"What's going on?" she asked when the children were out of earshot. Her arms were growing tired from holding up her dress, but she couldn't bring herself to ask him for so simple a thing as a zip up.

He shrugged. "Sarah has her son for the weekend, so . . ." He shrugged again. Sarah Grant was a wealthy socialite who had started as a patient and become his best advertis.e.m.e.nt. Sometime before, during, or after the round of procedures that had perfected her facial features and enhanced many of her body parts, Zachary had started sleeping with her. Now Sarah was, as Zachary had told Brooke more than once, everything Brooke refused to be.

"So if you're going to have one child cramping your style, you might as well have three?" Brooke asked.

The flush spreading across his face told her she'd hit the mark. Brooke didn't know Sarah well, and she hoped to keep it that way. She didn't feel at all good about the fact that the only reason her children were going to see their father was because his girlfriend was parenting.

"I hope you're not planning to complain," Zachary said. "You're always wanting me to take them."

Her mouth dropped open at the unfairness of the accusation; after all they'd been through, he only ever saw her in the worst possible light. "I want you to take them when you're supposed to because you're their father and they miss you," she said. "Not because your girlfriend has her son so you might as well have your kids there, too."

She stared up into the hard planes and angles of his face and into the emerald-colored eyes that had once glowed with enthusiasm for their life together. All they held now was the cold sharpness of his disdain for her; she who had stood and delivered in adversity and crumpled like a wadded-up piece of paper in the face of success.

"Can you hurry them along? Sarah and Trent are waiting in the car downstairs." He took her by the shoulders, spun her around in much the same way you might move a sack of potatoes out of the way, and zipped up the back of her dress. "We're taking them to Piedmont Park, so no dresses or Sunday-school shoes. I want them dressed appropriately."

Brooke's head jerked up at his tone. She couldn't remember when he'd begun to talk to her in that hurtful condescending way. But years of writing off his shortcomings to the stress of medical school and the demands of his residency and then to avoid confrontations in front of the kids had allowed him to treat her like a doormat. She heard the girls calling her. With difficulty she swallowed back the retort that had sprung to her lips and hurried toward their bedrooms to help them pack.

AFTER A LEISURELY MORNING DAWDLING OVER coffee and the New York Times, Claire spent Sunday afternoon rambling around the fifty-plus-acre Piedmont Park. She and Hailey had driven in from the suburbs for different festivals and events at the park over the years, but she'd never had the time or opportunity to explore it in earnest until now. It was an easy walk from the Alexander and throughout the week, she'd varied her route each time she went, entering the grounds from a different access point and covering a different quadrant. Today the breeze was warm, still tinged with summer and laden with humidity. The gra.s.s was green and lush from summer rain and the leaves had not yet begun to turn. As Claire walked and watched the families cavort, she pushed her brain toward the book she would start on in earnest tomorrow, but it resisted, preferring to skitter and float like the summer scents of jasmine and sunscreen that floated on the breeze.

Her cell phone rang and she pulled it out of her pocket to answer it. "Hey, stranger," she said, keeping her tone light. "Where have you been?" Hailey had sent the occasional text between cla.s.ses or late at night, but it had been days since she'd heard her daughter's voice-or any voice at all.

"I've been swamped," Hailey said. "I'm not sure what made me think that taking an intensive writing cla.s.s in my first semester was a good idea. And I got the part-time job in the library and had to go to orientation there twice this week." Hailey had been awarded a good deal of scholarship money, but had insisted on working to help supplement her living expenses-her contribution to what she called Claire's "grand year of writing."

"You know you don't have to . . ." Claire began.

"Yes, I do and I don't want to talk about it again," her daughter replied. "You've done enough. It's my turn to step up for a while."

Claire swallowed the automatic protest, not wanting to diminish Hailey's pleasure in her contribution. "Okay. So tell me what's going on there. I need some detail so I can picture what you're doing."

Claire walked and listened with pleasure as Hailey chattered on, describing her roommate's borderline compulsive cleaning routines, her professors' various quirks, and even the sharp spicy scent of the head librarian's perfume, with an evocative economy of words that the writer in Claire envied. She kept the phone to her ear, enjoying the sound of Hailey's voice, treasuring the connection.

"Where are you now?" Hailey asked.

"I've just left the park and I'm back on Piedmont walking west toward Peachtree."

"Are you going home?" Both of them paused at the word.

"Yes." When she reached the Alexander she put her key in the lock and stepped inside. The security guard nodded and smiled. "I'm in the lobby and headed for the elevator," she said in the tone of a travelogue host. "Oh, and what is that I hear?" As she pa.s.sed the fountain, she took the phone from her ear and held it out for a moment so that Hailey could hear the splash and spill of water.

"Is that the fountain?"

"Ding, ding, ding," Claire said. "You got that one right."

She kept up the travelogue as she stepped onto the elevator.

