MARCH IN ATLANTA is a meteorologist's nightmare; a time when Mother Nature frequently exercises her prerogative to change her mind. One day might be frigid with temperatures barely above freezing; the next could reach a balmy seventy-five. Sometimes after a run of summerlike days it snowed.

Nonetheless, by the middle of the month the camellias were already drooping on the branch, cherry and apple blossoms were about to burst into full bloom, and the invitation to the wedding of Angela Amelia Richman and James Coleman Wesley, engraved in a swirl of gold leaf on oversized cream cardstock, claimed a place of honor in the very center of the refrigerator door, where Vivien, Melanie, Shelby, and Trip saw it daily.

Vivien noted the date-exactly one week after she was due-as she opened the desk drawer next to the refrigerator in search of the keys for the RAV4 and wondered whether she'd be able to attend along with the other members of the Wednesday-night belly-dance cla.s.s and their "significant" others. Or whether she would be at home with a newborn.

As always the thought had her counting down the days that remained and confronting the fact that soon, frighteningly soon, she would no longer be a pregnant woman; she would be a mother.

This was not a rea.s.suring thought, and Vivien shoved it aside to focus, at least temporarily, on the intricacies of the high school prom, which turned out to be even more rigorous than Scarlett Leigh had reported. Shelby and her three girlfriends spent most of that Sat.u.r.day and a fortune of money on late-morning manis and pedis, followed, after a quick bite of lunch, which the salon happily provided, by early-afternoon hair and makeup appointments.

By four P.M. they were ensconced in Shelby's bedroom and adjoining bath, where they spent the next several hours gossiping, giggling, and dressing. Trip steered clear of the entire second floor. Vivien only ventured upstairs when it was absolutely necessary.

Melanie spent the afternoon tidying the house and preparing for the picture party that would kick off the big night; the parents' photo op before the couples took off for dinner and then the prom in the white stretch limo that one of the boys' mothers had reserved.

Clay came early to help, and Vivien, as always, was irritated by his automatic a.s.sumption of the role of host. The fact that he knew Melanie's kitchen and home better than she did still rankled, and she watched him and his interaction with Melanie carefully, looking for clues to his feelings and intentions. The man was not exactly an open book, but he was the only one who had been summoned upstairs by the girls for a fashion consultation.

She sidled up beside him as he opened red and white wine for the adults and put bottles of imported beer into a bucket of ice. Liters of soft drinks were lined up nearby. "You know your way around Melanie's kitchen pretty well," she observed.

"Um-hmm," he replied as he retrieved a bottle opener from a drawer, then went to the extra freezer in the garage for another bag of ice. He'd dressed for the occasion in gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a blue blazer, and as always, he looked annoyingly well put together.

A little before the other families were due, Melanie bustled into the kitchen in a short jean skirt and a brightly patterned silk blouse. Her dark hair swirled carelessly around her slim shoulders and her makeup was minimal, most likely applied much earlier in the day and then forgotten. She walked right past Vivien to Clay with the digital camera extended out in front of her. "It says the memory stick is full, but I don't know how to clear it. Can you take a look?"

"Sure." He took the camera and began to examine it. "I brought my camera, too, just in case, so we're covered." Clay fiddled with the camera for a while, then went over to the kitchen desk where Melanie's desktop computer sat. "Let me see if I can download some of these shots and clear the memory."

"Thanks. I'm going to go check on the girls," Melanie said. "The boys and their parents should be here any minute."

They conversed with the ease of long familiarity, but there was something underneath Clay Alexander's easy manners that, once again, made Vivien's investigative antennae quiver. Was he too at home here? Did he have designs on Melanie and her children? Or was Vivi just jealous of his place in their lives?

Trip appeared to filch appetizers and pour himself a c.o.ke. "It smells like a perfume factory up there," he said, pinching his nose. "How are you supposed to breathe?"

Clay laughed, though he didn't turn from the computer. "You get used to it. Someday you'll look forward to those smells."

Vivien wandered into J.J.'s office, drawn again to the wall of fame and the family photos. Clay Alexander figured prominently in all of them, just as he did in Melanie and the kids' lives. But so what? Weren't Melanie and Trip and Shelby lucky to have had him in their lives after they lost J.J.? Was it possible that she was so conditioned to digging that she simply couldn't accept anything at face value?

The doorbell rang and an upstairs door opened, allowing girlish shrieks and giggles to float down the stairs. Melanie called from the landing, "I'm trying to mend a small tear in Becca's gown. Can somebody get that?"

