"Don't try to change the subject," Ruth said. Her neck was thick but clearly more under her control than Vivi's. "I knew you'd try to weasel out."

"There'll be no wiggling out," Melanie said from beneath her steepled arms. She looked so long and elegant next to Vivi's round and lumbering reflection that Vivi had to turn away.

Angela, who pretty much never looked in the mirror as far as Vivi could tell, was quick to back up Melanie. "That's right," she said, touching her right ear to the inside of her right elbow. "We'll expect you here on Sat.u.r.day night. No excuses."

"Us, too!" chimed Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Di as Naranya changed the head move to a forward-and-back motion that made Vivi feel, and look, like a pregnant bobblehead doll.

THE NEXT MORNING after successfully ejecting Shelby from bed, sliding eggs and toast in front of a zombielike Trip, and waving all three of them off to school, Vivi finally got another shot at J.J.'s office.

She lingered over her tea for another fifteen minutes in case Melanie or the kids had forgotten something, then carried her tea into J.J.'s study and sat down at her brother-in-law's desk. Ignoring the buck's reproachful glance, she opened the bottom drawers and pulled out the stack of Day-timers as well as the phone and credit card bills.

Pawing through the Day-timers until she located the last one, Vivi shivered slightly when she flipped to the back and saw the last entry, dated mid-October, which read Hunting trip with Clay. The book was blank after that and this struck her as odd, not because nothing had happened afterward, but because nothing had been scheduled to happen. Thinking maybe he'd bought a BlackBerry, or some other sort of PDA to bring him into the twenty-first century, Vivi made a mental note to look for it then began to read through J.J.'s last nine months.

Her brother-in-law's days had been filled to bursting with meetings and events. The weekends were no exception, though she noticed that at least twice a month there'd been blocks set aside that either read family time or had a more specific notation regarding a sporting event of Trip's or some performance or event labeled Shelby. There were also notations that reflected trips out of town, and she duly noted how often Clay Alexander went along on out-of-town speaking engagements and const.i.tuent forums. The months the legislature was in session were blocked out with thick black lines and social/business events notated in the evenings. Jordan Jackson Jr. had maintained a pretty hectic pace even for a young politician on the rise. She wondered that Melanie had never complained about his unavailability or about the frantic schedule her husband had kept. And then she realized that if Melanie had, it would have been just one more thing that had gone in one of Vivien's ears and out the other, yet another insignificant detail of her sister's life.

Hunched over the daily record keeper, she went back to January and worked her way through the months. In early April the capital letter C began to appear each Tuesday with the entire evening blocked out. In May, the C began to appear one weekend a month. Vivien might have written it off as a simple notation of some function that included Clay Alexander except that the campaign manager appeared even more regularly as Clay. If Alexander were the C in question, J.J. would have had no reason to try to hide it. But if it were another woman. . . . Vivi tried the idea on for size, but the only C she'd met that she knew J.J. had had contact with was Catherine Dennison. Could she and J.J. have been involved? And if they had been, could the knowledge that J.J. was cheating have made Clay want to somehow avenge Melanie's honor? Or convince him that J.J. wasn't worthy?

"Oh, good grief!"

Even in her own mind, Vivi could hear what a stretch that was. The fact that she wanted to cast Clay Alexander as the bad guy didn't make him one. The fact that he might have had a thing for Melanie for some twenty years and now seemed intent on filling her dead husband's shoes might be kind of icky, but it wasn't against the law.

There was no evidence to support the idea that J.J. had died by anyone's hand but his own. Which meant there was no crime.

This was not a mystery novel, this was real life.

Despite these admonitions, the feeling in her very large gut refused to go away. Clay Alexander knew things that he wasn't saying. And she, for one, wanted to know what those things were.

AS SOON AS they arrived at the Magnolia Ballroom, Vivi knew her reservations about ballroom dancing were well founded. On Wednesdays their belly-dance cla.s.s was a tiny island of activity surrounded by an ocean of dance floor. Tonight the ballroom crackled with conversation and laughter; light from the chandeliers shone through the snowflakes that still dangled from the ceiling and sparkled off of silks and satins. At the mixing board the DJ, who would run the practice party once the lessons concluded, sorted through CDs and nodded his head to a pulsing Latin beat.

