“Colleen, I saw how you were looking at him.”

“Yeah, okay, he kissed me. Look. He’s back in town because Joe Campbell is dying. Of course I’m going to see him from time to time.”

“You know what you are? You’re one mattress fire away from becoming our mother.”

“I’m not like Mom,” she said calmly. “How dare you and all that. Want some ice cream?”

Connor folded his arms and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling (and pray for patience, Colleen knew). “If you’re not dating him, why were you flirting with him?”

“I wasn’t.” Rufus put his head on her foot, then licked her ankle with his giant tongue.

“Yeah? What was that game with the fire sauce, then?”

“Oh, just a little...signal. A shot across the bar.”

“It was flirting. And then you let him kiss you.”

She pulled a face. “Yeah. That might’ve been dumb.”

“He’s divorced.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to get back together with him? You gonna move to Chicago? Is he dating anyone back there?”

“I don’t know. Look. It was one kiss.” Well, then, there was that other kiss, down by the lake. Two kisses.

“One kiss? This wasn’t the first time, was it?”

“Look, Long Island Medium, he took me by surprise, okay?”

“Just remember what he did to you last time. I don’t think he deserves a second chance, personally. But I’m just your brother. I’m just the one who’s been watching you avoid a serious relationship this past decade.”

“Where’s your wife, huh? Do you have three beautiful children stashed somewhere? No? So don’t throw stones. You won’t even be seen in public with this mystery woman of yours.”

“Don’t change the subject.” He sat on the floor; Rufus, the whore, rolled onto his back and presented his stomach (and other parts) for admiration. Connor flinched. “You should get this dog neutered.”

“He is neutered.”

The twins were quiet for a moment. They didn’t fight often; well, they bickered constantly, and Mom still complained about it, but they hardly ever really disagreed. “You shouldn’t have punched him,” she said.

“He broke your stupid heart,” Connor grumbled.

There was no lying to her brother.

She’d done her best to hide her feelings last time. She certainly didn’t want to be like Mom. Didn’t want people to know she’d been dumped. She was supposed to be smarter than that.

But Connor knew anyway. Despite her playing it lightly with most people—You know how fickle young love is. Hardly ever lasts—Connor knew.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Collie Dog Face,” her brother said now.

“Me, neither.”

“Be careful.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

Connor scratched Rufus’s tummy another minute, then stood up and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “See you.”

“Wait. Who’s your girlfriend? Do I know her? Is she a prostitute? I won’t judge either of you. Please tell me,” she said.

“Good night,” he called from the door. Tossed her a grin and left, his feet thumping on the stairs.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE CHICKEN KING lived in a beautiful old Victorian house that had once belonged to Mark Twain’s wife’s aunt, legend had it. Colleen was here to go over the planned encounter with Bryce. And just to hang out a little because, let’s face it, she really liked Paulie.

The blue-and-cream-painted house sat high on a hill in a heavily wooded neighborhood overlooking Keuka Lake. Their driveway was long and shaded, and the house had to have at least twenty rooms.

However, the yard—grounds, really—were littered with giant metal chicken statues in lurid colors, like a terrifying dream you might have as a kid when you’re running a very high fever. As the breeze blew, it made a strange whistling sound through the, uh, artwork, making it sound like the chickens were moaning. And those beaks looked mighty sharp.

“Dad collects these from all over the world,” Paulie said. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Colleen said, trying not to look. She’d always been a little afraid of chickens, personally. The polka-dotted statue seemed especially hostile.

Inside, the house was just as beautiful, carefully restored and extremely elegant. Not what you’d picture for the Chicken King; well, no, there were a lot of paintings of chickens on the walls, as well as Mr. Petrosinsky dressed in chicken garb standing next to various local celebrities...and some national celebrities, too. “Is that Meryl Streep?” Colleen asked.

“Oh, her. She’s so nice. Loves the Sweet Home Alabama Triple Batter Honey Dijon,” Paulie said.