Vivien headed for the front door. Clay reached it at the same time.

"I've got it," Vivien said as she grasped the k.n.o.b, pretty much elbowing him out of the way so that she could open it. Two tuxedo-clad boys stood on the front step. Each held a florist's box with a corsage in it. A cl.u.s.ter of adults stood behind them. Vivi had no idea which ones belonged to the boys and which were the parents of Shelby's girlfriends.

She fell back next to Clay as the guests swept into the house. "I'm Vivien, Melanie's sister," she said as all eyes fell on her protruding stomach. "This is Clay Alexander."

The boys shook hands with Clay and nodded to Vivi. "When are you all expecting?" One of the mothers asked as Clay shut the door.

"Oh, we're not," Vivien began. "I mean, I'm not . . ."

Clay shot her an amused look.

"I'm due in mid-April," Vivien finally said as they moved into the kitchen, where Clay offered drinks.

Melanie came down the stairs in a rush, flushed and excited as she greeted the other parents. "Wait until you see the girls," she said. "They are simply gorgeous!" Moments later they called for Clay to come up.

The last to arrive were Ty Womack and his parents. The father was big and broad-shouldered like his son; the mother was small and birdlike. Vivien bristled as Ty and his father swaggered into the kitchen; Edie Womack trailed behind them.

Vivi hadn't liked the boy from a distance at the football game. She'd liked him even less when Shelby had come home drunk on New Year's Eve and on Valentine's when he'd given Shelby the candy thong. Tonight, she especially disliked the smug look on his handsome face. The other boys looked like insecure teenagers. Ty Womack looked like a mature adult.

She realized she was frowning. Looking up, she caught Clay doing the same.

Trip had disappeared into the bowels of the bas.e.m.e.nt, and the girls' dates were now huddled with each other and ignoring their parents for all they were worth. Vivi tried to shoot Ty a strong look of warning, but he didn't seem the least concerned. The whole silent communication thing was clearly not her family's forte. Deciding she'd make sure to issue one in plain language he'd be sure to understand, she pa.s.sed around appetizers while Clay poured drinks.

As the appetizers and wine disappeared, Vivien thought about the fact that one day her own child would be going to prom. Of course she'd be so old by then she wouldn't have to worry about a picture party. They'd probably just ask the limo driver to stop off at the old-age home to see her on the way out to dinner.

She went to join Melanie, who was standing alone near the stairs. "I wish J.J. were here to see her," Melanie whispered. "Or even Mom and Dad." She sniffed and swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Well, I have to think J.J. can see her and is probably bursting with pride," Vivien said, slipping an arm across her sister's shoulders. "And Caroline would just be trying to outshine Shelby and her friends and Dad would be grousing about how Republican the suburbs are. Evangeline would have enjoyed it though."

"Are we going to forgive them?" Melanie asked.

"I don't know," Vivien said. "There'd have to be an apology first, and Caroline's a lot better at demanding them than giving them. The last time she admitted being wrong was in the early seventies, and it was only a partial apology with a long list of disclaimers-remember?" Vivien sighed. "I'm not holding my breath on a satisfying reconciliation. And you shouldn't, either. As far as I'm concerned she's Hamas and we're Israel; there'll be no peace talks until she stops lobbing missiles."

Shelby's door opened and her head popped out. "Clay," she hissed. "We're ready."

It didn't seem to bother Melanie that her daughter was turning to Clay rather than her. Melanie took Vivien's arm as the group gathered in the foyer. They a.s.sembled themselves in a rough semicircle so as not to block anyone's camera angle. The only people not holding cameras were Vivi and the boys, who were licking dry lips and wiping what were probably sweaty palms on their tuxedo pants. All except Ty Womack, who looked alarmingly calm and whose eyes were lit with a different and more worrisome light.

"Boys," Melanie said with a smile. "Your dates for the evening."

One at a time the girls descended the stairs in regal splendor to much parental oohing and aahing. Camera flashes went off as they made their way downstairs.

As subtly as she could Vivien stepped up beside Ty Womack and spoke softly but firmly into his ear. "You're responsible for Shelby," she said. "If you do anything to hurt or endanger her, I will personally tear you limb from limb and feed your intestines to the buzzards."

Ty flinched but didn't reply. As Vivi stepped away from him she realized Clay Alexander was on his other side and was also telling him something.

"Jeez," the boy said as he walked away from them to go claim Shelby. "Nothing like getting s.h.i.t in stereo."

