"Of course," Cat said. "You would. Doesn't it make you won-der where all those girls are now? What they went on to be?"

"Turn here," Sylvia told Jocelyn, just because they'd come to a yard filled with roses. Jocelyn turned. Let Saint Therese guide them home.

Or let them all end up at the Los Guilicos School for wayward girls. Sylvia was fine with it either way.

Jocelyn was being very quiet. This was partly because she couldn't hear the conversation in the backseat. But it was mostly because while they were on the beach, while Allegra and Sylvia were still poking about the tide pools and Grigg was throwing bits of driftwood for the dogs, learning that Ridgebacks weren't fetchers like that, Cat had abruptly, without warning, had a word with her. "My brother likes you," she'd said. "He'd kill me if he knew I told you so, but I figure this is for the best. This way it's up to you. G.o.d knows it can't be left up to him. He'll never make a move.

"Did he tell you he liked me?" Jocelyn immediately regretted having asked. How high school had that sounded?

"Please. I know my brother," which Jocelyn supposed meant he hadn't. She turned away, looked down the beach toward Grigg and her dogs. They were headed to her, coming at a gal- lop. She saw that Thembe, at least, was smitten, couldn't take his eyes off Grigg.

Ridgebacks are hounds, which means friendly, but indepen-dent. Jocelyn liked them for the challenge; there's no glory in a well-behaved shepherd. She liked independent men as well. Be-fore the library fund-raiser Grigg had always seemed so eager to please.

And then he joined them and nothing more could be said. He was obviously fond of his sister; that was attractive. The two of them stood together, his arm around her shoulder. Cat had an open, outdoorish face. She looked her age and then some. But the sun was full on her, which hardly one woman in a thousand could stand the test of. It was obviously a good bloodline. Both brother and sister had good teeth, neat little ears, deep chests, long limbs.

When she dropped Sylvia off, Jocelyn told her what Cat had said. Grigg and Cat had already been taken home. Allegra had gone straight inside to make a phone call. "I'm not at all con-vinced Cat knew what she was talking about," Jocelyn said. "Grigg and I had a big fight the other night. Apologies all around, but still ... Anyway, I kind of had Grigg in mind for you. You're the one he asked to lunch."

"Well, I don't want him," Sylvia answered. "I took your boyfriend away from you back in high school and it all came to nothing. I'm not doing it again. Do you like him?"

"I'm too old for him."

"And yet I'm not."

"He was to be a fling."

"You fling him."

"I think I'll read those books he gave me," Jocelyn said. "If they turn out to be good books, well then,maybe. Maybe I'll give it a try." At least she'd never been, thank G.o.d, the kind of woman who stopped liking a guy just because he maybe liked her back.

There was a letter pushed under Sylvia's door, picked up by Alle-gra and left on the dining room table.

"I want to come home," the letter said. "I made the most terrible mistake and you should never forgive me, but you should also know that I want to come home.

"I've always felt that making everyone happy was my job, and then like a failure if you or the kids couldn't produce that happi-ness for me. I didn't figure this out for myself. I'm seeing a counsellor.

"So I was stupid enough to blame you for not being happier. Now I think, if I could come home again, I'd let you have your own moods, your lovely, loving alarms.

"Last week I knew I never wanted to be with a woman I couldn't bring to my child's hospital room. I had this dream while we were in those awful chairs. In my dream there was a forest. (Remember how we took the kids to the Snoqualmie Na-tional Park and Diego said, 'You said we were going to a forest.

There's nothing here but trees'?) I couldn't find you. I got more and more panicked, and then I woke up and you were right across the room from me. It was such a relief I can't even say. You asked me how Pam was. I haven't seen Pam for two months. She wasn't the woman for me after all.

"I've been unjust, weak, resentful, and inconstant. But in my heart it's always been you."

Sylvia sat folding and unfolding the letter, trying to see how she felt about it. It made her happy. It made her angry. It made her think that Daniel was no prize. He was coming home, be-cause no one else turned out to want him.

She didn't show the letter to Allegra. She didn't even tell Joce-lyn. Jocelyn would respond however Sylvia wished, but Sylvia didn't know yet what response that would be. It was too impor-tant a moment to ask Jocelyn to go through it unguided. Sylvia wanted things simple, but they refused to simplify. She carried the letter about, rereading and rereading, watching her feelings rearrange about it, sentence by sentence, like a kaleidoscope.