“And Vladimir Putin?” Perhaps the Russian Mob rumors were true, after all.

“Make-Mine-Miami Cuban Spice.”

Paulie’s bedroom was a Maxfield Parrish–blue, deep and poignant. A dressing room bigger than Colleen’s entire bedroom, filled with clothes.

“Yeah, I don’t wear much of this,” Paulie said. “If you see something you want, take it. You know me. I mostly wear gym clothes.” She was, in fact, now clad in spandex shorts that showed her ripped muscles in great detail, and a Cabrera’s Boxing T-shirt.

“You shouldn’t. You have a great figure. Very girl-power strong. Here. Put this on. My God, it’s Armani! Hello, gorgeous! Dog, don’t chew on that,” she added as one of Paulie’s rescue dogs, this one looking like a dirty mop, began gnawing on a boot.

A few minutes later, Paulie frowned at her reflection.

“See how it hugs you here?” Colleen asked. “You look taller and leaner.”

“These shoes are killing me.”

“Offer it up to God. And this belt is funky and young and surprising. You look incredible!”

“Are you sure? I feel weird.”

“It’s just an adjustment, trust me. Where’d you get all these clothes, anyway?”

“My dad. He does a lot of online shopping.”

“He’s single, right?” Colleen asked. Hey. If she was going to have a sugar daddy, she was going to have one who bought Armani.

“Yeah. Ever since Mom left, you know.”

Colleen squeezed her hand. “Okay, so on to Operation Flat Tire. This is how it’s gonna go.”

“Oh, God. Will this really work?”

“Of course!”

The plan was simple. Bryce was home, a little benign stalking had shown. Joe was at dialysis, Evil Didi was at work. Lucas—not that she was thinking about him too much (pause for laughter)—was out at the public safety building, according to Levi, who’d come to the bar for lunch just half an hour ago.

“So,” Colleen said. “You get a flat tire, and heck, what’s this? You’re right in front of Bryce’s house, and Bryce is home! What do you do?”

“Change the tire.”

“No, Paulina. You don’t change the tire.” The pug barked, backing her up.

“Why?”

“Because Bryce is going to change the tire.”

Paulie frowned. “Oh.”

“You’re going to be all feminine and helpless.”

“But I know how to change a tire.”

Colleen suppressed a sigh. “And that’s great, Paulie. But today, Bryce gets to change the tire and help you, and feel very manly and smart, because men like to be tricked into thinking they’re in control.”

“Oh. Got it.” Her face started its amazing sunrise impression.

“No panicking. Just do what I say, and Bryce and you can have a nice conversation.”

“What should I say? I feel a little sick. Do I really have to talk to him? Damn it, this stupid deodorant is supposedly extra strength and it’s doing squat. Oh, I hate being in love!”

“We all do at certain times, Paulie.”

Paulie threw herself down on her giant bed and covered her eyes with her hands. One of her cats jumped up and began kneading her thigh. “I can barely think about talking to him, let alone actually talk to him. What if I hurt him again?”

Colleen pondered. “You know what would be great?” she said. “If I could somehow feed you lines. Like Cyrano and Christian. You have a Bluetooth, right?”

Ten minutes later, Colleen pulled around the corner from Bryce’s house, Paulie’s adorable little Porsche purring behind her. Craftily, feeling a bit like Bond, James Bond, Colleen parked and got out, approaching Paulie’s car.

“Okay, babe, this is where you get a flat,” she said. She opened up her Swiss Army knife and stabbed Paulie’s tire.

“Hey!”

“Relax. Now just drive really slow to Bryce’s house, then park, get out and stare at the car, helpless and feminine. That’s your job—to appear helpless and feminine, helpless and feminine. Also, mention that you’re throwing a party and you’d love for him to come. Now go. Into the car. Drive on, little sparrow!”

With a dubious look, Paulie obeyed. “Can you hear me?” Colleen said into her phone when Paulie was almost there.