"I'm on the eighth floor now, nearing my front door." She jiggled the key in the lock so that Hailey could hear it. The door creaked slightly as it opened.

"Phew." She slammed the door and threw the dead bolt. "Thank G.o.d I made it in one piece."

Hailey laughed. "So what do you have going on the rest of the day?"

"Oh, a little of this and a little of that," Claire said evasively. Both of them had dreamed for so long about Claire's new life that she didn't want to spoil their vision with anything that even sounded like a complaint. "I picked up the Sunday New York Times and you know I can spend a full day on the crossword puzzle alone."

"You'd be better off going out to a movie or to dinner with a friend," Hailey said.

Claire did not want to point out the obvious-if she wanted to see any of her existing friends she was going to have to drive out to them. "I had emails from Susie and Karen." She mentioned her online critique partners. One of them was at her vacation home in Florida, the other in Indiana. Typically they brainstormed by phone and critiqued online. Once a year they met up at a writers' conference. Every other year they rented a mountain cabin where they wrote all day and drank wine, brainstormed, and watched movies each night.

"Emails and phone calls aren't the same as having someone there to do things with," Hailey pointed out.

"That's true," Claire conceded.

"I think this would be the perfect time to give online dating a try," Hailey said, not for the first time. "You should post a profile and get started."

Claire bit back a groan. "Oh, Hailey. There's no way I'm doing that." She wasn't even sure what she'd do with a man at this point. "I really need to focus on my book. And it's not like I've never dated."

"Mom, you've had what-three or four dates in the last fifteen years? You haven't been out with a man in this century!"

"I'm sure it's like riding a bicycle . . ." Claire began.

"I hate to break it to you, Mom, but dating is not like riding a bicycle. Things have changed. One out of three people meet significant others now online."

"Really?" Claire said, her tone dry. "And here I thought I could just mosey on into a bar, drink too much, pick up someone, and live happily ever after."

"Isn't that how you met Dad?"

There was a silence.

"There are some really great sites, Mom. I could set up your profile for you if you want."

"No, Hailey," she said as clearly as she could. "I appreciate you wanting to help, but no."

"Well, then you at least have to try to make some friends there. Maybe you could join some sort of organization. Or do volunteer work. I bet there are some people in the building you'd like."

"I appreciate your concern, Hailey, but I don't need you to orchestrate my social life or find friends for me."

"Yes, you do."

"I've only been here a week," Claire protested. "And I don't have any problem with my own company."

Hailey gave her a teenaged version of "humpf." "Have you seen anyone in the building who looks interesting?"

"I met someone just the other day." She thought about the red-haired woman with the children and the dog that had plowed her down. She'd recognized the harried look in the woman's eyes. Claire had worn one very like it for most of Hailey's toddler and elementary school years.

"Maybe you should go to some activity or something." There was the sound of fingers clattering on a keyboard. "I'm on the building's website." More clattering. "Hey, the concierge has posted a calendar for residents. He's going to be previewing the first two seasons of Downton Abbey, Mom. There are a ton of people here on campus who are in love with the series. It's kind of an Edwardian England soap opera with really great clothes and cool accents that was filmed in a real castle."

Claire vaguely remembered seeing an invitation in her mailbox, but did she really want to go watch a television show with a group of strangers when she had her very own brand-new flat-screen TV right here? "I don't need to go to a formal screening. If I want to see the series I can get it from Netflix or download it. Or, I don't know, my fabulous daughter could give me the DVD for Christmas."

"Mom," Hailey said as if talking to a child. "The point isn't that you have to see the series, although it sounds totally up your alley-I mean, you do write historical fiction. The point is it's an opportunity to meet people you might like. I'm sure it'll be mostly women. How bad could it be to spend an hour once a week with a group of women from your building?

"What was it you used to tell me practically every day of my life?" Hailey asked pointedly.

A smile tugged at Claire's lips. "That you have to put yourself in the right place. That things don't just happen without effort," Claire said as she had so many times during Hailey's angst-filled teenage years. They had been words to live by, but she hadn't imagined having them turned on her.

"You need new friends," her daughter said. "This is exactly the kind of situation where you might make some."

"Honestly, Hailey. This is ridiculous. I don't need you managing my life."

"Just trying to return the favor," Hailey replied crisply. "I say you go tonight and make an effort to meet people or . . ."

"Or what?" Claire asked.

"Or I'm going to post your profile to every dating site I can think of."

"That's blackmail," Claire observed.

"Kind of."

"There's no 'kind of' about it," Claire protested. "When did you get so bossy?"

"Well, my mother taught me that sometimes you do have to lead the horse to water and make him drink."

"I'm not a horse."

"No," Hailey conceded. "But you are kind of acting like a horse's a.s.s about this."

"I am not. I just . . ."

"I know." Hailey's voice turned softer. "I know it's not all that easy to start over. Especially at your age."

"I'm not that old," Claire protested.

"I get it, Mom. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you off the hook," Hailey said with finality.

