“She’s a teenager, which is even more dangerous.”

“Sarah’s not using drugs, is she?” Grandma asked.

“No, she’s just surly. I can’t do anything right.”

“She’ll grow out of it,” Grandma said. “Take her some apple pie. Do you think it’s boy trouble?”

“She says boys are gross,” I said. “I’m happy she believes that for now.”

“So many young girls get in trouble,” Grandma said, as she put half a pie in a Tupperware container. “I’m thankful Sarah’s still a child.” Grandma handed the pie to me.

I kissed her forehead. “I guess I’m overprotective,” I said. “But Sarah is a young fifteen.”

“She doesn’t dress like a young girl,” Grandma said. “At Thanks-giving, she was wearing an outfit that made her look like-”

“A slut,” I finished.

Grandma’s lips tightened into a thin, angry line. “I would never say that about my great-grandbaby. But that short skirt and belly-baring top did make her look older than her years.”

“That’s how girls dress now, Grandma,” I said. “It looks slutty by our standards, but I didn’t want her to be what I was in high school.”

“What? An A student?” Grandma said.

“A nerd,” I said. “Thanks for the pie. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

Grandma followed me to her front door. “Francine, if you need money for anything, you can always come to me. I only have a couple hundred in the bank, but I own this house. It’s not worth much, but the land is valuable. Some developer wants to build another subdivision on this road. He’s made an offer for that lot across the street and my five acres.”

“Thanks, Grandma, but where would you live? You keep your house and your independence.”

“Okay, but the money is yours when you need it. Lawyers are expensive.”

“I don’t need a lawyer,” I said. “Where did that come from?”

“Just a feeling,” Grandma said.

Grandma had bought the green three-room rambler when Mehlville was still the middle of nowhere. New highways had made the suburb more accessible and the land more valuable.

I worried all the way to my next stop, my Maplewood design office. I tried to remember what I knew about Angela’s “friend with benefits.” His name was Allan, he was a CPA, and Angela had redecorated his office in what we privately called “clubby classic.” Allan wanted leather wing chairs, forest green walls, and hunting prints. Not terribly innovative, but most people didn’t want an innovative accountant. I gathered Allan wasn’t much more exciting outside the office. Angela had said he was a presentable escort and “okay in the sack, but he won’t set the world on fire. Besides, I like them young, you know what I mean? Allan’s my age. He’s too old for me.” She’d laughed.

Lately, Angela had been uncommonly cheerful. Her pale complexion had the glow of a well-loved woman. Maybe she did have a new boyfriend. Good for her.

I knew Angela didn’t have time for an affair with my husband. She was too busy mentoring Megan, the new intern from the university’s design school. Thanks to Angela, we got the school’s best young talent working for us. Interns were good at tracking down online resources and running out for paint samples, material swatches, and coffee. They were low-paid errand girls, but they got terrific recommendation letters and experience. Our firm, Smart Women, was a good name to put on their resumes.

I didn’t like dealing with the college students. The girls showed up late, hungover, or not at all. They needed constant attention. They whined that their parents didn’t give them enough money. I’d worked my way through college and thought most were spoiled brats. Angela said working with young talent was invigorating. She could have them.

Even my own daughter, who wanted to be an interior designer, would rather work with Angela. Sarah said all I did was criticize her. I only suggested a few small improvements. I was happy my daughter wanted to follow in my footsteps. Sarah’s rejection hurt, but maybe we needed a buffer for now. We’d just had a fight over the October cell phone bill. Sarah had text-messaged another two hundred dollars onto it.

Sarah must have cried on Angela’s shoulder. Angela told me many parents had monster texting bills from their kids. She e-mailed me some family phone plans with unlimited text messaging. “Sarah needs to stay in touch with her friends,” Angela said. “It’s harmless. All the kids do it.”

Exactly what Sarah had said. I didn’t want to reward my daughter for running up bills, but maybe I should look into those plans. I’d spent hours talking on the phone to my best friend, Sue, when I was in high school. I couldn’t remember a word we’d said, but those calls were vital to me at Sarah’s age. My daughter was a good kid. Heaven knows what I’d put my mother through when I was fifteen.

Smart Women, our interior design office, was close to my home. Ten years ago, Angela and I had bought an old two-story brick building on Manchester Road for a good price. We’d created an amazing office with lots of natural light, open space, and hardwood floors. Smart Women was close to three major highways and the rich areas that used our services. Maplewood, an older suburb, had become trendy, and our property value skyrocketed.

It was dark when I parked my Lexus in back of the building and slipped quietly through the side door. I could see my daughter and my design partner standing over a drawing board. I knew they were working on the McDaniels vacation condo at the Lake of the Ozarks. The overhead lights turned Angela’s red hair into fire. My daughter’s long blonde hair was spun gold. Sarah seemed older in the dim light, and I could see the young woman she would soon become. Both women were dressed in black sweaters and pants. I watched the scene without making a sound.

“We could use a beachy theme in the great room, which has the best view of the lake,” Angela said. “What about a conversation group of wicker chairs and a white couch facing those big windows? We could use the blue accent pillows.”

Ordinary, I thought. The McDaniels would want something more stylish. That’s why they hired Smart Women.

“What happens when one of the McDaniels’ boys visits?” my daughter said. “The condo only has one bedroom. That couch won’t stay white if the boys crash on it. I go to school with the youngest, Judson. He’s a slob. I’ve seen him eat spaghetti out of the can. Maybe we should think about a pullout sofa to give the room flexibility.”

“Good idea,” Angela said. “What do you think of coral for the sofa?”

“It’s spaghetti-colored,” my daughter said, then paused. “I meant that as a joke, Angela. I love the color, and we can keep your blue accent pillows, too. You’ve made the room vibrant.”

I was so proud of my daughter. Sarah was smart, talented-and tactful. I could see my daughter’s name on our letterhead in a few years.

In the meantime, I was hungry. I tiptoed out and carefully shut the door so I wouldn’t disturb them. Then I called my husband. It was only five thirty, and Jack was still at work. I asked him if he’d like to meet me for dinner at Acero, his favorite Maplewood restaurant.

“I was just finishing up,” Jack said. “I should have this project done before the deadline. Probably tomorrow night.”

“Good,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get a bonus.”

“Only if the clients like it. Are you serious about Acero?”

“My treat,” I said.

“Could I order the mushroom ravioli with black truffles?”

“You can have whatever your heart desires,” I said. “Including me.”

“You’re dessert,” he said. “Black truffles first.”

Acero wasn’t a spaghetti-and-meatballs Italian restaurant. I ordered the grilled skate wing in browned butter. The meat looked like a large, plump wing. It was hard to believe it came from such a prehistoric-looking creature as the raylike skate.

“This is heavenly,” I told Jack.

“Maybe it’s an angel wing,” he teased.