to Julia.

Julia's door was open, and Susie entered without knocking. The office had changed since their father had occupied it. Although Julia hadn't lavished a lot of money upgrading the carpet, painting the walls a brighter shade, replacing the worn leather sofa or removing the scratched and scuffed desk, now tucked into a corner of the small room, which their grandfather had used when the office had been his, she'd perched a few potted plants along the windowsills and hung some framed prints of the Manhattan skyline on the walls. She had picked up the prints from a sidewalk vendor, and they reeked of cheap sentiment. One of them featured the World Trade Center against a violet sunset sky, obviously a play for melancholy nostalgia. Susie wished Julia would find something better to decorate her walls with. A Rocky Horror Picture Show poster, maybe. Or a mirror. Staring at herself would be less depressing than staring at the Twin Towers.

At her entrance, Julia glanced up from her desk, leaped to her feet when she saw who her visitor was and raced over to the door to close it. This placed her within three feet of Susie-close enough to indulge in a deeply analytical inspection of her face. "You look like shit," Julia said.

Okay, so maybe staring at the Twin Towers was the happier choice.

The word shit could not be used to describe Julia. Her glossy black hair was clipped neatly back from her face, her tweedy gray pantsuit draped her body beautifully and her eyes had the glow of a woman who'd been licked in all the right places in the not-too-distant past.

Julia grabbed Susie's hand and dragged her over to the battered sofa. Unlike the smooth, elegant leather furniture in their mother's living room, this couch was webbed with lines and cracks, and was more weathered than Grandma Ida's face. But the cushions were comfortable, and Susie was happy to sink into them.

"Tell me what's going on," Julia demanded, dropping down next to her on the couch. "Why are you running away?"

"I have to leave town, it's either that or get married," Susie explained, wondering if her answer sounded as ridiculous to Julia as it did to her.

"Married? To whom?"