And then there was a frenzy of couple and group shots that left the kids nearly blinded. "Good thing they're not driving," Vivien said as the flashes popped all over the place, only slowing when the limo arrived and everyone finally realized that they were going to have to actually let the kids go.

The other parents left shortly afterward, leaving Vivi, Melanie, and Clay huddled together over what was left of the hors d'oeuvres.

"Do you feel okay about Ty Womack?" Vivi asked.

"Sure, why not?" Melanie responded, stopping up what was left of the wine and gathering crumpled napkins for the trash.

Vivi and Clay looked at each other, and Clay gave a small shake of the head.

"I'll do the rest," Vivien said, shooing Mel away from the counter. "I know you need to get to the studio."

"Be right back," Melanie said. "Just have to grab my other shoes." As she pa.s.sed the bas.e.m.e.nt door she yelled down to Trip, "Come on up! Clay and I will drop you at Josh's!" And then she was hotfooting it up the stairs to her bedroom.

Vivien and Clay eyed each other uneasily.

"I would have liked to slap a tracking device on that Tyler business," Vivien said.

"Or a restraining order," Clay said. "He was looking at Shelby like she was his own personal hors d'oeuvres."

"But you don't think we should say something to Melanie?"

He hesitated. "I think Shelby can hold her own. And sometimes it's better not to interfere. Exposing everything isn't always in everybody's best interests. Sometimes things are better left alone."

"Is that right?" Vivien asked. "The people who think that are usually the ones who have the most to hide."

"Everyone has something to hide, Vivi," he said so quietly she almost didn't hear him over the sound of Trip clattering up from the bas.e.m.e.nt. "It just isn't always what you might think it is."

"Well, I don't believe in hiding the truth," she said, trying to ignore the hypocrisy of the remark. "I don't believe anyone is served by that."

"That's too bad," he said, and his smile was unutterably sad. "Because sometimes when the truth comes out, the ones who get hurt are the ones who least deserve it."

VIVI WAS DOZING in the club chair in the family room, waiting for Shelby to get home, when her cell phone rang. It took a few rings for her to come all the way awake and another one or two before she located the phone, which had fallen into her lap. "h.e.l.lo?" she mumbled as she squinted at the cable box in an effort to make out the time. It was just before midnight.

"Vivi?" Stone's voice pulled her the rest of the way awake. "Were you asleep?"

"I must have dozed off," she said, rubbing her eyes and straightening in the chair. "I'm waiting for Shelby to come home from the prom. Melanie's got a late dance party at the studio."

"G.o.d, that sounds so attractive compared to what's going on here." The flip tone barely concealed his distress. "I could use a little dose of normal everyday life right about now."

Vivien rubbed the last of the sleep from her eyes and wished he were there so she could put her arms around him and draw him close. They hadn't been able to speak in private for far too long. After they'd found Deke and his cameraman, Stone had laid low during the days and done live hits all night to appear live on the network during the day here.

"I'm so sorry about Deke and his cameraman. That must have been awful to have to keep reporting all the details." She could feel his sadness on the other end of the line, could feel his despair clinging to him.

"I think I'm getting too old for this," Stone said.

"Who, you?" she asked. "The original rolling stone who refuses to gather moss? And you can't be too old for anything-you're only three years older than I am."

She, of course was too old to be pregnant, too old to be a mother for the first time. Far too old to do it all alone. But for Stone to feel too old for the one thing he'd ever wanted to do?

"I feel a hundred, Vivi," he said. "I think I've finally figured out why you don't see a lot of older correspondents reporting from war zones. Cronkite and Brinkley knew when it was time to take a seat behind the anchor desk. I just . . ."

His voice trailed off, and she could picture him running a hand through his hair in that way he had when he was upset. Imagined him unshaven and exhausted, needing something that she could never give him over the phone. "I'm used to being afraid, Viv. I know how to live with the fear. But seeing Deke in little pieces . . ." She could hear the pain in his voice. "There was barely enough of a finger to lift a print."

Vivien couldn't speak. There was no answer to such ugliness. What kind of people cut off heads and hacked uninvolved third parties to bits?

"When are you coming home?" For about a tenth of a second she considered telling him their news, offering it as an incentive to leave where he was, proof that life did renew itself. But now for totally different reasons than the ones she'd been telling herself, this was not the time. She wanted to distract him from his pain, but not with something as large as their impending parenthood. She'd waited much too long, and now she'd wait until she could do it in person.

"I'm going to finish this story. They're hunting down the people responsible, and I'm staying here until they're caught. But after that?" His voice broke on the pain. "You and I are going to take a nice long vacation while I figure that out."

