It was a topic that would arise soon enough, after Arthur Battenkill toweled off, got dressed, picked up his suitcase and – gaily humming the tune of "Yellow Bird" – walked out his front door, where the men stood in wait.

"What'll happen to your husband?"

Katie Battenkill said, "Prison, I guess."

"God." Mary Andrea Finley Krome, thinking: This one's tougher than she looks.

"There's a Denny's off the next exit. Are you hungry?"

Mary Andrea said, "Tell me again where we're going. The name of the place."

"Grange."

"And you're sure Tom's there?"

"I think so. I'm pretty sure," Katie replied.

"And how exactly do you know him? Or did you already say?"

Mary Andrea wasn't in the habit of road-tripping with total strangers, but the woman had seemed trustworthy and Mary Andrea had been frantic – spooked by Tom's divorce lawyer and rudely shouted at by the reporters. She would never forget the heat of the TV lights on her neck as she fled, nor the dread as she fought for a path through the crowd in the newspaper lobby. She'd even considered feigning another medical collapse but decided against it; the choreography would've been dicey amid the tumult.

All of a sudden a hand had gripped her elbow, and she'd spun to see this woman – a pretty strawberry blonde, who'd led her out the door and said: "Let's get you away from all this nonsense."

And Mary Andrea, stunned with defeat and weakened from humiliation, had accompanied the consoling stranger because it was the next best thing to running, which was what Mary Andrea felt most like doing. The woman introduced herself as Katie something-or-other and briskly took Mary Andrea to a car.

"I tried to get there sooner," she'd said. "I wanted to tell you your husband was still alive – you deserved to know. But then I got tied up at the sheriffs office."

Initially Mary Andrea had let pass the last part of the woman's remark, but she brought it up later, as an icebreaker, when they were on the highway. Katie candidly stated that her husband was a local judge who'd committed a terrible crime, and that her conscience and religious beliefs required her to rat him out to the police. The story piqued Mary Andrea's curiosity but she was eager to steer the conversation back to the topic of her scheming bastard husband. How else to describe a man so merciless that he'd burn down his own house to set up his own wife – even an estranged one – for publicly televised ridicule!

"You're mistaken. It wasn't like that," said Katie Battenkill.

"You don't know Tom."

"Actually, I do. See, I was his lover." Katie was adhering to her new-found doctrine of total honesty. "For about two weeks. Look in my purse, there's a list of all the times we made love. It's on lavender notepaper, folded in half."

Mary Andrea said, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Go ahead and look."

"No, thanks."

"Truth matters more than anything in the world. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"And then some," Mary Andrea said, under her breath. She considered putting on a show of being jealous, to discourage the woman from further elaboration.

But Katie caught her off guard by asking: "Aren't you glad he's alive? You don't look all that thrilled."

"I'm ... I guess I'm still in shock."

Katie seemed doubtful.

Mary Andrea said, "If I weren't so damn mad at him, yes, I'd be glad." Which possibly was true. Mary Andrea knew her peevishness didn't fit the circumstances, but young Katie couldn't know what the Krome marriage was, or had become. And as good a performer as Mary Andrea was, she wasn't sure how an ex-widow ought to act. She'd never met one.

Katie said, "Don't be mad. Tom didn't set you up. What happened was my husband's fault – and mine, too, for sleeping with Tom. See, that's why Arthur had the house torched – "

"Whoa. Who's Arthur?"

"My husband. I told you about him. It's a mess, I know," said Katie, "but you've got to understand that Tommy didn't arrange this. He had no clue. When it happened he was out of town, working on an article for the paper. That's when Art sent a man to the house – "

"OK, time out!" Mary Andrea, making a T with her hands. "Is this why your husband's going to jail?"

"That's right."

"My God."

"I'm so glad you believe me."

"Oh, I'm not sure I do," said Mary Andrea. "But it's quite a story, Katie. And if you didcook it up all by yourself, then you should think about a career in show business. Seriously."

They were thirty minutes outside Grange before Katherine Battenkill spoke again.

"I've come to believe that everything happens for a reason, Mrs. Krome. There's no coincidence or chance or luck. Everything that happens is meant to guide us. For example: Tom. If I hadn't made love thirteen times with Tom, I would never have seen Arthur for what he truly is. And likewise he'd never have burned down that house, and you wouldn't be here with me right now, riding to Grange to see your husband."

For once Mary Andrea was unable to modulate her reaction. "Thirteen times in two weeks?"

Thinking: That breaks ourold record.

"But that's counting oral relations, too." Katie, attempting to soften the impact. She rolled down the window. Cool air streamed through the car. "I don't know about you, but I'm dying for a cheeseburger."

"Well, I'm dying to speak to Mr. Tom Krome."

"It won't be long now," Katie said lightly. "But we do need to make a couple of stops. One for gas."

"And what else?"

"Something special. You'll see."

29

On the morning of December 6, Clara Markham drove to her real estate office to nail down a buyer for the property known as Simmons Wood. Waiting in the parking lot was Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. As Clara Markham unlocked the front door, JoLayne Lucks strolled up – jeans, sweatshirt, peach-tinted sunglasses and a baseball cap. She'd done her nails in glossy tangerine.

The dapper Squires looked uneasy; he shifted his eelskin briefcase from one fist to the other. Clara Markham made the introductions and started a pot of coffee.

She said, "So how was your trip, Jo? Where'd you go?"

"Camping."

"In all that weather!"

"Listen, hon, it kept the bugs away." JoLayne moved quickly to change the subject. "How's my pal Kenny? How's the diet coming?"

"We've lost two pounds! I switched him to dry food, like you suggested." Clara Markham reported this proudly. She handed a cup of coffee to Bernard Squires, who thanked her in a reserved tone.

The real estate broker explained: "Kenny's my Persian blue. Jo works at the vet."

"Oh. My sister has a Siamese," said Squires, exclusively out of politeness.

JoLayne Lucks whipped off her sunglasses and zapped him with a smile. He could scarcely mask his annoyance. Thiswas his competition for a $3 million piece of commercial property – a black woman with orange fingernails who works at an animal hospital!

Clara Markham settled behind her desk, uncluttered and immaculate. JoLayne Lucks and Bernard Squires positioned themselves in straight-backed chairs, almost side by side. They set their coffee cups on cork-lined coasters.

"Shall we begin?" said Clara.

Without preamble Squires opened the briefcase across his lap, and handed to the real estate broker a sheaf of legal-sized papers. Clara skimmed the cover sheet.

For JoLayne's benefit she said, "The union's offer is three million even with twenty-five percent down. Mr. Squires already delivered a good-faith cash deposit, which we put in escrow."

They jacked up the stakes, JoLayne brooded. Bastards.

"Jo?"

"I'll offer three point one," she said, "and thirty percent up front." She'd been to the bank early. Tom Krome was right – a young vice president in designer suspenders had airily offered an open line of credit to cover any shortfall on the Simmons Wood down payment.