She had announced the news to Edward over dinner in her new apartment, while serving him a very pleasant Pouilly Fumé ’54 to soften the blow.

Kezia had acquired a literary agent, and stunned Edward by announcing that she had already published three articles that summer, which she had sent in from Europe. And the amazing thing was that he had read them all, and rather liked them. He remembered them-a political piece she had written in Italy, a haunting article about a nomadic tribe she had come across in the Middle East, and a very funny spoof on the Polo Club in Paris. All three had appeared in national publications under the name of K. S. Miller. It was the last article that had set off the next chain of events.

They had opened another bottle of wine, and Kezia had suddenly begun to look mischievous, as she tried to extort a promise from him. Suddenly, he had that sinking sensation in his stomach again. There was more, he could tell. He got that feeling every time she got that look in her eyes. The look that reminded him so acutely of her father. The look that said the plans had been made, the decisions taken, and there wasn’t a hell of a lot you could do about it. Now what?

She had pulled out a copy of the morning’s paper, and folded it to a page in the second section. He couldn’t imagine what he might have missed. He read the paper thoroughly every morning. But she was pointing to the society column by Martin Hallam, and that morning he hadn’t bothered to read it.

It was a strange column, actually, and had begun appearing only a month before. It was a well-informed, slightly cynical, and highly astute account of Jet Set doings in their private haunts. No one had any idea who Martin Hallam was, and everyone was still trying to guess who the traitor might be. Whoever he was, he wrote without malice-but certainly with a great deal of inside information. And now Kezia was pointing to something at the top of the column.

He read it through, but found no mention of Kezia.

“So?”

“So, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Martin Hallam.” She was laughing openly, and Edward felt faintly foolish. And then she stuck out a hand to shake his, with a gurgle of laughter and those familiar amethyst lights in her eyes. “Hello, Edward. I’m Martin. How do you do?”

“What? Kezia, you’re joking!”

“I’m not. And no one will ever know. Even the editor doesn’t know who writes it. Everything goes through my literary agent, and he’s extremely discreet. I had to give them a month of sample columns to show that I knew what I was talking about, but word came back to us today. The column will now run as a regular feature three times a week. Isn’t it divine?”

“Divine? It’s ungodly. Kezia, how could you?”

“Why not? I don’t say anything I could get sued for, and I don’t let out any secrets that will destroy anyone’s life. I just keep everyone … well, ‘informed,’ shall we say … and amused.”

And that was Kezia. The Honorable Kezia Saint Martin, K. S. Miller, and Martin Hallam. And now she was home after another summer away. Seven summers had passed since her career began. She was successful now, and it only added to her charm. To Edward, it gave her a mysterious sparkle, an almost unbearable allure. Who but Kezia could pull it off? And for such a long time. Edward and her agent were the only two people she had entrusted with the secret that the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin had another life, other than the one so lavishly depicted in WWD, Town and Country, and occasionally in the “People” column of Time.

Edward looked at his watch again. He could call her now. It was just past ten o’clock. He reached for the phone. This was one number he always dialed himself. It rang twice, and she answered. The voice was husky, the way she always sounded in the morning. The way he liked best. There was something very private about that voice. He often wondered what she wore to bed, and then reprimanded himself for the thought.

“Welcome home, Kezia.” He smiled at the newspaper photograph still lying on his desk.

“Edward!” He felt warm at the delight in her voice. “How I’ve missed you!”

“But not enough to send me so much as a postcard, you little minx! I had lunch with Totie last Saturday, and she at least gets an occasional letter from you.”

“That’s different. She’d go into a decline if I didn’t let her know I’m alive.” She laughed, and he heard the clink of a cup against the phone. Tea. No sugar. A dash of cream.

“And you don’t think I’d go into a decline?”

“Of course not. You’re far too stoic. It would be bad form. Noblesse oblige, et cetera, et cetera.”

“All right, all right.” Her directness often embarrassed him. She was right, too. He had a distinct sense of “form.” It was why he had never told her that he loved her. Why he had never told her mother that he had loved her.

“And how was Marbella?”

