Natural, Steve said, to have admirers. After all, his job is to take care of them, like a big brother or uncle or family friend.

Gretchen closed her eyes.

Courtney plowed forward. “Steve has no clue that I’m calling. It was my idea. I wanted you to know that we’re still together, in spite of what Steve tells you.”

Of course, Steve wouldn’t approve of honesty; he’d already become proficient at practicing deceit as well as law.

“I wanted you to know because I can’t stand lying to you.”

Touching, isn’t it? Courtney taking the high road.

“And I want you gone,” Courtney said, steering for the low road. “He’s mine now.”

Gretchen hung up the phone without another word. She wanted to slam the phone, break it, wrench its traitorous cord from the phone jack and wrap it tightly around Steve’s cheating neck.

Instead she picked up a broken doll from an overflowing bin heaped with dolls and steadied her shaking hands.

Standing at the padded workbench, she cut a length of elastic in the proper weight and with clamps and hooks spread out before her, she went to work, looping the elastic through a hook in the arm socket, carefully drawing it through and attaching it to the body. Rifling in a parts bin to find a replacement for a missing leg. Finishing one doll and starting another.

What would her life have been like if she had joined her mother’s business? Made dolls her life’s work? There was something appealing about working at home, dropping out of the nine-to-five rat race. Working in pajamas. Forgetting about snarled rush-hour traffic, appropriate work apparel, the proper business demeanor, fighting for raises, dodging a coworker’s efforts to sabotage your chances for promotion.

Gretchen gave a bath to a soft vinyl doll, found underpants, a hat, shoes. The right clothes for the right doll. Worked a bow into her hair.

What would life have been like?

The list of exquisite and valuable dolls was seared into Caroline’s memory bank, her human cerebral memory bank, not that of the artificial random access memory lying on the cheap pine dresser. Close to two hundred dolls, each rare and unique, a haphazard, eclectic collection.

A rare George II wooden doll with painted, gessoed face in silk polonaise gown. Two French shoulder papier-mâché dolls with bamboo teeth. A German waxed composition lady with inset blue glass eyes. Parians, chinas, bisques representing the finest from France and Germany. A group of Italian Lenci cloth dolls. A finite list with infinite worth.

Now a collector’s dream turned into a freakish nightmare.

Excessive greed had dimmed the glow, dampened the glory of the fine collection.

Caroline could recite all the particulars of the inventory, could describe every photograph in detail, although her hope of recovering any of the collection diminished with every passing hour.

Her lips curled in momentary satisfaction.

At least she had the prize.

The French fashion doll.

Gretchen turned over onto her back and rearranged the beach towel to cover her torso without opening her eyes. Her arms dangled over the sides of the lounge chair and brushed against the tile. The summer storm had passed, and the sun beat down on her face, searing and hot. She didn’t care.

A door banged in the front of the house, and the patio doors slid open. She heard Nimrod’s tiny nails clicking on the Mexican tile surrounding the pool and a small rush of air as he ran by. Another rush of air. Tutu. Gretchen refused to open her eyes.

“What the…!” Nina’s voice. “It’s a hundred and sixteen degrees outside. How long have you been lying here?”

Gretchen didn’t respond.

She poked Gretchen’s arm through the towel. “I’ve been calling you all morning. Your face is as red as a Roma tomato. Can you open your eyes, or are they burned shut?”

Gretchen pried one eye open and squinted at her aunt. “Go away and let me die.”

Nina yanked the towel away, ran around to the back of the chair, and pushed Gretchen up by her shoulders. “Come on. Into the shade with you. At least you had the sense to cover the rest of your body with a towel. Otherwise we’d be on the way to the hospital again.”

Gretchen slowly rose to her feet and let Nina lead her under an expansive table umbrella. She sagged into a chair and studied her feet. Too tall to be completely covered with the towel, the top of her feet had fried in the sun. Her face felt swollen, and her lips were starting to crack and blister.

Nina, face pinched and ashen next to Gretchen’s, plopped into a chair and leaned forward. “Is Caroline dead?” she said, shaky, awaiting bad news.

Gretchen slowly looked up and shook her head. Nina clutched her heart. “That’s a relief. When I saw you lying there, that’s the first thing I thought of.”

It was time to confide in Nina.

“Courtney, the intern, called last night. She and Steve are having a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Those were her words.”

Gretchen realized how badly she needed a sympathetic ear as the whole story spilled out of her.

Nina leaned back when she was finished and crossed her legs. “That rat. I always suspected as much.”

“You did not. You’re the one who thought I should give him an ultimatum.” Gretchen lifted an arm and tapped her head with the cast. “Is it my imagination, or is that idea a very bad one?”

“You can still offer him a choice. Death by fire or death by shark. I’ve always thought those would be the two worst possible ways to go, a fitting end for Steve.”

“He was continually working, always preparing for a case or meeting with clients or attending company-sponsored events. How did he find the time?”

“He wasn’t always working,” Nina said. “She turned out to be the special event he was working. I’m sorry it happened.”

“I shouldn’t have left Boston.”

Nina snorted. “You think if you had stayed, it would have ended between them? Right. Sure. Once a cheater always a cheater, I say.”

Gretchen’s new perception of her relationship seemed as clear as fog dissipating over the Boston Harbor. Thick, whirling haze had clouded her vision, but now she could see past the horizon. “I can’t believe he’d risk our relationship for a quick fling with a summer intern. He’s almost twice as old as she is.”

“Midlife crisis,” Nina suggested.

“He’s thirty-two. Too young.”

“The rat,” Nina said again.

Nina forced Gretchen into the bathroom and turned on the shower. “Keep the water cold,” she demanded. “That should snap you out of it. Take your time, and afterwards, I’ll work on your face. What a burn.”

“What’s that?” Gretchen said, noticing a purse hanging from Nina’s shoulder for the first time.

“That,” Nina said, “is today’s purse trainee. He’s sound asleep down on the bottom. You gave me such a scare, I forgot he was there.”

Twenty minutes later, Gretchen felt almost human again. Nina dabbed aloe vera lotion on her niece’s sunburned face and feet, and Gretchen slid into flip-flops.

“Bring a pair of athletic shoes along,” Nina said.

“Why?”

“We’re headed for Curves. I called April to find out what time the Dollers would be working out.” She glanced at her watch. “They’ll show up soon, and we don’t want to miss them.”