Bonnie stepped inside. "Thank you. I know I should have called...."

"No, it was probably better you didn't. The element of surprise and everything." Caroline Gossett closed the front door and motioned toward the kitchen. "Would you like some lemonade? I just made a fresh pitcher."

No, I shouldn't, Bonnie thought. "Actually, yes," she said. "I'd love some."

"This way."

Bonnie followed Caroline Gossett into her large square kitchen. The room was white and yellow, with earth-toned Mexican tiles on the floor, and a series of framed charcoal drawings of women and children on the walls, obviously by the same artist of the pictures in Joan's living room. Either the women had very similar tastes or there'd been a sale at a local gallery. "These are lovely," Bonnie remarked, her eyes moving from a picture of a mother holding her newborn baby in her arms to one of a middle-aged woman cradling an old woman, probably her mother.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you," Bonnie ventured, thinking she should probably say this, even if she didn't mean it.

"Actually, I'm glad for the break. I was getting a little cross-eyed." Caroline Gossett opened the refrigerator, took out a large pitcher of pink lemonade and poured them each a gla.s.s.

"Cross-eyed?"

"I'm working on a sketch for a new painting."

"A sketch? Then, you did these?" Bonnie's eyes swept across the walls with fresh appreciation. The woman who had done these remarkable drawings was obviously a skilled artist and a very sensitive woman. She could hardly be described as frivolous and superficial.

"Rod didn't tell you I'm an artist," Caroline said.

"No, actually. He didn't tell me anything."

"So, he doesn't know you're here," Caroline said, in that disconcerting way she had of stating all her questions.

"I didn't know myself that I was coming."

"That's interesting." Caroline handed Bonnie a tall gla.s.s of lemonade.

Bonnie took a long sip of her drink, felt her lips contort into an involuntary pout.

"Too sour?"

"It's fine." Bonnie returned the gla.s.s to her lips, didn't drink.

Caroline smiled. "Anybody ever tell you you're a lousy liar?"

"Everybody."

Caroline's smile widened. She was very pretty when she smiled, Bonnie thought. Almost girlish.

"Joan always used to complain that my lemonade needed more sugar. She had a real sweet tooth. Just like you."

"I don't have a sweet tooth," Bonnie said, uncomfortable at being in any way compared to Rod's ex-wife.

"That's what she used to say." She smiled. "How are the kids?"

Bonnie took a deep breath. "I'm not sure. They haven't exactly confided their feelings in me."

"Give it time. It's a h.e.l.l of an adjustment to have to make."

"Were they very close to their mother?"

Caroline gave the question a moment's thought. "Not as close as Joan would have liked," she said finally. "Sam was something of an odd duck, he kept to himself most of the time, and Lauren was always more of a daddy's girl. Joan tried, but...what can you do?"

Bonnie followed Caroline Gossett out of the kitchen and into the art-filled living room. Aside from the large bronze nude, there were several other pieces of sculpture-a woman's torso, a child's head, a small figurine of a ballerina. Paintings-some oil, some pastel, some pen and ink-were everywhere.

"Did you do these?"

"Most of them."

"They're beautiful," Bonnie said. "I especially like this one." Bonnie pointed to an oil painting of a woman staring into a mirror, her older reflection leaping out at her in shades of blue and violet.

"Yes, I knew you would. It was Joan's favorite as well."

Bonnie instantly backed away from the painting, felt the grand piano at her back. "Do you play?"

"Not very well." Caroline plopped down in the middle of the white sofa. "Why don't you sit down and tell me what I can do for you."

Bonnie perched on the end of a white tub chair. "I was curious about a few things you said at the funeral."

"You'll have to refresh my memory."

"You were talking to Rod, and you commented that he looked well. He said you sounded disappointed."

"Oh yes. I remember thinking that there must be a very ugly painting of your husband hidden at the back of somebody's closet," Caroline said, the index finger of her right hand tapping her bottom lip.

"My husband is hardly Dorian Gray," Bonnie said. Was the woman implying that her husband had made some sort of pact with the devil? "You said, 'I guess I keep expecting justice.' What did you mean by that?"

Caroline raised her gla.s.s to her lips, drank half the lemonade in one long sip. "What is it you don't understand?"

"Why you don't like my husband," Bonnie replied truthfully.

Caroline shook her head, her hair coming loose of its ribbon and scattering around her face. "Why does it matter what I think of Rod?"

"It doesn't," Bonnie said quickly, lowering her gaze to the floor to hide her lie, instantly raising it again. "I'm not sure why it matters," she corrected. "But it's been bothering me ever since the funeral. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened between the two of you for you to dislike him so intensely."

"You didn't ask him," Caroline stated.

Bonnie said nothing.

"Let me guess." Caroline pushed the stray hairs behind her ears, looked toward the ceiling. "He said that I was a silly busybody who was part of an unfortunate past he no longer wanted to think about." She looked directly at Bonnie. "Close?"

"Close enough."

Caroline laughed. "I like you. But then, that's not too surprising. Rod always had great taste in women."

"What happened between you and Rod?" Bonnie repeated.

"Between the two of us? Nothing."

"Then why the ill will?"