“Dreadful. I must be getting old. Aunt Hil’s house was absolutely crawling with all sorts of eighteen-year-old children. Good God, Edward, they were born eleven years after I was! Why aren’t they at home with their nannies?” He laughed at the sound of her voice. She still looked twenty. But a very sophisticated twenty. “Thank God I was only there for the weekend.”

“And before that?”

“Didn’t you read the column this morning? It said I was in seclusion in the South of France for most of the summer.” She laughed again, and he smiled. It was so good to hear her voice.

“Actually, I was there for a while. On a boat I rented, and it was very pleasant. And peaceful. I got a lot of writing done.”

“I saw the article you did on the three Americans imprisoned in Turkey. Depressing, but excellent. Were you there?”

“Of course I was. And yes, it was depressing as hell.”

“Where else did you go?” He wanted to get her off the subject. Disagreeable issues were unnecessary.

“Oh, I went to a party in Rome, to the collections in Paris, to London to see the Queen…. Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to see the …”

“Kezia, you’re impossible.” But delightfully so.

“Yeah.” She took a long swallow of tea and hiccuped in his ear. “But I missed you. It’s a pain in the ass not being able to tell anyone what I’m really doing.”

“Well, come and tell me what you really did. Lunch at La Grenouille today?”

“Perfect. I have to see Simpson, but I can meet you after that. Is one all right with you?”

“Fine. And Kezia …”

“Yes?” Her voice was low and gentle, suddenly not quite so brisk. In her own way, she loved him too. For almost twenty years now, he had softened the blow of the absence of her father.

“It really is good to know you’re back.”

“And it really is good to know that someone gives a damn.”

“Silly child, you make it sound as though no one else cares.”

“It’s called the Poor Little Rich Girl Syndrome, Edward. Occupational hazard for an heiress.” She laughed, but there was an edge to her voice that troubled him. “See you at one.”

She hung up, and Edward stared out at the view.

Twenty-two blocks from where he sat, Kezia was lying in bed, finishing her tea. There was a stack of newspapers on her bed, a pile of mail on the table next to her. The curtains were drawn back, and she had a peaceful view of the garden behind the townhouse next door. A bird was cooing on the air conditioner. And the doorbell was ringing.

“Damn.” She pulled a white satin robe off the foot of the bed, wondering who it might be, then suspecting quickly. She was right. When she opened the door, a slim, nervous Puerto Rican boy held out a long white box.

She knew what was in the box even before she traded the boy a dollar for his burden. She knew who the box was from. She even knew the florist. And knew also that she would recognize his secretary’s writing on the card. After four years, you let your secretary write the cards: “Oh, you know, Effy, something like ‘You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you,’ et cetera.” Effy did a fine job of it. She said just what any romantic fifty-four-year-old virgin would say on a card to accompany a dozen red roses. And Kezia didn’t really care if the card was from Effy or Whit. It didn’t make much difference anymore. None at all, in fact.

This time Effy had added “Dinner tonight?” to the usual flowery message, and Kezia paused with the card in her hand. She sat down in a prim blue velvet chair that had been her mother’s, and played with the card. She hadn’t seen Whit in a month. Not since he had flown to London on business, and they had partied at Annabelle’s before he left again the next day. Of course he had met her at the airport the night before, but they hadn’t really talked. They never really did.

She leaned pensively toward the phone on the small fruitwood desk, the card still in her hand. She glanced across the neat stacks of invitations her twice-weekly secretary had arranged for her-those she had missed, and those that were for the near and reasonably near future. Dinners, cocktails, gallery openings, fashion shows, benefits. Two wedding announcements, and a birth announcement.

She dialed Whit’s office and waited.

“Up already, Kezia darling? You must be exhausted.”

“A bit, but I’ll live. And the roses are splendid.” She allowed a small smile to escape her and hoped that it wouldn’t show in her voice.

“Are they nice? I’m glad. Kezia, you looked marvelous last night.” She laughed at him and looked at the tree growing in the neighboring garden. The tree had grown more in four years than Whit had.

“You were sweet to pick me up at the airport. And the roses started my day off just right. I was beginning to gloom over unpacking my bags.”