“Yeah. Colleen, I don’t feel so good.” She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dry heave.

“You’re doing great,” Colleen said in her most reassuring tone, the same one that got people who overindulged to hand over their keys. “Okay, stop. That’s his house.”

“I know. I’ve probably driven by a thousand times.”

Colleen’s heart tugged. “This will work, Paulie. Just try to relax and enjoy it.”

From where she stood, Colleen could see her client pull over. This ploy, while definitely on the points-for-difficulty end of what Colleen usually recommended, had worked on her cousin Monica just last year, when Monica had a “bike accident” in front of Fox Den Vineyard. Monica was now married to the Fox Den heir, thank you very much. Colleen had been a bridesmaid, her tenth such gig.

Paulie got out of the car.

“Walk slowly around the car, looking at the tires,” Colleen ordered. “He’ll be out any second.” She glanced at the house. The day was the best of June, bright and lilac-scented. “Okay, squat down and take a look at the tire. Oh, dear, what’s this? It’s flat!”

“Of course it’s flat,” Paulie said. “You stabbed it.”

“I know, but pretend to be surprised and dismayed.”

Paulie hesitated, then bent down. “Oh, shit!” she bellowed. “My tire’s flat! What will I do?”

Colleen bobbled her phone. “Down, girl,” she said. “Easy on the melodrama, and the volume. You don’t want just anyone coming along. And try not to swear.”

“Shit, I forgot about that. Okay.”

They waited. No one came out of the house.

“He’s not home,” Paulie whispered.

“His car is in the driveway,” Colleen said. “He’s probably watching TV or something. Hang on, I’ll get his attention.”

She picked up a handful of pebbles and walked toward the house, sticking close to the shade from the neighbor’s wide maples. There was a thick hedge of lilacs against the eastern side of the Campbells’ place, and she eased into it, the clean, perfect smell of the flowers giving her a contact high.

Bryce lived in the basement, she knew. Didi had made it into a full-scale apartment for her baby boy not long after he dropped out of college.

She threw a pebble. Thanks to thousands of games of darts she’d played over the years, she hit the window on the first try, a satisfying tick against the glass. “Places, everyone,” she whispered into the phone. “He should be out soon.”

A mockingbird called from a tree. The wind blew, brushing a lilac bloom across Colleen’s cheek. Paulie appeared to be frozen in place. “Check the tire like you’re trying to figure out what the heck went wrong,” Colleen whispered. “And be prepared to repeat after me, okay?” Paulie squatted obediently, her short skirt fluttering against her thighs.

Bryce didn’t come out.

Colleen threw another pebble. Waited. Nada. Another pebble. Nothing.

“My legs are burning,” Paulie whispered. “Please let me stand up.”

“Sure, sure,” Colleen said. Paulie stood, groaning, grabbed her ankle and stretched her quads.

“Put your leg down,” Colleen ordered. “You’re flashing Mr. Bancroft, and he’s kind of pervy as it is.”

“Hey, there, Paulie!” called Mr. Bancroft. “Got a problem?”

“Say no,” Colleen instructed.

“No! Go away!” Paulie barked.

“Henry! Get in the car,” Mrs. Bancroft ordered. “We’re already late! Paulie, what’s the problem?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all,” Paulie said. “I, uh, I...I have a bladder infection and had to stop. That’s all.”

Mrs. Bancroft paused, shook her head and got into the car.

“Let’s cut the improv, okay?” Colleen said as the Bancrofts drove away. “Say only what I say. Now hang on. This time, I mean business.” She looked at the pebbles in her hand, selected the biggest one and threw it with slightly more gusto.

The window shattered.

“Shit!” she hissed.

“Shit!” Paulie echoed.

But the broken glass did the trick. After a second, the front door opened, and there stood Bryce, blinking in the sunlight.

“Oh, my God, I see him. Oh, damn it all, he’s here,” Paulie said, her voice strangled.