out a gray fedora and put it on. She wandered over to Hellenor’s lab table and picked up a pair of safety glasses. Trying them on, she glanced in the mirror and frowned, reminded that her clothes were burned and she was going to be reduced to wearing not just one of Hellenor’s hats, but her clothes as well.
Walking to the closet, she extracted a flannel shirt and a pair of the men’s black suit pants Hellenor used to favor. Hellenor had been a little taller, so Pandy had to roll the trouser legs up over her knees. Discovering an old pair of Hellenor’s construction boots, she figured she might as well put those on as well. They’d be useful when Henry arrived and they went out to inspect what was left of the boathouse.
Once again, she looked in the mirror. And here was more irony: Now she really did look like Hellenor. Or what Hellenor might look like now.
This was the final insult. She hoped Henry would get there soon.
She marched into the library and, standing in front of the painting of Lady Wallis Wallis, shook her head. People were stupid. How could someone not want a book about Lady Wallis? She had all the courage—if not more—of a modern-day heroine, but her life had been real, and she’d actually had a hand in shaping the future of America.
And she was beautiful. That still wasn’t enough?
The whole world sucked, she decided. No one had any imagination anymore. Feeling impatient for Henry’s company, she decided to go up into the cupola to see if she could spot his car.
She went up three flights of steps, around a landing, and then up another flight. Above her dangled a white rope with a carved wooden pull. Pandy tugged it, and a wooden ladder unfolded.
Pandy climbed up and looked around. Old Jay’s lookout, as they used to call it, was built inside the enormous eight-sided cupola. Posted in front of each large round window was a telescope.
The views were amazing. Through one telescope, you could see two states away, to the still-snowy tip of a mountain. You could also see down to the gas station, which was handy, because then you knew if anyone was coming up Wallis Road.
Pandy lowered her eye to one of the telescopes.
She froze.
Coming from between two pine-covered hilltops were what appeared to be helicopters.
She lifted her head and took a step back. That was strange. No helicopters ever came to Wallis. There was no place for them to land.
Perhaps there had been some kind of terrorist attack?
She bent down to look through another telescope. Several cars and what looked like two white news vans were pulling into the parking lot of the gas station.
And then she saw SondraBeth’s custom navy-blue Porsche coming up the drive.
* * *
Monica.
In the frenzy of trying to deal with her own problems, Pandy had forgotten about Monica. She’d forgotten about SondraBeth Schnowzer. But apparently they hadn’t forgotten about her. And just like Frankenstein’s monster, here came disaster.
Apparently word of Pandy’s death had spread after all. SondraBeth—Monica—in mourning, paying her respects to the family of the deceased, would make for a dramatic photograph and, without having to speak a word, would send the proper message: She was grief-stricken over the death of her creator, PJ Wallis. Which would have been enormously flattering—if PJ Wallis actually were dead.
Pandy hurried down the staircase, and reaching the second floor, peeked out the front window. A cameraman and a woman with a device in her hand were standing in the middle of the rose garden. Now, this was just too much. Henry would be furious. Incensed, Pandy went through the French doors that opened onto a deck shaped like the prow of a ship. She walked to the edge and shouted down angrily. “Excuse me!”
“Yes?” The woman looked up.
“You’re standing in my rose garden.”
“So?” the cameraman asked, resting his camera on his shoulder.
“So you’re standing on at least two hundred years of history. Now will you please move.”
The woman gave Pandy a dismissive look and rolled her eyes.
“Hello?” Pandy repeated sharply. “I asked you to get out of my rose garden.”
The cameraman swung around, and out of habit or aggressiveness, took several shots of her in rapid succession, as if Pandy were the target in a video game.
“We’re trying to get a photograph of Monica,” he said pointedly, lowering his camera.
The woman looked up at Pandy curiously. “Are you PJ Wallis’s sister? Hellenor Wallis?”
Hellenor? For a second, Pandy