The beginners stepped out onto the floor for the included lesson while the rest of the crowd socialized around the edge of the dance floor. As Melanie led their group into position, Vivien promised G.o.d that she would become a better person if he kept her humiliation to a minimum and her clumsiness off the Internet. Angela and James stood as close to each other as possible; Ruth and Ira did not. Clay Alexander and a recently divorced attorney named Todd were paired with the Shipley sisters. Bradley Horton, a retired army colonel in his late sixties, was Vivi's partner having, presumably, drawn the shortest straw.

Vivi stepped up to Melanie's side and made one last attempt to bail out. "I know Clay just came to even things out. If he sits, I can, too." She swallowed. "Then I could put out the food. Or, um, I could clean the ladies' room."

"I'm not going to ask Clay to sit when he was nice enough to come," Melanie said. "Di and Delores are practically salivating over him. Plus, look over there." She nodded toward another cla.s.s; without exception all of the women were casting sidelong glances their way. "Todd and Clay are attractive, male, and unattached. For that matter, so is the colonel. Once the word gets out, women will be beating a path to the studio door. I should pay both of them for being here."

Clay shot Vivi an amused look as she stepped back into place, the one he seemed to reserve especially for her. Melanie was right; he was tall, dark, cla.s.sically handsome, and charming. It seemed that she was the only one who thought that charm too practiced and sensed an agenda that hadn't been declared.

"You, okay, Viv?" Angela leaned around James to ask. She'd traded her usual baggy black belly-dance ensemble for a stylish but equally unfitted black gauze ankle-length skirt and an oversized tunic top, which were also at least a size too big.

"Sure," Vivi lied as Melanie instructed them to face their partner.

"There are some very basic basics that we need to understand before we do the first step of any kind." Melanie smiled as she surveyed them and her domain. "The first rule is that *ladies are always right!' "

A few of the women laughed. The men groaned goodnaturedly. Ira Melnick said, "I learned that fifty years ago already." Ruth's lips compressed into a thin white line.

"Well, in this case I mean it quite literally," Melanie said. "Ladies start with their right foot, men with their left. But before we move at all we're going to learn the four connection points." Melanie took them through the connection points, moving up and down the line of couples making slight adjustments, clarifying her instructions. The colonel stood at attention, his body surprisingly strong for a man his age. Vivien hoped he had a high pain threshold, too. "Ladies, you're going to step to the right, then you're going to bring your left foot to meet the right one like this . . . *tap.' " She demonstrated how to place the ball of the foot, holding her arms up in the same position as the women. Then she turned, put her arms in the man's contact positions then demonstrated their step and tap.

Okay, Vivien told herself. This didn't look all that complicated. Brad Horton's fingers were at her shoulder blade, his left palm pressed against her right palm as instructed; if ever anyone looked equipped and determined to "lead," it was him. A tremor of trepidation rippled through her, but Vivien beat it back. She'd interviewed surly politicians and sly investment bankers. Once she'd taken a former president by surprise. Surely she could handle a simple step and tap.

"Try to relax," her partner said. "I think it's easier if you're not quite so . . . stiff."

Vivien nodded, but her body felt decidedly boardlike. She instructed it to loosen up, but it continued its imitation of a two-by-four.

"Everybody ready?" Melanie asked.

Vivien wanted to shout no, but her lips were clenched too tightly for any words to slip through. She didn't understand how her thoughts could be moving so rapidly and in so many directions when her body felt completely rooted to the floor.

"Five, six, seven, eight . . . step," Melanie instructed.

There was movement all around her. The colonel's fingers bit into her shoulder blade and she sensed his body moving. Panicked at the thought of being left behind, Vivien yanked upward to detach her foot from the floor and felt her knee smash into a part of Brad's body that Vivien would rather not name. The air rushed out of her partner's mouth in a loud whoosh!

Confused, Vivien took the step she'd begun and landed directly on top of Brad Horton's foot.