The last official meeting of the Jane Austen book club took place at Sylvia's again. It had been in the low nineties all day, which is not so bad for August in the Valley. The sun sank and a Delta breeze came up.

We sat on Sylvia's deck, underneath the big wal-nut tree. She made peach margaritas and served homemade strawberry sherbet with homemade sugar cookies. Really, no one could have asked for a prettier evening.

The meeting began with an unveiling. Sylvia had a birthday coming. It was still a few weeks off, but Allegra had made some-thing she wanted us all to see, so she gave it to Sylvia early, wrapped in last week's funny papers. It was about the size and shape of a holiday cheese-ball. We would have guessed Sylvia was the sort to unknot the ribbon, carefully remove and fold the paper. Instead she tore it apart.

Sahara and Thembe couldn't have opened it faster, even working together. Allegra had bought one of those black Magic 8-b.a.l.l.s, reamed it open, replaced the answers, and sealed it. She'd painted it a dark green, and over the old 8, she'd transferred a reproduction of Ca.s.sandra Austen's sketch of her sister, set in a framed oval like a cameo. It wasn't a very attractive portrait; we were certain she had been prettier than this, but when you need a picture of Jane Austen you don't have a lot of choices.

A ribbon wound about the ball.Ask Austen was painted in red on the ribbon. Allegra had matched Austen's writing from a fac-simile in the university library.

"Go ahead," Allegra said. "Ask a question."

Sylvia got up to give Allegra a kiss. It was the most fantastic present! Allegra was so very clever. But Sylvia couldn't think of a question benign enough for its maiden forecast. Later, when she was alone, she thought she had some things to ask.

"I'll go," Bernadette offered. Bernadette was nicely dressed tonight, not a hair out of place. Her socks didn't match, but why should they? Her shoes did. It was rakish.

"Should I take a trip?" Bernadette asked Austen. She'd been contemplating a birding expedition to Costa Rica. Pricey, but not if you calculated it bird by bird. She shook the ball, upended it, and waited.It is not everyone who has your pa.s.sion for dead leaves, she read.

"Go in autumn," Jocelyn translated.

Prudie took the ball next. Something about Prudie just looked right with an object of divination. Her snow-white skin, sharp features, dark, bottomless eyes. We thought how she should al-ways be holding one, like a fashion accessory. "Should I buy a new computer?" Prudie asked.

Austen answered,My good opinion once lost is lost for ever.

"I guess that's no," Allegra said. "You have to squint a bit. It's sort of a Zen experience.

Next was Grigg. All summer, his hair and lashes had been bleaching at the ends. He obviously tanned easily; even that short trip to the beach made him browner. He looked five years younger, which was unfortunate if you were an older woman and contemplating dating him. "Should I write my book?" Grigg asked. "Myroman a clef?"

Austen ignored this, answered a different question, but Grigg was the only one of us who knew it.He advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure.

"I bet you could sell a bunch of these," Grigg said. "You could put out a whole line, different writers.

The d.i.c.kens ball. Mark Twain. Mickey Spillane. I'd pay a lot for access to daily advice from Mickey Spillane."

There was a time when we might have bristled at the devolu-tion from Austen to Spillane. But we were very fond of Grigg now. Probably he was making a joke.

He pa.s.sed to Jocelyn. Jocelyn was also looking exceptionally good. She was wearing a blouse even Sylvia had never seen, so it must have been brand-new. A long, light khaki skirt. Makeup. "Should I take a chance?" Jocelyn asked. It is not everyone who has your pa.s.sion for dead leaves,Austen told her.

"Well, that answer works equally well for any question," Al-legra noted. "Anyway, you should always take a chance. Ask Allegra."

Jocelyn turned directly to Grigg. "I read those two Le Gums you gave me. In fact, I bought a third. I'm halfway throughSea road . She's just amazing. It's been forever since I found a new writer I love like that."

Grigg blinked several times. "Le Gum's in a league of her own, of course," he said cautiously. He gained enthusiasm. "But she's written a bunch. And there are other writers you might like, too. There's Joanna Russ and Carol Emshwiller."

Their voices dropped; the conversation became intimate, but the bits we could hear were still about books. So Jocelyn was a science fiction reader now. We had no objection. We could see how it might be unsafe for people p.r.o.ne to dystopian fantasies, but as long as science fiction wasn't all you read, as long as there was a large allowance of realism, what was the harm? It was nice to see Grigg looking so happy. Perhaps we would all start read-ing LeGuin.