"Hailey. I . . ."

"Gotta run, Mom. But I'll expect a report about the screening tomorrow."

"I . . ."

"And no Cliffs Notes or Internet watching. I want to hear who was there, what the concierge had to say, and whether he served anything 'British' like the description says. Maybe you'll have tea and crumpets."

"Hailey!"

"I'm not kidding, Mom," the steamroller formerly known as Hailey Walker said. "I'll call Edward Parker myself and ask if you were there if I have to."

Claire couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. She began a last sputtered protest, but Hailey cut her off.

"It's Downton Abbey screenings on Sunday nights," Hailey said. "Or Internet dating. The choice is yours."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

SAMANTHA DIDN'T EXACTLY TRY TO OUTRUN Edward Parker on her way from the parking garage to the elevators that Sunday evening. But she might have moved a little more quickly than necessary when she saw him crossing the lobby in her direction and realized where he was headed.

She'd had the most amazing weekend. With Jonathan unexpectedly delayed out on the West Coast, her mother- in-law laid up with a head cold, Meredith in New York, and Hunter up at the lake house with friends, Samantha had had the entire weekend to herself; something that had happened less than a handful of times in the last twenty-six years.

Feeling a bit like a soldier who surprises himself by going AWOL, she'd blown off all kinds of things before she'd even realized she intended to. Yesterday she'd skipped a symphony guild committee luncheon in order to have lunch at the Varsity instead. There, she'd pulled up to the curb of the seventy-five-year-old inst.i.tution near the Georgia Tech campus, let a carhop deliver her chili cheese slaw dog, frozen orange shake, and fried peach pie, and devoured every bite.

Last night she'd dodged a formal fund-raiser in order to stay in and watch a House Hunters and House Hunters International marathon on HGTV. Today instead of stopping by Bellewood to check on her mother-in-law's health, Samantha had spent a delicious afternoon at IKEA where she'd covered every inch of every floor of the ma.s.sive showroom, studying each inexpensive accessory and stick of s.p.a.ce-saving furniture with the same fascination she'd once displayed at the Museum of Modern Art, the pyramids at Giza, and the impressionist wing at the Louvre.

She'd dawdled happily for hours, confident she wouldn't run into anyone she knew, hemming and hawing over a $9.99 desk lamp and a $2.00 mouse pad shaped like a stiletto. Famished from all the delectable dithering, she stopped in the cafeteria where she bought and consumed a huge helping of Swedish meatb.a.l.l.s and mashed potatoes buried in cream sauce.

When Jonathan got home tomorrow, their "schedule" and the parameters of their life would snap back into place. But for these last remaining hours she really, really wanted to do more-or was that less-of the same.

"Mrs. Davis?" She'd made it to the elevators and pushed the call b.u.t.ton when the concierge's voice sounded somewhere behind her.

She liked Edward Parker and was genuinely glad that he had been awarded the concierge contract. She was also wholeheartedly in favor of his ideas for enhancing the sense of community in the building. But she was having far too fabulous a weekend flouting her obligations to give in to one now. She didn't turn around.

The elevator arrived and the door opened with a ding. Samantha stepped on.

"Can you hold the elevator?" Parker's voice had drawn closer.

Samantha moved a finger toward the "door close" b.u.t.ton. Hesitated. Aimed it toward the "door open" b.u.t.ton. Pulled it back. She'd already begun imagining lying around the condo in her oldest, most comfortable pajamas, idly flipping through channels while consuming a final high-calorie-artery-hardening meal-maybe even a Double Coronary Bypa.s.s Burger from the Vortex down the street.

Still struggling with her conscience, Samantha pushed a b.u.t.ton but wasn't completely sure which one. The doors began to close.

A white-cuffed black-sleeved arm inserted itself between the closing elevator doors. They sprang open and Edward Parker stepped inside. "I was a bit afraid that my arm would go up with you and the rest of me would stay here on the first floor."

"I'm so sorry," she began. "I couldn't seem to get to the 'door open' b.u.t.ton in time. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I could see there was quite a struggle going on." His words came out in an amused lilt that matched the knowing look in his eyes.

"Sorry," she said, trying not to look guilty. "Which floor do you want?"

"Why, eight, of course," he replied. "Here, allow me." He reached forward and pressed the b.u.t.ton. "I do hope you're planning to attend the screening."

She feigned surprise. "Is that tonight?" she asked with a regretful shake of her head. "Oh." She shook it again for good measure. "I'm so sorry. I completely forgot." Not quite able to meet his eye, she glanced down at her watch. It was seven forty-five. "I don't see how I could possibly change and be there by eight." The elevator began its ascent. "Maybe next week."

He flashed her a knowing smile and she sighed. For someone who professed to have forgotten a scheduled event, she was embarra.s.singly aware of the details. "We're going to socialize a bit before we get started. You can take all the time you need to change, though I think it will be quite casual."