"Ow!" Her partner doubled over in pain.

"Oh, my gosh!" Vivien gasped. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" Vivien moved toward him, her hands outstretched in apology. Despite the fact that he was bent in half, he managed to scoot out of her way.

Melanie rushed to the colonel's side as he struggled to regain his composure.

"Are you all right?" Melanie asked. Vivien couldn't help noticing he didn't try to get away from her.

Brad nodded his head, but it was not a forceful gesture. Slowly he straightened, his eyes still closed against the pain.

Clay fetched a chair from one of the tables and brought it to Brad.

"Let's let the colonel and Vivi regroup while the rest of us give it another try," Melanie said, once the colonel was able to sit upright. She took the rest of the cla.s.s through the step-tap business, moving right and then left. Then she showed them how to step-tap backward and then forward in what she called a "rocking step."

When the color returned to Brad's face and his breathing grew more normal, Melanie helped him to his feet. "Okay, time to rotate partners," she said gaily as if her sister had not kneed one of her students cruelly in the groin.

"Vivi," Melanie said. "You dance with Clay. He's got enough experience to dance defensively."

Ignoring Di's look of disappointment, Melanie led Vivien to Clay and positioned her in his arms.

Clay raised one eyebrow, but seemed unworried about his family jewels.

Melanie stood beside them. "Vivien," she said. "This is your right side." She tapped Vivien's right shoulder and her right hand, which was already in Clay's. "Keep your back straight and your shoulder rolled backward so that Clay has a place to apply pressure. All you have to do is slide your foot to the right. Don't lift, just step. He'll lead you through the rest." Melanie walked down the line of couples, checking everybody's positions and then once again began to count out the steps. Vivien commanded herself to focus, told herself there was no reason in the world why she shouldn't be able to master a few simple movements. But standing in Clay Alexander's arms, all she could think of were the questions she wanted to ask him: How did an experienced hunter like J.J. die that way? Was J.J. seeing another woman before he died? Did Clay covet J.J.'s wife and family? Staying silent was one of the hardest things she'd ever done, but it cost her. When everyone else stepped, she tapped. When they stepped back, she stepped forward. Despite Clay's best attempts-she was certain his fingerprints must be imprinted on her shoulder blade from all the pressure he applied-she clomped on his instep and both his big toes and almost took him down with an inadvertent jab to the knee. It didn't get any better when Melanie put on music for them to practice to.

"If you focused half as closely on the steps as you do on every little thing I say, you might be doing better," Clay said, his gray eyes challenging. "I feel like a specimen under a microscope when I'm around you. Do you do that to everyone? Or just me?"

They'd stopped moving. She could feel the tension pulsing beneath his skin, could feel his efforts to restrain it. Dimly she heard laughter and conversation; Melanie's worried gaze swept over them, and she knew she didn't have long to answer.

"I just find it hard to believe that J.J. killed himself cleaning his gun. And I think you know more about what happened than you've let on."

His eyes widened in surprise; whatever he'd been expecting it wasn't that. "There was an investigation, Vivi, and it was open and shut. It was horrible for everyone, including me. And I don't remember you showing a whole lot of interest in the details-or even in being here-then." His voice trembled with an emotion she couldn't identify, but he kept it pitched low so that only she could hear. "If you think dredging all of that back up now would be in anyone's best interests, especially Melanie and the kids', you are completely mistaken." He smiled as Melanie rushed up to them, announcing that it was time to rotate partners, but the smile was grim and didn't come close to reaching his eyes.

28.

MELANIE DIDN'T KNOW what Clay and Vivi were talking about, but as the mother of two, she knew when it was time to separate warring factions. Without comment, she delivered Clay to a grateful Dee Shipley, asked Ira to partner with Vivi, and directed Ruth toward the colonel.

Relief flashed over Ruth's features as she disentangled herself from Ira and stepped toward Brad Horton, as if the strain of dancing with her husband had been too great. But Ruth had barely settled in her new partner's arms when Ira excused himself from Vivi and walked over to tap the elderly gentleman on the shoulder. "Sorry," he said. "But I need to cut in."