The globe came back to Sylvia. "Should we talk aboutPersua-sion now?" she asked it. Her answer:It is not everyone who has your pa.s.sion for dead leaves.

"You didn't shake it," Allegra complained. The phone rang and she got up, went inside. "Go ahead and start," she said as she left. "I'll be right back."

Sylvia put down the ball, picked up her book, paged through for the pa.s.sage she wanted. "I was troubled," she began, "by the difference in the way Austen talks about the death of d.i.c.k Mus-grove and the way she talks about the death of f.a.n.n.y Harville. It's very convenient to the plot that f.a.n.n.y's fiance falls in love with Louisa, since this leaves Captain Wentworth free to marry Anne. Still, you can see Austen doesn't entirely approve." Sylvia read aloud. ""'Poor f.a.n.n.y!"' her brother says. "'She would not have forgotten him so soon!"'

"But there are no tears at all for d.i.c.k Musgrove. The loss of a son is less important than the loss of a fiancee. Austen was never a mother."

"Austen was never a fiancee," said Bernadette. "Or just over-night. Not long enough to count. So it's not son versus fiancee."

There was a fly on the porch, humming about Bernadette's head. It was large and loud and slow and distracting. Distracting to us, anyway. It didn't seem to be bothering Bernadette. "What matters is the worthiness of the person deceased," she said. "d.i.c.k was a useless, incorrigible boy. f.a.n.n.y was an exceptional woman. People earn the way they're missed.Persuasion is all about earn-ing your place.

The self-made men of the navy are so much more admirable than the high-born Elliots. Anne is so much more valuable than either of her sisters."

"But Anne earned more than she got," Grigg said. "Up until the very end. As does poor dead f.a.n.n.y."

"I guess I think we all deserve more than we earn," said Sylvia, "if that makes any sense. I'd like the world to be forgiv-ing. I feel sorry for d.i.c.k Musgrove, because no one loved him more than he deserved." We were quiet for a minute, listening to the fly buzz, thinking our private thoughts. Who loved us? Who loved us more than we deserved? Prudie had an impulse to go right home to Dean. She didn't, but she would tell him she'd thought to.

"There aren't so many deaths in the other Austen novels," Jocelyn said. She was already helping herself to a bite of Grigg's sugar cookie without even asking. That was fast! "One wonders how much her own death was on her mind."

"Did she think she was dying?" Prudie asked, but no one knew the answer.

This is too grim a beginning," Bernadette said. "I want to talk about Mary. I absolutely love Mary.

Except for Collins inPride and Prejudice, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, too, and Mr. Palmer inSense and Sensibility, and I love Mr. Woodhouse, of course, inEmma, but except for those, she's my favourite of all the comic Austen characters. Her constant complaints. Her insis-tence on being neglected and put-upon.

Bernadette supported her case with quotes. "'You, who have not a mother's feelings.' 'Everybody is always supposing that I am not a good walker!"' and so on and so on. She read several paragraphs aloud. No one was arguing; we were in complete agreement, listening drowsily in the sweet, cool evening. Allegra might have said something sour-she so often did-but she hadn't come back from her phone call, so not a person there did not love Mary. Mary was an exceptional creation. Mary deserved a toast. Sylvia and Jocelyn were sent to the kitchen for a second round of margaritas.

They pa.s.sed Allegra, who was gesturing while she talked, as if she could be seen. "... tore out the toilets and threw them out the windows," she was saying. What a waste of her pretty ex-pressions, her silent-film-star gestures. She had a face made for the videophone. She covered the receiver. "Dr. Yep says h.e.l.lo," she told Sylvia.

Dr. Yep? Jocelyn waited until Sylvia had finished with the blender to lean in and whisper. "So! What mother doesn't want her daughter dating a nice doctor?"

Such a thing to say! Obviously Jocelyn had never seen a single episode ofYoung Dr. Malone. Sylvia knew how these things worked. Any minute now someone would fall into a coma. There'd be an accident in the kitchen with the blender. A suspi-cious death followed by a trial for murder. Hysterical pregnan-cies followed by unnecessary abortions. The many, many braided chains of disaster.

"I'm very happy for her," Sylvia said. She poured the largest margarita for herself. She deserved it. "Dr.

