Adele took a glass. “Stolen champagne is always the best kind.”

“What year?” Maddie asked as she took a glass.

“Nineteen ninety. Mother was saving it for my wedding day. Just because I’ve given up on men, doesn’t mean a vintage bottle of champagne should suffer.” She clinked glasses with Maddie and Adele and said, “Here’s to me.” An hour earlier she’d been given an oral HIV test, and within minutes found out she was negative. One more weight lifted from her shoulders. Her friends had been with her when she’d received the good news. “Thanks for going with me today,” she said, and took a sip. The only sad part of the celebration was that Lucy was not with them, but Clare knew that her friend was having a wonderful celebration of her own, soaking up the sun in the Bahamas with her new husband. “I know you both are busy, and it meant a lot that you were there with me.”

“Don’t thank us.” Adele wrapped an arm around her waist. “We’re friends.”

“I’m never too busy for you.” Maddie took a drink and sighed. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a drink of anything that wasn’t low carb. This is fabulous.”

“Are you still doing the Atkins?” Clare asked. For as long as she could remember, Maddie had been on one diet or another. It was a constant battle for her to remain in her size six jeans. Of course, as writers, spending so much time sitting put on a few pounds and was something they all battled. But for Maddie it was a never-ending struggle.

“I’m doing South Beach now,” she said.

“You should try going back to the gym,” Adele advised, and leaned her behind into the black granite countertop. Adele jogged five miles every morning out of fear that she would someday inherit her mother’s wide butt.

“No. I’ve belonged to four and quit each one after a few months.” Maddie shook her head. “The problem is I hate to sweat. It’s just so gross.”

Adele raised her glass to her lips. “It’s good for you to sweat out all the evil toxins in your body.”

“No. It’s good for you. I like my evil toxins to stay right where they are.”

Clare laughed and grabbed the bottle by the neck. “Maddie’s right. She should keep all her evil toxins buried deep and hidden from the unsuspecting world.” The three of them moved to the living room, which was stuffed with the antique furniture that had been in Clare’s family for generations. The arms of the medallion-back sofas and chairs were covered with doilies a great-grandmother or aunt had constructed with her own hands. She set the bottle on the marble-topped coffee table and took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs.

Maddie sat across from her on the sofa. “Have you ever thought of getting those guys from the Antiques Roadshow in here?”

“Why?” Clare asked, and picked a white thread from the left breast of her sleeveless black turtleneck.

“To tell you what some of this stuff is.” Maddie pointed in the direction of the burgundy gout footstool and the cherub pedestal.

“I know what it is and where it all came from.” She dropped the thread into a cloisonné dish.

Adele studied the Staffordshire figurines on the mantel. “How do you keep all this stuff clean?”

“It’s a lot of work.”

“Get rid of some of it.”

“I can’t do that.” She shook her head. “I have the Wingate illness. I think it’s in our genes. We can’t seem to part with family heirlooms, not even the horrible stuff, and believe me, my great-grandmother Foster had truly hideous taste. The problem is, we used to have a large family tree but we’ve been winnowed down to just a few branches. My mother and myself, a few cousins in South Carolina, and a mountain of family antiques.” She took a sip of champagne. “If you think my house is bad, you should see my mother’s attic. Sheesh. It’s like a museum up there.”

Adele turned from the mantel and moved across the Tulip & Lily rug to the sofa. “Did Lonny steal anything when he left? Besides your dog?”

“No.” Lonny’s fondness for her antiques had been something they had in common. “He knew he didn’t want to make me that angry.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not since Monday. I had the locks changed yesterday, and I get my new mattress delivered tomorrow.” She looked down into her glass and swirled the light blond champagne. Less than a week ago she’d been naively happy. Now she was moving on without Lonny. New locks. New bed. New life. Too bad her heart wasn’t moving as fast as the rest of her. Not only had she lost her fiancé, she’d lost a very close friend. Lonny had lied to her about a lot of things, but she didn’t believe that their friendship had been a pretense.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand men,” Adele said. “They’re seriously whacked in the head.”