Ruth shot him a look of outrage and disbelief. Her chin stuck out. "You can't do that."

"Who says?" he asked with a little chin action of his own.

"This is the closest to combat I've been since Desert Storm," the colonel said, stepping out of the line of fire.

Those who didn't know Ruth well were smiling, but Melanie wasn't convinced that whatever was about to happen would be funny.

Ira raised his arms into position and waited for Ruth to step into them, much like a lion tamer might put up a hoop through which he expected the lion to leap.

Ruth didn't look like she intended to step, or leap, anywhere.

"Come here," Ira said to his wife. "I'm old. I can't keep my arms up forever."

"Oh?" Ruth said, eyeing him with suspicion. "You keep telling me you're too young to retire. I'm sure your arms can last a little longer." She did take a step closer but she did not move into those arms, which had begun to tremble slightly. "And if you think you can just snap your fingers and I'm going to forget everything and fall into your arms, you're completely meshugenah."

"I am not crazy," Ira said. "And I'm not snapping anything. Please, Ruth." He kept his chin up and his arms, too, although the strain was beginning to show on his face. "Come here."

Ruth turned to Melanie. "He's probably building another bagel factory and is trying to soften me up before he tells me."

"My money's on Ruth," Vivi whispered to Angela. Everyone was watching the couple intently and Melanie began to worry that Ira might collapse from the strain of holding his arms up like that for so long. She was even more afraid that Ruth, in her anger, would reject him so completely that there'd be no fences left to mend. She moved closer to them, anxious not to let that happen.

"What's going on, Ruth?" Ira spoke so quietly that the whole cla.s.s had to take a silent step closer in order to hear.

"You barely talk to me anymore. I came here tonight to learn to dance with you like you asked me to." He took a step toward her and then another. His gaze was locked with hers. His arms remained in the air.

Silently Melanie willed Ruth forward. Her own arms ached in sympathy with Ira's. He could be gruff and he could be difficult, but in his own way she was certain that he loved his wife. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath now, waiting to see what would happen. Even Todd Bateman and the Shipley sisters watched with avid interest and an air of hope.

This is what we all want, Melanie thought, catching the wistful look on Vivi's face and the uncertainty on Angela's. Someone who will love us. And dance with us if we ask them to. Vivi pressed close, and Melanie saw that her sister was watching Clay Alexander. Following her gaze, Melanie was surprised to see a stark sadness in his normally clear gray eyes. Brad Horton and James Wesley stood still as statues, but even they seemed to be silently willing Ruth forward into her husband's arms.

Finally when it looked as if Ira might collapse and the rest of the group might implode from all the vicarious observation, Ruth took two steps forward and raised her own arms. In a matter of seconds Ira had met her halfway.

"I don't forgive you for making such a big decision without talking to me," Ruth said as everyone else breathed a sigh of relief and moved back into place with their partners. "And if you think you can just sweet-talk me into forgetting about it, you've forgotten who you're dealing with."

They stood in dance-ready position in the center of the floor, staring into each other's eyes.

"I'm not ready to sell the company, Ruth," he warned. "I'm just not sure I can do that."

Everyone else got into position while Melanie motioned frantically to the DJ to put on more music.

"But I'm willing to think about it," he said. "And I'm ready to learn how to dance if you still want me to." His tone was gruffer than a woman might like, and the fingers pressed against her shoulder blade trembled slightly while the palm that clasped hers felt slightly clammy.

"Do you still love me, Ira?" she asked too softly for anyone else to hear.

"Yes," he said, his voice still rough and without any flowery phrases or flattering protestations.

"Good," Ruth said as the music swarmed out of the speakers and Melanie called the cla.s.s back to order. "Because I think I'm willing to give you another chance to prove it."

THE MISSING JOURNALISTS had still not been found by the end of the month, nor had any group claimed responsibility for taking them hostage. Stone's daily live reports grew grimmer as he covered the story along with the U.S. buildup of troops in Afghanistan. Vivien and Stone's communication was infrequent and brief, a hurried email, the occasional message relayed before and after live shots through friends at CIN. The only time she heard Stone's voice was on television and while this made keeping her secret easier, it made everything else much harder. She missed him with an intensity that would simply swoop in and steal her breath away any time she let down her guard.