"That sounds fabulous," she said.

There was a silence and she knew it was time for a topic change, to put both of their minds somewhere else.

"So do you have a minute to hear where I am with the whole Clay Alexander thing?"

"Always," he said, and though his voice was still ragged, he listened intently as she ran through what she'd gleaned so far, including her interviews with Professor Sturgess and former Sigma Sigma president Grady Hollis. Which made the fact that Clay was considering a run for J.J.'s former seat all the stranger. As she spoke, it was hard to ignore the fact that she had a whole boatload of suspicions she couldn't seem to give up and no basis for supporting them.

"I haven't found a BlackBerry of any kind and I still haven't figured out who the C in J.J.'s Day-timer is. I'm not completely prepared to give up on Catherine Dennison as a possibility, but, honestly, I can't quite picture them together. I even Googled Clay's ex-wife, but other than the fact that she bears a slight resemblance to Melanie there was really nothing there that has any bearing on anything. I just can't get over the sense that he's got some sort of guilty secret. But I don't actually know if it has anything to do with J.J.'s death."

"Vivi," he said after she wound down. "If this were a work a.s.signment, you would have written it off and moved on to something with real substance a long time ago." He paused, and she could tell he was choosing his words with care. "Be careful. Exposing these suspicions, especially when it's mostly conjecture, could blow a lot of people's lives completely out of the water for no real reason. Including your sister's."

"You're the one who needs to be careful," she said. "I'm counting on you to come back to me." She almost added "in one piece," but even the thought of what had happened to Deke made her sick to her stomach. Tears p.r.i.c.kled behind her eyelids, and she blinked quickly to try to keep them from forming. "There's someone I want to introduce you to when you get back." She drew in a breath and laid a protective hand on her stomach as the first tears began to fall. Her face contorted in a futile effort to stop them. "Someone I hope you'll be happy to meet."

Her voice broke on the last words and she began to cry in earnest.

"What is it, Vivi? What's wrong?" Stone asked. "Tell me what's going on."

"Oh, it's nothing," she sobbed, wanting desperately to stop. "Just that time of the month, you know?"

It was a completely inadequate answer and they both knew it. But although she managed to halt the flow of tears as they said good-bye, she simply couldn't marshal the brain cells required to come up with anything better.

Vivi was still sitting in the club chair red-eyed and awake when Shelby tiptoed in at twelve thirty. This time the girl wasn't drunk or laughing. Her dark hair had been pulled out of the carefully arranged hairdo and swirled around her bare shoulders in wild disarray. The beautiful wrap was crumpled and dirty as if it had been trampled on the ground. There was a fresh hickey on her neck and what looked like a bruise on her shoulder.

"What happened?" Vivien asked, struggling to her feet, her earlier despair replaced by a hot flash of anger. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing." Shelby's chin shot up even as her eyes filled with tears. "He didn't do anything to me that I didn't want him to."

"Oh, Shelby, honey." Vivi moved toward her niece already opening her arms, but Shelby shook her head, warning Vivi away.

"You don't need to be with someone who doesn't respect you or treat you like the prize you are," Vivi said. "You don't want . . ."

"At least he acts like a real man," Shelby said. "And he treats me like I'm a real woman." She held the ball of fabric in front of her like a shield. To Vivi she looked like a little girl hiding behind her blankie.

"Shelby, you're playing with things you don't understand. You could end up . . ."

"Like you?" Shelby sneered, aiming a knowing look at Vivien's stomach. "Maybe you should have followed your own advice before you ended up here telling everybody else what to do."

Shelby turned and stormed up the stairs. The last thing Vivien heard was Shelby's bedroom door slamming shut behind her.

32.

AT WEDNESDAY'S CLa.s.s Melanie, Ruth, and Vivien watched Angela like worried mother hens. For the past three Wednesdays her face had been too pale and her eyes too bright. She seemed both jumpy and distracted, and the only thing she'd say was that she hadn't told James her story yet. Her exercise clothes remained black and baggy.

They chatted normally through the stretches and isolation exercises, sharing tidbits as they went along. Ira had a flare for the Latin dances and was working his way through the rhumba and merengue; James took Trip for a practice drive and came back badly shaken. Caroline had phoned and invited Shelby out to lunch but made no mention of her mother or aunt.

They'd all mastered the veil dance, though only Lourdes and Sally had had the nerve to perform it on stage with Naranya. Now they were working with the zills, the tiny little finger cymbals, and trying to perfect their "snake arms."

When cla.s.s was over, Operation Big Good-Bye swung into motion.