Caroline finished the rest of her lemonade, put the gla.s.s down on the red-and-black hand-painted coffee table beside the sofa. "You're sure you want to hear this?"

"No," Bonnie conceded. "But tell me anyway."

Caroline took a deep breath. "How can I phrase this gently?" She paused, obviously searching for just the right words. "Your husband is a philandering, insensitive p.r.i.c.k. How's that?"

Bonnie winced, thought of leaving, didn't move. "Can you be more specific?" She almost laughed. The woman sitting across from her had just called her husband a philandering, insensitive p.r.i.c.k, and Bonnie's response was to ask her to be more specific. Good one, as Diana would say.

"You want examples," Caroline said.

"I'd appreciate it."

"I'm not sure you will."

"Tell me anyway."

"No, you tell me. What's the story he's given you all these years? That he was the long-suffering husband of an irrational drunk?"

Bonnie tried to keep her face blank, failed.

"I thought so. It's the story he tells most people. Maybe he even believes it. Who knows? Who cares?" She stood up, walked to the piano, stopped. "Did he happen to mention that one of the reasons Joan drank was because he was never home? That he was an irresponsible husband and a disinterested father? That he was too busy playing around with other women to be much of either? No, I can see by your face that he neglected to mention that."

"Joan told you these things," Bonnie stated, adopting the other woman's habit of asking questions in statement form.

"If you're suggesting that I simply believed everything Joan told me, you're wrong. I saw Superman myself one night when he was supposed to be working. Lyle and I were having dinner at the Copley Square Hotel, and there he was just two tables away nibbling on the ear of a stunning brunette."

"It was probably business, for G.o.d's sake. My husband is a television director. It's not like he doesn't come into contact with gorgeous women every day."

"And night," Caroline added, with infuriating calm. "Trust me, this wasn't business."

"Be that as it may," Bonnie said, "my husband didn't leave Joan for another woman."

"And why did he tell you he left?"

Bonnie took another sip of lemonade, felt it bitter on her tongue. "He said that after the baby died..."

"Go on."

"He just couldn't bear to be around her anymore."

"Yes, he was a big help after Kelly died," Caroline said.

"You're being very judgmental."

"I thought that's what you wanted."

"How can you know what my husband was feeling, what he was going through?"

"I know what I saw."

"And what was that?"

"A man who cheated on his wife at every opportunity, a man who was never there when she needed him, a man who walked out on her when she needed him the most."

"He couldn't stay," Bonnie tried to explain. "Every time he looked at Joan, he saw his dead little girl."

"Then that was more than he saw of her when she was alive," Caroline snapped, leaving both women temporarily speechless. "I'm sorry," Caroline said quietly, after a long pause. "That was pretty cra.s.s, even for me. Your husband obviously brings out the best in me."

Bonnie felt herself dangerously close to tears, held them tightly in check. "You don't know my husband very well."

"Maybe you're the one who doesn't know him," Caroline responded.

"My husband is not the one who let a fourteen-month-old baby drown in a bathtub," Bonnie reminded her.

"Now who's being judgmental," Caroline observed.

"Facts are facts."

"And accidents happen. And people make mistakes. And if they're lucky, they get a little help and understanding from those around them. Two people died the afternoon Kelly drowned," Caroline said quietly. "Joan's funeral was just a little late." Tears threatened the corners of her eyes.

"You said something else at the funeral," Bonnie ventured.

Caroline shrugged, waited for Bonnie to continue.

"You said that you wouldn't be here today, if it weren't for Joan. What did you mean?"

"I went through a rather difficult time myself a few years ago," Caroline began, speaking in a lower register than before. "Sparing you the gory details, I learned I could never have children."

"I'm sorry," Bonnie said, genuinely.

"Joan was there for me every day. She made sure I ate, that I got out, that I had someone to talk to. She didn't tell me everything was going to work out just fine. She didn't tell me that I'd get over it, that I could adopt, that it was G.o.d's will, that it was for the best. She knew how unhelpful, and downright hurtful, those handy little cliches really are. She'd heard them all herself. She knew that what I needed was someone to talk to, someone who would hold me and listen while I cried and moaned and b.i.t.c.hed and railed against my fate. And it didn't matter that I said the same things day after day. She was there to listen, to agree that it was unfair and a G.o.dd.a.m.n shame. She didn't try to minimize my feelings or ignore my anger. Even after months, when my sisters and everyone else were telling me it was time to get on with my life, Joan didn't abandon me. She told me I'd get on with my life when I was good and ready."

"She was a real friend," Bonnie agreed.

"Yes, she was. I couldn't have gotten through those months without her." Caroline took a deep breath, forced a smile. "There's more," she said.

"More?"

"Just when I was starting to get back on my feet, my mother fell and broke her hip, had to be hospitalized. My father is dead; my sisters both live out of town. It was up to me to make all the arrangements. My mother had to go into a convalescent hospital, and then a nursing home, because she couldn't really take care of herself anymore. Joan just took charge. She talked to the doctors, made all the arrangements, made sure my mother got the best care. She was amazing. I guess, again, because of what she'd been through with her own mother after Kelly died."

Bonnie felt a sudden chill. "What do you mean?"

"You don't know about Joan's mother." Another question disguised as a statement of fact.