Wednesday nights helped. During that hour while they worked on their snake arms and veil moves, Vivien discovered just how many things could be done with a rectangle of chiffon. Or a shoulder. Or a neck. Or a rib cage. The concentration required to do all these things helped block out the worry, while the time spent talking before and after cla.s.s made Vivi a part of something. Now that her only real job was filing a column once a week, Vivi had time for things-and people-to a degree and in a way that she never had before. And so she continued to watch Angela for clues to the thing that furrowed her brow and compelled her to wear clothing that didn't fit and began to notice the glimmer of hope hidden beneath Ruth's laments about Ira. Whenever she could, she looked for ways to lighten her sister's load and connect with her niece and nephew-an intentional involvement that had never occurred to her before and brought its own rewards and which she didn't want to admit were meant to a.s.suage her guilt.

On a clear, crisp Thursday morning in early February, Vivien and Melanie dropped the kids off at school, then treated themselves to breakfast at J. Christopher's, an upscale eatery, in a nearby strip mall. Melanie had taken the morning off to go with Vivi to her ob-gyn appointment. Afterward they planned to pick up supplies for the studio at the Costco near the medical building.

In the van on the way to Dr. Gilbert's office, Vivien relaxed in the pa.s.senger seat, glad not to be dealing with the morning traffic, which increased steadily as they neared the Perimeter area. "I probably shouldn't have had that omelet and home fries," Vivi said as she rubbed her bulging stomach. "I am going to have to get on a scale when we get there."

Melanie smiled. "I thought the license to eat was one of the best parts of being pregnant," she said. "I gained a ton with both kids."

Yet another thing about her sister Vivi hadn't known. "Well, I guess it runs in the family. I've been eating like a horse and looking like an elephant. At my last appointment Dr. Gilbert threatened to revoke that license, but I just seem to be hungry all the time."

"Like Trip," Melanie said. "The two of you make your own swarm of locusts."

Vivi laughed. "I am giving him a run for his money, but a little healthy compet.i.tion never hurt anybody. Maybe we should go on the professional eating circuit as a tag team."

"Well, I really appreciate you asking Angela to organize the outing with the Wesleys. He's still walking on air."

"Yeah. Cole apparently told him when he has his regular driver's license he'll give him a good price on a Lexus."

"My sixteen-year-old son will not be driving a nicer car than me," Melanie said.

"Do you promise? I was appalled at the cost of some of those cars in the Pemberton parking lot. I mean we didn't exactly grow up poor, but my first car was that old Trailblazer Daddy got for Ham."

"I know," Mellie said. "Because I drove it after you left for school."

"Speaking of driving, your son asked me to take him out to practice now that he has his learner's permit and I said yes," Vivien replied as they neared the medical complex. "Is there anything I should know?"

Melanie laughed and shook her head. "Um, no. But if you weren't pregnant, I'd suggest tranquilizers. I went through that with Shelby. It can be a little . . . nerve-wracking."

"I sense a gross understatement," Vivi said as Melanie entered the right-turn lane.

Melanie didn't respond, which Vivien took as confirmation.

In the parking lot, Melanie pulled the van into a vacant s.p.a.ce. "Boy, this brings back memories," she said. "Between both kids and the miscarriage after Trip, I used to feel like I lived here. It's pretty amazing you ended up at the same practice."

Vivien nodded as she pulled the floppy hat low on her head and shrugged into her trench coat. "What are you doing?" Melanie asked as Vivi searched the coat pockets for the oversized sungla.s.ses.

"I'm putting on my disguise."

"But you've already been outed. Matt Glazer told all of Atlanta that you're pregnant."

"I don't care," Vivien said as they walked toward the building. "I'm not giving his photographer a clear shot at me. And I've, um, been checking in for my appointments under an alias. I've got another hat and sungla.s.ses if you're interested."