you Google him? ” Edie says.
“How do you know about Google? ” Kit starts to laugh.
“I’m eighty-three.” Edie sniffs. “Not dead.”
“Okay, okay. Yes, I Googled him and I found a Steve Macin tire who works in computers, but there are no pictures so I have no idea if it’s the same one.”
“Just make sure you know something about him,” Edie says cautiously.
“I will. Promise. Buckley? ” Kit dashes into the office, looking at her watch and hoping she isn’t going to be late. “Buckley? Have you seen my earrings? ”
Buckley, glued to the computer screen from which beeps, peeps and crashes are emanating, doesn’t move.
“Buckley! That computer’s going off in two minutes. I asked you a question.”
“What? ” Buckley stirs.
“Have you seen my hoop earrings? ”
“Nah.” He shrugs, without turning round.
“Tory? ” Kit goes into the family room where Tory is lying on the sofa, talking animatedly on the phone. “Tory? Did you take my new hoop earrings? ”
“Hang on,” Tory says into the mouthpiece. “No, Mom. You were wearing them this morning, though.”
“I was? Oh God, I was. Thank you, darling,” and she leans down and plants a soft kiss on Tory’s forehead before checking her watch. Does she have time to run to Dune Road and pick up the earrings?
She was wearing them this morning. Now she remembers. Robert had been so pleased with the local event, he had said he wouldn’t mind doing a small book tour. Kit spent the day on the phone with his publishers, putting together a small tour of important venues—town halls, libraries, places that could easily bring together the few hundred people that would undoubtedly turn out to hear Robert McClore.
Her earrings were annoying the hell out of her. They were clanking on the phone so she took them off, and can see them clearly now, sitting neatly on the table next to the phone, exactly where she left them.
Of course she has other earrings, but she has a vision of what she wants to look like, and that vision includes those earrings. It just won’t be the same with another pair.
She checks her watch again. If she leaves right now, she can head over and reach Dune Road within ten minutes. She might be a few minutes late to meet Steve, but isn’t it better to be a few minutes late anyway?
She hasn’t played these dating games for years, doesn’t know the rules any more, but she knows it is probably better to be slightly late than to appear too eager by showing up early.
“Edie, you have my cell phone number? ”
“Of course. Off you go. Don’t worry about a thing and have a lovely time.”
Kit kisses the children, neither of them looking up from their respective computer and phone call, and dashes out to the car.
When you turn onto Dune Road, you think you might have made a wrong turn, finding yourself on a narrow, sandy dirt track which doesn’t appear to lead anywhere, but then you turn a corner and find yourself staring at those magnificent gates leading to Robert McClore’s house.
Kit has tried calling to let him know she’ll be coming. She doesn’t want to disturb him, but then again, she won’t be long, has all the codes to the house; he will probably not even notice that she has been there. She has left a message. There is nothing more she can do.
The house is, as expected, quiet. She rings the doorbell, hears a soft padding and the locks are opened.
“Miss Kit! ” It is Maria, the housekeeper, a beaming smile on her face.
“Oh Maria! I’m so sorry to bother you but I left my earrings here this morning. They’re on the desk in the office and I’m going out. Would you mind if I just got them? ”
“Ah,” Maria nods approvingly as she notices Kit’s outfit. “You look lovely, Miss Kit. Of course you can go and get them. Mr. McClore is just doing a class.”
“A class?” Kit starts to follow Maria through the house. “What sort of class? ”
“You know! ” Maria laughs. “A yoga class. With your friend.”
“What?” Kit has no idea why she stops suddenly, but she does.
“Yes!” Maria nods enthusiastically. “They are in the living room. I am trying not to disturb them. Ssssh.”
“Is this—” Kit knows she shouldn’t be asking, but it is so weird, that Tracy hasn’t said anything. It feels . . . covert, secretive, like she has just stumbled upon something she isn’t supposed to know. “Is this