Yep seemed like a really lovely woman," she added insincerely, although, in fact, Dr. Yep had.

Bernadette was still talking when they returned. She'd shifted from Mary to the older sister, Elizabeth.

Equally well drawn, but far less funny. Not intended to be, of course. And then the con-niving Mrs. Clay.

But how was she worse than Charlotte inPride and Prejudice, and hadn't they all agreed they loved Charlotte?

Sylvia started to argue on behalf of her adored Charlotte. She was interrupted by the doorbell. She went to answer it and there was Daniel. He had a grey, nervous look, which Sylvia liked bet-ter than thelobbyist's smile he tried immediately to paste overit.

"I can't talk to you now," Sylvia said. "I got your letter, but I can't talk. My book club is here."

"I know. Allegra told me." Daniel held out his hand, and in it was a book with a woman on the cover, standing in front of a leafy tree. Allegra's copy ofPersuasion. "I looked it over in the hospital. Anyway, I read the afterword. Apparently it's all about second chances. That's the book for me, I thought."

He stopped smiling and the nervous look came back. The book in his hand was shaking. It softened Sylvia. "Allegra thought you were feeling forgiving," Daniel said. "I took a chance she was right."

Sylvia had no recollection of having said anything that would give Allegra this impression. She couldn't remember talking about Daniel much at all. But she stood aside and let him in, let him follow her back to the deck. "Daniel wants to join us," Sylvia said.

"He's not in the club." Jocelyn's voice was stern. Rules were rules, and no exceptions were made for philanderers and aban-doners.

"Persuasion'smy favourite Austen," Daniel told her.

"Have you read it? Have you read any of them?"

"I'm fully prepared to," said Daniel. "Every single one. What-ever it takes."

He had a rosebud, short-stemmed, in the top pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out. "I know you won't believe this, but I found it lying on the sidewalk in front. Honest to G.o.d. I hoped you'd think it was a message." He gave it to Sylvia, along with a couple of petals that had come loose.'Te echo de menos,"

he said."Chula."

"'Les fleurs sont si contradictoires,"'Prudie answered coldly, to remind him we didn't all speak Spanish.

Grigg had wanted only a single margarita, so she had taken his second and made it her third. You could hear this on the"sont si." She gave Dan-iel the courtesy of a translation, which was more than he had done for her. "FromLe Pet.i.t Prince. 'You should never listen to flowers"'

No one was more of a romantic than Prudie, you could ask anyone that! But the rose was a cheap move, and Prudie thought less of Daniel for making it. Added to this was the guilt of know-ing the rose was hers. Dean had picked it for her, and the last time she'd looked it had been pinned to her blouse.

She wasn't sure thatPersuasion wasn't a cheap move, too, but who would put Jane to an evil purpose?

"Ask Austen," Bernadette suggested.

"Shake it up," Grigg said. "Shake hard." Clearly he was root-ing for Daniel. So predictable. So tediously Y to Y.

Sylvia set the rose down. It was already limp on its stem; the heavy head rolled from side to side. If it was an omen, it was an unclear one. She cupped the globe and shook. The answer began to settle:My good opinion once lost is lost for ever; but Sylvia didn't want that. She tipped secretly past it and got: When I am in the country, I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. "So what does that mean?" Jocelyn asked Sylvia. "Your call."

"It means he can stay," Sylvia said, and saw, on Jocelyn's face, for just one moment, a flash of relief.

Allegra came back outside."Hola, papa," she said. "You've got my book. You've got my margarita.

You're in my chair." Her voice was suspiciously light. She had the face of an angel, the eyes of a collaborator. Daniel moved to make room for her.

Sylvia watched them settle together, Allegra leaning against her father, her cheek on his shoulder. Sylvia found herself sud-denly, desperately missing the boys. Not the grown-up boys who had jobs and wives and children or, at least, girlfriends and cell phones, but the little boys who'd played soccer and sat on her lap while she readThe Hobbit to them. She remembered how Diego had decided over dinner that he could ride a two-wheeler, and made them take the training wheels off his bike that very night, how he sailed off without a single wobble. She remembered how Andy used to wake up from dreams laughing, and could never tell them why.

She remembered a ski trip they'd all taken the year of the big floods. 'Eighty-six? They'd rented a cabin in Yosemite and barely gotten home after. Interstate 5 had closed while they were on it, but they'd been able to shift to 99. Highway 99 flooded an hour after they'd driven over it.