“What did Dwayne do this time?” Clare asked. For two years Adele had dated Dwayne Larkin and thought he just might be Mr. Right. She’d overlooked his undesirable habits, like smelling the armpits of his shirts before he put them on, because he was buff and very handsome. She’d put up with his beer-swilling, air-guitar-playing ways, right up to the moment when he told her she was getting a “fat ass.” No one used the F word to describe her behind; she’d kicked him out of her life. But he wouldn’t go completely. Every few weeks Adele would find one or two of the things she’d left at his house sitting on her front porch. No note. No Dwayne. Just random stuff.

“He left a half-empty bottle of lotion and one no-skid footie on the porch.” She turned to Clare. “Remember the no-skid ladybug footies you gave me when I had my appendix out?”

“Yeah.”

“He only gave me the one back.”

“Bastard.”

“Creepy.”

Adele shrugged. “I’m more annoyed than afraid. I just wish he’d get tired and stop.” She’d called the police about it, but an old boyfriend returning his former girlfriend’s stuff wasn’t against the law. She could try and get a restraining order, but wasn’t sure it was worth the hassle. “I know he probably has more of my stuff.”

“You need a big boyfriend to go scare the crap out of him,” Clare provided. “If I still had a boyfriend, I’d lend him to you.”

Maddie lowered her brows as she gazed across at Clare. “No offense honey, but Lonny wouldn’t have scared the crap out of Dwayne.”

Adele leaned back against the sofa. “That’s true. Dwayne would have tied him into a knot.”

Yeah, that was probably the truth, Clare thought, and took a sip of her champagne. “You should talk to Quinn when he and Lucy get back from their honeymoon.” Quinn McIntyre was a detective with the Boise Police Department and might know what to do.

“He investigates violent crimes,” Adele pointed out, which was how Lucy had met the handsome detective. She‘d been researching online dating, he’d been searching for a female serial killer. Lucy had been his number one suspect, but he’d saved her life in the end. In Clare’s heart and mind, it had all been very romantic. Well, except for the creepy part.

“Do you think there is a right man out there for every woman?” Clare asked. She used to believe in soul mates and love at first sight. She still wanted to believe, but wanting to believe and actually believing were two different things.

Adele nodded. “I like to think so.”

“No. I believe in Mr. Right Now.”

“How’s that working for you?” Clare asked Maddie.

“Fine, Dr. Phil.” Maddie leaned forward and set her empty glass on the coffee table. “I don’t want hearts and flowers. I don’t want romance, and I don’t want to share my remote. I just want sex. You’d think that wouldn’t be too hard to find, but damn if it isn’t.”

“That’s because we have standards.” Adele tipped her glass and drained it. “Like a paying job. No artists who sponge, and no false teeth that pop out when he talks, unless he plays hockey and is extremely hot.”

“He can’t be married or homicidal.” Maddie thought a moment and, typical of her, she added, “And heft would be nice.”

“Heft is always nice.”

Clare stood and refilled the glasses. “Not gay is a must.” She was still waiting for the bing-bing moment. When she would know and could see why she picked cheaters and liars time and again. “The only good thing to come out of the breakup with Lonny is that my writing is going surprisingly well.” She found comfort in her writing. Comfort in being transported for several hours a day into a world she created when the reality of her real life sucked.

The doorbell chimed and the Muzak version of “Paperback Writer” filled the house. She set down a glass and looked at the porcelain clock on the mantel. She wasn’t expecting anyone. “I don’t know who that could be,” she said as she got up. “I forgot to enter the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes this year.”

“It’s probably the missionaries,” Adele called after her. “They’ve been casing my neighborhood on their bikes.”

“If they’re cute,” Maddie added, “invite them in for a drink and a little corruption.”

Adele laughed. “You’re going to hell.”

Clare glanced over her shoulder and paused long enough to say, “And you’re trying to pull the rest of us down with you. Don’t even think about sinning in this house. I don’t need that kind of bad karma.” She moved into the entry, opened the door, and came face-to-face with the poster boy for sin and corruption standing in the shade of her porch and gazing back at her through a pair of dark sunglasses. The last time she’d seen Sebastian he’d looked sleepy and unkept. Tonight his hair was combed and he’d shaved. He wore a dark green Stucky’s Bar T-Shirt tucked into beige cargo pants. She didn’t think she would have been more shocked to discover that Prize Patrol really was standing on her porch with a big check and balloons.

“Hey, Clare.”

She leaned to the left and looked behind him. A black Land Cruiser was parked at the curb.